"It's almost four o'clock," he said curtly.
I thanked him. Julie put the car in gear. We drove off.
"What was all that about?" she asked, puzzled. "You know what time it is."
I didn't answer. I was holding a detailed picture of the trooper's wristband in my mind. Even at a distance of several feet, I had made out the emblem on the flat aluminum link next to the watch face. The Snake Flag!
"I can take the next crossroad," Julie said. "It's a mile or so longer, but it'll take us to Alex's place."
"No, it won't," I told her. "Ten to one there'll be another trooper there. And he'll tell us the road is closed."
Julie didn't say anything until we came to the crossing. The State Trooper stood in a spraddle-legged stance, holding his hand up for us to stop. Behind him his patrol car blocked the narrow roadway, its flashing rooflights rotating.
He was just as pleasant as the first trooper — and just as firm. The road was closed for repairs. We'd have to make a detour. Sorry about that, folks.
We turned around.
"How'd you know?" Julie demanded.
"Have you ever been on a jackrabbit hunt?" I asked. "They have them in Australia. A line of beaters circle the territory and gradually they begin driving the rabbits. When the animals try to veer off. they're driven back. Pretty soon the rabbits are all headed in one direction because that's the only way they're allowed to go. The rabbits run like hell, thinking they're getting away — until they come to the line of men waiting for them with shotguns."
"You saying that we're the rabbits?"
"Not if I can help it," I told her grimly.
"Well, what do we do?"
"We go back to town. If there's any killing to be done, I'm the one who's going to do it."
Julie threw me a strange glance but said nothing. I knew she detested violence; I don't like it, either. But it's part of my job, and using it is the only way I stay alive.
We were lucky enough to get a room in an old New England inn that dated back 150 years. The bed was old; the bathroom had old-fashioned, heavy porcelain plumbing fixtures. The few electric lights, installed in tulip-shaped, frosted glass shades, were dim, and the wallpaper was a fusty, yellow, floral pattern. Julie flipped over it. I had more serious things on my mind.
She drew a map for me. I watched her sitting in a straight-backed chair pulled up to a rickety table, her head bent so that her hair fell down to shield her face from the light. Her tongue was stuck in the corner of her mouth like a little child's as she concentrated on sketching everything she could remember about the layout of Alexander Bradford's estate and the roads leading to it.
Finally, she was finished. She brought it over to me and sat down on the edge of the bed.
"See," she said, pointing with the stub of the pencil. "Here's Alex's place. And here are the roads we tried to take to get there this afternoon. It's right in the middle of this valley. None of the roads, except this one, comes anywhere near it. Alex bought up all the surrounding property. He likes his privacy."
I went over the map carefully, memorizing it.
"That's the only road in?"
"Right," said Julie. "And if what we saw this afternoon is any indication, it's pretty well guarded."
"What's this mark over here?"
Julie bent over the map. "Oh, that's the mountain," she said. "It's kind of a landmark. I just put it in to show the lay of the land, you know. All small mountains and hills. This is the tallest. It's about a mile north of Alex's house. His property ends at its base on the southern side."
"How high is the mountain?" I asked.
"High? I don't really know. Maybe 1800, 2000 feet. Why?"
"Are there any other houses around?"
Julie shook her head. "No, not for more than a mile in any direction. I told you Alex likes privacy."
I took the map from her hand, putting it on the small fumed-oak bedside table. Turning off the lamp so that the room was in semi-darkness, I reached for her and said, "So do I, at times."
"Now?" Julie asked willingly.
"Now." I took her into my arms, a small-boned, warm, compliant, completely feminine little girl-woman.
I've learned to take my pleasures when and where I can, if it's with someone special. Julie was someone special. For the next hour we thought of nothing but each other. Later we bathed in the big, deep, old-fashioned bathtub. Then we dressed and went down to dinner.
