“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.