Continuing to take his time as he walked, Haddad stopped to look in the store windows that lined the street. A bakery with samples of its baklava and garash. A clothing store full of well-dressed mannequins. A tattoo parlor with a flickering neon light, the quiet buzz of the needle emanating from an open doorway. All the while Haddad felt the Turk behind him, at least smart enough to keep his distance.
A small grocery stood on the opposite corner. Haddad crossed to it and went inside, assaulted by the bright fluorescent lights that hung high overhead, illuminating rows of crowded shelves. Most Bulgarians preferred to buy their fruit from street vendors, but there was a small display on the left side of the store and Haddad went to it, taking his time as he inspected a neatly stacked pile of blue plums.
Selecting two firm pieces of the fruit, he moved to the register and glanced casually out at the street as the clerk rang up his purchase. The Turk was nowhere to be seen but Haddad assumed he was out there.
He paid in cash, and after the clerk gave him his change she went to place the fruit in a small paper bag.
He stopped her.
Reaching across the counter, he tore one of the larger plastic grocery bags from its stand and dropped the plums inside.
The clerk didn’t protest.
Thanking her in Bulgarian, Haddad pocketed his change then went outside. Still no sign of the Turk, but across the street was an unlit alleyway and Haddad was certain the man was waiting there.
Countersurveillance was a careful process that involved U-turns and double-backs, taking needlessly complicated routes to your destination. And given enough time, Haddad knew he could lose the Turk with relative ease. But that would only be a temporary solution to his problem. When he returned to the hotel his pursuer would be there again, feigning indifference behind a travel brochure or a magazine or a novel this time.
So Haddad decided to go with his second option.
Death.
Crossing the street, he moved toward the alleyway knowing that the Turk would be on his guard, worried that he’d been spotted. But Haddad gave nothing away, reaching casually into his bag as he passed the alley without a glance and continuing up the sidewalk.
Selecting one of the plums, he bit into it and tasted the sweet, tart nectar. The near sensual delight of it reminded him again of the Gypsy whore and the realm of the flesh. It seemed strange to him that one pleasure should be accepted and the other considered sinful, but that only reminded him of how little time he had spent in religious study. It was something he promised to rectify when this matter was concluded, inshallah—if it were the will of Allah.
Continuing at his casual pace, Haddad finished the first plum, flicked the seed into the street, then took the second from the bag and consumed it in three quick bites. He could feel the Turk’s presence now, matching his pace, so he picked up speed, widening the distance between them, then took a right onto an intersecting street.
There was less light here. One of the street lamps was broken, a bit of luck in his favor.
Moving even faster now, Haddad found his own alleyway and stepped inside, pressing his back against the brick wall as he quickly tied a knot in the bottom of the plastic bag.
A moment later the Turk came around the corner, his small form barely visible in the dim light. He stopped short when he saw no sign of his prey, swiveling his head to look up and down the street.
Haddad knew he had only seconds to do what needed to be done.
Stepping forward, he slipped through the shadows and moved in behind the Turk, then brought the knotted grocery bag up and over the smaller man’s head, pulling it taut around his neck.
The Turk gasped as Haddad yanked him backward into the alley. The victim began to scratch at the bag but Haddad held fast. Haddad knew, if the man did not, that it took five seconds of breathing exhaled air to reduce a man’s strength by half. The Turk gave up his attack on the bag and used what strength remained to swing his fists back, hitting and then clutching at Haddad’s shoulders and face, trying desperately to break free. But his blows were weak and as the seconds ticked by the struggling Turk was reduced to long, sucking, guttural breaths. By then, there was no air at all to be had. The plastic of the bag formed an ugly mask that clung to his open mouth and flared nostrils.
It was a death mask. After another moment he slumped to the alley floor—limp, listless.
Dead.
Haddad removed the bag, pressed two fingers against the man’s neck and felt no pulse. But something was wrong, here. The Turk’s skin was surprisingly smooth.
Too smooth.
Moving his hand upward, Haddad felt the jawline. There was no beard and the skin was far too soft.
Feminine.
With growing alarm he reached into the pocket of his own jacket, brought out the penlight he always carried with him. He flicked it on and shone it into the smaller man’s face.
It wasn’t the Turk at all.
In fact, it wasn’t even a man.
To Haddad’s surprise and horror he found himself staring into the glazed, lifeless eyes of the woman he had taken into his bed last night.
The Gypsy whore.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Chilikov said in Bulgarian, “You seem a bit out of sorts. Is it something I should be concerned about?”
“Everything is fine,” Haddad assured him. “Let’s get on with this.”
Haddad spoke in Bulgarian as well—he knew six languages fluently—and had he spoken the truth, he would have admitted to being rattled by the night’s events. The Turk had not been working alone as he had thought. The Gypsy whore had been his accomplice. They had obviously tag-teamed him, and because of the Turk’s smaller stature Haddad had mistaken the woman for him.
It was the kind of mistake he shouldn’t make.
But worse, it also meant the Turk was still out there somewhere. And worse than that, it meant Haddad’s instincts had betrayed him. Whoever these people were, he had allowed himself to be fooled by them. He wondered if he had made any more mistakes.
