Desperately she tried to wrench herself away.
The man put the camera to his eye.
“Hey! That’s a great shot,” he commented admiringly.
“Damn you! Let go!” she cried out, panic filling her voice. “You’ll kill us both!”
“Hold it,” said the pudgy little man. I threw the woman to the ground, with myself on top of her, just as his finger pressed down on the shutter release.
The explosion fractured our little world with its sharp blast.
As explosions go, it wasn’t much. Just enough to tear the head off the man with the camera and splatter us with his blood. An ounce or so of plastique doesn’t take up much space. Neither does the tiny electric battery that makes it go off, but together they’re enough to do the job if all you want to do is kill the man who’s holding it to his face.
Some part of the camera — I guess it must have been the lens — flew across the few feet and slammed into the side of my head. It was like being hit with an axe handle. Everything went a reddish, hazy black and out of focus. Beneath me, I could feel the woman’s body squirming in her frantic attempts to escape. My hands wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t hold onto her.
People were shouting. There were a few screams that seemed to come from very far away, and then the noise swallowed me up.
I wasn’t out very long. Just a few seconds, but it was long enough for the woman to pull herself from underneath me and get to her feet. Dimly I could see her run down the path to the gate. She turned left on Tremont Street.
Groggily I pushed myself to my hands and knees. Someone helped me stand up.
“Are you alright?”
I didn’t answer. Like a drunk, I staggered down the path after her, knowing that I had to keep her in sight.
Someone shouted at me, “Hey, you’re hurt!” and tried to hold me back. I pushed him aside with a hard shove that sent him sprawling to his knees and continued my staggering run over the graves toward the gate. As I came out of the cemetery, I saw her turn the corner and head up toward Beacon Hill.
By the time I reached the intersection, she was far up the street. She had crossed to the other side and had slowed to a walk. If a running man attracts attention, the sight of a woman sprinting is enough to turn every head. Whoever she was, she was smart enough to know that. She walked at a quick, determined pace, looking neither to the right nor the left.
I slowed to a walk, too, staying on the opposite side of the street to keep her in sight. She went up the hill, past the State House, then turned right on Joy Street, still a hundred feet or more in front of me. When I got to the corner, it was just in time to see her turn left onto Mount Vernon Street.
The streets on Beacon Hill are narrow and not very crowded with people. It’s easy to spot anyone trying to follow you. I hung back as far as I dared, gambling that I wouldn’t lose her.
I didn’t.
She came to Louisburg Square, that small, privately-owned enclave that is the home of old Boston families, and turned into it. Two rows of adjoining townhouses that are not very wide and not very pretentious face each other across a small park. You’ve got to have more than just money to be able to buy one. They’re passed down from generation to generation, a legacy to be kept in the family. Outsiders are not welcome.
I watched the woman pause momentarily to unlock one of the townhouse doors. Not once had she turned her head to see if she were being followed.
The sidewalks of the Square are of brick, and in the street the original granite cobblestones are only partially covered by a thin sheeting of asphalt that time and traffic have worn away. The whole damn place looks slightly seedy, slightly run down, but you’d better not believe its appearance. Louisburg Square means something special to anyone who knows New England. The people who live there hide behind a facade of genteel poverty, and what they hide is old money. Old money and old family and what Calvin Woolfolk and I had been talking about earlier in the day. Power.
She’d led me to where I wanted to go.
Now the question was, which one of those five names on Woolfolk’s list lived at 21½ Louisburg Square?
Chapter Five
None of the five names was listed as being a resident of 21½ Louisburg Square. Neither the telephone directory nor the reverse directory, which lists by street addresses rather than by names, carried any information about who lived there. All that meant was that whoever it was had an unlisted number. It was too late to check City Hall for the tax records. I’d do that tomorrow.
It had been a pretty full day, considering that at six in the morning I’d boarded an Air Force fighter jet in Marseilles, had lunch and a talk with Hawk in Washington around twelve-thirty, and had almost had my head blown off before six o’clock that same evening in Boston.
There was a message for me in my box when I got back to my hotel. Calvin Woolfolk had called and invited me to dinner. He’d meet me at Gaspar’s, which was thoughtful of him because the restaurant is only about three blocks from the hotel.
I showered and changed and walked up Newbury Street to Gaspar’s. The maitre d’ came up to me before I’d taken half a dozen steps inside.
“Mr. Carter?”
“Yes.”
He smiled his professional greeter’s smile. “Mr. Woolfolk is waiting for you in the other room, sir. If you’ll follow me, please...”
Calvin’s white hair caught my eye as soon as we walked into the far dining room. He looked up and lifted a hand in greeting. There was a woman seated with him, but her back was toward me. When I got to the table, Calvin rose and said, “Nick, I’d like you to meet my niece. Sabrina, this is Nick Carter.”
The woman turned and lifted her face to me, smiling the same kind of smile she’d worn earlier in the afternoon when she’d come up with a camera in her hand at Ben Franklin’s grave and asked me to take her picture with it. Warm and impersonal, a facial gesture polite enough to hide behind with impunity.
She held out her hand. It felt both delicate and strong at the same time.
I smiled back at her.
“Sit down, Nick,” said Calvin Woolfolk. The maitre d’ pulled out the chair between Calvin and his niece. I gave him my order for a drink.
“I thought there’d be just the two of us,” I said to Calvin. “Your message didn’t indicate...”
“...that we’d have the pleasure of Sabrina’s company?” Calvin finished. “No, it didn’t. I wasn’t aware that Sabrina was in town at the time I called you. She stopped by my place as I was leaving. Came as a complete surprise.” He reached over and touched her hand affectionately. “But a pleasant one. I hardly ever see her these days. She’s gadding about the country, flying from one place to another so a body can’t keep track of her.”
I turned to Sabrina. “You must be Mather’s daughter.”
“I didn’t know you knew Father,” she said. Her voice had a husky body to it. Its tone, though, was as reserved as her smile.
“I don’t,” I said. “Calvin’s mentioned him. I’m assuming Calvin has no other brothers.”
“Thank God,” said Calvin. “Mather’s enough!”
The waiter came up with my drink. The three of us touched glasses and made small talk that lasted through the meal.
Sabrina’s poise was perfect. She acted as though I were just another friend of Calvin’s. You’d never guess that only a few hours earlier she’d tried to blow my head off.
Did Calvin know about Sabrina’s attempt on my life? Was he part of the conspiracy? Did she deliberately drop in on Woolfolk because she knew he was having dinner with me, or did that turn of events take her by surprise?