The Snake Flag Conspiracy Read online

  One final touch. On his chest, buttoned to his shirt by a tear in one corner of the paper, I had fastened the list of five names that Calvin Woolfolk had given me.

  I took one last look at him and walked away, up the steps to the stone footbridge,. across to the path that leads directly to the far exit of the Gardens. There is a temporary link fence at the end of the path at Arlington Street, but there is a two-foot gap between it and the permanent cast iron picket fence. I squeezed through it onto the sidewalk.

  The Ritz Carlton is just across the street, its blue awning with white piping looking crisp and elegant and welcoming.

  Exhausted, I headed for the front entrance and my room.

  * * *

  By the time I closed the door to my room behind me, the left side of my rib cage was throbbing with a sharp ache and my head felt swollen to twice its size.

  I undressed, took four aspirin tablets and a long, hot shower, letting the water pound on me with the faucets full open. After about twenty minutes of steaming, I began to feel more like myself again.

  I was about to climb into bed when my glance caught the wallet and wristwatch lying on top of the dresser where I'd dumped them along with my own belongings. I went through the wallet quickly. A Massachusetts driver's license, four credit cards and $350 in cash. The driver's license was in the name of Malcolm Stoughton. So were the credit cards. I put them aside, picking up the Patek Phillipe watch. The case and the expandable metal strap were of eighteen carat gold. On the royal blue face of the watch, the numbers were picked out by tiny chip jewels, small but perfect garnets, "glowing a deep red.

  Idly I turned the watch over to look at the back of the slim casing. Normally, you'll find tiny, engraved print that identifies the type of metal the casing is made of, whether it's waterproof and, if it's expensive, the maker's hallmark. What caught my eye was a miniature engraving of a sort I'd never seen before.

  It was hard to make out because it was so small. No matter how much I twisted or turned the watch in the light of the bedlamp, I just couldn't determine exactly what the emblem was. I needed a magnifying glass.

  Now damned few people carry magnifying glasses with them. I sure didn't, and at four in the morning I wasn't about to call room service to ask them to get one for me. Then I remembered an old trick. I went over to my suitcase and took out my camera. Removing the lens, I turned it upside down, looking through it at the engraving on the back of the watch.

  The image leaped up, because a reversed lens makes a fine magnifier of about five to eight diameters of enlargement, depending upon the focal length of the lens.

  What I saw, etched delicately into the metal of the gold casing, was a reproduction of a Revolutionary War flag — the famous Snake Flag. Underneath a partly-coiled snake are the words "Don't Tread on Me!"

  Puzzled, I put the watch down, replaced the lens on my camera and got into bed. I lit one of my gold-tipped cigarettes and lay there thinking for some time.

  The flag on the back of that expensive watch made no sense, even though for more than a year Boston had been filled with trinkets and souvenirs of the Bicentennial, celebrating the two hundred years of our country's existence. There was hardly a place you could turn without being confronted by historical banners, posters, flags, photographs, paintings, etchings, postcards and whatever else anyone could think of on which to slap a Bicentennial slogan. But not on a watch like this! You just didn't do that to a Patek Phillipe that must have cost well over a thousand dollars. No one's that patriotic.

  I mulled it over until I could hardly keep my eyes open. Then I crushed out the stub of my cigarette in the ashtray and turned out the light. I fell asleep trying to dream of Sabrina and not succeeding.

  I awoke late in the morning and ordered breakfast sent up. The tray it arrived on also carried a folded copy of the Boston Globe. Splashed across the front page were the headlines: "SWAN BOAT KILLER SLAYS PROMINENT ATTORNEY!" and "DEATH AT HANDS OF LUNATIC!"

  The story went on to describe the finding of the body by a couple of teenagers who'd called the cops.

