"Can you see?" I asked Julie.
"Barely."
"Then follow me."
Step by step, putting our feet down on the inner edge of the steps to keep them from creaking, we descended four flights of stairs. I stopped. Julie leaned against my back. "What's the matter?" she whispered.
"I think it's time I loaded Reilly's gun," I told her.
It took me only a moment to break open the cardboard box and push six bullets into the chambers. The rest of the cartridges I dumped into my pocket. I started down the steps again. In a moment we were at the foot of the stairs, around the turn from the front door. I held Julie back.
"Stay here out of sight until it's quiet. Don't come after me. Just get to your car and get the hell out of the neighborhood! Got it?"
Julie didn't try to argue with me.
I left her standing there, hidden by the bend of the stairs, and made my way to the front of the corridor. There was a door leading to a pocket-sized vestibule. The upper half of the door was stained glass except for a small center panel of clear glass. The outside door, I could see, was solid oak. I wondered who was waiting beyond that door for me.
Well, I couldn't wait forever. With Reilly's gun in my right hand. T opened the inner vestibule door — and almost jumped ten feet! The vicious snarl scared the hell out of me because it was the last thing in the world I expected.
The cat was a big one. He was an old torn, scarred by years of alley fights, with one ear hanging down, almost severed by some rival who must have been as tough as he was. He crouched in the corner of the vestibule, spitting at me angrily, mad because he couldn't get in or out. God knows how long he'd been waiting there.
I made gentle sounds at him. Slowly I edged my way toward him, ready to duck if he showed even the slightest sign of leaping at me. Slowly he responded. I don't think anyone had made a friendly gesture toward him in years.
It took almost five minutes before I could get close enough to him to reach out my hand. For a moment I thought he was going to slash at it with his razor-sharp claws, but he didn't. And then I was stroking his fur and scratching him under the chin. I finally dared to pick him up in my arms, and he weighed at least fifteen pounds if he weighed an ounce.
Outside the door, I heard two men talking. A deep voice said, "Alright, I'll wait here. If that son-of-a-bitch shows up, he's in for trouble!" Then there was silence. Whoever he had been talking to apparently had left. I waited a full sixty seconds before I opened the door and casually started to walk down the four steps that led to the sidewalk.
I held the cat high in my arms, my face turned away. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the burly stranger standing with his back against the wall of the building next to the alley mouth. For a moment he stared at me and then turned away. You just don't expect a man walking out the front door of a house with a cat in his arms to be anything more than another peaceful householder. That's what caught him off guard. Before he could get a good look at my face, I was abreast of him, and by the time recognition took place, it was too late!
He started to raise the gun in his hand, but by then I was already flinging the big, fighting tomcat straight into his face!
Fifteen pounds of nasty-tempered, raging alley cat with claws like barbless hooks gouging at his eyes made him forget everything else in sheer terror! The man let out a scream as high pitched as the tomcat's furious yowl and began fighting off his furry assailant.
The torn clawed with blinding speed at the man's face, and I got a quick glimpse of a row of deep, bloody furrows suddenly appearing from his forehead to chin, and then I was gone, running down the street and around the corner into the darkness.
I ducked into the first alleyway I spotted. Halfway down, I vaulted over a broken-slatted wooden fence, finding myself in a yard littered with rusted metal cans and broken bedsprings. I finally made my way between two, narrow, old wooden houses and came out onto a street.
I walked slowly to the corner. I was two blocks away from where I'd started. Back there I could see half a dozen men gathered in a group. Lifting Reilly's pistol, I aimed above their heads and began a rapid fire.
I wasn't trying to hit them. I just wanted them to see the muzzle flash as I shot at them. They scattered.
Turning, I ducked away down the street, drawing them after me, but I had a head start of two blocks and no one's going to catch me when I've got that kind of a lead!
Ten minutes later I was casually sauntering down Olney Street when a battered Volks pulled up alongside me.