Had he said anything to the girl last night? Had he shared any secrets with her?
No. Of course not. He was much too careful for that. But what might she have observed and reported back? He had paraded around his room, preening like a proud lion, showing off for the girl, eager to prove to her that he was somehow stronger, better, more desirable than any man she had ever been with. He had left her alone, unwatched, when he went to the bathroom. The door had been ajar but a skilled operative could have used that time to check cell phone numbers, examine a passport, look for airplane tickets, perform any number of quick-assessment observations.
For all Haddad knew the entire event may have been recorded. He hadn’t bothered to inspect her bag.
Careless, cocky, stupid! That, Haddad realized too late, was the difference between a woman and a plum.
After leaving the girl in the alleyway, Haddad had doubled back but saw no sign of the Turk. He had searched the pockets of the girl’s jacket and jeans and had removed her shoes, checked the heels, examined her bracelet and watch and belt, but found no transmitters of any kind. She carried only a small-caliber pistol and a disposable cell phone that showed no record of calls.
Their operation was obviously low-tech, even improvised, but that revelation did nothing to ease Haddad’s mind. If these people were to find out about his deal with Chilikov, there would be trouble indeed.
When he arrived at the meeting place—a car dealership seven blocks from the hotel—Haddad was three minutes late and saw no sign of the Bulgarian. But before he could curse himself again, a limousine pulled to the curb and its rear passenger window rolled down.
Chilikov’s smiling face looked out at him. “Traffic,” he apologized. “I’m glad you waited.”
Anton Chilikov was a Cold War veteran who had embraced Bulgaria’s transition from Communism to capitalism with enthusiasm. He had fingers in nearly every construction project in Sofia, and through his Russian
friends, had control of an old Communist weapons dump, which was rumored to be a smorgasbord of Cold War–era military-grade artillery, much of it still functioning.
As the limousine idled, Haddad climbed inside and sat next to him. Opaque glass separated the driver from his passengers. Nothing happened for a long moment as the old man took stock of his companion in the near-darkness. Haddad knew that a skilled observer could tell a lot about someone in a seemingly casual encounter. Was he anxious, perspiring? Did he carelessly apply cologne that could be identified? If he was bearded, was it short in the style of a nationalist or full, suggesting a tribal affiliation? Did he look tired enough to make a mistake that could compromise them both, or did he appear well rested and alert?
Seemingly satisfied, the old man gestured to a small packing trunk sitting on the car seat opposite them.
“Ask and you shall receive,” he said.
Shifting in his seat, Haddad leaned toward the trunk, then stopped and turned to Chilikov. In his eagerness he had almost forgot protocol.
“May I?” he asked.
Chilikov smiled. “By all means.”
Haddad carefully flicked the latches, then lifted the trunk’s lid and stared at its contents. His heart was hammering against his chest. He’d had his doubts about the Bulgarian, but, praise Allah, the old man had come through. Brilliantly.
“You understand, of course, that this is merely a duplicate,” Chilikov cautioned.
Haddad regarded him unhappily. “I do not understand.”
“It’s proof that I’m a man of my word. The actual unit is en route.”
Haddad’s frown deepened. “It is the same?”
“Yes, but in order to meet your requirements I initiated shipping several days ago. I took it on faith that you’d make payment in a timely manner.”
“How soon can we expect delivery?” Haddad asked.
“When you go to retrieve it, the item will be waiting for you. I will give you the pertinent information when it is necessary.” He paused. “Now I believe you have something for me?”
Recovering from his disappointment, Haddad reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. He handed it to Chilikov. “The number of the account. I’m sure you will find the balance satisfactory.”
“I’m sure I will,” Chilikov said.
Less than a minute later Haddad was once again standing on the sidewalk, watching the limousine drive away. He was relieved that the process was well along, that it had all worked out despite his mistakes.
He expressed his deep gratitude that night by reading the Koran instead of taking another Gypsy whore to his bed. He didn’t need to make things easier for the Turk, though he was sure the man would try again.
And when he did, Hassan Haddad would not be merciful.
6
San Francisco, California
In the week following the blast, Jack found himself between assignments. He spent much of that time trying to get information from the FBI press office about progress in the case, but they were as tight-lipped as always. So he kept himself busy with idle pursuits, drinking in the city he loved.
He enjoyed being downtown during the nine-to-five hustle. The buses, the rush to the underground BART tubes on Market. The girls hurrying to dates with their girlfriends in this gay-friendly town where straight men were as rare as eagles. He loved the loud twitter of the green parrots of Telegraph Hill as they alighted in tall trees near “bum park,” adjacent to the Embarcadero office towers, seeking shelter for the night.
Sometimes Jack would marvel like a schoolboy at the great flock that flew outside the apartment he kept by the bay, chattering in a mad formation, racing to their next stop. He was amazed by the large number of green parrots in the wild flock, said to have grown from a single pair that had escaped captivity some twenty years back—parrots from South America. They had taken to the trees of Telegraph Hill and dispersed into other sections of the city.
