Hood of Death (9 page)

"If they're as smart and rough as you guess, you may have to fit me back together."

"I doubt it, Nicholas. You know what I think of your ability. That's why you're going in. If you'll take a cruise in your boat on Sunday morning I'll meet you off Bryan Point If the river is crowded, go southwest until we are alone."

"When will the technicians be ready for me?"

"On Tuesday at the garage in McLean. But I'll give you a complete briefing and most documents and maps on Sunday."

Nick enjoyed having dinner that evening with Ruth Moto, but he learned nothing of value, and at Hawk's suggestion, he did not press. They enjoyed some passionate moments parked at the shore and he took her home at two.

On Sunday he met Hawk and they spent three hours going over details with the precision of two architects about to let the contract.

On Tuesday Jerry Deming told his answering service and doorman and a few other significant people that he was going to Texas on business and departed in the Bird. A half-hour later he drove through the doors of a medium-size truck terminal, set well back from the road, and for the moment, he and his car vanished from the earth.

On Wednesday morning a two-year-old Buick left the truck garage and went out Route 7 to Leesburg. When it paused a man slipped out and walked the five blocks to the cab office.

No one noticed him closely as he sauntered along the busy street, because he was not the type of man you bothered to look at twice, even though he limped and carried a plain brown cane. He might have been a local merchant or someone's father out to get the paper and a container of orange juice. His hair and mustache were gray, his skin red and ruddy, and he had poor posture and carried a bit too much weight, although his frame was big. He wore a dark blue suit and a blue-gray soft hat.

He hired a cab and was driven back down Route 7 to the airport, where he got out at the charter-rental office. The mannish woman behind the counter liked him because he was so polite and clearly respectable.

His papers were in order. Alastair Beadle Williams. She checked them carefully. "Your secretary reserved an Aero Commander, Mr. Williams, and sent out a cash deposit." She became very polite herself. "Since you haven't flown with us before we would like to check you out... personally. If you don't mind..."

"Don't blame you. Wise thing to do."

"Good. I'll go around with you myself. That's if you don't object to a woman..."

"You look like the kind of woman who is a fine pilot. I can tell intelligence. I'll make a guess — you have your L.C. and your instrument rating."

"Why, yes. How did you know?"

"Always could judge character." And, Nick thought, no gal trying as hard as you are to wear pants would let the men stay ahead of her — and you have the age to have the hours in the air.

He made two approaches — both flare-outs perfect. She said, "You're very good, Mr. Williams. I'm satisfied. You're going to North Carolina?"

"Yes."

"Here are the charts. Stop by the office and we'll file a flight plan."

After he had completed the plan he said, "Depending on circumstances, I may change that plan for tomorrow. I'll telephone control personally concerning any deviation. Please don't concern yourself about it."

She beamed. "It's so good to see someone with methodical common sense. So many just want to hit the blue yonder. I've sweated some of them out for days."

He gave her a ten-dollar bill "For your time."

She was saying, "No, please," and "Thank you" all in one breath as he left.

At noon Nick landed at Manassas Municipal Airport and telephoned a cancellation on the flight plan. AXE knew hit movements to the minute and could control the controllers, but by following the routine there was less chance of drawing attention. Leaving Manassas he flew northwest, threading the powerful little ship through Allegheny mountain passes where Union and Confederate cavalry had chased and checkmated each other a century before.

It was a grand day for flying, bright sun and minimum wind. He sang "Dixie" and "Marching Through Georgia" as he crossed into Pennsylvania and landed to top off his fuel tanks. When he took off again he switched to a couple of choruses of "The British Grenadier," pronouncing the words with an English old-boy accent. Alastair Beadle Williams represented Vickers, Ltd., and Nick had the exact diction to fit.

He used the Altoona beacon, then one more Omni course, and an hour later landed at a small but busy field. He phoned for a rental car, and by 6:42 p.m. he was crawling up a narrow road on the northwest slope of the Appalachian chain. It was a one-lane track, but except for its width it was a good road, with two centuries of fill and uncounted hours of work by strong men to channel its water and build the stone walls that still bordered it. Once a busy stage road west because it followed the longer route but easier grades through the notches, it no longer was marked on maps as a through road across the mountains.

