The Snake Flag Conspiracy Read online

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  Hawk looked even more rumpled and disgruntled than usual. I don't know whether it was because of the time of day, or because I'd caused him to leave the comfort of his office. We hadn't bothered to drive back to Dupont Circle. We were sitting in a room at the Marion Hotel just across the Alexandria Bridge. Pick a hotel at random and pick a room in that hotel at random — the chances are damned good that you won't be bugged.

  "Go ahead," he said, lighting up one of his cheap cigars. "Let's hear what made you drag me out here."

  In self-defense against the stench of his smoke, I lit one of my own gold-tipped cigarettes, inhaling deeply. Hawk was sitting in a big easy chair. There was a pot of coffee on the low table between us.

  "Hawk, what does an insurance company do with its money?"

  "Is this a quiz on economics?" the head of AXE asked tartly. "Is this what you hauled me out here for? Get to the point, Nick!"

  "Be patient. Just answer the question. It's important, believe me."

  Hawk shrugged. "They invest it, of course. Any idiot knows that. They have to earn money with the money they take in."

  "And banks?"

  "Same thing."

  "What do they buy, Hawk?"

  He cocked a shaggy eyebrow at me and then decided to humor me a little longer.

  "Stocks, mostly."

  "What would happen," I asked him, "if, on a given day, several of the largest insurance companies in the country suddenly dumped every share of stock they owned?"

  Hawk snorted. "Assuming that improbability, they'd lose their shirts. The stocks would plummet to practically nothing. They'd have to be crazy to do something like that."

  "Suppose they didn't care if they lost every penny. What would happen, Hawk, if hundreds of millions of shares of stock — stock of every major corporation in the country — flooded the market simultaneously?"

  Hawk snorted and shook his shaggy gray head. "Preposterous! It couldn't possibly happen!"

  I persisted. "But just suppose it did happen. Tell me what the result would be if that situation arose."

  Slowly, deliberately, as though talking to a child, Hawk said, "What would happen would be the worst financial panic this country's ever had. It would ruin us completely! I shudder to think of the consequences."

  "That's right, Hawk. Unlike a communist state where the government owns everything and determines the value of everything, this country lives on trust. Trust in pieces of paper. Paper money, stocks, bonds, mortgages, leases, letters of credit, IOU's, bank books, deposit slips — you name it. Take stocks, for example. None of them are worth more than someone is willing to pay for them. If the value of a stock is seventy-two, that means someone's willing to pay seventy-two dollars a share for it. Now, what makes that stock worth seventy-two dollars, Hawk?"

  Hawk was controlling his impatience. He glowered at me and then answered, "The present assets of the company to a large degree, but mostly its potential, future sales, the dividends it's expected to pay…" he stopped short. "I guess what you're trying to get me to say is that, in effect, no stock is worth any more than people believe it's worth. Right?"

  I nodded my head slowly. "That's right. Hawk. It comes right back to trust again. Destroy that trust…"

  "…and you've destroyed the American system!"

  "So," I said, taking a deep breath, "if any given stock were dumped on the market in huge quantities without any explanation, it would be like announcing that it's worthless."

  "Come on, now, Nick, you know better than that! That's not the way the market works," Hawk protested. "The trading specialists in that stock from the brokerage houses would have to keep the price up — even if they had to buy it themselves."

  "If two or three million shares of a single major corporation were dumped all at once? Say the stock was selling for over a hundred dollars a share. How many brokerage houses could afford to buy it to keep its price up?"

  Hawk shook his head. "None," he said. "Not one. There isn't a brokerage house that has that much money. Assuming it could happen, the value of the stock would drop like a rock."

  "How far would it drop?"

  "It depends. Probably, it could go to a fraction of its value."

  "Sure. You drop enough shares of any stock into a market without enough buyers to absorb it, and each share finally winds up worth less than the paper it's printed on!"

  "Couldn't happen," said Hawk firmly. "The Board of Governors of each of the Exchanges would suspend trading in the stock immediately."