The dining room of the inn held about ten tables, each covered with a blue checked gingham cloth, matching napkins and pewter flatware place settings. Some of the tables were large, set for six or more people. Julie and I started across the room, heading for a small table for two beside a window that looked out onto the porch. Halfway across the room, I stopped dead.
Sabrina was sitting at a table by herself, her eyes fixed on my face, waiting for me to recognize her. There was an expression of superior amusement on her features.
"Hello, Nick," she said. Her eyes skimmed over Julie, catalogued her in one swift, coldly measuring glance as only one woman can do to another, and then dismissed her as being unimportant. Sabrina had been toying with a cup of coffee. It was practically untouched, although the ashtray in front of her was filled with crushed cigarette stubs. The other place setting at her table was still pristine. It was obvious that she was alone and that she'd been waiting for some time.
"Hello. Sabrina."
"Surprised to see me?"
"In a way."
Her manner showed she didn't care to be introduced to Julie. The glance she'd given her was enough recognition.
"I'm glad I ran into you," she said. Reaching into her purse, she took out a pair of tickets. "I can't go tonight, and I really hate to waste these. I'm sure you'll enjoy the concert." She rose, handing me the pasteboards.
"I have to ran now," she said and flashed me the same impersonal smile she'd given me when we first met at the Granary Burial Ground. "Be sure to attend. You may meet some interesting people."
She strode off across the room, conscious that every man in the place was eyeing her, aware that she was radiating an animal appeal.
I took Julie by the arm and steered her to the small table by the window.
"I didn't know that you knew Bradford's secretary," Julie commented as we sat down.
"I didn't know that you knew her, either."
"I told you I know everyone in that group." Julie was slightly exasperated. "Sabrina is Mather Woolfolk's daughter. I know her father, too."
"And Calvin Woolfolk?"
"Sure. He's the nicest of them. What's Sabrina doing here? And what was all that business about the tickets?"
"They want me," I said. "Sabrina's meeting us was no accident. She's been waiting here especially to give me the tickets. If I use them, I can expect to find a reception committee."
"Are we going to use them?"
I looked at her.
"I'm going to use one of them," I said. "You're staying here."
Julie started to protest. I cut her off. "Look, baby," I said. "I don't know what's going to happen. I've got to get to Alex Bradford! I'm taking a chance that they'll bring me to him."
"And if they don't? What if they're setting you up to kill you?" There was concern in her voice.
"That's the gamble I've got to take."
"And I'd be a burden?"
I was blunt. "Frankly, yes."
Julie was practical. She considered the matter carefully and finally nodded her acquiescence. "Alright," she said. "I'll wait for you here."
"Go back to Boston."
Julie was also stubborn. She shook her head, her mouth set in a determined line. "I said I'll wait for you here!"
I didn't eat much of my dinner. My mind was on other things. Halfway through the meal I left Julie at the table and went upstairs to our bedroom. I checked out Pierre and Hugo. I wished like hell that I also had Wilhelmina with me. The feel of that beautifully balanced Luger in my hand gave me a real sense of security.
However, Reilly's little .38 revolver would have to do. Flipping open the cylinder, I shook out the rounds, checked them and reloaded the gun. I added a sixth bullet to make up for the one I'd fired into the two-way radio of the "FBI" agents' Ford. I tucked the gun into the waistband of my slacks under my open shirttails.
I didn't want to give Julie a chance to change her mind, so I took the back stairway down and went out the rear exit. I set off down the village street to the rotary where Route 7 splits and the road to Tanglewood begins.
It was twilight now. Tanglewood was not too far away. I had time to walk there at a comfortable pace, and time to prepare myself mentally for whatever might happen once I got there. It was nearing the end of the third day. I didn't know how many were left. Hawk had told me that the schedule had probably been shortened. My own feeling was that, with the pressures I'd been putting on them, they'd moved up the date of D-Day even more. "D" for destruction. Pick up the telephone and issue a sell order. Lots of telephones being picked up that day. Lots of sell orders. Watch the market go crazy. Watch the American economy go to hell. Watch the jobless as they riot. Watch the world go to hell as the Soviets take command and some creep of a Russian economist gloats over the success of his nightmare scheme.
