The Snake Flag Conspiracy

by The Snake Flag Conspiracy (fb2)

  I rolled over, uncased the binoculars again and began to study the house in detail, memorizing it.

  At midnight I put the binoculars in their leather case and left them on the mountain ledge. I had no further use for them. I slung the Feinwerkbau pellet rifle over one shoulder. I crisscrossed the battery pack of the sniperscope I'd taken from George's dead body over my other shoulder. I carried the kite to the very edge of the mountain ridge, fastened myself into its aluminum frame seat, and — taking a deep breath — I launched myself into the night sky!

  For a moment I plunged sickeningly downward before I could correct my balance. Then the updraft sweeping along the side of the mountain caught me, lifting me a hundred feet higher. The equipment made it awkward at first, but I finally found the right position. And then I was a giant bat in the sky, soaring effortlessly through the dark night. Through the sniper-scope sight I had no trouble spotting Bradford's mansion. I could make out every detail of its flat-surfaced, semi-mansard roof. I could actually count each individual chimney and flue that stuck up through the tiles. Every eave and window was as brightly delineated as if it were daylight!

  Below me "police" cruisers guarded the road as I crossed high over their heads. The attack dogs sniffed and snarled against the metal of the chain-link inner fences, furious at their inability to get at the "troopers" patrolling along the outside of the fences. The invisible beams of the ground sensors crisscrossed the lawn uselessly.

  Had anyone looked up at the sky, he would have had a difficult time seeing me, because the covering of the hang-kite was black nylon. I was just a darker shadow against the blackness of the sky, and tonight there was no moon to silhouette me.

  I banked the huge kite to lose altitude. It doesn't take long to fly a mile in a hang-kite, and I had almost 1500 feet of altitude to lose before I could touch down on Bradford's roof. Presently I was a 100 yards away and perhaps fifty feet above it. At the last moment I took my eye away from the sniperscope finder, grabbed both aluminum sidebraces with my hands and got ready for the landing impact.

  When you touch down with a hang-kite, you come in at a run. I didn't have much room on that roof to run. I was just damned lucky I found enough space for the half-dozen paces I needed to come to a stop without breaking a leg.

  Taking a deep breath, I unlatched the safety belt, laying the hang-kite down on the roof surface. I unslung the sniperscope battery pack and equipment, placing them on top of the hang-kite. The framework, the equipment and the Feinwerkbau pellet gun I wrapped in the nylon covering, stowing the. whole package away neatly beside one of the chimneys.

  Cautiously I made my way across the roof to the edge. An eave was directly below me. I swung onto it. The window was no problem. Since it was on the third floor of the mansion, no one had bothered to lock it against intruders.

  Then I was inside, treading carefully across the darkened room to the doorway. Easing open the door, I peered into the corridor. The hallway was empty. Walking softly, I made my way to the far end.

  Sixty rooms, and where was Bradford?

  The corridor ended at a railing. Above me was an enormous skylight. Three stories below, the main hall of the manor spread out, with the stairwell circling the sides all the way down. Corridors branched off the stairwell at each landing.

  Somehow the layout seemed vaguely familiar. I knew damn well I hadn't been there before, but I kept getting the feeling that I knew the place!

  Then I remembered. The mansion had originally belonged to one of the earliest and richest of the families in the region. Over the years the family had made the estate into one of the great showplaces of New England. Its halls were hung with the finest collection of early American art in the world. Two original Stuart portraits of Washington were in the collection. Most people know the Stuart painting of George Washington that's on dollar bills and postage stamps. There were others. Two of the best hung in this collection.

  It was no coincidence that I remembered so much about the manor house. It had been the subject of a lengthy article, complete with color photographs and floor plan, in American Heritage magazine.

  You wouldn't know it to look at Hawk, who dresses in crumpled clothes and smokes cheap, foul-smelling cigars, but he's one of the best-read men I've ever known. Just a few months ago, over a drink in his home, he had dragged out that particular issue of American Heritage and had made me read the article about "Pentwick Hall" — the name of the estate Alexander Bradford now owned. Hawk had wanted to show me photos of the collection of paintings.

