Chapter Fifteen.

Marty glanced at Gabriella. She nodded. Snicking the Thunderbird into gear; he drove quietly on along the lane; turned, and came back; stopping behind the large laurel hedge that bordered the edge of the property and effectively concealed the house from the lane. Leaving the motor running with the parking brake set; he got out and went to the trunk. Opening it; he pulled out an AK-47 Assault rifle and a short-barrelled, twelve-gauge, pump-action Remington shotgun, which he handed to Gabriella.

Marty picked up the two, forty-round, Bulgarian magazines taped top-to-bottom, and back to back for a swift "eject-flip-reload" action, from the trunk of the T-Bird and clicked them into the magazine well of the AK-47. He firmly slapped the bottom of the magazine to ensure it was fully seated, before pulling back the charging handle and allowing the assault rifle's bolt to snap back forward with a metallic "Cha-Clack" sound; stripping a live round from the magazine and seating it into the chamber.

He usually kept his weapons on full-auto, only shifting to semi-auto when he decided that he had something to prove... or somewhere that a full auto burst would bring the cops in too quickly. This AK-47 was currently set to Semi. He flicked it up to Auto. This was no time to be fucking around with any sort of precision shit. This was back to the good old, bad old days; this was the all-or-nothing days. This was the killing time.

His thoughts were interrupted by Gabriella cycling the slide on the Remington with a mean "Ka-chack" as she chambered a shell. Marty smiled. Since Jimmy Yoo's unfortunate demise; he had become Gabriella's armourer... and this Remington was loaded with something that was particularly nasty... fail-safe... but nasty. He had loaded the shotgun with "Federal" cartridge company, twelve-gauge "Hi-Power Shotgun Shells." These held their special antimony-rich hard shot… and these were deer-hunter-sized buckshot. Together; these two characteristics combined to give Gabriella the fire-power of a much longer-barrelled weapon. She glanced at Marty.

'OK. Let's do this. Remember; Catelli is mine. You take out the rest.'

Marty glanced at her.

'Yeah; but I've never seen the guy. What does he look like?'

Gabriella gave him a cold smile.

'He's a big fat bastard; bald head, big moustache, and pretty well always… tinted shades; a mean-looking Sonofabitch.'

Marty nodded

'OK. He's yours. Let's go blow these pieces of shit away.'

Entering the property; they quietly made their way up into the woodland that obscured the house from the lane, and headed in the direction from where the music and general hubbub of noise; punctuated by raucous laughter and splashing, was coming.

At the edge of the tree line; an empty, well-manicured lawn stretched to a large, and ostentatious swimming pool, in which, a naked pool party was in full swing. The guests seemed to be almost entirely composed of big-breasted girls and gold medallion-dripping mobsters being waited on by white-coated waiters. Over by the terrace; several sun-loungers were occupied by tanned couples in various states of sexual romping; and at least six couples were humping each other in the pool.

Catelli was nowhere in sight. Gabriella touched Marty's arm.

'Hold it, Marty. Wait until the Sonofabitch shows himself.'

He nodded.

'So, how d'you wanna play this?

She smiled coldly.

'When he shows; spray the whole Goddamed scene... but don't target him. In the panic, I'll go in and pop a couple into his fat gut in such a way that the pig will suffer in agony for hours before he finally dies. He ordered the killing of grandfather, my nieces and my sister... and tried to kill me. Now; payback time has come.'

Five minutes later, with the party getting more rowdy by the minute; a grossly overweight, almost naked man came out of the house into the sunshine. He walked past the copulating couples on the sun loungers to the edge of the flagged terrace facing the pool, and, completely ignoring them; stood, watching the naked girls in the water. He was about five-feet-eight; aged about sixty; with slicked-back, greying hair clinging to his balding head. His belly was vast, and sagged over a tiny strip of black material covering his crotch. A mat of black hair covered his drooping breasts, shoulder blades; arms, and legs. He wore a grey moustache that bristled over a wide, cruel mouth with thick, wet, crimson lips. His eyes were concealed behind sunglasses; and he wore the obligatory, heavy gold medallion and chain and a large gold wristwatch on a gold bracelet.

He moved back towards one of the unoccupied sun loungers, wiping his hands down his fat backsides; then lay back among the cushions, and snapped his fingers at two heavily-breasted blondes who resembled cheap, East Fourth Street whores; were wearing a lot of gold jewellery, and were laughing and chattering together. They wiggled across to his sun lounger, and began to stroke and caress him; rubbing their breasts against his corpulent flesh, as one of the blondes slipped her red-taloned fingers under the tiny strip of black material and began to knead and caress him.

Gabriella nodded to Marty.

'OK; That's Catelli. I'm going to go take him down now, whilst he's occupied. Give me five seconds to get clear, and then, do it.'