But not if I could help it. No way!
Chapter Eleven
Tanglewood at night under the stars with the soft summer evening breeze coming across the valley; the open-sided acoustic shell glowing under the spotlights; the full panoply of one of the world's great symphony orchestras playing as a single finely-tuned instrument is something that can take your breath away. All around are wooded hills, and the valley is fragrant with the sharp resin scent of pine needles. And because the groundskeeper had mowed the expanse of lawn around the old, green-painted house that was the original Tanglewood estate, that night the pungent odor of newly-cut grass was in the air.
There were well over a thousand people. Some from Boston, some from New York, Albany, Pittsfield — the rest from the inns and hotels of the middle Berkshires where they had been vacationing. The parking lot was filled with cars; the road had been jammed with couples walking to Tanglewood; the grounds swarmed with clusters of people of all ages chattering away at each other.
Now — except for the sound of the orchestra sweeping triumphantly toward the conclusion of Beethoven's Ninth — all was tranquil. It should have been the one place in the world a man could relax completely.
But it wasn't.
The conductor swept his baton across the air in front of him, cutting off the final note. The audience rose to its feet, shouting, clapping, cheering. The lights came up. The crowd began filing out for the intermission.
And suddenly they were there. Half a dozen brawny young men. In less than a second I was surrounded by them as I stood in the aisle. They isolated me completely from the crowd, none of whom suspected anything out of the ordinary.
One of the men came up to me. It was John Norfolk, the young lawyer who'd tried to bribe me. The last time I'd seen him, he was scuttling away from me in fear of his life. Apparently, the presence of the others gave him a great deal of confidence.
"You remember me, Mr. Carter." It was a statement, not a question.
Maybe that's why they'd sent him along — to let me see a face that I didn't associate with a threat to my life.
"We'd like you to come with us."
"Are you taking me to Bradford?" I asked.
Norfolk met my stare. "You'll meet someone," he said.
I looked around. Unless I wanted to start one hell of a commotion. I didn't have a chance. It was like being in the middle of the Minnesota Viking offensive team huddle. They were big.
"Sure," I said. "Let's go."
Grim-faced, they formed a phalanx around the pair of us as we walked to the parking lot.
Two cars were waiting there. One was the green Ford station wagon. Beside it stood the phony FBI agents. Norfolk gestured for me to get into the other car, a black Mercury four-door sedan. He climbed in beside the driver. The two men who pot in the back seat — one on either side of me — were all muscle.
With the station wagon following us, we drove out of the parking lot, gravel crunching under the tires. We turned onto the country road heading away from Tanglewood and Lenox.
No one said anything. I was surprised that they'd made no attempt to disarm me. Maybe they figured that, pinned in between the two men, I wouldn't be able to move fast.
The cars swept on through the night, taking one lane after another. Inside the sedan there was nothing but silence.
Off in the distance I could see the dark mass of the mountain Julie had shown me on the map. It was outlined against the lighter, star-flecked darkness of the night sky. I kept it in view as a reference point. We seemed to be heading in its general direction. Maybe they were taking me to Alexander Bradford's place, after all. My gamble might be paying off.
And just about the time I made that assumption, the driver of the sedan spun the wheel. The car lurched, swaying into a tight turn. We drove off the road and down a lane about a hundred yards or so before coming to a stop. The driver flicked on the dome light and turned around. The gun in his hand was a Colt .45 automatic.
Norfolk opened his door and got out. So did the man on my right.
"You just sit still," said the driver, aiming the pistol at my forehead. His hand was shaking.
I sat very still. I didn't want to make him any more nervous than he already was. You never know what an amateur will do. They can kill you without meaning to.
"Get his gun," the driver ordered the man on my left.
I didn't want him searching me too closely. I said, "It's in my belt behind my back."
