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!
Chapter Eleven
Tanglewood at night under the stars with the soft summer evening breeze coming across the valley; the open-sided acoustic shell glowing under the spotlights; the full panoply of one of the world’s great symphony orchestras playing as a single finely-tuned instrument is something that can take your breath away. All around are wooded hills, and the valley is fragrant with the sharp resin scent of pine needles. And because the groundskeeper had mowed the expanse of lawn around the old, green-painted house that was the original Tanglewood estate, that night the pungent odor of newly-cut grass was in the air.
There were well over a thousand people. Some from Boston, some from New York, Albany, Pittsfield — the rest from the inns and hotels of the middle Berkshires where they had been vacationing. The parking lot was filled with cars; the road had been jammed with couples walking to Tanglewood; the grounds swarmed with clusters of people of all ages chattering away at each other.
Now — except for the sound of the orchestra sweeping triumphantly toward the conclusion of Beethoven’s Ninth — all was tranquil. It should have been the one place in the world a man could relax completely.
But it wasn’t.
The conductor swept his baton across the air in front of him, cutting off the final note. The audience rose to its feet, shouting, clapping, cheering. The lights came up. The crowd began filing out for the intermission.
And suddenly they were there. Half a dozen brawny young men. In less than a second I was surrounded by them as I stood in the aisle. They isolated me completely from the crowd, none of whom suspected anything out of the ordinary.
One of the men came up to me. It was John Norfolk, the young lawyer who’d tried to bribe me. The last time I’d seen him, he was scuttling away from me in fear of his life. Apparently, the presence of the others gave him a great deal of confidence.
“You remember me, Mr. Carter.” It was a statement, not a question.
Maybe that’s why they’d sent him along — to let me see a face that I didn’t associate with a threat to my life.
“We’d like you to come with us.”
“Are you taking me to Bradford?” I asked.
Norfolk met my stare. “You’ll meet someone,” he said.
I looked around. Unless I wanted to start one hell of a commotion. I didn’t have a chance. It was like being in the middle of the Minnesota Viking offensive team huddle. They were big.
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Grim-faced, they formed a phalanx around the pair of us as we walked to the parking lot.
Two cars were waiting there. One was the green Ford station wagon. Beside it stood the phony FBI agents. Norfolk gestured for me to get into the other car, a black Mercury four-door sedan. He climbed in beside the driver. The two men who pot in the back seat — one on either side of me — were all muscle.
With the station wagon following us, we drove out of the parking lot, gravel crunching under the tires. We turned onto the country road heading away from Tanglewood and Lenox.
No one said anything. I was surprised that they’d made no attempt to disarm me. Maybe they figured that, pinned in between the two men, I wouldn’t be able to move fast.
The cars swept on through the night, taking one lane after another. Inside the sedan there was nothing but silence.
Off in the distance I could see the dark mass of the mountain Julie had shown me on the map. It was outlined against the lighter, star-flecked darkness of the night sky. I kept it in view as a reference point. We seemed to be heading in its general direction. Maybe they were taking me to Alexander Bradford’s place, after all. My gamble might be paying off.
And just about the time I made that assumption, the driver of the sedan spun the wheel. The car lurched, swaying into a tight turn. We drove off the road and down a lane about a hundred yards or so before coming to a stop. The driver flicked on the dome light and turned around. The gun in his hand was a Colt .45 automatic.
Norfolk opened his door and got out. So did the man on my right.
“You just sit still,” said the driver, aiming the pistol at my forehead. His hand was shaking.
I sat very still. I didn’t want to make him any more nervous than he already was. You never know what an amateur will do. They can kill you without meaning to.
“Get his gun,” the driver ordered the man on my left.