Painfully, Refugio eased himself around until he was in a sitting position with his legs dangling
over the truck. “Okay, chica. Help me inside.”
He held himself erect, breathing rapidly, his face pale with nausea, more nausea than he had
anticipated. For an instant he wondered if Masarek had used poison on his bullets.
Ana waited, color slowly returning to her face. She knew she must help Refugio. If he died,
leaving her alone in the fragrant shambles of her childhood, all this would be for nothing.
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“Wait.”
Ana ran to the shop door that led from the garage to the living quarters in back of the store. The
smell of bruised petals and crushed stems was everywhere, heightened by the damp air. Ana
shuddered, hating the odor and the childhood it recalled.
The door was unlocked and painted a bright pink that clashed with her memories. Her father
would never have permitted such a garish color to intrude upon the serenity of his household.
But her father was in a prison camp called Manzanar, and the shop had been sold to Refugio’s
cousins for a fraction of its worth.
There were other changes inside. Colors that offended her, floors that were crusted with the
sediment of a different culture, startling pictures of improbable bulls and glittering bullfighters
painted on black velvet. There were religious paintings of an impaled Christ and a smiling
Madonna.
One bed remained. It was used as an informal couch, covered by a rainbow serape. Ana yanked
off the blanket and threw it on the floor.
She turned and ran back to the truck. Refugio was standing, holding on to one of the van doors
and swearing with a fervency that most men reserved for prayer. Ana pulled his arm over her
shoulder, substituting her support for that of the door.
After a few awkward attempts, Ana and Refugio learned to gauge the other’s weakness and
strength. A moment later, Refugio was stretched out on the bed, groaning with relief. He felt
feverish, which he expected. The intensity of his nausea, however, worried him. Sweating
suddenly, he fought the urge to vomit.
Ana saw Refugio’s convulsive swallowing and guessed its cause. She grabbed an empty flower
pail and shoved it under his nose. When he was finished, she went to the bathroom, emptied the
pail, then set it by the bed.
“Thanks,” said Refugio, wiping his face on the wet cloth she had given him. “It is only a little
wound.The pain is not so bad, now.”
“Good,” said Ana, her jaw set, “because we have to clean your leg.”
“Yes,” sighed Refugio, letting his head drop back onto the thin mattress. He took his knife out
of its belt sheath. “Can you do it or do you want me to?”
Secretly, Ana had been hoping that he would refuse her help. Without a word, she took the knife
from Refugio’s cold fingers, sliced through his pant leg, and peeled away the bloody cloth.
The wound was a scarlet furrow gouged across the meaty top of Refugio’s thigh. Though bloody
and undoubtedly painful, the wound was obviously not a serious one.
Refugio saw the relief in Ana’s face. “It’s as I told you. A small thing, not to be worried about.”
Ana’s smile was so brief that Refugio missed it. He closed his eyes and lay passively beneath her
hands. She was surprisingly deft. Within a very few minutes, Refugio’s leg was clean and the
wound gently bathed.
Even so, the pain made Refugio sweat.
“All I could find to disinfect the wound is alcohol,” said Ana.
“Good,” Refugio said, clenching his teeth. “Do it.”
When the alcohol washed over raw flesh, Refugio convulsed with pain. Ana forced herself to
finish, then went into the bathroom and vomited until she had nothing left in her but a numb
desire to wake from the nightmare of the last hour.
There was no awakening. When she went back to the room, Refugio was still there, throwing up
into the tin pail. When he was finished, she bound his leg in strips of the only clean sheet she
could find. Then she went back to the bathroom. She was gone a long time.
Refugio did not open his eyes when Ana returned.
“The worst is over, chica. The wound will scab and the leg will be stiff, and I will limp around
for a few days like Ridgewalker.”
“When will your cousin be here to open the shop?”
“Before noon.”
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Refugio squinted up at Ana, realizing that there was something different about her. Then he saw
that now she wore her hair ratted and tousled around her face. She had put on dark makeup
instead of her customary rice powder. Wedges of black at the outer corners of each eye
disguised their Oriental slant, and a stripe of blue subdued their epicanthic fold. Bright lipstick
thickened the line of her lips. The total effect was more Mexican than Japanese, although a close
inspection revealed the delicate bones of her face.
“Good,” said Refugio approvingly. “Even your own father would have to look again to be sure
that he saw you.” His eyes traveled over her again. “Very pretty. Why do you not do this in
Mexico?”
