“Jesus,” Fabrese said, “you’ve got an M-Sixteen? What’re you expecting? A goddam war?”
“Every day,” Chin answered, “it’s proven that firepower is what our business is all about. At least at the street level.”
“No question.”
“By seven o’clock,” Chin said, “we’ll be ready.” He pointed to the locked glove compartment. “There’s a scanner in there, which will lock onto Bern—onto their car. By using that, and this”—he pointed to the cellular telephone—“we’ll be in good shape.”
“What about having two of your guys follow us, for backup?”
Chin shook his head. “No. The more people know about this operation, the more danger we face. I’m not talking about danger from the police. I’m talking about danger from your people. You’ll be in Mexico, or wherever, with your share. But I’ll be here. I don’t plan to be killed by one of your famous hit men.”
Fabrese made no reply. Only his hands, tightened into fists, hinted at the fear he felt.
“We will park, if possible, within sight of the Rabb house, on Thirty-ninth Avenue. I expect the tall man to arrive there about seven-thirty. He’ll be driving a brown Honda station wagon. There was some conversation about a woman coming with him, to guard Angela while we’re all gone. Another man—his name is C.B.—will also arrive about seven-thirty, in another car. A Ford. At about eight o’clock, Bern—” Vexed with himself, his second faux pas, Chin broke off, began again: “At about eight o’clock, I expect the tall man and Louise to leave. They’ll be in the car with the homing device. The Honda. I expect the other car to follow, keeping the first car in sight. I would expect them to have walkie-talkies, and probably car phones. But they probably—”
“Why do you expect that?”
“Because they’re pros,” Chin answered. “Or at least so we must assume.”
“This tall man—the man they’ve talked to—you know who he is, don’t you?” It was a soft-spoken, hard-edged challenge.
Calculating carefully, Chin let a moment pass. Then: “I have suspicions, no more.”
“Okay, then, who do you suspect he is?”
“I don’t deal in speculation.”
“Bullshit. That’s all you deal in. With you, it’s all smoke and mirrors.”
“Our time is growing short. Do you want to bicker, or do you want to make plans?”
Muttering an obscenity, Fabrese shrugged again, gestured angrily. “Go ahead.”
Ignoring Fabrese’s anger, Chin said, “If the homing device is working properly, we can stay as far as a mile back, and still have a fix on them. I would expect them to cross the Golden Gate Bridge, then drive to Vallejo, and go on to the San Joaquin delta region. I would expect them to arrive at their destination between ten and eleven. From what Louise has been saying to her daughter, I don’t think it’ll take them very long to dig up the treasure. When they’ve got the jewels, they plan to return to San Francisco, either to Louise’s house or maybe to the tall man’s place. He lives in a flat on Potrero Hill. All of them, including Angela and possibly a female PI, will stay together all night. Tomorrow morning, they plan to go to the bank as soon as it opens. Once they put the jewels in Louise’s safe-deposit box, of course, the game’s over.”
“So how’re we going to hit them? Do you mind telling me?”
Now Chin’s smile appeared to express genuine amusement. “We’ll have two hours to make those plans while we drive. However, I’m thinking that, if a good chance presents itself shortly after the treasure is dug up, that may be the time. It’s probable, though, that they’ll be on high alert then.” As he spoke he pointed ahead. “There’s the surplus store. I’ll wait for you in the car. Be quick, please.”
Ignoring the order, Fabrese said, “All right, so they’ll be on high alert. So what then?”
“It depends. We may want to wait till they get back to the city. We’ll hit them after they leave the cars and before they get inside their house. Ideally, at the precise instant when whoever is inside the house—Angela, and the female detective—opens the front door of whichever house they choose to spend tonight in. That way, the two men will be off balance, trying to protect both the women and the treasure. And themselves, of course.”
Grudgingly Fabrese nodded agreement. Repeating: “Of course.”