  "And suppose that when the market opened again the next day, even more sell orders came in, Hawk? And not just one stock, mind you, but stock in every major company in the whole United States!"

  "I don't believe it!"

  I pressed on. All I was doing was telling him what the wounded Russian had told me. "Suppose half a dozen of the biggest commercial banks joined the insurance companies in selling off all their stocks?"

  "Christ! You're out of your mind, Nick!" Hawk exploded. "They wouldn't dare! There'd be a run on every bank in the country!"

  "Now you're getting the idea."

  Hawk looked at me carefully. His cigar had gone out. He made no attempt to light it.

  "Add to that three or four of the major mutual funds," I said. Hawk waved a hand for me to stop.

  "Are you telling me this is what's due to happen?"

  "That's what the Russian said."

  Hawk took a moment to relight his cigar. He took a deep breath.

  "It's pretty farfetched, Nick."

  I shrugged. "Hell, Hawk, I don't know. It was devised by one of the top Soviet economists. The way he figures it, our economy is the most vulnerable area they can attack. You remember what happened a couple of years back when the Russians bought a few million tons of grain? Christ, the price of food shot sky high. Inflation took off like a rocket. It triggered a round of strikes because the cost-of-living went soaring. I guess that's what gave this economist the idea that the quickest, easiest way to destroy this country is not through war but economically!"

  Hawk was somber. "The domino theory," he said musingly. "Yes, the plan could work, Nick. If the market goes to hell, the banks follow. Then every industry in the country would have to close down in a matter of days. Once that happens, tens of millions of people are out of work. The country goes broke. Without enough money to take care of our own people, there'd be no foreign aid, no foreign trade, no NATO, SEATO or other alliances. The European Common Market would have to turn to the Soviet bloc to survive. Japan would turn to Red China. The United States would be reduced to less than a fifth-rate power!"

  I've never seen so serious an expression on Hawk's face. He went on, thinking out loud, "There'd be riots in every city and town in the country!"

  Then he got to his feet angrily and began pacing the room in short, rapid steps. "But how, Nick? For God's sake! You're asking me to believe that every responsible financier and money man in the country would act contrary to his own self-interests! I just can't see men like that acting that way!"

  "The Russian says there are only a few of them, Hawk. Just a few key men, strategically placed — men with authority to issue sell orders of that magnitude. They could trigger it. The others would follow out of panic and desperation."

  "He could be right," Hawk said finally. "Dammit, he could be right!"

  "The Russians believe it can be done," I said. "That's why they almost killed him when he found out what was going to happen."

  Hawk paced the room like a caged leopard. "There'd have to be an organization," he said savagely. "A tight little group, with each man a power in his own company." He nodded, talking almost completely to himself now. "Yes, an organization, but with one man at the top. One man to give the orders."

  He turned to me suddenly. "But why? Why would they do it, Nick?"

  I knew better than to answer. With Hawk's knowledge of human nature, it had to be a rhetorical question.

  "Power!" he exclaimed, slamming his
fist down on the table top. "That's the only motivation for men of that stature! They'd do it for power! Tell them that they'd be running the country the way they think it should be run and you'd have them eating out of the palm of your hand! You take a man who's fought his way into control of a giant company and ten to one he wants to control the country as well."

  Hawk dropped the stub of his cigar into the ashtray. The outburst seemed to calm him down. I poured myself a cup of the now cold coffee and sipped at it. Hawk came over and picked up his own cup. He took his time about filling it.

  "Alright, Nick," he said almost quietly, "now you tell me how the hell the Russians fit into this thing. How did the Kremlin get their hands on the top man? Blackmail? I can't believe that."

  "He's a plant," I said and watched the expression on Hawk's face. Only a quick flash of surprise in his eyes showed that he'd even heard me.

  "When did they bury him?" he asked quietly.

  "According to the Russian, he was planted here right after World War II — somewhere around 1946. He's been lying low ever since. About eight years ago he began forming this organization. You guessed it, Hawk, there is an organization. And every one of its members has a key position in his own company. Every one of them is a top financial officer."