  There were three inches at the bottom left of the front page devoted to the "bizarre murder" of a smalltime mobster who'd had his head blown off by an exploding camera in the Granary Burial Ground the previous day. The police were ready to term it a "gangland killing." Which just proves that all chubby little men with horn-rimmed glasses aren't as innocent as they look. At least the cops wouldn't be sniffing up my trail.

  But the "swan boat killing" was the important story. Important enough for the editors to have replaced the front page and brought out a special late-morning edition. Normally, the morning paper is made up and printed the night before. I read through the four columns they gave to the story, along with a "feature" on the dead man's background.

  Malcolm Stoughton was a member of a prominent Boston law firm. He also had a reputation as a sports buff. In college he'd played as middle linebacker and had spent two years playing for a pro team to earn enough money to pay his way through law school. Apart from this bit of information, the only other thing outstanding about him was that he came from a family that traced its beginnings back to the Mayflower.

  There was no mention whatsoever of the list of five names I'd pinned on his chest.

  Sometime between the finding of the body and the arrival of the reporters on the scene, someone had removed the list. I knew that the teenagers who'd discovered the body must have seen the list. They couldn't miss it. The first cops to get there must also have seen the list. And if they saw it, then the sergeant and the homicide detail had seen it, too. God alone knows how many others saw it.

  Yet there wasn't a word in the news story about that list!

  And that in itself told me a lot about the men whose names were on it.

  About the time I was finishing my second cup of coffee, the telephone rang.

  "What the hell is going on up there?" Hawk was angry.

  "Right now," I said, "I'm having breakfast. I was out late last night."

  "So I understand!" snapped Hawk. "For Christ's sake, Nick, what the devil's the idea of pinning those names on his shirt? Don't you know who you're fooling around with?"

  I interrupted him. "How did you know about the list? There wasn't a word about it in the newspapers."

  "There wasn't?"

  "Not one word. They kept it out. How'd you learn about it?"

  "I get copies of requests for information made to the FBI by local police departments," Hawk said. "And it's none of your business how I get that information out of the FBI office."

  "Well, you're not the only one who knows how to pull strings. Someone up here has done a lot of tugging to keep this quiet."

  Hawk made no comment, but I knew it had made an impression on him.

  "I gather all hell must have broken loose down there for you to call me," I ventured.

  "Damn right." Hawk was furious. "Just about everyone but the White House has been putting pressure on me to get me to call off whatever it is -you're doing up there. I'd like to know how the hell they know you're there!"

  "Jacques Crève-Coeur," I said. "I had him pass the word to the KGB that the Russian had talked to me and that I was in Boston."

  Hawk said nothing for a moment, letting the implications sink in.

  "Does Washington know the mission I'm on?" I said finally, breaking the silence.

  "No," said Hawk. "They only know that someone from AXE is up there creating havoc, and they want it stopped. I wouldn't be surprised if the next call came from the Oval Room itself!"

  "Lots of power working behind the scenes, I take it."

  "More than you can believe! First of all, most of them shouldn't even know that AXE exists. When a civilian not only knows about us, but knows whom to call to apply pressure on me, you'd better respect the kind of influence he has! So far, four Senators and two Cabinet members have telephoned."

  "Who put them up to it? That should clue us in on the man we're after."

  H
awk snorted. "Every one of the five names on your list! That tell you anything?"

  "So you're calling me off the assignment?"

  "Don't be a damn fool! I'm still running AXE! And I'm telling you to get on with your job before they have my head. I want it finished and over with as soon as possible!"

  "Maybe I need a secretary." I heard him sputter, but stopped his response with a question. "Where are the dossiers on these men? When I called you last night, you promised to have them up here by courier this morning."

  Hawk took a deep breath. "There aren't any," he confessed. "There are no files on any of them."

  It was a bombshell. Things like that just don't happen. Somewhere, in some government agency, there's a dossier on everyone of any importance in this country, and AXE has access to any file in any Federal department.

  "FBI? CIA? Secret Service? Department of Defense? Damn it, Hawk, someone's got to have something!"