8 P.M., PDT
“DON’T WORRY,” BERNHARDT SAID, smiling at Angela, making a joke of it. “With Crusher, how can you lose? Besides—” He slid open his center desk drawer, took out the .38 revolver he’d recently bought, put it on top of the desk. “Paula’s gun,” they called it. “Besides, there’s this.” But when he looked at Louise, he saw fear in her gaze, fixated on the revolver. Aware of the older woman’s apprehension, Paula took the revolver, checked it, slipped it into her outsize handbag, out of sight. As if to offer reassurance, Angela moved closer to her mother, but said nothing.
The five of them were clustered together in Bernhardt’s office, all of them standing. In the hallway, hearing his name, Crusher came to attention. Bernhardt glanced at his watch, then looked at C.B., who nodded. Yes, it was a few minutes after eight. Time to go. Bernhardt excused himself, went to the canvas satchel he’d packed and put in the hall closet, on the floor. Out of sight of those in the office, with only Crusher in attendance, Bernhardt zipped open the satchel, checked the contents: his Ruger .357 Magnum revolver, a half-filled box of .357 cartridges, the illegal sawed-off shotgun, a small plastic bag containing a handful of twelve-gauge buckshot loads, two walkie-talkies, and two four-cell flashlights. Another plastic bag contained extra batteries for the flashlights and walkie-talkies. A roll of two-inch duct tape, a survival knife, and a coil of half-inch white nylon rope completed the inventory.
He took the holstered .357, checked the load, then clipped the holster to his belt, on the left side. After years of faithful service dedicated to Dancer and Associates, Herbert Dancer had presented him with the top-of-the line Ruger, a “lifetime weapon,” Dancer had pronounced, pompous as ever. With some satisfaction, less than three months later, he’d told Dancer that he was quitting to open his own agency. To his credit, Dancer hadn’t mentioned the Ruger.
He settled the revolver at his belt, zipped up the satchel, zipped up his leather jacket, hefted the satchel, closed the closet door. Back in his office, he turned to Louise, who was dressed incongruously in a magenta nylon jacket and light blue stretch pants. She wore sneakers that she’d borrowed from Angela. Fixed on Bernhardt, Louise’s eyes were unnaturally large. Her mouth, Bernhardt saw, was almost imperceptibly quivering. Louise was scared.
Bernhardt went to Paula, kissed her on the mouth, then smiled. He turned to Angela, said good-bye. Standing close beside her mother, Angela nodded, swallowed hard. Bernhardt went into the hallway and waited for Louise and C.B. to precede him out into the darkness.
As he walked beside Louise to his station wagon, Bernhardt zipped down his leather jacket, exposing the walnut butt of the Ruger, close to his free hand. He scanned the sidewalk, the street, the nearby shrubbery. Walking ahead, C.B.’s close-cropped head was also in motion, side to side. Louise, walking rigidly, stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed. Bernhardt unlocked the right-hand door of the Honda while Tate dug in the canvas satchel to produce the walkie-talkies. Bernhardt zipped up the satchel, threw it in the rear seat, gestured for Louise to get into the car on the passenger side. Then, to test the radios, Tate walked down the sidewalk, crouched down behind a car to make transmission difficult. The radios checked out perfectly. When Tate returned, Bernhardt beckoned him down the sidewalk, out of Louise’s hearing.
“So far,” Bernhardt said, “all I know is that we’re going across the Bay Bridge, and pick up Highway Eighty, going toward Sacramento. Louise has a map, and she’s going to guide me. I think you should stay far enough back of me so that there’s at least one car between us.”
Tate nodded. “I agree.” Like Bernhardt, Tate wore a leather jacket, open enough in the front to let him draw the ni
ne-millimeter Browning automatic he carried in a shoulder holster. With his dark clothing and dark skin, standing with his legs slightly spread, heavily booted feet firmly planted, every line of Tate’s body suggested a solitary guerilla, alert to the danger that he sensed the darkness concealed.
“If we should get separated and something goes wrong with the radios,” Bernhardt said, “I’ll wait for you at the Nut Tree, at Vacaville. I’ll be in the parking lot.”
“Right.”
“Have you got the shovel?”
“Jesus, Alan, you already asked me that.”
