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.
