Finn’s credentials。
After Finn parked near the ent； staring at rectangular
buildings； square stacks of stenciled crates； the angular bulk of weapons… a cubist painting done
in shades of black and darkest gray。
That was what the thieves would have seen； but now there were people everywhere； blurring the
clean lines； uniformed men with carbines at port arms and holster flaps unsnapped。 They
prowled and snarled； barking orders at one another as though it still mattered。 Every measured
stride and cold glance tried to prove that the theft had been a bizarre accident； the wildest fluke；
a miracle made in hell。
The only people who did not seem defensive were the men in street clothes who wove among
the bristling guards。 The civilians wore relaxed confidence that bordered on smugness； they had
not made the mess； but by God they were going to clean it up。 Their conservative suits； white
shirts； dark ties； gray snap…brim hats； wing…tip shoes and cold eyes were as distinctive as any
uniform。 Finn could almost see their FBI credentials inside the breast pockets of their suit coats。
He could count fifteen agents without turning his head。 There were more inside； and still other
reinforcements at the gates。
The federal agents were good enough in their way； but they were little more than soldiers
without uniforms； men trained away from originality； men who had so little leeway within their
regulations that they guarded their few perquisites as jealously as a hen guarded its chicks。
He needed roosters； not hens。 He needed men as quiet and smart and deadly as Masarek； who
had infiltrated an enemy base and stolen 2 million lives。
Two days。 My God。 Just Two！
Finn felt as he had in Okinawa； the jungle behind him and the cliff in front； riding a seesaw of
fury and helplessness； watching children fall。
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Two days。 Two million lives。
With a savage motion； he banged open the glove compartment and removed his 。45 caliber
automatic pistol。 The gun’s size was a drawback that he tolerated because it had better stopping
power。 The 。45 had been designed as a man…killer； and had never been excelled。 The smaller 。38s
worn by the gentlemen of the FBI did not wrinkle their suits； but Finn was not a gentleman； and
their sartorial regulations were not his。
Finn checked the gun’s clip and worked the slide to chamber a cartridge。 He cocked the pistol
and set its lever safety。 The movements atic。 He used his senses of
touch and hearing almost as much as his eyes。 Satisfied with the gun’s readiness； he tucked the
。45 into a belt clip at the small of his back。 Then he slid out of the car； pulled his jacket down
over the gun and headed for the warehouse that was the focus of all the anxiety。 He walked with
obvious purpose； a tall； lean man whom other men automatically gave way to。
In the warehouse； thin gray illumination seeped through a row of dirty skylights； but did little to
soften the utilitarian interior。 It was cold and dank and ugly。
A sudden flash of light drew Finn’s pale eyes。 He glanced down a short aisle between stacked
crates and saw a FBI technician with a Speed Graphic camera and flashgun lining up another
shot in the doorway of a small storeroom。
Noiselessly； Finn moved down the aisle and into a loose knot of a half…dozen men； FBI agents
and Navy officers； all staring at the young sentry whose dead eyes stared through them into
nothing at all。 The sentry’s cap was a dark blot five feet away； flung there by the officer who had
yanked it off a dozing sailor and discovered a corpse。
One or two of the officers glanced at Finn； then returned their attention to the body held upright
by a pea…coat pulled over the back of a chair。 There was little talk。
Finn eased around the fringe of the group to get a closer look at the upright corpse。 The face
was young。 A velvet…cheeked boy who had never seen death and so could not recognize its
smiling； two…footed approach。
The sentry’s carbine lay on the floor near his right hand。 The fingers of that hand were open； as
though in death the boy was reaching to recover his weapon。 The other hand was knotted into a
fist by pain or rage or surprise。 Or was it something else； somethine more tangible than
emotion？
Finn waited until the photographer withdrew。 Then； before anyone else could step forward； he
crouched on his heels beside the body。 The forehead wound was small； neat； and had been
inflicted at close but not point…blank range。 The blood around the hole was minimal。 The heart
had stopped a beat or two after the bullet penetrated the skull。
The men around the body began to talk among themselves； speculating and arguing。 Finn
glanced up quickly。 Satisfied that no one was interested in him； he inspected the sentry’s clenched
left hand。 There was definitely something inside the cold fingers； paper or plastic； something
thin。 It could be nothing more than a candy wrapper。
“You through taking pictures？” said Finn； looking up at the photographer。
“Yeah。 The lab boys are next。”
Finn began to pry gently at the left hand。 The fingers were locked in a spasm that death had
hardened into stone。
“Who the hell do you think you are？” asked a harsh voice。
“Finn；” he said； without looking up。 “Who the hell are you？”
“Everybody here knows me。 William Coughlan； FBI。 Anybody know you？”
Finn stood up slowly； abandoning for the moment the cold left hand locked around a secret。 He
turned to face the voice and found an FBI agent wearing a dark…gray hat and a matching gray
wool suit。 He was of average height and above average weight。 Otherwise； his appearance was