Each little bird had its own personality, displayed as they sought friendship, a mate, food, warmth, acceptance, and a branch to sleep on. He loved to watch them clustering in the tall eucalyptus trees, chattering as they each found their toehold for the long cold night ahead—except for the outcasts among the flock, who were rejected because of a mere color differential and forced to seek shelter on a separate tree, like those homeless bums Jack stepped around.
Life’s extras.
On Tuesday he went to visit Maxine to see how she holding up, and was surprised to find her anxious to get back to work. She had a couple of freelance jobs lined up for the following week but was hoping Jack had something for her as well. Jack admitted he hadn’t been able to think about much more than the blast lately and said there was nothing in the works for now.
“How are you going to survive?” she asked, showing genuine concern.
“I’ve got a little cushion,” he told her.
That was something he owed to his father. Not the money itself but the idea of saving. He used to tell his son, “You can always count on watches breaking. What you cannot rely on is people getting them fixed.” He watched his money carefully and the lesson wasn’t lost on Jack. That was another area where his former wife and he had disagreed. She liked to indulge in the fashions of the moment, from expensive clothes to fancy restaurants. Jack didn’t mind some of that, but as a treat, not a lifestyle. And it wasn’t just her. That sense of entitlement, of rampant decadence, was everywhere.
Driving over the Golden Gate Bridge one night, Jack wondered about the decline of America. He couldn’t believe that the entire bridge, this beautiful Art Deco structure, had been built in only two years. Such a feat would be impossible today. Considering the EEOC—the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission—the laws, the lawsuits, the regulations, the spotted owls, and the environment, construction would take forever. As with all those hypocrites the special interests had pumped up their own self-importance, inflated their own influence and resources, at the dearest price of all: the diminishing of America.
As he drove under the south tower, Jack looked up at the spires. He was one of the few civilians that knew there were elevators running inside of these spires, right to the top. An old bohemian friend from North Beach had been an iron worker on the bridge and once took Jack up to the top to see one of the most stupendous views in the world.
He’d felt as if he were only a step away from heaven.
On Friday, Jack and Tony walked to Pagliaci’s on the Wharf—one of their favorite restaurants—taking the long way, up Columbus Avenue. On the way, they saw an old familiar face—Johnny Evans, retired SFPD. They nodded hello as they passed.
“Married three times,” noted Jack when they were out of earshot.
“All brief wives,” muttered Tony.
“Brief wives once made the briefs rise,” Jack retorted. “Now they fill the court’s briefs with lies.”
Tony snorted a laugh. “A new mantra?”
“Not new,” Jack said. “Just haven’t thought about it for a while.”
“Well, go easy on the Rachel juice. You don’t want your ex-wife coming up on you.”
“True enough. It’s just that she’s been on my mind.”
“Because…?”
“I think it’s a default setting. Things come apart like they did the other day, it shoots me to my own blast zones—Iraq or Rachel.”
“Familiar turf, stuff you’ve already wrestled with. Lets you get your footing to process new trauma.”
“Something like that, I guess,” Jack said.
The more he thought about it, the more Jack realized Tony had a point. Any time something bad happened, he went to the evils he already knew. It made sense.
Columbus crested near a Chinese herb store where Tony bought a cure for prostatitis twenty years back. Small black pills. Took them for just four days. Never another ache. The instructions showed which herbs were in the pill and what each did in the body. The theory behind the cure was explained. The herbali
st thought all prostatitis was first caused by an uncured venereal infection, a sort of latent gonorrhea. The pill contained a powerful antibacterial plant. It worked so well that Tony bought bottles for his friends, who were amazed by the results.
At the top of the hill, Jack and Tony both smiled inside at the view of the bay past Alcatraz to the green hills of Marin. It was one of those sunny but cool winter days where the water was “china blue,” as Tony often described it. This was one of the good touchstones, a place Jack visited to purge the negativity. It was like those old World War II newsreels, Why We Fight.
This was why. His home. It never failed to raise his spirits.
At the restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf, where old-timers who still knew where to get the best seafood still ate despite the touristy nightmare they called the “redneck Riviera,” Tony and Jack enjoyed a quick lunch. After a few glasses of wine, Jack became loud. Pointing through the large picture windows, he almost shouted at Tony. “Look, see over there, in Ghirardelli Square—that clock tower. Most clock towers, even our famous tower at Berkeley, they’re all derived from Giotto’s Campanile.”
He went on while Tony stared at him. “Think about this, Tony. Built in the fourteenth century and how many thousands of structures have been derived from his genius design. What do we have now? Web designers, fake artists, no new music of any value. What will the derivatives be from this wasteland?”
Tony nodded as he devoured his scungilli. He was used to Jack’s enthusiasms, and although he agreed with most of them, he had long ago decided that living well was, in fact, the best revenge.
The rest of Jack’s nights were mostly spent kicking back on the Sea Wrighter, listening to the gulls in the harbor and the gentle lap of the bay. Tony always seemed to have a new wine sample. One night he brought a bottle and poured Jack a glass, saying, “Try this … tell me what you think.”
Jack was a sipper not a twirler. Dry. Tannic. Ruby red.
“Good,” he said. “Better than that other one—what was it, a Gaja? Did this one cost five hundred a bottle, too?”
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