"Can I give you a lift?" Julie leaned out the window.
I got into the car. "I told you to get the hell out of the neighborhood!"
"Not if I have to leave a friend behind."
"You mad at me?"
I had to admit I wasn't.
Julie's old Volks sputtered its way back across town to her apartment. Halfway there she asked, "What do we do now, Nick?"
"Find Alexander Bradford," I said out loud. To myself, I added silently, "…and kill him!"
Chapter Ten
How do you find a man like Alexander Bradford who surrounds himself in secrecy? A man who travels by private jet and private helicopter? A man who employs dozens of hirelings to keep the public from knowing where he is at any given moment?
Julie and I were too tired to think about it — and too tired for anything else — when we got back to her apartment. So we tumbled into bed and fell asleep immediately, her warm, small body snuggled into mine in a tight curve.
How could we find Alexander Bradford?
The answer came from Julie. She woke me at eight o'clock by jabbing me in the ribs with her elbow.
"I haven't seen my godfather in years," she began without introduction, "but if anyone knows where Alex is, it'll be my father."
I was fully awake in a flash.
"The problem is," Julie went on, her small features set determinedly, "that I haven't talked with him in more than a year. That's when I broke with my family."
"Make up with him."
Julie considered the idea with obvious distaste. "Do I have to?"
I knew I couldn't push her into anything. She was too strong-minded. I leaned back against the pillows and shrugged my shoulders and said casually, "It's up to you, baby."
"Oh, hell," said Julie, aggrieved. "I've gone this far, I might just as well go all the way!"
Naked, she jumped out of bed and ran into the other room. I lit a cigarette, looking at the cracks in the ceiling, trying not to hope too hard that the breaks would come my way.
Ten minutes later Julie ran back into the bedroom. "He's at his estate in the Berkshires," she announced. "And Daddy told me he loved me and asked when I was coming home."
I got out of bed and patted her on the head. "I hope you told him soon."
"Damn you!" said Julie angrily. "I wasn't ever going to see them again!"
As I started to put on Raymond's clothes again, I asked her, "How long will it take you to draw a map for me?"
Julie stared at me in surprise. "What's this map business? I'm coming with you."
I was going to try to talk her out of it. Then I thought, what the hell, she's old enough to know what she's doing. After last night she had fair warning that what was happening was dangerous. Julie could take me directly to Bradford's estate. I wouldn't have to lose time hunting for it.
While she ducked into the bathroom to shower, I finished lacing up Raymond's work boots. The damned rawhide thongs went from instep to halfway up the calf. I took Hugo and Pierre out of the bundle of my ruined slacks and fastened them where they belonged: Pierre taped to my groin and Hugo strapped to my forearm. Wilhelmina was still in hiding back at the trolley station. Reilly's stubby .38 revolver would have to take her place.
A few minutes later we were barreling along U.S. Route 90, the fastest way to the western part of Massachusetts.
The Volks did its usual seventy-five to eighty mph, Matting away like a frenzied sheep. We weren't afraid of speed traps: everyone w
as exceeding the speed limit.
I was sitting back, enjoying the luxury of not being behind the wheel, letting my mind wander, when Julie asked without preamble, "How did they know how to find you last night?"
I came out of my reverie. "What did you say?"
"How did they know how to find you last night?"
"I don't think they did," I answered. "They were after Reilly. They must have followed him to Grogan's and were waiting for him to come out when we showed up. I was sort of an unexpected dividend, you might say."
"How did they know about Reilly looking up Bradford and the others in the newspaper's files?"
"Someone tipped them off."
"You're saying they've got men everywhere?"
I thought about it. "I guess so. So far they've kept track of every move I've made. I helped them for awhile. I wanted them to come after me so I could find Mr. Big. But I thought I'd shaken them off when I came out of the subway. If I didn't lose them, then they followed me to your place and later to Grogan's."
"I think that's what happened," said Julie.