She handed the Remington to Marty; slipped out of her trenchcoat, and handed it to him. His eyes widened. Beneath the coat, she was naked, except for a tiny G-string. She held out her hand and he returned the shotgun to her. She stepped out from the trees with the shotgun concealed behind her back; and sashayed across the lawn towards the terrace. No one took much notice of one more gorgeous, naked girl as she approached the terrace. The couples on the sun loungers were too engrossed in their sexual antics to bother to glance up as her shadow fell across them.

Big Frank Catelli was getting nicely aroused by the two blondes, with his engorged member straining at the tiny strip of black material as the red-taloned fingers of the first blonde expertly squeezed, and stroked him. It would soon be time for a two-whore fuck-sandwich on his king-sized bed. A shadow fell across him, and he lazily glanced up at a pair of beautiful breasts below a gorgeous Asian face. He grinned licentiously. Three would be even better… then he froze, as the dispassionate black eyes of a sawn-down shotgun muzzle suddenly appeared from behind her back. He opened his mouth to scream… and his world exploded. The first shot ripped into his huge, fleshy paunch; the second into his groin… taking half the other blonde's head with it. The slim figure vanished from the sight of his bulging eyes as his world dissolved into a maelstrom of pain… and faintly, above his screams, he heard the loud, roaring boom of a machine gun, and shrieks as the hail of bullets began tearing into his guests.

Marty had heard the deep boom of Gabriella's shotgun and stepped out onto the lawn. Naked figures were scattering in all directions. He couldn't see her. He raised the assault rifle and squeezed the trigger. The AK-47 bucked in his grasp as it roared its hammering burst of full auto fire; with the smell of burnt gunpowder filling the air, and a steady stream of spent brass casings spewing from the side ejection port onto the lush, manicured lawn. Traversing the target, he watched the stream of lead punching holes through sun-tanned flesh, ripping ragged wounds through muscles and internal organs, shattering bones; exploding out of backs, creating tearing, messy, ragged exit wounds. Blood splattered the sun loungers and walls, bits of flesh and bone fragments exploded across the terrace; staining the expensive Italian flagstones, and turning the aquamarine waters of the pool into a swirling, red soup.

Emptying the magazine in one continuous burst; he pushed the magazine release lever forward; pulled out the spent magazine; flipped it over and shoved in the full one. Pulling back the charging lever, he opened up again on anything that showed the slightest signs of movement. Gabriella had said to kill them all; and that was exactly what he would do. He only stopped when the bolt clicked home on an empty chamber. Surveying the scene of absolute bloody carnage, he saw no movement; except… a naked figure walking unsteadily from behind the wall protecting the entrance to the house.

He saw that it was Gabriella; the shotgun held loosely in one hand, and blood seeping from between the fingers of her other hand which was pressed tightly against her stomach. Dropping the assault rifle, he ran to her. Her face was white, and her breathing was shallow and panting. He stared at her hand, and then slowly… gently lifted it away. The bullet hole was below and slightly to the right of her navel. Its edges were purple. He let her put her hand back and apprehensively looked around her side. There was blood all down her back; welling from a big ragged hole just below her ribcage. Grabbing his handkerchief, he looked into her eyes; eyes that were dark with pain and shock.

'This is going to hurt, but I must try to stop some of the bleeding… what happened?'

Her voice was almost a whisper.

'One of his fucking goons wasn't quite dead, and managed to get a shot off.'

Gently balling the handkerchief against the awful hole in her back; he managed to get her to the trees and helped her to slip her trenchcoat on.

'I've gotta get you to an emergency room. Right now.'

She shook her head.

'No, Marty; just get me home.'

Marty's four-hour drive down Interstate 80 was a nightmare of gut-wrenching apprehension and panic. Gabriella was deathly pale, and continually drifting in and out of consciousness. Just south of Verdi he was picked up by a Nevada State Patrol blue-and-white that followed him all the way down Interstate 80 to the State Line, before it turned off the highway and parked up behind a large billboard.

By the time he reached the approach to the Golden Gate Bridge, her condition had worsened considerably. Marty made a decision. Even though Gabriella had said that he should take her straight home; the only way that she might stand a chance would be if he took her straight to a trusted Chinese physician down in Bayview.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the kerb halfway along Fitzgerald Avenue and carefully lifted Gabriella out of the T-Bird. He was horrified at the amount of blood on the passenger seat. He carried her up three flights of stairs as quickly as he could to the room on the third floor that the physician, Doctor Leong used as a surgery.

