Desmond Bagley - Running Blind / The Freedom Trap

I got out and went to the rear bumper where I stripped the tape from the metal box and pulled it loose. When I got back behind the wheel Elin already had the can-opener – I think she was really as curious as I was.

The box was made of ordinary shiny metal of the type used for cans, but it was now flecked with a few rust spots due to its exposure. A soldered seam ran along four edges so I presumed that face to be the top. I tapped and pressed experimentally 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 really 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, but the microcircuitry 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 small 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 all.

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, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, could very well be an advanced computer capable of proving that eVmc 2or, 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 thoughtfully, ‘Is Lee Nordlinger still 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 all, 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. ‘Seydisfjördur calling seven, zero, five; Seydisfjördur calling seven, zero, five.’

I unhooked the handset. ‘Seven, zero, five answering Seydisfjördur.’

‘Seydisfjördur calling seven, zero, five; your call to London has come through. I am connecting.’

‘Thank you, Seydisfjördur.’

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 hell 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 full 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 hell 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!’ yelled 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 tells it differently.’

‘I’ll 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 – all 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 still have the merchandise – is that true?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted.

Taggart breathed hard. ‘Then you must go back to Akureyri. I’ll fix it so that Slade finds you there. Let him have it.’

‘The only thing I’ll 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.