  What I remembered was the floor plan of the mansion. Now I knew exactly where to find Alexander Bradford! It took me a moment to sort through my memory and to orient myself. Then, as silently as I could, I stole down a flight of stairs to the second floor and took the corridor on the right to the master suite.

  To my surprise, there was no one guarding the halls, but then, why should there be? With troopers on patrol, with a double electrified fence, with savage attack dogs and sensor beams, who'd think protection was necessary inside the house?

  Bradford's bedroom was actually a full suite with a huge salon opening onto the hallway and a large bedroom to the right of the salon.

  Quietly I turned the door knob. I inched the door open, stepped inside and carefully shut it behind me. I was in a small foyer. I could see part of the room, lit comfortably by the warm glow of table lamps and wall sconces. The furniture was genuine Sheraton and Hepplewhite, the rich woods polished by age, wax and hand rubbing to a deep, glowing patina.

  I moved into the salon — and stopped. Sitting in an armchair facing me was a distinguished-looking, lean-faced man with black hair streaked with gray. His eyes were deep-set and burned with an inner intensity. He was wearing a brocaded dressing gown. In his lap rested a large, very old, leather-covered book.

  In his hand, pointing at me, was a large, very modern automatic pistol!

  "I've been waiting for you," he said in a well-modulated voice. "You are Nick Carter?"

  I nodded.

  "I lost my bet," he said with an almost whimsical smile. "I didn't think you could do it." His accent was pure Harvard-Boston. It sounded almost English. "I wagered that you'd not be able to get through the defenses I'd set up. I seem to have underestimated you."

  "Who'd you bet with?" I asked.

  "With me." Sabrina's voice floated across the room to me. She was sitting in a corner in an armchair, a delicate crystal wine glass in her hand. "I knew that if anyone could do it, it would be you, Nick. Would you tell us how you managed it?"

  Bradford murmured, "It really doesn't matter, my dear. The point is, he's here." He eyed me appraisingly. "No weapons? I'm surprised."

  "He has a knife," said Sabrina. "It's strapped to his forearm."

  Bradford lifted an eyebrow. "Oh? How did you find that out, my dear?"

  "I made love to him," Sabrina answered.

  Bradford lifted the gun. "Take it off," he ordered. "And be sure to move slowly."

  I unstrapped Hugo and let the knife and its sheath fall to the floor.

  "No other weapons?"

  "Search me," I said.

  Bradford laughed. "Not a chance. Take off your shirt."

  I took off Raymond's shirt. I stood there, nude from the waist up.

  "My God," said Bradford, fascinated, "the man's covered with scars!" He continued his observation for a moment. Then he said, "You know, Carter, you intrigue me. I doubt if there's another man alive who could have gotten to me at all — let alone in the short time you've taken to learn my identity and seek me out. Nor could anyone else have escaped my men as you've done. Several of them are among the best mercenary soldiers in the world."

  "How'd you know I was coming?" I asked.

  Bradford's saturnine face turned toward Sabrina. "She told me to expect you. She said you were good." Sabrina crossed the room to sit on a hassock beside Bradford's knee. She rested her cheek against it.

  "Sabrina's quite a useful person," he said, putting h
is hand on her head, almost as if caressing a trained hunting leopard. "Did you know she killed your little friend?"

  I managed to hide the quick flash of fury I felt. "Julie was your god-daughter," I pointed out.

  Bradford shrugged indifferently. "She was in the way," he said. "She had to be disposed of."

  I didn't want to think about Julie just then. I changed the subject. "The KGB will be proud of you," I commented. "Do they give you a special medal?"

  Bradford broke into a laugh. "The KGB? Good Lord, Carter, when the KGB find out what's actually going to happen, they'll start hunting for scapegoats! Heads will roll at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square!"

  I didn't understand what he was talking about. "Would you let me in on the joke?"