Old Doctor Leong; a native Chinese-American; had been a combat surgeon during the Korean War. If anyone could do something for Gabriella... it would be him. He was well versed in the "Patch 'em up with no questions asked" treatment that was frequently sought-after on the mean, and vicious streets around here. He pointed to an old leather examination couch in the room and told Marty to lay her gently on it. He then carefully opened her trench coat and studied the wound. By now, a blue-black halo of bruising extending out for about an inch surrounded the bullet puncture wound. Charlie Leong nodded.

'Forty-five calibre at close range. Turn her gently and let me see the exit wound ... if there is one.

Marty snorted.

'There is one, Doc. It's the size of a goddamned tennis ball.'

Charlie Leong stared at the awful hole in her back. He looked up at Marty.

'When did this happen?'

Marty tore his eyes away from Gabriella's chalky-white face; all damp with sweat.

'About four-and-a-half hours ago.'

Charlie Leong shook his head sadly.

'I am sorry Marty; but this is almost certainly a death wound. The slug must have been a hollow point to have done this to her. She has suffered massive internal damage. It is a wonder that she has not succumbed to shock already.'

Marty stared at him.

'But, she cannot die. She is Gabriella... the "Bo-sseu"… the Boss of the Chang syndicate. You must do something.'

Charlie Leong shook his head.

'There is nothing I can do, except alleviate her pain with Opium. I fear that she is setting her feet upon the pathway of her journey over the mountains to "The Otherworld." even as we speak.'

As a consequence of massive internal haemorrhaging and extensive internal abdominal injuries; Gabriella Chang drifted in and out of consciousness all that evening and died in Charlie Leong's arms in the small hours of the following morning.

A distraught Marty Ryom drove down to the Central waterfront, racked with guilt and remorse for, in his mind; his failure to protect Gabriella by not confirming that all of Catelli's pool party were, indeed, dead; parked the T-Bird up on pier 70; and blew his brains out at around three o'clock in the morning.

The Reno police didn't discover the carnage at Basque lane until several hours after the shootings. The local residents had thought that the gunshots were fireworks being let off at Big Frank Catelli's party. They found thirty-six corpses strewn around the pool and terrace area; both male and female; eighty spent seven-point-six-two-millimetre brass casings marked with Russian Headstamp codes scattered on the lawn; and an AK-47 assault rifle; also stamped with Russian Manufacturer and proof markings.

Catelli was discovered at the side of the property; still alive; but with horrendous injuries to his abdomen and groin. He was rushed to Saint Mary's Hospital barely clinging to life. It was already too late. The antimony buckshot pellets were toxic… and deeply embedded in his intestines. Even if he had not succumbed to his injuries; the surgeons remarked that Catelli's gut resembled chopped liver, and, even if they could have done something; there was little doubt that he would have been condemned to spending the rest of his life eating and defecating through tubes. As it was, Big Frank Catelli died on the operating table at around eight-thirty that evening.

09 00 Hrs, Tuesday, May 2, 1961.

810 Kansas Street,

Potrero Hill,

San Francisco.

California.

USA.

Two SFPD black-and-whites and Sam Mayfield's black Chevy Bel Air sedan were already parked up outside number 810 as Callaghan turned the DeSoto into Kansas Street. He groaned.

'Oh, shit! That's all we need… the FBI blundering around, and muddying the pond!'

The young patrolman had reported in the sighting of the black T-Bird; and a licence check had revealed that it belonged to Gabriella Chang. Captain Neil Halloran at the Potrero Station had called them up at the Washington street number and given them the information. He had quietly suggested that they get down there fast, as he was about to call the FBI in accordance with his instructions.

Callaghan pulled in beside the black Chevy, and turned to Charlotte.

OK, babe; so what are we looking for?'

Charlotte shrugged.

'I have no idea; but, whatever it is… it certainly won't be the gemstone. That will be tucked away somewhere safe. I guess we search for something that will lead us to it.'

The apartment on the second floor that had been rented out in the name of Ryom; and occupied, according to the old lady on the first floor to a "nice young Asian couple" who were quiet tenants and had paid a month's rent in advance; was an architecturally interesting, but decoratively bland, typical Potrero Hill rental. Sam Mayfield's boys had already carried out an extensive search… pulling out drawers, lifting mattresses and carpets… all the usual tricks; but had come up empty.

As Charlotte and Callaghan entered; he turned, and gave them a sardonic grin.

'Great! The cavalry's here! Maybe you can do better than us. We've done this joint over with a goddamned nit comb and turned up zilch! We'll leave you to it and get back to the office. Goddamned waste of resources if you want my opinion.'

Charlotte nodded.

'OK. We'll see. Have a good day!

Sam Mayfield grunted and jerked his thumb to his guys to leave.

Alone in the apartment; Charlotte turned to Callaghan.