  "You heard what I said."

  "Look," I persisted, "every one of these men has met with the President at least once, and you know that no one — I repeat — no one ever gets to meet the President in person for the first time without being cleared by the Secret Service. They've got to be notified twenty-four hours in advance of the meeting to check him out. Now, where are those clearances? What were they based on? Someone's got to have files on these men!"

  "I'm well aware of the procedure!" Acid dripped from Hawk's voice.

  "And there's no file on any of them?"

  "Not a trace. We've been checking all morning."

  It was hard for me to believe. "You're telling me that each one of these men has had his files removed from every intelligence unit in the country?"

  "No," said Hawk deliberately. "I think that just one of them has had all the files removed. Getting rid of his own would just single him out for attention."

  "Computer banks? What about the computer banks?"

  "Nothing," said Hawk. "They've been reprogrammed so that the information is either erased or simply won't appear on a print-out."

  Hawk made a difficult admission. "I underestimated our opponent, Nick. The man has more influence than I thought. I didn't really understand how much power our man can wield. What you've done, Nick, has pushed him into making his move earlier than we expected. You may not have eleven days to find him."

  There was something in Hawk's tone of voice that told me he had kept something back.

  "Spit it out, Hawk. What else is there I should know?"

  "As of ten minutes before this phone call," said Hawk, "you've been put on the wanted list by the FBI. And the Secret Service just got word that you've made a dangerous threat on the life of the President. Agents from both departments will try to pick you up as soon as their Boston field offices receive word. Get the hell out of that hotel and go underground!"

  "And finish the assignment?"

  "Certainly!" snapped Hawk. "What else did you expect?"

  And with that he hung up.

  Chapter Seven

  When you have to move fast, you travel as light as you can. Pierre, the miniature gas bomb that's gotten me out of more than one tough scrape, was taped to my groin under my shorts. Hugo was strapped to my forearm in his chamois sheath, and Wilhelmina sat in her holster concealed under my summer jacket. The only other things I took with me were Malcom Stoughton's wallet and wristwatch. There was no way I was going to leave them in the room for the Feds to find, not unless I wanted them to pin a murder rap on me along with all the other charges they'd trumped up.

  I was halfway down the corridor to the elevators when a bellhop came out of a room just ahead of me. He let me pass him, and at that moment another bellhop turned the corner of the corridor about thirty feet further on. Alarms went off in my head hike a destroyer's wha-wha-wha-wha-wha call to action stations.

  Bellhops aren't usually over six feet tall and built like pro athletes. These were. Bellhops either ignore you or, if they look at you, give you a pleasant professional hotelman's smile. The one ahead of me was giving me a hard, calculating stare. I saw him deliberately nod his head at the other just before I heard the footsteps behind me begin to quicken.

  I didn't wait to be trapped between them. I broke into a headlong run directly at the one in front of me. About four feet from him I launched myself into the air, feet first.

  He went down like a bowling pin. I was back on my feet and running. At the turn of the corridor, I bounced off the wall, racing for the emergency stairs. Behind me there was no excited outcry. There was only the menacing sound of footsteps racing purposefully after me, barely muffled by the corridor carpeting.

  Hastily I threw open the door to the exit and slammed it shut behind me. At that point I had two choices. I could either run up the stairs to the roof — or I could run down to the lobby or basement. The door to the roof could be locked, so that wasn't a wise choice. And I didn't know the layout in the basement. It could turn out to be a dead end for me, in more ways than one.

  So I took just one step away from the door, flattening myself against the wall. In less than five seconds it burst open as the first of the two bellhops ran in. I gave him no time to look around. I chopped hard at the base of his neck with the barrel of Wilhelmina. As he sagged, unconscious, I gave him a push. He tumbled down the cast iron stairs like a sack of potatoes.

  The second bellhop flung open the door only a second later. He came to a dead stop as I shoved the muzzle of the Luger under his ear.