Ana thought she looked like a two-peso whore, but did not say so. At least she would not be
recognized by any of her former San Francisco neighbors. She looked at her watch. Not yet nine
o’clock.
She knew she should call Takagura Omi, but could not face it yet. She was afraid that he would
tell her Kestrel could not come. Then she would have to drive the length of California alone – a
fugitive Japanese girl with a wounded Mexican murderer and two canvas sacks whose contents
had already cost several lives.
Ana looked again at her watch, knowing she must call soon.
“What will you do if he does not come?” said Refugio, his dark eyes shrewd in spite of his pain.
He knew Kestrel did not trust him. He did not resent it. He respected the Japanese spy’s
pragmatism. “Did he leave the money with you?”
“No.”
Refugio smiled. “Don’t feel bad. He didn’t trust me, either. But that doesn’t answer my first
question. What do we do if he doesn’t come?”
“We get back in the truck and drive to the tunnel,” said Ana. “Kestrel left sealed instructions
with Takagura Omi. Don’t worry – you’ll get paid.”
Ana emphasized Takagura’s name, reminding Refugio that should he cross Kestrel, Takagura
could make Refugio’s life a preview of hell. Takagura’s wealth and power extended far beyond
Barrio Chino.
“It’s you who should not worry,” said Refugio, smiling invitingly. “If Kestrel does not come, I
will take care of you.”
“He’ll come,” said Ana fiercely.
San Francisco
4 Hours 31 Minutes After Trinity
Finn and Riley were parked on a hill overlooking San Francisco. The view was interrupted by
streamers of fog stirred by a fitful wind. Toward Oakland the fog was dense, white and opaque.
On the Berkeley hilltops it was as fine as gossamer, brilliantly backlighted by the hidden sun.
Although Finn had driven to the hilltop for the radio reception rather than the view, he
appreciated the elegance of the white city swathed in mist, and at the same time could not help
wondering where in all those teeming streets was Good Luck laundry truck number 7. The two
men listened to reports emanating from across the city, including, finally, a report from
Coughlan. His voice was harsh with static and exasperation.
“Trucks 1, 3, 4, 8 and 9 accounted for. They smell like dirty shorts and they don’t register on this
voodoo box. Nothing in the building. Trucks 2, 5 and 6 are picking up laundry. The cops have
searched them. Nothing.”
“Satisfied, Finn? Or do you want me to go over anything again?”
Finn punched the transmit button. “Negative.” He replaced the microphone and resumed
staring out at the city.
“You didn’t expect to find anything in those other trucks, did you?” said Riley.
“Whoever pulled off this job is a pro. He has no connection with the laundry. Probably bought
the driver, or killed him and took the truck.” Finn flexed his shoulders, releasing the tension of
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inactivity. “He’ll dump the truck, switch to another vehicle and either go to ground or run.”
“Then why the fuss over the damned trucks?”
“You have a better idea of a good place to start?”
“Since I don’t know damn all about what was stolen, I wouldn’t know whether to start shaking
the local fences or to drag the local waters for stiffs in cement overcoats.”
“It wasn’t local talent,” said Finn. “Odds are it wasn’t even American talent.”
Riley digested the implications of what Finn said. “That rather widens the search area.”
Finn said nothing, just stared through the windshield at the city, watching the fog and waiting
because there was nothing else he could do. He had discovered and described the quarry’s
spoor, and he had sent his beaters out through the foggy jungle. Now he could only wait for the
quarry to be flushed.
And try not to count the seconds clicking by. Try not to wonder if laundry truck number 7 was
here or there or anywhere at all.
Suddenly both men sat up and lunged for the volume control.
“ – in the 600 block along the waterfront. Repeat. Oakland police responded to a disturbance
involving Ho’s laundry truck number 17.”
Finn started the Ford and surged into traffic while Riley wrote in his notebook. When the voice
said “17,” Riley swore. He glanced at the speedometer. “What’s the rush? We’re looking for
number 7, not 17.”
“Ho only has nine trucks.”
Finn slid into a bicycle-sized opening between two trucks, then braked hard for a right turn.
“Ask when the truck was found,” he said. “And tell Coughlan to keep the locals the hell away
from it. There’s always some hero who can’t leave well enough alone.”
