The Snake Flag Conspiracy

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 was 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 we’ll 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.

“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!