The Bay Bridge loomed out of the fog ahead. Cars flowed on and off freely, for traffic was not
yet at its morning peak. No troops guarded the approach or the spans rising out of the mercury
Bay.
Masarek measured the Bay Bridge with the eye of an engineer, looking for vulnerable spots and
calculating the amount of explosives needed to bring it down. “They make it easy for their
enemies,” he murmured.
“Maybe they’re just playing with us,” said Refugio. “Maybe all this is like the fat worm hiding the
steel hook.”
Masarek smiled. “Their grandchildren will speak Russian.”
Refugio yawned again, then removed one hand from the wheel to rub his eyes. Masarek watched
the hand, but his gun no longer moved to follow Refugio’s every twitch. Once Masarek had put
their weapons under his feet, he had relaxed slightly.
Both Salvador and Lopez knew that any move toward Masarek would result in Refugio’s death.
As Refugio was their patron, their cousin, their half-sister’s brother-in-law, and their brains, they
waited for his signal. When it came, they would do their best to kill Masarek before he could kill
Refugio.
Until then, they sat in the back of the van on a cold floor with a dead man and two odd chunks
of metal, each wrapped in separate laundry bags. The dead man stank of feces, and the metal
slithered about with every movement of the swaying van.
“I’ll have to change lanes soon,” said Refugio, “unless you want me to drive past the waterfront
and then come back.”
Masarek leaned over to check Refugio’s side mirror. At first Refugio had thought that such a
move would give him a chance to kill Masarek; but every time Masarek leaned, the pistol’s
bulbous silencer dug intimately into Refugio’s groin. He was not going to risk his manhood for a
chop at Masarek’s neck.
Three against one with a gun. A Mexican stand-off of sorts. Refugio smiled wryly. In all such
contests, the victory went to the wary.
Masarek leaned back. The motion removed the gun, but did not change its target. “Get off the
bridge. Go directly to the waterfront. I’ll tell you where to stop. Remember. No sudden stops
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or turns.”
“I’ll remember,” said Refugio, feeling the sweat that came to his face each time the gun poked at
his crotch. “But what if one of these tired little shopgirls crashes into a third little clerk and I
have to stand hard on the brakes?”
“Then you’re dead.”
“You’re an unreasonable man,” said Refugio, but he said it in Spanish. Kestrel had warned him
not to underestimate Masarek merely because the Russian took orders from a woman. Refugio
wished he had given more thought to Kestrel’s words.
Refugio waited for an opening before changing lanes slowly, cautiously. It galled him to drive
like a timid girl, treating red lights and speed zones as though they were serious matters instead
of markers in a game of skill and nerve. Nonetheless, he drove like an American, for Masarek’s
gun was never far away.
The fog was lighter in color new, more dove than steel, but still a dense exhalation concealing
the morning. Cars parked a half-block away were invisible. Nearby cars were studded with
moisture that gathered and ran in eccentric streaks.
“Left,” said Masarek. Then, as the van completed the turn, “Right at the next corner.”
Refugio drove the van through two turns, both times a bit fast, testing Masarek. The Russian
said nothing. He was intent on the side mirrors and the cars parked along the street.
“Right again.”
The van bumped over rough, foggy streets which paralleled the factories, warehouses and
storage yards of the waterfront.
“Almost there?” asked Refugio, stressing the word “almost.” He wanted to look over his
shoulder at Salvador but did not dare.
Salvador picked up the verbal cue. He grumbled about the rough ride and shifted to a kneeling
position as though to ease his cramped legs. Masarek glanced back at him, but said nothing. The
movement seemed natural enough.
Suddenly the van swayed as Refugio swerved around a pothole and then braked sharply.
Salvador sprawled forward, swearing bitterly in Spanish. The canvas bags containing the
uranium skidded toward the front of the van, touching and rebounding off one another in an
invisible flowering of energy. Masarek’s gun wavered, then returned to Refugio’s groin with
enough force to make the Mexican wince.
“Be careful!”
Salvador pulled himself upright. The long-armed Mexican was closer to the front of the truck
now, kneeling rather than sitting, a killer in blue jeans whose fingers ached to feel the slim cold
bars of the garrot as it sliced through flesh.
Slowly, casually, his thumb hooked into his belt buckle, ready to grab and twist, freeing the razor
wire in a single ripping motion.