  Bradford smiled. "Why not? It's much too good not to share. So far Sabrina's the only one who knows the story. After you're dead, it can never be told again. Sabrina, do get the man a glass of brandy!"

  Sabrina rose lithely, crossing the room with her catlike tread to bring me a brandy snifter. Napoleon. Only the best for Bradford.

  He indicated a chair some ten feet from him. "Sit down, Carter, but don't try anything. I'm an excellent shot. The gun is a .357 magnum. At this distance I couldn't possibly miss hitting you."

  Bradford eyed me carefully until I was seated. "How much of the story do you know, Carter?"

  "I know what the Russian found out," I said. "You're a plant. You were switched with the real Alexander Bradford when he was in a Nazi military prison hospital that was liberated by Soviet troops in 1945. Since then you've lived here in New England, completely assuming his identity. You're one of the power elite in Boston…"

  "In the whole country," Bradford interjected.

  "…and I know that shortly you'll try to trigger the economic collapse of the United States."

  Bradford nodded agreement to each of my statements.

  "All for the sake of Mother Russia," I added, a sour taste in my mouth.

  Again Bradford broke into a laugh.

  "That," he said with great amusement, "is where you're quite wrong! It'll be for the sake of the United States of America!"

  I stared at him in astonishment.

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Bradford leaned back, still keeping the gun on me. "At first," he said, "even though I acted the role of Alexander Bradford, I still felt like myself — Vasily Gregorovich Sudarov, born in Leningrad, educated at Moscow Technical Institute, and a member of the KGB. Then, as the years passed, something in me changed. I actually felt more like the real Alexander Bradford than he would have himself if we hadn't killed him! I continued Bradford's hobby of delving into every facet of the American Revolution of 1776, especially the ideals and goals of the original members of the Sons of Liberty." A tone of fervor began creeping into his voice.

  "As I began to get deeply into this hobby, I wondered what would have happened if this country had not gotten off the track its original founders had tried to set it on."

  His voice took on a hard, angry pitch. "The little people have taken over! The uneducated and the illiterate own this country! The vote of the dirtiest, scummiest drunk is just as valid and just as important as the vote of the most educated, most brilliant man! Does that make sense to you? No wonder this country's in the trouble it's in now!

  "So I began to ponder about what would happen if one man took over. One man, completely indoctrinated in what the founding fathers really wanted! Did you know that some of them favored a king? An American king? Yes, Carter, they did! And George Washington came within a hairsbreadth of being the first American dictator!"

  Bradford could no longer contain himself. Excitedly he got to his feet and began pacing the room.

  "So I laid my plans. Bradford was rich. Bradford was well connected. I spent years in developing even more contacts among the most influential men in this country. Secretly I created an organization of men who believed as I do — the new Sons of Liberty! Their motto is…"

  "Don't Tread on Me!" I broke in. "And the emblem is the Snake Flag!"

  Bradford stared coldly at me for a moment, then he let a superior, arrogant smile touch his lips. "Very good, Carter. You're right. Now there are several thousand of us. When the time is right, we will arise in revolt and take over the country! We are the new American patriots — the true descendants of the American Revolution!"

  "And you will be at their head?"

  "Yes, I'll be at their head," Bradford acknowledged.

  "Where do the Russians fit into this scheme?"

  "They don't," said Bradford. "They showed me how to disrupt the economy of this country to a point where an armed revolt will succeed. The plan will be put into operation on Monday."

  I really wasn't surprised that D-Day was so soon. "The day after tomorrow?"

  "Yes. On Monday we issue the first sell orders. By the end of the week, there will be complete financial chaos throughout the country. Within a month the time will be ripe for the Sons of Liberty to take over the government in Washington. Almost exactly 200 years to the day this country was founded!"

  "Who gives the word?" I asked.

  "I do," said Bradford. "No one else knows who the others are."

  "And if you're not around to give the word?"