On Nick's Geological Survey map of 1892 it was marked as a through road, on the map of 1967 the center portion was just a dotted line indicating a trail. He and Hawk had gone over every detail on the maps — he felt he knew the road before he drove it. Four miles onward was the closest approach to the rear of the gigantic Lord properties, twenty-five hundred acres in three mountain glens.

Even AXE had been unable to obtain recent details on the Lord estate, although the old survey maps were undoubtedly reliable as far as most roads and buildings were concerned. Hawk had said, "We know there's an airport in there but that's about all. Of course we could have photographed and surveyed it, but there never was any reason to. Old man Antoine Lord assembled the place about 1924. He and Calgehenny made fortunes when iron and steel were king and you kept what you made. None of this nonsense about feeding people you couldn't exploit. Lord was apparently the most sophisticated of the bunch. After making forty more million in the First World War he sold most of his industrial shares and bought a lot of real estate."

The story had interested Nick. "The old boy is dead of course?"

"Died 1934. He even made headlines then by telling John Raskob he was a greedy fool and that Roosevelt was saving the country from socialism and they ought to back him instead of tripping him up. The reporters loved it. His son Ulysses inherited the estate and seventy or eighty million split with his sister Martha."

Nick had asked, "And they are ...?"

"Martha was last reported in California. We're checking. Ulysses set up several charitable and educational foundations. Genuine ones — about 1936 through 1942. Before it was the clever thing to do as a tax dodge and to insure permanent jobs for your heirs. He was a captain in the Keystone Division in World Scramble Two. Got a Silver Star and a Bronze Star with an Oak Leaf Cluster. Wounded twice. He started as an enlisted man, by the way. Never traded on his connections."

"Sounds like quite a lad," Nick had observed. "Where is he now?"

"We don't know. His bankers and real estate agents and stockbrokers write to him at a post office box in Palm Springs."

As Nick drove slowly along the ancient road he recalled that conversation. The Lords hardly sounded like cooperators with a Baumann Ring or Chicoms.

He stopped in a wide space that might have been a wagon turnout and studied the map. Half a mile on there were two tiny black squares that indicated what were now probably abandoned foundations of former buildings. Beyond them a tiny mark indicated a cemetery and then, before the old road swung southwest to cross the hollow between two mountains, there should be a trail leading across a small notch to the Lord holdings.

Nick turned the car around, crushing a number of bushes, locked it and left it in the turnout. He walked along the road in the dying sunlight, enjoying the rich green verdure, the tall hemlocks and the way the white birches stood out. A chipmunk, surprised, ran ahead of him for a few yards, waving its small tail like an antenna before it leaped on a rock wall, froze for an instant in a brown and black tiny bundle of fur before blinking its shiny eyes and vanishing. Nick wished for a moment he was out for an evening stroll, that the world was all at peace and that was the important thing. But it wasn't, he reminded himself, and paused and lit a cigarette.

The extra weight of his special equipment reminded him just how unpeaceful the world was. Because the situation was unknown, he and Hawk had agreed that he come well prepared. The white nylon underjacket which gave him his overweight appearance had a dozen pockets containing explosives, tools, wire, a small radio transmitter — even a gas mask.

Hawk had said, "You'll carry Wilhelmina and Hugo and Pierre anyway. If you're taken they're enough to incriminate you. So you might as well carry the extra equipment. It may be just what you need to see you through, or anyway signal us from a tight spot I'll have Barney Manoon and Bill Rohde planted near the entrance to the estate in a dry cleaner's truck."

It made sense but the stuff was heavy on a long walk. Nick wiggled the underjacket with his elbows to spread the perspiration which was becoming uncomfortable and hiked on. He came out into a clearing where the old foundations were shown on the map and stopped. Foundations? He saw a perfect picture of a rural Gothic farmhouse at the turn of the century, complete with a broad porch on three sides, rocking chairs and a swinging hammock, a truck garden and an outhouse near a flower-bordered path at the rear. They were painted a rich yellow with white trim on windows and gutters and rails.