  "You know anything else about this organization? It's name?"

  I shook my head. "The Russian didn't learn that much. But he was able to tell me the outline of the plan. Actually, the Kremlin didn't know what the hell to do with this organization until Krasnov — that's the Russian economist — came up with his idea. That was about a year ago. They're ready to go now."

  "When? When's the kick-off date?"

  "Twelve days from now," I said. "Eleven, if you don't count today."

  Hawk drained the rest of his cold coffee, made a face and put the cup down on the table.

  "Anything else? Any clues as to who this top man might be?"

  "The Russian said something strange," I said, remembering. "He said the man was a Brahmin. Whatever that means."

  Hawk was silent for several seconds, then suddenly he whispered, "Boston!"

  "What?"

  "He's a Bostonian, Nick! Upper class, old family, high in the hierarchy of the financial world. Only one group in the U.S. are called 'Brahmins,' because they're top caste."

  He saw I didn't understand what he was talking about.

  "Certain Bostonians got tagged with that nickname around the middle of the nineteenth century, Nick. That's when Boston considered itself the intellectual hub of the universe. Emerson, Thoreau, and Longfellow were their literary and philosophical leaders. Old Yankee families had a pretty high opinion of themselves. So much so that Boston society looked down on New York society as Johnny-come-latelies. Like high-caste Hindus, they got to be known as Brahmins. The man we want is a Bostonian, Nick. You'll find him there."

  I got to my feet. It was time to go. I'd been given my assignment. As I put on my jacket, I said, "Hawk, are you going to let the White House know about this?"

  David Hawk looked at me strangely. He came over and put his hand on my shoulder in a rare gesture of warmth.

  "Nick, so far you've done a fine job. You just haven't thought far enough ahead. If I tell the White House, word will get to the Treasury Department in minutes. What makes you believe that this organization hasn't got someone in there at the top level?"

  He was right. I hadn't thought it through. Well, I wasn't in the think-tank group at AXE. I was Killmaster N3. My forte was action.

  "How do you want it handled?"

  "The quickest way. Eliminate the top man," Hawk told me grimly. "Find him and get rid of him!"

  "Any way I want?"

  "No," Hawk shook his head. "Definitely not! If he's that big a man, who knows what would happen if he died under extraordinary circumstances? No, Nick, it'll have to be an 'accident.' A believable accident," he stressed. "The kind no one will ever question — or investigate."

  I shrugged. He knew he was cramping my style.

  "That's an order, Nick," Hawk said quietly. "It's got to be an accident."

  Chapter Four

  The 727 tri-jet came winging in to Boston from Washington on a long, swooping curve from the southwest, its wing tilting down like a giant aluminum finger to point out the thin five-mile peninsula of Hull that served as an enormous breakwater for one of the great natural harbors of the world.

  From my seat in the midsection of the plane I could see the sparse modern skyline of the city rising bravely in the crisp, bright air. There were the tinted glass and steel towers of the Prudential Insurance Building, the John Hancock Insurance Building and the First National Bank Building. In their midst, almost overwhelmed by them, yet catching your eye before all else, was the round, gleaming gold-leaf dome of the State House rotunda.

  Like Virginia and Pennsylvania, Massachusetts isn't a "state." It's a Commonwealth and very proud of it. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Boston, its capital, is a bankers' town. A town where old money has had more than 300 years to grow and spread its influence throughout the rest of the world, let alone the rest of the United States. And it's quiet about its money. It doesn't like to talk about it. Banks and insurance companies and enormous investment funds have quietly taken a firm grip on our economy.

  The more I thought about it, the more I believed the Russian was right. If money is the basis of a capitalistic society, then it's the most vulnerable part of our society. The wonder of it is that it hadn't been subject to an onslaught by the Soviets long before now.

  Or maybe it had been. The gold crisis of a few years back shook our economy to the core. First, we had to get off the gold standard, and then we had to devalue the dollar. The repercussions were international. Were they also plotted — by the Kremlin?