Wanting to look back, knowing he must not, Refugio drove along the uneven street. The
moment to consummate Kestrel’s plan was drawing closer with each turn of the tires, but he did
not know which car concealed Vanessa’s polished blond hair. Was it the black one with the
broken window or the faded red one with a crumpled fender? Or was she even here?
Refugio had to force his hands to relax on the wheel. Like a wild animal, Masarek had a sixth
sense for danger, sniffing and listening, head turning, eyes probing, but most of all listening,
always listening.
“Can I tell my men what we’re looking for?” asked Refugio, willing his voice to be casual. “Even
from back there, they could help you.”
“One word of Spanish and I’ll blow your balls off.”
Refugio shrugged, concealing a surge of rage. He had planned for something like this while
Vanessa talked on the phone to her San Francisco spy and Masarek watched and listened.
Always listening, that one. A wild animal. Killing him would not be a sin, not like killing a real
person.
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On the left was a white van with its engine compartment open and a single red rose painted on
its side. Refugio’s hands gripped the wheel, his knuckles showing pale yellow. Masarek noticed
neither the sudden tension nor the parked flower truck, for he had just spotted Vanessa’s car.
“There!” he exclaimed.
“Como?” said Refugio with a guilty start.
“The dark green car.”
There were three dark cars within view, all parked on his side of the street.
“Which one?”
“Slow down! There! Third car on the right. See the red blanket?”
Refugio slowed to a crawl, peering out the windshield. He spotted the car with a blanket shoved
carelessly onto the rear-window ledge, blocking most of the window.
“Where is the woman?” asked Refugio. Kestrel would be very angry if Vanessa were not
captured for questioning. He could not even set Salvador onto Masarek until Vanessa was within
easy reach.
“Stop next to the car, wait for a moment and then park ahead of her. She’ll wait in the car for
us.”
Refugio followed the instructions, turning as though to peer into the car. Out of the corner of
his eye he saw Salvador, who was not quite close enough to the Russian to be certain – and
Refugio wanted Masarek’s death to be very certain indeed.
Refugio pulled even with the green car. Vanessa’s face appeared briefly in the side window.
“Good,” grunted Masarek. “Now park up ahead.”
Refugio pulled forward, jerking the van when he let out the clutch. His clumsiness covered
Salvador’s forward creep. Only a few inches, but it was all Salvador could safely manage.
As Refugio angled the van toward the curb, he knew the time to attack had come. He wished to
every saint he had ever known that a gun were not pointed between his legs. But it must be now,
while Masarek’s mind was divided between Vanessa and the men in the van.
“Masarek.”
It was the first time Refugio had spoken Masarek’s name since they had left Hunters Point. It was
meant to be the last.
Salvador’s garrot sang free of’his belt as he lunged for Masarek. The Russian turned at the
unexpected sound even as his hand started to squeeze the trigger. Refugio’s fist lashed out,
trying to knock away the gun, but it was like trying to bend stone.
Only the garrot saved Refugio, the razor wire tightening with a jerk that yanked Masarek
off-balance a fraction. Not much, hardly a finger’s width, merely the difference between a bullet
through his thigh and a bullet through his balls.
Refugio bellowed like a gored bull, but he held on to Masarek’s hand and gun. He bellowed
again, straining against the Russian’s strength. They were locked together, clawing for control of
the silenced gun.
The first snap of Salvador’s wrists failed to kill Masarek. In the split instant before the garrot
closed, Masarek had jammed his left hand between the razor wire and the vulnerable flesh of his
neck.
The garrot bit deeply into Masarek’s hand, drawing blood from a cut so fine that for an instant
the Russian did not even feel it. When wire met bone, Salvador’s momentum was broken.
Masarek tried to turn the gun back on Salvador, but Refugio held on despite his wound,
preventing Masarek from shooting the man whose cruel hands were sawing on the wire.
Lopez leaped into the fight, grabbing for the bulbous silencer. The gun was forced upward just
as it coughed once, then again, clearing its throat of two deadly bits of metal. One penetrated the
sheet metal ceiling; the other struck a strut and rebounded, tearing through Lopez’s face. He
screamed and staggered, one eye gone. He dropped to his knees, clawing at his face. He was
dead before his forehead bounced off the van’s floor.
The gun hawked twice more, sending bullets screaming off metal surfaces. Salvador yanked on
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the thin wire, struggling to pull the garrot through the bone in Masarek’s thumb and then
through the flesh on his neck.
