seam ran along four edges so I presumed that face to be the top. I
tapped and pressed experimental y and found that the top flexed a little
more under pressure than any of the other five sides, so it was probably
safe to stab the blade of the can-opener into it.
I took a deep breath and jabbed the blade into one corner and heard the
hiss of air as the metal was penetrated. That indicated that the
contents had been vacuum-packed and I hoped I wasn’t going to end up
with a couple of pounds of pipe tobacco. The belated thought came to me
that it could have been booby-trapped; there are detonators that operate
on air pressure and that sudden equalization could have made the bloody
thing blow up in my face.
But it hadn’t, so I took another deep breath and began to lever the
can-opener. Luckily it was one of the old-fashioned type that didn’t
need a rim to operate against; it made a jagged, sharp-edged cut – a
real y messy job – but it opened up the box inside two minutes.
I took off the top and looked inside and saw a piece of brown, shiny
plastic with a somewhat electrical look about it – you can see bits of
it in any radio repair shop. I tipped the contents of the box into the
palm of my hand and looked at the gadget speculatively and somewhat
hopelessly.
The piece of brown plastic was the base plate for an electronic circuit,
a very complex one. I recognized resistors and transistors but most of
it was incomprehensible. It had been a long time since I had studied
radio and the technological avalanche of advances had long since passed
me by. In my day a component was a component, and the micro-circuitry
boys are now putting an entire and complicated circuit with dozens of
components on to a chip of silicon you’d need a microscope to see.
‘What is it?’ asked Elin with sublime faith that I would know the answer.
‘I’m damned if I know,’ I admitted. I looked closer and tried to trace
some of the circuits but it was impossible. Part of it was of modular
construction with plates of printed circuits set on edge, each plate
bristled with dozens of components; elsewhere it was of more
conventional design, and set in the middle was a curious metal shape for
which there was no accounting – not by me, anyway.
The only thing that made sense were the two ordinary screw terminals at
the end of the base plate with a smal engraved brass plate screwed over
them. One terminal was marked ‘+’ and the other ‘-‘, and above was
engraved, ‘110 v. 60~’. I said, ‘That’s an American voltage and
frequency. In England we use 240 volts and 50 cycles. Let’s assume
that’s the input end.’
‘So whatever it is, it’s American.’
‘Possibly American,’ I said cautiously. There was no power pack and the
two terminals were not connected so that the gadget was not working at
the moment. Presumably it would do what it was supposed to do when a 110
volt, 60 cycle current was applied across those terminals. But what it
would do I had no idea at al .
Whatever kind of a whatsit it was, it was an advanced whatsit. The
electronic whiz-kids have gone so far and fast that this dohickey, smal
enough to fit in the palm of my hand, could very wel be an advanced
computer capable of proving that e=mc2 or, alternatively, disproving it.
It could also have been something that a whiz-kid might have jack-legged
together to cool his coffee, but I didn’t think so. It didn’t have the
jack-leg look about it; it was coolly professional, highly sophisticated
and had the air of coming off a very long production line – a production
line in a building without windows and guarded by hard-faced men with guns.
I said thoughtful y, ‘Is Lee Nordlinger stil at the base at Keflavik?’
‘Yes,’ said Elin. ‘I saw him two weeks ago.’
I poked at the gadget. ‘He’s the only man in Iceland who might have the
faintest idea of what this is.’
‘Are you going to show it to him?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly. ‘He might recognize it as a piece of
missing US government property and, since he’s a commander in the US
Navy, he might think he has to take action. After al , I’m not supposed
to have it, and there’d be a lot of questions.’
I put the gadget back into its box, laid the lid on top and taped it
into place. ‘I don’t think this had better go underneath again now that
I’ve opened it.’
‘Listen!’ said Elin. ‘That’s our number.’
I reached up and twisted the volume control and the voice became louder.
‘Seydisfjordur cal ing seven, zero, five; Seydisfjordur cal ing seven,
zero, five.’
I unhooked the handset. ‘Seven, zero, five answering Seydisfjordur.’
‘Seydisfjordur cal ing seven, zero, five; your cal to London has come
through. I am connecting.’
‘Thank you, Seydisfjordur.’
The characteristics of the noise coming through the speaker changed
suddenly and a very faraway voice said, ‘David Taggart here. Is that
you, Slade?’
I said, ‘I’m speaking on an open line – a very open line. Be careful.’
There was a pause, then Taggart said, ‘I understand. Who is speaking?
This is a very bad line.’
He was right, it was a bad line. His voice advanced and receded in
volume and was mauled by an occasional burst of static. I said, ‘This is
Stewart here.’
An indescribable noise erupted from the speaker. It could have been
static but more likely it was Taggart having an apoplexy. ‘What the hel
do you think you’re doing?’ he roared.
I looked at Elin and winced. From the sound of that it appeared that
Taggart was not on my side, but it remained to be found if he backed
Slade. He was going ful blast. ‘I talked to Slade this morning. He said
you . . . er . . . tried to terminate his contract.’ Another useful
euphemism. ‘And what’s happened to Philips?’
‘Who the hel is Philips?’ I interjected.
‘Oh! You might know him better as Buchner – or Graham.’
‘His contract I did terminate,’ I said.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ yel ed Taggart. ‘Have you gone out of your mind?
‘I got in first just before he tried to terminate my contract,’ I said.
‘The competition is awful fierce here in Iceland. Slade sent him.’
‘Slade tel s it differently.’
‘I’l bet he does,’ I said. ‘Either he’s gone off his rocker or he’s
joined a competing firm. I came across some of their representatives
over here, too.’
‘Impossible!’ said Taggart flatly, ‘The competing representatives?’
‘No – Slade. It’s unthinkable.’
‘How can it be unthinkable when I’m thinking it?’ I said reasonably.
‘He’s been with us so long. You know the good work he’s done.’
‘Maclean,’ I said. ‘Burgess, Kim Philby, Blake, the Krogers, Lonsdale –
al good men and true. What’s wrong with adding Slade?’
Taggart’s voice got an edge to it. ‘This is an open line -watch your
language, Stewart, you don’t know the score. Slade says you stil have
the merchandise – is that true?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
Taggart breathed hard. ‘Then you must go back to Akureyri. I’l fix it
so that Slade finds you there. Let him have it.’
‘The only thing I’l let Slade have is a final dismissal notice,’ I
said. ‘The same thing I gave Graham – or whatever his name was.’
‘You mean you’re not going to obey orders/ said Taggart dangerously.
‘Not so far as Slade is concerned,’ I said. ‘When Slade sent Graham my
fiancee happened to be in the way.’
There was a long pause before Taggart said in a more conciliatory tone,
‘Did anything . . . ? Is she . . . ?’
‘She’s got a hole in her,’ I said baldly, and not giving a damn if it
was an open line. ‘Keep Slade away from me, Taggart.’
He had been cal ed Sir David for so long that he didn’t relish the
unadorned sound of his own name, and it took some time for him to
swal ow it. At last he said, in a subdued voice, ‘So you won’t accept
Slade.’
‘I wouldn’t accept Slade with a packet of Little Noddy’s” Rice Crispies.
I don’t trust him.’ /.,/ ‘Who would you accept?’
That I had to think about. It had been a long time since I had been with
the Department and I didn’t know what the turnover had been. Taggart
said, ‘Would you accept Case?’
Case was a good man; I knew him and trusted him as far as I’d trust
anyone in the Department. ‘I’l accept Jack Case.’
‘Where wil you meet him? And when?’
I figured out the logic of time and distance. ‘At Geysir -five p.m. The