  Calvin Woolfolk was waiting for me at the Eastern Airlines arrival gates at Logan International Airport. I had no trouble recognizing him, even though all Hawk had said was, "Look for a Yankee lawyer."

  Woolfolk was in his seventies, tall and lean, with the spare, gaunt look of a Maine farmer. His hair was white, thick and uncombed. The lines on his face had been carved one by one over the years, each experience deepening a line or adding a new one. When we shook hands, I felt callouses on his palm. His grip was as tight as if he were more accustomed to hefting the helve of an axe than gripping a pen to write torts. The creases on his face split slightly to show the thin line of his lips. I guess you could call it a smile.

  "David Hawk said you could use my help," he said abruptly in a frosty voice as he fell into step beside me. "You want to talk in my office, or somewhere else?"

  "Somewhere else," I said.

  He nodded. "Makes sense." There's something about a New England accent that sets it apart even more than its nasal tone. It fits the region's terse, no-nonsense, taciturn way of communicating. Woolfolk reached into his pocket and took out a single sheet of paper.

  "Five names there," he said. "Man you're looking for could be any one of them."

  I put the paper in my pocket.

  "You got any baggage?" Woolfolk asked as we came down the escalator to the lower level. The baggage turntables spun slowly and aimlessly, parading a variety of boxes, luggage, knapsacks and travel cases like horses on a carousel.

  "It was sent directly to the hotel," I told him. Automatically I looked around, trying to spot anyone who might be following me. Sometimes a tail gives himself away by showing too much interest in you — or too little. Only experienced pros know how to strike the right balance. There didn't seem to be anyone.

  By this time we were outside the glass doors. A cab pulled up. Woolfolk climbed in, and I followed him. The cab took us through the Sumner Tunnel under the Charles River, up onto the Expressway, and then curved off onto the Drive. We exited at Arlington Street.

  Woolfolk insisted on paying for the taxi We strolled across the intersection of Arlington and Beacon Streets and turned into the Public Gardens, walking along a path until Woolfolk spotted a
n empty park bench. He sat down, and I sank onto the bench beside him. Across from us, on an hourglass-shaped lake, floated the swan boats. Forty to fifty feet long, some ten to twelve feet wide, each boat held rows of slat benches, each bench wide enough to seat four or five people. Most of the passengers were children, well-dressed, wide-eyed with delight.

  At the stern of each boat was a carved, larger-than-lifesize, white-painted swan. Between its wooden wings, sitting on a bicycle seat was a teenager, who foot-pedaled away to provide the power for the small paddle wheel at the stern. By pulling on tiller ropes he guided the boat as it glided gently, silently on the calm water, circling the tiny islands at each end of the lake. It was all very quiet and very peaceful and very clean.

  "Read the list," Woolfolk said sharply. "I haven't got all day."

  I opened the paper. Woolfolk's handwriting was as crabbed and compact as the man himself.

  Alexander Bradford, Frank Guilfoyle, Arthur Barnes, Leverett Pepperidge and Mather Woolfolk. Those were the five names.

  I tapped the paper.

  "This last one," I said. "Mather Woolfolk. Is he any relation to you?"

  Calvin Woolfolk nodded. "Yup. He's my brother. We're not close, though."

  "What can you tell me about these men?"

  "Well," said Woolfolk, "from what little information I got from David Hawk, I understand you're looking for someone with a lot of influence in financial circles."

  "Something like that."

  "They all fit," said Woolfolk. "That is, if you're looking for a man with real power."

  "I am."

  "They've got it. So much that most people don't know they have it. The only ones who really know how much power these men have are the people they let deal with them directly. And I can tell you they let damn few people deal with them directly!"

  "Mr. Woolfolk…"

  "Calvin."

  "Calvin, did Hawk tell you about me?"

  Woolfolk's thin lips twisted in a slight smile. He said, "Son, I've known about you for a long time. Nick Carter. N3. Killmaster. You ought to know that my knowledge of AXE goes back almost to its very beginnings. I'm an old friend of David Hawk's."