  Bradford looked sharply at me, then chuckled. He shook his head. "Oh, no, Carter. Don't even think you can do it! I assure you, I will be around on Monday to give the word. It's a shame that you won't be here for the occasion. Your public execution is set for tomorrow."

  "Public execution?"

  "Tomorrow at high noon," he stated, "you will be the first traitor to the new American Revolution to be executed! You'll go down in history, Carter — the history books to come, that is!"

  I had barely enough time to assimilate his wild remarks. Bradford reached for the bellcord and gave it a sharp tug. Almost immediately the door was flung open and half a dozen men marched in.

  I swear to God, for a moment I thought I was hallucinating. Every man jack of them was dressed in colonial costume! They wore knee breeches, white stockings, black leather shoes with big square buckles and square toes, sleeveless leather jackets and white powdered wigs topped by tricorn hats! And every one of them carried a muzzle-loading flintlock rifle or pistol!

  "Take him away," said Bradford. "Lock him up!"

  In seconds they had me in their midst, two of them at each arm. We were at the door when Bradford spoke up again.

  "Carter, I haven't told you the end of our plans."

  They let me turn around to face him.

  "We realize that the only enemy this country has," he said slowly, "the only thing that stands in the way of our dominating the Western world, is Russia. Once we have taken over, when we feel the time is ripe, when we have complete control of the government and of the armed forces…"

  He paused dramatically to let the effect of his next phrase sink in.

  "…we will then unleash a total atomic attack on Russia that will paralyze her for centuries to come! The United States and the Soviet Union cannot live together in the same world! I have been taught that since childhood!"

  His words were still ringing in my ears as they took me down several flights of stairs and locked me into an old stone wine cellar.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Even though it was summertime, it was cold in that wine cellar. All I had on was a pair of slacks and boots. My only weapon was Pierre, still taped to my groin.

  It was not only cold in the wine cellar, it was dark. The glow of the radiant dial and the hands of my watch told me what time it was: 2:30 in the morning. At twelve noon, according to Bradford, they were going to take me out and execute me.

  The whole affair had become Bradford's private lunacy. The Russians had unconsciously created a monster, a megalomaniac as vicious as Hitler or Stalin! Now he was turning on them. The horror of it was that he had a damned good chance of succeeding! I wondered what that Kremlin economist would say now if he knew how his brilliant
ly conceived scheme to destroy the U.S. economy had been transformed into the plan for an atomic holocaust that would wipe out Moscow, Leningrad, Kiev, Dniepepetrovsk, Minsk and all the rest of the USSR!

  The irony of the situation struck me suddenly. With me rested not only the last hope for a stable U.S. economy… but the safety of the Soviet Union, too!

  There was still a slim chance of stopping Bradford. Not much of a chance, but as long as I was alive, I had a reckoning coming up with Bradford.

  I bided my time. Right after you're captured, your jailers are most alert. Give them time to settle down. The best time to strike is shortly before dawn, when a man's body mechanism is at its lowest ebb, when his reactions are slowest and his mind is least alert.

  I sat back, trying to ignore the cold and trying to relax as best I could while I figured out exactly what I had to do next. The details of my escape were just the first part. Once I knew what I intended to do to get away, I had to plan what would come after that: killing Bradford. But how? Hawk's words to me were still ringing clearly in my mind: It has to look like an accident!

  The wine cellar hadn't been used in years. They'd cleared out all the wooden racks. There wasn't a thing in the place to use as a weapon or even to hide behind. I explored every inch by feel in the pitch dark. Pierre was my only chance. I had to think of a way to use him — and not kill myself in the process. That little gas bomb is absolutely deadly in confined quarters.

  At 4:30 I began pounding on the door.

  At 4:33 two guards in colonial costume opened the cellar door and pointed guns at me. Not muzzle loaders, but modern M-14 military carbines.

  I held up my hands peaceably. "Hey, take it easy! All I want is some hot coffee. It's cold in here."

  They looked at each other.

  "Alright," said one of them. "I guess it's okay."

  They shut and bolted the door. They were taking no chances.