'That was my doing. I overruled some of your officers who were thinking of doing just what you said they would. No one has ever lost money underestimating the reflex thinking of the military. I have been keeping a watchful eye on your career ever since. Because men like you are rare enough.' He caught Troy's expression and smiled. 'No, sergeant, that is not an attempt at flattery but the honest truth. When I say that I mean that I value most highly men who put their oath of loyalty before personal friendship or job security. We need you here. I hope that after this operation is completed, that at that time you will consider a permanent transfer. But that is still in the future. Right now I want you to turn your attention to this operation. It is code-named George.'
He opened the file and took out a sheaf of papers, then leafed through them.
'Operation George began as a routine check. This sort of thing takes place on a regular basis, all of the time, a routine surveillance of people with high security clearance. The subject of this particular investigation is a United States Army colonel named Wesley McCulloch. He has a fine military record and first class security clearance. Unmarried but, if you will pardon the expression, not unlaid. He keeps fit, skis in the winter, surfboards in the summer. Owns a small house in Alexandria and only has a few thousand more to go on his mortgage. All of this is very dull and ordinary stuff…'
'Except that the colonel has been buying a lot of gold.'
'Correct. It started quite recently, just a little over six months ago. At that time he had some money invested in gilt-edged stock, plus a little more in a savings account. He cleared everything out and bought gold. Sold some bonds that he had inherited as well. Now we both know that all of this is completely legal. But I still want to know why.'
'May I see the file, admiral?'
Troy flipped through it quickly but methodically, then held it up. 'There's no mention in here of the colonel's duties.'
'There wouldn't be. The FBI agents who make up these reports operate on a need-to-know basis. McCulloch is in charge of security at one of our most important and secret laboratory facilities. His work there cannot be faulted in any way — he's doing an excellent job. That's not what is bothering us. It's the gold. It doesn't, well…'
'Smell right?'
'Correct. Call it a hunch, call it anything. It is just too much out of the ordinary — the only unusual thing that McCulloch has done in his entire lifetime. That's your assignment. Find out why he is buying the stuff.'
'I'll do that, admiral. I'm intrigued by it as well. I can't think of any possible reason for a man in the colonel's position to be doing this sort of thing. Legal reason, that is.'
'You think that it could be illegal?'
'At this point I think nothing, sir. I have an open mind. What we need are some hard facts before we can decide anything.'
Chapter 3
The rain thundered down in a heavy tropical downpour. Although it was the end of October the air was muggy and stifling, one of the main reasons that Washington has the dismal nickname of Foggy Bottom. Troy Harmon sat behind the wheel of the Pontiac, slumped down in the seat with his hat tilted over his eyes. It was no accident that the hat, as well as the raincoat, closely resembled those worn by Colonel McCulloch when he had left his house about thirty minutes earlier. The colonel had also been driving a vintage Pontiac — the same colour and year as this one. The sound of the rain hammering on the metal roof almost drowned out the sudden beeping of the radio. Troy lifted it to his ear and thumbed it to life.
'George Baker here,' he said. The earphone rasped in reply.
'George is parking in his usual place in the lot now.'
'Thanks. Out.'
Troy turned the ignition key and switched on the engine. It had taken four days to set everything up, working slowly and carefully so that there could be no mistakes. He did not believe in rushing into a case before he was completely prepared. But now, with the preparations completed, he was looking forward to the next part of the operation. All of the details concerning Colonel McCulloch's daily and weekly routine had been in the FBI reports. Troy had studied them closely and made the most of the opportunity. The FBI had supplied him with a guest membership to the athletic club where the colonel played squash three times a week. He had made a single visit there — and it had taken him less than a minute to open McCulloch's locker and make impressions of all of his keys. The duplicates were in his pocket now as he drove the old Pontiac slowly down the tree-lined street. It was hot and stuffy with the car windows closed — but he liked it that way. All of the glass was now completely steamed up. He had to lean over to wipe a clear patch on the windshield so he could see out.
As he turned the car into the driveway of the colonel's house Troy pressed the button on the radio-operated garage opener, now set to the same frequency as McCulloch's. The door swung up and he rolled under it. Any casual observer would assume automatically that this was the colonel coming home. Since McCulloch had no friends or acquaintances in the neighbourhood the chances of his finding out about this unscheduled visit were very slight. Troy waited until the door was completely shut behind him before he got out of the car. He left the raincoat and hat on the seat, clipped the radio to his belt then reached over for his attaché case. Instead of turning on the garage lights he used the flashlight from his jacket pocket.
The burglar alarm box was next to the door that led from the garage into the house. The QCIC technician had identified the key for him and told him just what to do. Insert, rotate one full turn clockwise, then remove. He reached up and did just that. The blue light on the front of the box went out. When he left the house he would have to reverse the procedure. He found the correct door key on his second try, unlocked it and was about to pull the door open when he stopped. It was too easy. If McCulloch had anything to hide — wouldn't he take some more precautions than just the burglar alarm?
Troy ran the flashlight along the top of the door, then down the sides. Nothing seemed to be protruding. But it was very easy to leave a small piece of paper jammed into the door, that would fall out when the door was opened. He bent over — and there it was!
A burnt matchstick just under the hinge, its blackened head barely visible. When he opened the door it dropped onto the sill. Very good. He leaned close with the light and saw the tiny groove it had made. It would be going back into that groove when he left.
Then he swung the door wide and let himself in. It was cool and quiet in the hallway. The door at the far end opened into the kitchen.
Troy had all the time in the world.
He was going to use it wisely, taking as long as he needed, rushing nothing. McCulloch would not be home for eight hours at the very least. He was being watched and there would be plenty of time to get out of the house should his routine be changed.
'What I want to do with you, colonel,' Troy said to himself, looking around the room, 'is to find out just what makes you tick.'
He took off his sports jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair, then loosened his collar and tie. The breakfast bar was clean and polished. Troy spread his pocket handkerchief on it, then opened his attaché case and took out the Thermos of coffee. After pouring himself a cup he placed the Thermos on the handkerchief. He sipped and looked around.
Very GI. The place was clean as a BOQ. It should be, considering the fact that McCulloch had been in the military most of his life. From VMI he had gone right into the Army. A clean record, plenty of combat experience, a good soldier. Then OCS — and on to a lifetime career. It showed. Breakfast dishes rinsed and drying on the draining-board. Even the frying pan washed and put away. Eggs and bacon for breakfast, shells and wrapper in the otherwise empty garbage can. Milk, butter, more eggs, bread, unopened sixpack in the refrigerator.