"Shut up!"
The man on my left pushed my head forward almost into my lap, flipped up my shirttail and found Reilly's .38 revolver. He let me sit up again.
Norfolk poked his head in through the open door on my side of the car.
"This is as good a place as any," he said.
It was pretty clear that they had no intention of taking me to Bradford. Norfolk's words were the final proof — if I needed any. My gamble hadn't paid off.
The Ford station wagon came up behind us, jouncing heavily on the ruts of the narrow lane. Its headlights were on high beam as it rolled to a stop a few feet in back of us. The glare came through the glass of the big rear window of the Mercury, shining directly into the eyes of the driver facing me. It must have been like looking full into a battleship searchlight at that short distance.
The driver winced involuntarily, closing his eyes and ducking his head away from the blast of light. In that instant I whipped my right forearm across his head, jabbed my left elbow into the ribs of the man next to me and made a flying leap out the open door. I dived headlong into Norfolk, sending him stumbling against the other man who'd been on my right. They both went down. I was out in the open, away from the dangerous confines of the sedan.
They could see all this very clearly from the station wagon, because the Ford's headlights lit up the scene brilliantly. But they hadn't as yet opened the doors.
There's one thing about a pro. He doesn't care what he smashes when he's out to do a job. Amateurs have an ingrained respect for property that they haven't been able to shake.
There I was in the full glare of the headlights. Bumping into Norfolk slowed me for a second or two. It took another three or four seconds for me to race to the security of the trees to the left of the sedan. And yet, in all that time — and four or five seconds is long enough to give you time to draw, aim and fire — no one thought of shooting at me through the window glass of the station wagon!
The six of them got in each other's way as they tried to throw open the doors and pile out into the open before they began shooting. As I plunged into the underbrush, I heard them shouting at each other.
"He's getting away! God damn it, shoot!"
By the time the first shot came, I was ten feet into the brush, angling away so that
the trees would protect my back. I had one other advantage. They had been light-blinded by the headlights, and I'd been facing away when the station wagon came up. I still had most of my night vision.
When they finally started shooting, they were wide. Twenty yards wide. I took a rolling dive under the cover of a fallen oak tree, stretched out and lay absolutely still.
"Hold it! Damn you, hold that fire!"
The gunshots died away.
"Where the hell'd he go?"
"Shut up and let me listen!"
There wasn't a sound. The night noises had died away. The gunfire had frightened the night creatures into silence.
"We lost him!"
"No, we haven't. He hasn't had time to get far enough away."
"Well, there aren't enough of us to go chasing him in the dark!"
One of the voices took command. "You three stay here. Keep him pinned down. He must be close by. You hear a noise, you start shooting."
Another voice spoke up. The accent was deep South. "Mr. Essex, Ah got me a hi ol' sniperscope rifle in the back of that wagon. Ah kinda think Ah oughta stay, 'steada Greg. Ah kin shoot the head off n a squirrel at a hundred yards even if it's blacker'n a coal mine at midnight without no lights."
There was a flurry of talk. Mr. Essex — whoever he was — cut it short. "Charlie's right. He stays. He's got the rifle. George stays, too. He's a Nam vet. If he could take care of himself in the jungles, then this patch of woods is just his meat. Jerry comes with me. We'll go back and get more men. We'll need them to pin down this son of a bitch! The rest of you — spread out along the lane! Don't move around. Just keep him from getting out of the area! Got it?"
I saw Charlie open the tailgate of the station wagon and take out a U.S. Army rifle with an infra-red sniperscope mounted on it. He slung the battery pack over his shoulder. George, the Viet Nam veteran, pulled out an M-14 carbine. Christ! You'd have thought they were taking on an army instead of just one man!
The green station wagon started up, backed out of the lane and disappeared. Charlie and George took off into the woods, one striking out to my left, the other to my right. They were going to outflank me and trap me between them. The other men remained where they were.
The Snake Flag Conspiracy Page 12