The muzzle of the pistol wove erratically, a blind black eye. Sweat ran down Salvador’s face and
his heavy arms bulged as he pulled against the stubborn bone. The razor wire jerked, found new
purchase on the thumb joint, and sliced through to Masarek’s neck. Gagging helplessly, he
jerked the trigger again and again. Bullets grazed Salvador’s hand, but the pressure on Masarek’s
neck did not lessen.
Refugio felt his own strength give way to pain, but he clung to the Russian’s arm, spoiling the
assassin’s aim. Desperately, Masarek tried to throw himself up and over the back of the seat,
bringing himself closer to Salvador and thereby easing the bite of the wire. But his movement
gave Refugio the leverage he needed. He forced the pistol back on its owner. Masarek’s twisting
struggle could not evade the bullet that tore through his throat, killing him.
Breathing rapidly, Salvador wiped sweat and blood from his face. His arms hung like bags of
sand and his fingers were numb. Never had it taken so long to kill a man. Never had one of his
victims died so hard.
“Are you all right, Refugio?” asked Salvador, looking away from Masarek, remembering where
the first bullet had been aimed. “Refugio?”
“The woman!” gasped Refugio. “We must get the woman!”
Hunters Point
3 Hours 10 Minutes After Trinity
Coughlan’s footsteps had stopped short of the corpse. He flipped Finn’s credentials at him
without meeting Finn’s eyes. The FBI agent’s lips were puckered as though he were chewing on
quinine. He faced Riley.
“Give him his gun,” said Coughlan. “He’s your new boss.”
“What?”
“He’s in charge of this investigation,” said Coughlan, distaste in every syllable, “and you are
hereby assigned to be his fetch-and-carry. So give him the goddamn elephant gun before he
breaks your arm.”
“For the love of God,” said Riley. He holstered his own gun and returned Finn’s .45.
Finn stuck the .45 in the back of his belt. “Amen, Riley. Let’s give the partnership a pass.”
Coughlan smiled thinly. “Nice try, but Groves – whoever the hell he is – said you work with us.
If Riley is too much for you to handle, I’ll find someone with fewer teeth. Either way, it’s you
and us.”
Finn looked from Coughlan to Riley. “It can be easy,” he said, measuring Riley with pale eyes,
“or it can be hard.” He pointed to the dead sentry. “Hold on to him.”
Without waiting to see if Riley understood, Finn turned and squatted on his heels by the dead
boy.
Riley hesitated, then grabbed the corpse, holding it against Finn’s pull. It was clearly the first
time Riley had touched a corpse, but he was determined not to show his revulsion.
Finn liked the feel of dead flesh no better than Riley. Willing hmself not to notice smell or
temperature or texture, Finn wrestled against the cold strength of the sentry’s clenched fingers.
Once he almost pulled over the body. He looked up at Riley, who flushed and grasped the
corpse more tightly.
Finally, Finn dragged the thick paper out of the dead boy’s grasp.
Coughlan could restrain himself no longer. “You keep dicking with the evidence and the crime
boys will be all over you like a cat covering shit.”
“I don’t give a damn about evidence. All I want is information.”
Coughlan shut up.
Finn smoothed out the paper. It was an indentification card from the Lawrence Radiation
Laboratory, issued to a health inspector named Mr. Stan Grummin. But the face belonged to
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Masarek. Finn turned to one of the Navy officers who had drifted back in Coughlan’s wake.
“Did the Lawrence Radiation Lab send someone over to check the shipment?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Who?”
The ONI man consulted a notebook. “Dr. Kenneth Cooper logged in at the gate last night at
2400. He logged out at 0100. However, this sentry,” his glance flicked over the corpse, “came
on duty at 0130. Somebody checked, saw him alive at 0200. Dr. Cooper couldn’t have been
involved.”
Finn’s glance turned back to the card in his hand. He smoothed the card and turned it slowly so
that light played over the small photograph. In spite of its recently wrinkled face, the card was
new, its edges crisp and unsmudged by handling.
“You can let go,” said Finn to Riley without looking up.
“My pleasure,” muttered Riley. He stepped back from the corpse with no attempt to hide his
relief.
“Coughlan,” Finn said, “how long will it take to find out if this card really came from the
Lawrence lab?”
Coughlan approached and took the card from Finn. He smoothed it out and studied the picture
and the printing carefully. “Paper and printing are right, but it couldn’t have come from the lab.
