Trail of the Twisted Cros by Buck Sanders Read Free Book Online Page A

message, a terse announcement of the mine explosion at Loveridge. He looked again at the transmission of
     the Nixon message.
    “My God,” Slayton said, “it was supposed to be tomorrow!”
    “So what was your big theory?” Winship asked.
    Slayton had leaped from his chair. He was buttoning his jacket.
    “It still might fit, Hammy. We’ll get to that later. Right now, I need to stay on top of things. Here’s what you do. Get hold
     of the classified advertising honcho at the
Washington Star
and tell him to meet me at the newspaper office pronto.”
    He was out the door before Winship could get out a single flustered, “But… but…” His only choice was to follow the lead of
     his headstrong special agent, a subordinate in name only. Winship and Slayton were a team of two equals with differing abilities
     and styles, two men with that rare quality of working together almost telepathically, despite their wide differences.
    Winship depressed the button of his desk top intercom. “Fran,” he barked. Then he felt helplessly foolish. He looked at his
     wrist watch. His secretary wouldn’t be in for another ninety minutes.
    He grumbled as he lifted the District of Columbia telephone directory from a credenza behind his desk, spread it open before
     him, and looked up the number of the
Washington Star
. An insolent city editor, groggy after an eight-hour shift on the night desk, provided him with the name of the classified
     advertising manager, though he would not offer a home telephone number. Winship leafed wildly through the directory, located
     the man, and dialed the number.
    “This is Hamilton Winship, deputy director of the Department of the Treasury, Mr. Bailey. I’m calling you this morning on
     a matter of national security, urgent national security.”
    “That you, Hal?”
    “What?”
    “Hal?”
    Winship was unaccustomed to being taken as a prankster.
    “I am Hamilton Winship, deputy—”
    “And I’m Archduke Ferdinand.”
    “You are the classified advertising manager of the
Washington Star
, and I am calling on you to assist on a matter of urgent national security. I will give you a telephone number that will
     connect you with the White House. Call it, and you will be switched to me. I have no time to respond to your suspicions, sir.
     Please, in the name of national security, call this number.”
    Winship gave him the White House switchboard number. Bailey, responding to the genuine sound of urgency in Winship’s voice,
     obediently retelephoned.
    “Look, I’m sorry, Mr. Winship, I—”
    “Quiet. I do not require apologies. I do require you to get to your office immediately. There, you will be met by Mr. Benjamin
     Slayton, one of our special T-men. He will be asking you for authorization to look at advance billing orders for today’s classified
     advertisements—the personals, I should imagine. Please get moving.”
    “Yes sir!” Bailey said, as Winship clicked off.
    “Are you Mr. Slayton?” the short, balding fat man asked.
    “Yes.”
    “I’m Bailey,” he whispered. Bailey, sweating, looked around him conspiratorially. “It’s all right. I was called by a Mr. Winship.”
    “Yeah.”
    Bailey wiped the sweat off his upper lip.
    “I mean,” Bailey said, “what do we do?”
    “
We
don’t do anything. I just want your billing orders, for today’s editions.”
    “The personals, right? That’s what—”
    “Fine, I’ll start with those.”
    Bailey scurried off, unlocked a cabinet, and returned to the counter where Slayton waited. He spread out about a hundred pieces
     of paper, upon which order takers had scrawled out a day’s worth of personal messages from the public, most of them having
     to do with parents wanting to hear from missing children, husbands wanting to hear from vanished wives, travelers wanting
     discount airline tickets, and birthday greetings.
    Slayton ripped through the orders, not knowing exactly what to look for. But he found it in a matter of