"In that case, when you picked me up after the ruckus and we drove back to your apartment, they knew where I was going."
"Uh-huh."
"Which means they know I spent the night with you," I said, following the thought to its logical end. "And if they do, then they could be on our tail right now."
Julie's small head nodded briefly. "That's what I've been thinking. Especially since there's been a green Ford station wagon behind me for the last twenty miles. Even when I gave him the chance to pass us, he wouldn't take it."
"Take the next turn-off," I told her. "Let's see what happens."
It came up in about a mile. We swung off to the right in a cloverleaf, came to the toll station, paid our toll and headed for Auburn, a few miles southwest of Worcester. The green Ford was still on our tail when we swung onto Route 20.
"Pull over to the side of the road and stop."
"Now?"
We were passing through Auburn. "In a minute. Let's wait until there are no houses around."
Sturbridge was eleven miles away, the signpost said. A mile or two later the road was as deserted as it was going to get.
"Now."
Julie turned the little Volks off the road. I opened the door, popped around to the back and lifted the lid to the rear engine compartment. The green Ford came down the highway, passed us, slowed to a stop, then began backing up. I eased Reilly's stubby .38 out of my hip pocket and held it in my hand by my side. The green Ford backed up until it was abreast of us. There were two men in the car. The one in the passenger seat got out and came over to me.
"Anything I can do?" he asked. He was another of the big young men they had so many of.
I straightened up and smiled disarmingly at him, taking a step toward him. Before he knew what was happening, I had the .38 jammed into his stomach.
Still smiling, I said in a soft voice, "Sure. Just don't move or I'll blow you in two!"
He looked down at the gun, his face going gray. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, trying to control the quaver in his voice.
"Trying to control my temper! I feel like blasting you — and your friend. Don't push me into it, okay? Now, let's go over and talk to your pal." I prodded him with the gun. We walked around the back of the green Ford to the driver's side. His partner started to come out of the car. I let him get partway out before I slammed the door against him, catching him just as he was straightening up. The door bottom slammed against his shins; the upper part of the door drove into his chin. His head snapped back against the roof frame sharply. Groggily he slid to the ground.
I let him see the gun in my hand. "On your feet!"
Holding onto the door to pull himself up, he began to reach for his hip pocket. "We're FBI," he said, trying to give his voice a tone of aggressive authority.
"Don't!" I jabbed my gun deeper into his friend's side.
"You're making one hell of a mistake!" he snarled. "I'm just going to show you my identification."
"I don't want to see it. If you're FBI, you know the stance. Hit it!"
They knew what I meant. Turning, they put their hands on the roof of their car, spread their legs and leaned heavily on their palms, completely off balance. I flipped up their jackets, taking a pistol from each of them. I flung the guns into the bushes across the road. I also took their identification wallets, those little folds of leather that contain the FBI badge on one side and the card with the photograph and FBI seal on the other.
"You're not going to get away with this!"
I didn't bother to answer. I was busy scanning the inside of the Ford. Under the dash was a two-way radio, but it wasn't a standard police model.
"You're in real trouble, mister!" growled the other over his shoulder. "You know you're committing a Federal offense, don't you?"
My answer was a single shot. It smashed the hell out of the radio. It also shut him up.
"Around to the front." They pushed themselves erect and went around to the hood of the Ford.
"One on each tire," I commanded, positioning myself midway between them. "Unscrew the valve and toss it to me!"
Air hissed; the tired sagged. It took less than a minute before both front tires were flat on the ground. We repeated the process at the rear of the station wagon. When they were through, the car was a forlorn hulk, squatting unnaturally on the roadway, all four of its tires completely deflated.
"Now," I said. "Off with your trousers — and your shorts!"
"Hey, wait…"
My thumb cocked the hammer of the .38. I shoved it under his nose. He shut up. They began to fumble with their belts.