Riley spoke rapidly, his words lost to Finn beneath the sound of the Ford whining up to peak
acceleration.
“They found it an hour ago.”
“For the love of Christ,” snarled Finn, weaving around a startled motorist, “why weren’t we
notified!”
Riley braced himself on the dashboard. “The APB was for truck number 7.”
“Shit!” said Finn, his voice furious, “nobody’s that dumb!”
“The locals hate our guts,” said Riley. “The only reason they let us in on anything is because
they’re forced to. If you go out there screaming like Coughlan, Oakland’s finest will do
everything they can to hamstring your investigation.”
Finn answered by throwing the car into a controlled skid. He straightened the wheel and aimed
for the Bay Bridge rising out of the gloom. The radio mumbled again.
“Three bodies were aboard and a fourth down in the street. Coroner has them now.”
“Tell everyone to stay away from the truck,” said Finn. He thought about those eager,
half-bright Oakland cops, all of them wondering what had the FBI so stirred up, crawling over
the truck and soaking up radiation.
The car raced onto the Bay Bridge as Riley replaced the microphone.
“Where’s the 600 block?” asked Finn.
“Bear to the right coming off the bridge, then make a hard right at the first cross street. It’s on
the waterfront.”
“What about the Lawrence Radiation men?”
“They cleared Coughlan. They’re finishing up at Hunters Point. Should be here in about
forty-five minutes.”
Using first brake, then accelerator, Finn slid through a right turn and onto a rough waterfront
street. A roadblock of police cars appeared a few blocks away. The cop on the roadblock was
big and hard-bellied. He let them pass grudgingly.
Finn parked the car, grabbed the radiation counter and walked quickly to the knot of men
around the laundry truck. He adjusted dials as he went. Riley followed at a trot, the only way he
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could match Finn’s long-legged stride.
A dozen men stood by the truck, six in police uniform, four in suits and two in the uniforms of.
factory security guards. Finn ignored all of them. He swept the counter’s wand back and forth.
Conversation stopped; everyone stared at Finn. He moved the wand, testing the outside of the
vehicle. In the silence, the click of the counter was clear. Finn moved the dial up again before
opening the truck’s front door and sticking the probe inside.
The clicking increased. Finn reset the dial. The clicking slowed. He checked the front seat,
looking carefully at every place where the uranium might have been hidden. The seat was intact,
the glove compartment empty, the wall panels untouched.
Finn turned his attention to the back of the truck. As he moved toward the rear doors, the
counter shrieked. Finn retreated; there was no reason to stay. The spots that set off the counter
were patently bare patches of floor. The isotope that had irradiated the floor was gone.
Slamming the door, Finn examined the number of the truck. The electricians tape that had made
7 into 17 was half-peeled off, curling back on itself like a dying leaf.
The chief of detectives wandered over to Finn. “Just discovered that little bit of tape a few
minutes ago. If we’d seen it sooner,” he smiled insincerely, “we’d have called you Feds right
away, just like our orders said to do.”
The man waited, but Finn had nothing to say.
“But don’t worry,” continued the detective. “Our Crime boys took care of everything. You
should have the report sometime next week.”
“There were two chunks of metal, one fist sized, one about three times as large. Where are
they?”
The cop shrugged. “I tagged the evidence myself. Only thing we took out of that truck was
bodies, laundry and weapons.”
“For your sake, I hope that’s true. What’s your security clearance?”
“I’m Abel Jones, chief of detectives,” snapped the gray-haired cop. “That’s all the clearance I
need.”
“This truck, this block and everything that happened is classified. Top Secret. Therefore you and
your men are in violation of wartime security regulations. You’re under arrest.”
“What? Now you listen here, you smart-mouthed son-ofabitch – “
“Can it.”
Finn’s voice was not loud, but it easily cut across the cop’s words. “I’m not the kind of Fed
you’re used to.” He smiled. “I’m a lot nicer.”
Riley looked uneasily at Finn, but said nothing.
“If you cooperate,” continued Finn, “you’ll get a star on our fitness report the next time around.
If you don’t cooperate, you won’t be around long enough to get another report. You’ll be
Private Abel Jones. Don’t take my word for it. Please don’t. Uncle Sam needs all the cannon
fodder he can get.”
Finn waited. Chief of Detectives Abel Jones said nothing. He turned to Riley, recognizing him.
“Does this guy have more than a mouth?”