Beyond the house a small red barn also shown neatly in fresh paint. Two chestnut horses peeked over a post-and-rail paddock at the rear, and under a double wagon shelter he saw a buggy and some farm machinery.

Nick walked on slowly, his attention focused with interest on the charming but out-of-date scene. They belonged on a Currier and Ives calendar —
The Home Place
or
The Little Farm.

He reached the flagstone walk that led up to the porch and his stomach tightened as a strong voice behind him, somewhere off the edge of the road, said, "Stand still, mister. There's an automatic shotgun pointed at your middle."

Nick stood very, very still. The sun, now only a short way above the mountains to the west, was hot on his face. In the forest a jay screamed, loud in the silence. The man with the shotgun had everything going for him — surprise, concealment, and his quarry against the sun.

Nick had halted with the brown cane swung forward. He held it there, six inches above the ground, without lowering it. The voice said, "You can turn around."

The man came out from behind a black walnut tree flanked by scrub brush. It looked like an observation post that had been arranged to be unnoticed. The shotgun looked like an expensive Browning, probably the Sweet 16 with no compensator. The man was of medium size, about fifty, dressed in a gray cotton shirt and pants but wearing a soft hat in a tweed pattern that would hardly be sold locally. He looked intelligent His quick gray eyes roved over Nick without haste.

Nick returned the look. The man stood easy, cradling the shotgun with his hand near the trigger, the muzzle pointed low and to the right. A novice might have decided that here was a man you could take with speed and surprise. Nick decided quite differently.

"I've had a little trouble up here," the man said. "Mind telling me where you're heading?"

"Over the old road and trail," Nick replied in his perfect old-boy accent "My name is Alastair Williams. I'm with Vickers. I'm on holiday and I'm following one of your excellent government survey maps. I'll be glad to show you ray identification and the map, if you desire."

"If you please."

Wilhelmina felt comfortable against his left rib cage. She could spit in a scant fraction of a second. Nick's judgment said that they both would finish neck and neck and dead. He carefully took the map from the side pocket of his blue jacket and his wallet from the inner breast pocket. He removed two cards from the wallet — a "Vicker's Security Division" pass complete with his picture, and a Universal Air Travel Card.

"Would you mind holding them straight out in your right hand?"

Nick didn't mind. He congratulated himself on his judgment as the man bent forward and took them with his own left hand, holding the gun well back and away. He took two steps back and glanced at the cards, noted the area listed in the corner of the map. Then he walked forward and handed them back. "Please excuse this reception. I have some truly dangerous neighbors. It's not quite like England."

"Oh, I'm sure," Nick answered as he put away the papers. "I'm familiar with your mountain people and their clannishness and dislike of government revenooers — do I pronounce that right?"

"Yes. You'd better come in for a cup of tea. Stay the night if you like. I'm John Villon. I live here." He gestured at the storybook farmhouse.

"Charming place," Nick said. "I'd love to join you in a cup and have a closer look at that lovely farm. But I want to get over the mountain and back. Can I call on you about four o'clock tomorrow?"

"Certainly. But you're starting out a bit late."

"I know. I left my car in the turnout because the road became so narrow. Which puts me a half-hour off schedule." He was careful to say
shedule.
"I often hike at night. I carry a small lamp. There'll be a moon tonight and actually I see quite splendidly at night. Tomorrow I'll retrace the trail by day. It can't be a bad path. It's been a road for almost two centuries."

"The going is easy enough, except for some stony washouts and a cleft where there was once a wooden bridge. You'll have to clamber down and up and ford a stream. Why are you so set on walking this trail?"

"A distant cousin of mine came over it by stage in the last century. Wrote a book about it In fact he went all the way to your West Coast I'm going to retrace his route. It will take me several years of holidays, but then I'm going to write a book about the changes. This will make a fascinating anecdote. Actually this area is more primitive than when he came through."