That's the way we left them, naked from the waist down, stripped even of socks and shoes. As I stepped back into the Volkswagon, Julie threw the car into gear and raced us away. For about five minutes she was silent, then without looking at me, she asked, "Doesn't it worry you that they're fuzz?"
I didn't answer. My attention was focused on the gold-and-blue badges. Unfastening first one and then the other from their leather holders, I examined each carefully. I found what I was looking for.
Julie repeated her question. "Hey, man, doesn't it bother you that they're FBI?"
"They're not FBI."
Julie turned to look at me, her eyes wide.
"Why do you say that?"
"The badges. They're damned good imitations," I said, "but that's all they are. I never saw an FBI badge with a Snake Flag emblem engraved on its back!"
Julie made no comment. After a few minutes she said quietly, "It's like they're everywhere, huh?"
"You got it, baby."
"Now what?"
"Well," I mused out loud, "they know we're headed for Bradford's estate. The question is, what are they going to do about it? If I were in their place, I think I'd let us get in real close and then set a trap. I don't think well be bothered by them again until we get to Lenox."
Julie shrugged. "I'll have to take your word for it. This is all new to me. Do we cut back onto the Turnpike?"
"No, let's stay on Route 20. The Turnpike's too dangerous for us without a car a hell of a lot faster than this one."
Route 20 is the old route west. It takes you through a lot of small New England towns like Sturbridge, Brimfields and Palmer. Each village we passed through was having some sort of Bicentennial celebration, its more theatrical citizens dressed up in colonial costumes.
From the time we left Springfield, we were in the low, rolling mountain country of the Berkshires. Between Chester and Lee, a section of the Appalachian Trail crosses Route 20. It's some of the most scenic, most beautiful mountain country in the world. But I had too many other things on my mind to appreciate the beauty of the scenery. Somewhere in those mountains was a man who posed a threat to the U.S. far worse than any world war. He was a leader who needed an army of young musclemen, even though the masterplan from the Kremlin called for the destruction of our economic system
. Why?
We drove through Stockbridge, Lenox and Tangle-wood, with its huge outdoor auditorium, where the Music Festival is held every summer.
West of Tanglewood the land drops off into a valley about five miles wide. Across the valley, the mountains rear up, just as wild and almost as untouched as they were 300 years ago.
Julie knew these mountain roads like the palm of her hand. She made one turn and then another and then a third, each of the lanes getting a little narrower than the preceding one.
"Another mile or so," she told me just before we came to a crossroad and a State Police officer held up his hand for us to stop. His cruiser was parked across the middle of the road, blocking it effectively. The rooftop lights flashed authoritatively at us.
The big trooper sauntered over to us in his whipcord trousers, tailored jacket, Sam Browne belt and gleaming boots. "Sorry, folks." The smile on his face was pleasant. "You'll have to turn back here. The road's closed up ahead."
"What's the trouble?" I asked casually.
He was a young man with short brown hair, pale skin and a heavy-featured face. "No trouble," he answered. "Just road repair."
His hands were on his hips, seemingly in an informal manner, but I noticed that his holster flap was unbuttoned and folded back. His right hand was only inches from the protruding wooden gun butt. The gun was a .357 Magnum. It's a killer gun. He made no move toward it; the pleasant smile on his face remained firmly fixed as he watched Julie maneuver the volks in a tight turn.
"Hold it," I whispered to her. Julie stepped on the brakes. The trooper strode up to the car as I leaned out the window. He walked as if he were pacing off steps on a dusty Old West Main Street, ready to fast-draw his gun for a shoot-out. He was deadly serious. He wanted an excuse to start shooting.
"Anything the matter?" His voice was cold and flat.
"My watch stopped," I said. "What time is it?"
Without turning his head, he brought up his left wrist to eye level. He shook his uniform sleeve back with a snap, glanced at the dial for a fraction of a second and had his eyes back on me immediately. The watch was a large-faced chronometer in a stainless steel case held to his wrist by a wide aluminum band.
The Snake Flag Conspiracy Page 11