“Okay …” Bernhardt realized that, like Tate, his own body was taut; his own eyes had been constantly scanning the darkness.
“So,” Tate said, “shall we do it?” In the question Bernhardt sensed Tate’s elemental anticipation, facing danger.
Tate’s anticipation, his own reluctance.
“Sure,” Bernhardt answered. He touched the other man on the arm. “Let’s do it. Keep your head down.”
Tate smiled. “Yeah. You, too.”
9:30 P.M., PDT
“I THINK,” CHIN SAID, “that they’ve turned off. You’d better slow down, get in the right lane.” Chin switched on the flashlight, shone it on the map spread across his knees. For the last hour, the scanner’s digital readout had held steady at 45 degrees. But now the scanner read 117 degrees. Conclusion: As expected, Bernhardt had turned off the freeway and was now traveling southeast on Route 12, the secondary road that led to Rio Vista and the San Joaquin delta region that lay south of Sacramento.
As, yes, the upcoming sign overhanging the freeway showed the Route 12 turnoff three-quarters of a mile ahead.
“There,” Chin said, pointing. “Route Twelve.”
As Fabrese slowed the car and switched on the turn indicators, Chin clicked off the flashlight. Bernhardt’s Honda, he estimated, was about a mile ahead, traveling at reduced speed. So far, driving first in the city, then on the Bay Bridge, finally on the eight-lane freeway, it had been impossible to determine which of the drivers following Bernhardt was the one called C.B., probable last name Tate. But on Route 12, at night, the backup car would be revealed.
“Go east,” Chin ordered as, into the freeway exit, one arrow pointed to 12 West, the other to 12 East. As they made the turn and swung onto the road to the east, Chin glanced at a wrist compass. Yes, they were traveling on a magnetic heading of 120 degrees, almost a dead match to the 122 degrees that now showed on the scanner’s LCD display.
“Don’t go too fast,” Chin said. Ahead, the road narrowed to two lanes. As it began a gentle curve to the east, he could count taillights ahead: four cars, one of them Bernhardt’s—
—and one of them C.B. Tate’s, the backup man Bernhardt had called a samurai. ISLETON, a sign read. 27 MILES.
“Is that where we’re going?” Fabrese asked. “Isleton?”
“I have no idea.”
Fabrese flung a hostile glance at the other man as he said, “Is that like you’ve got no idea who the tall man is? Is it like that? Bullshit, in other words?”
Chin made no response, concentrating instead on the scanner. Beneath the LCD display the scanner featured five small lights that showed the intensity of the homing device’s signal. Three lights lit, the manual instructed, would translate to about a mile separation. Five lights suggested a half mile or less. One light meant that the signal was almost lost.
A million dollars in jewels and gold coin, the prize for interpreting these numerals and lights correctly. But make a mistake, one mistake, and the game changed, all bets canceled. Unless Fabrese believed that the treasure was within grasp, everything came tumbling down.
No, not everything. Because, back in the city, Charles Ng was about to actuate the second phase of a plan that, almost exactly twenty-four hours ago, had been nonexistent.
Simplicity …
Always, simplicity was the key.
And, yes, silence—the patience to listen, and the wisdom to analyze and make plans.
Followed, most essentially, by courage—the remorseless courage required to kill without hesitation, without mercy, without remorse.
All that the plan lacked was the exquisite taste of revenge. For all the indignities Fabrese had forced him to endure, there would be no payback, no final words, no parting smile.
9:40 P.M., PDT
IN THE MIRROR, BERNHARDT saw two sets of headlights behind him, one car passing another car. Guiding the Honda with one hand, he held out his right hand for the walkie-talkie. Sitting beside him, Louise dutifully handed over the radio.
“C.B.?”
“Right here,” came the prompt response.
“What are there, two cars between us now?”
“Right. That last one that passed us, I bet he was doing eighty, the dumb son of a bitch. I couldn’t see inside the car.”
“Anyone hanging back behind you?”
“Not that I can see. Maybe we should slow right down to forty, thirty-five, see who passes us, who don’t pass.”