  "Don't move!" I threatened. "Not unless you want your head blown off!"

  He froze, his face only inches from mine, glaring at me in repressed, impotent fury.

  "Alright," I said. "Who sent you?"

  He didn't quiver. Not a muscle. I could see that he'd made up his mind not to talk, and I didn't have the time to persuade him otherwise. I had to get out of that hotel before the Feds arrived. I spun him around and rapped his skull with the Luger. He crumbled to the floor.

  What I wanted was his uniform and time enough to get away. If two of them were on this floor after me, the odds were pretty good that there were others covering the exits to prevent me from getting out.

  Peeling the clothes off the unconscious hulk of a 200 pounder is not an easy task. I wasn't any too gentle with him, either. I was in a hurry, and if his head bounced on the concrete floor a few times, well, that was his tough luck! As it was, it took me a full five minutes to strip off his bellhop's uniform down to his shorts. The trousers fit. The jacket was a little loose, but that didn't matter. I folded my own trousers, turned my jacket inside out and draped both items over my left arm. I was on the point of leaving when I noticed his limp, outflung arm. What caught my eye was a silver identification bracelet on his wrist. Quickly I unhooked it and put it in my pocket.

  Then, with my trousers and jacket hung over my left arm, I opened the door and boldly walked back down the corridor toward the elevator just as if I were a bellhop bringing a suit of clothes down to the valet service to be cleaned and pressed.

  I pressed the "down" button and waited. It was a damned long minute and a half, but no one else showed up. The elevator doors slid open. Three businessmen carrying briefcases were inside. They didn't look once at me. With a pleasant but impersonal smile on my face, I stood in the rear of the elevator as it descended.

  The three stepped out when we reached the lobby. The doors remained open long enough for me to spot two men who seemed to be out of place in that hotel. The Ritz Carlton just wasn't their speed. I noticed that they turned their heads, taking a hard look at the elevator as the doors slid open, and they did more than just glance at the three businessmen who left it. They scrutinized them from head to toe.

  I had my head turned away, but it was the bellhop uniform that did the trick.

  The elevator doors finally slid shut. The cage descended to the basement. Most hotel basements are basically alike. They're service units for the rest of the hotel. While they may be laid out differently, they are all planned to be fun
ctional.

  I made my way along two corridors, then down a third until I finally found a short flight of stairs that led me to an exit to an alleyway. I ducked back in behind the door to change back into my own clothes. A bellhop's uniform would be too damned conspicuous out in the street. I left the outfit behind the door and walked out into the sunshine.

  The streets that make up Boston's famous Back Bay run perpendicular to the Public Garden and are parallel to each other. They are Beacon Street, Marlborough, Commonwealth Avenue, Newbury and Boylston, which is a wide boulevard. Between each of the streets, running along their entire length, matching them block after block for more than a mile, are "Public Alleys." The alleys are barely wide enough for a car or truck to pass through. They have miniature sidewalks on which the rubbish and trash from the buildings are placed for pickup by the garbage haulers.

  I walked along the alley between Newbury Street and Boylston Street, and then emerged on Berkeley Street in broad daylight with no place to hide until the heat died down a little. I needed a telephone, too, and unlike New York, Boston doesn't seem to want to clutter its streets with phone booths.

  But right across the street from the alley mouth was the big, red brick, square building of Bonwit Teller's Boston branch. I couldn't think of a better place in which to roam around freely for an hour or so. I cut across the street, dodging between the speeding cars like any good Bostonian does, and walked under the long, pale green canopy, up several red-carpeted steps to the entrance, entering the store like any other customer, although most of them were women.

  I consulted the store directory. The shoe department on the second floor would be perfect.

  Just before I went upstairs, I used one of the telephones at the bottom of the stairwell to put in a call to the Boston Globe.

  "City Desk," I said when I got the switchboard operator. When City Desk answered, I asked if John Reilly were in. He was.