conventional。 Emotion was written on his skin in shades of red。 The agent had the face of an
Irish drinker and bulldog jaws set to bite。
“Give me a reason I shouldn’t throw you out on your smart ass；” said Coughlan； eyeing Finn’s
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clothes with disparagement。
The same cold blue Irish eyes watched as Finn reached into his back pocket and pulled out the
new leather badge case。 Holding it at eye level； Finn let it drop open。 Coughlan’s square left
hand swallowed up the leather folder。
Coughlan turned away slightly； as though to look at the credentials with the indifferent aid of the
skylight。 The movement concealed his right hand。 The hand reappeared suddenly； wrapped
around a 。38。
Neither Finn’s face nor his body moved。 Coughlan’s eyes told Finn the FBI man meant business。
Coughlan measured Finn’s sudden stillness with a smile。 “You come marching in like you own
the place and then lay credentials on me that smell like wet ink。 You can understand； cowboy；
how I might be a little suspicious。”
“Put the gun away； Coughlan。 I’m your new boss and you’re wasting my time。”
“My orders come from Washington。”
“Call Operator 34。 Ask for 778 in Washington； D。C。 They’ll tell you the same thing。 I’m your
boss。” He turned back to the dead sentry。
“Hold it！” There was no compromise in Coughlan’s voice。
Finn straightened and turned around like the jungle fighter he was。
“Riley！” said Coughlan； backing up。 “Check him for weapons。”
A young man stepped forward smartly。 His gray hat and suit were almost identical to
Coughlan’s clothes。 Only the tie was different； Riley’s had a subtle pattern； while Coughlan’s was
plain。
Riley ran his hands quickly over Finn； impersonally exploring armpits； crotch and insides of
boots。 Coughlan’s eyes lingered on the slim； deadly boot knife that Riley found； but neither man
spoke。
Riley nearly missed the 。45 beneath Finn’s jacket in the small of his back。 Almost as an
afterthought； the FBI agent patted around Finn’s belt； looking for more knives。 When Riley’s
fingers touched the outline of a gun； his eyes showed a flicker of shock。 He jerked out the gun
and showed it to Coughlan。
“An elephant gun；” said Coughlan。 “You expecting elephants？”
“Yeah； but all I find are jackasses。 Call the number。”
“Cover him；” said Coughlan。 “Use the gun。 If it goes off； it’ll be a clear case of justifiable
suicide。 The rest of you men beat it until I come back。”
Everyone left but Finn and Riley。 Finn wished that it had been Coughlan who stayed。 He was an
overweight； overweening son of a bitch； but he knew what he was doing。 Riley was an amateur
by comparison； and amateurs made stupid mistakes。
“Okay；” said Riley； “we’ll just stand here quietly while Coughlan checks you out。” Riley smiled
almost in spite of himself。 “I don’t know whose shit hit the fan； but it sure spread far and wide。
So don’t push Coughlan too hard； cowboy。 He’s had all the crap he can take。”
Finn shook his head。 “It’s just begun；” he said。 “It’s just begun。”
Oakland
2 Hours 58 Minutes After Trinity
Refugio drove through a steel…gray world punctuated by the bloom of taillights。 Fog billowed
around the van； concealing and then revealing the vehicles sharing the gloomy early morning
with the laundry truck。
“This time we take the bridge； yes？” said Refugio。
Masarek studied both sideview mirrors before answering。 There was nothing suspicious
following them。 The cars were full of yawning shopgirls and waitresses； shoe clerks and
accountants。 Taxis carried stockbrokers and lawyers。 Police cars came and went without a single
glance at the off…white van。
“All right。 This time cross the bridge。”
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“Bueno；” yawned Refugio； his tiredness only partially feigned。
Except for a single stop to add a piece of black electricians tape that changed the truck’s number
7 into a 17； Masarek had kept Refugio driving throughout the dark hours； twisting and turning
and doubling while Masarek watched the mirrors for headlights which appeared too often or
followed too long。
As the van approached the bridge； Refugio’s hands tightened imperceptibly on the wheel。 The
moment was coming when Masarek must die； and nothing was going as Refugio had planned。
Masarek had put him behind the wheel； neutralizing him。 As soon as the van had passed through
the gates at Hunters Point； Masarek had taken Salvador’s shotgun； as well as Lopez’s and
Refugio’s 。45s。 There had been no time to protest。 Masarek had moved quickly； unexpectedly；
just at the moment of victory。
Even worse； Masarek had found the knives inside their sleeves。 He had even found the little
chrome…plated Beretta in Refugio’s boot。 Masarek had not； however； found Salvador’s thin
razor wire with the little hinged bar on each end。 It looked like a belt buckle； but was really a
very efficient garrot。
Masarek’s eyes moved restlessly； his head tilted； listening； always listening for the scuff of death’s
footsteps beneath the hiss of passing traffic。 He suspected nothing in particular and everything as
a matter of principle。 Civilian traffic streamed around them。 Nowhere were there signs that the
United States was a country at war； and that San Francisco was a vulnerable target。
“Children；” said Masarek。 “They’re all children。 They think that war is temporary and their lives
are forever。 They haven’t learned that war is forever and life only a flicker。 That’s why they’ll
lose； and then they’ll whine and wonder why we broke their toys。”
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