“That’d indicate that we’re suspicious.”
“You mean we aren’t suspicious?”
Bernhardt made no reply.
As, closing the distance, a car from the opposite direction came abreast of Bernhardt, whizzed past, leaving the black void of the night ahead. Immediately, the car behind Bernhardt pulled out, roared past. Inside the car Bernhardt had a quick glimpse of two men, both staring straight ahead.
“That’s one between us now,” Tate said. Then: “How much farther?”
“I’ll get back to you.” Bernhardt switched off the walkie-talkie, handed it back to Louise. He took a moment to decide what he must say. Then, glancing quickly at her face profiled in the dim glow of the car’s instruments, he said, “We’ve been driving for an hour and a half. How much farther?”
“It’s—I think it’s about thirty, forty miles. Maybe a little more.”
Bernhardt drove for a time in silence before he spoke again: “I think it’s time that you tell me where we’re going. I haven’t pushed it, up to now. But C.B. and I have to know what we’re getting into, what kind of terrain. We have to make plans.”
Still staring straight ahead, Louise said nothing. Since they’d turned onto Route 12, she’d hardly spoken, except to answer questions or give cryptic directions.
“Louise?” The question was hard-edged, probing, demanding. The message: decision time had arrived, the point of no return. If she didn’t extend her trust now, Bernhardt would abort the operation.
“I’m scared.” Louise shook her head. “God, I’m scared.”
“I’d think it was pretty strange if you weren’t scared.”
“You aren’t scared.”
In the darkened car, Bernhardt smiled. “When did I say I wasn’t scared?”
She glanced at him, a quick look haunted by dark, dangerous demons. She began to speak, then broke off.
“If you want to turn around,” Bernhardt said, “that’s fine. But you’ve got to decide now. This country …” He gestured to the lowlands that surrounded them. There were no houses, no lights. Like the desert, the wetlands of the delta were unproductive, therefore unpopulated.
Therefore, tonight, potentially dangerous.
“This country,” he repeated, “we shouldn’t be out here like this if you’re having second thoughts.”
“I’m not having second thoughts. I’m just scared. Plain scared.”
“I’m not asking whether you’re scared. I’m asking you for a decision, go or no go. Now.”
She turned, searched his face. Briefly he turned to meet her gaze, then returned his eyes to the road ahead and another pair of headlights approaching. In the mirror, checking, he saw the headlights of the car that C.B. had allowed to get between them, a strategic decision. Bernhardt glanced at the odometer. He would give it five more miles. Then he would—
“We go through Isleton,” she was saying, speaking in a low, cowed voice. “Then we turn north, and follow the estu
ary. It—” She swallowed, searched his face one last time. “It’s a little town. It’s called Fowler’s Landing. It’s about ten miles from Isleton, maybe less. It—it’s where my grandmother was born.”
“Ah …” Encouraged, Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, I see.”
For a moment she lapsed into silence, as if his response had released her from the necessity of saying anything more. But then, still speaking brusquely, a command, not a request, he said, “Okay. So what then?”
“Then we—we go to the graveyard. That’s where it’s buried. In the graveyard.”
“Jesus.” In spite of himself, Bernhardt smiled out into the night. Repeating softly: “Jesus.” Then, explaining: “It’s all there, isn’t it? The buried treasure, the little town out in the middle of nowhere—the graveyard, at midnight.”
She made no response.
“This graveyard,” Bernhardt said, “how’s it situated?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Is it in town? Out of town?”
“It’s on the outskirts of town. There’s a gravel road on the east side of town.”
“How big is Fowler’s Landing? How many people?”
“I think it’s about three thousand people, something like that.”
“Is it incorporated? Does it have its own police force?”
“I—I don’t know. I haven’t spent that much time there. Neither did my mother. When she was still a little girl, her family moved to Sacramento. She grew up there. Then, later, they moved to Cleveland. When she was eighteen, maybe nineteen, my mother left home. She’d saved her money, from working in the dime store. Ever since she was in high school, she worked. And she—”
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