'Right. We need to be cute about this. We're looking for anything that seems out of place. Any one thing that doesn't seem to fit the whole impression of the place. Koreans have an empathy with their surroundings. Everything fits in their environment; both at work, and at home. OK; this Gabriella Chang is half-American… but this inherent tendency for order and harmony is deep-seated; and I imagine she is still guided by it.'

The first hours' searching was fruitless. Just as Sam Mayfield had said, the whole damn place was clean. There was nothing that revealed even the identities of the apartment's tenants. Charlotte leaned against the kitchen sink and surveyed her surroundings. She sighed. There was absolutely nothing there. Dammit! She called to Callaghan.

'D'you want a cup of coffee before we call it a day?'

His voice came back from the bedroom.

'Yeah… OK. Make mine cream and no sugar.'

She walked across to the wall shelf and reached for the coffee jar. As she lifted it from where it was resting, it emitted a thin, dull clunk. Cautiously, she lifted the lid and peered inside. Nestling amongst the ground coffee beans was a little green-jade pillbox. She pulled it out; blew on it to clear the coffee dust from its surface; and lifted the lid. It contained a luggage locker key and a small fold of paper. She called out for Callaghan as she dropped the key into her hand and carefully began to unfold the thin, almost translucent paper square.

As Callaghan came into the kitchen, she was smoothing out the paper. Drawn on it was what appeared to be a maze as seen from above; except there were no entry or exit points in the diagram.

Callaghan peered over her shoulder, and laughed.

'I thought you'd found something. It's just a kid's puzzle!'

She shook her head.

'No; it's much more subtle than that. The diagram appears to be made up of Hangungmal characters. Those are the Korean language symbols… like Chinese or Japanese… and there's this left luggage locker key. This is it, Gil. All I have to do is translate it!'

With a fresh pot of coffee; Charlotte sat at the table and began to transcribe the characters that made up the maze. The subtle construction of the interlocking lines was masterful… and complex. At length; after transcription, her copy read…

"Nambu bondang. samulham-ui oenjjog sangdan haeng."

Translated literally, this now read:

"Southern Main Hall. Locker top left row."

The enigmatic locker key bore a stamped design of three letter "T"s on one side and the number "76B" on the reverse. It was definitely a left luggage locker key… but, to which rail, or bus station did it belong?

Reaching for the San Francisco Street guide, she studied the index. There! It could only be that one… if the letters on the key referred to the name; and were not a manufacturer's mark. The Transbay Transit Terminal was on the corner of First and Mission Streets; less than three miles away; and had been built as the terminal for East Bay commuter trains using the newly opened Bay Bridge. At the time, trucks and trains used the lower deck of the Bay Bridge, and automobiles operated in both directions on the upper deck. In 1958, the lower deck of the Bay Bridge was converted to automobile traffic only, the train system was dismantled; and by 1959, the Transbay Terminal had been converted into a bus-only facility. It was the perfect place to stash something safely.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Charlotte replaced the locker key in the jade pillbox and slipped it, and the maze design, together with her notebook containing the translation into her purse, and turned to Callaghan.

'OK, Gil; let's leave this place to the cops and get across to this Transbay Terminal. I'm certain that we'll find something there.'

The drive across town took twenty minutes. Callaghan parked the DeSoto up in the Terminal plaza, and they walked across to the massive. drab gray concrete building; an eight-hundred-and-seventy-foot-long, flat slab with a two-hundred-and-thirt- foot-long central pavilion occupying three blocks of Mission Street, which had been designed in Bauhaus Moderne style and had not withstood the passing years very well. It had become a dingy, depressing place; fairy quiet, except for the infrequent Greyhound arrivals, and, during the afternoon rush hours, when one bus bound for the East Bay left every thirty seconds, normally carrying a full load of passengers; but, now there were no more than a handful of travellers waiting for their buses. There were, however quite a few drunks and deadbeats wandering around.

Charlotte walked down the granite mausoleum of the long, pillared, main waiting room; her footsteps echoing hollowly. The ranks of luggage lockers were grimy and dented; and many had been broken open. Callaghan followed a few paces behind. Towards the far end of the left-hand row of lockers, she found number 76B. The lock was intact.

Callaghan stood back watching the far end of the wide corridor between the lines of lockers as she slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The metal door swung open smoothly, to reveal a Pan-Am Airline cabin bag. Lifting it out; she ran the zipper fastener round to open it and peeked inside. It contained what looked to be about twenty-thousand Dollars in hundred bills, and a thin, white envelope. She squeezed the envelope and felt a hard object… another key!

Slipping the strap of the cabin bag over her shoulder; Charlotte closed and locked the locker, leaving the key in the lock. They then walked back to the exit, with Callaghan a little way behind and keeping a wary watchfulness on anyone who approached too closely, or showed more than a passing interest in Charlotte, or in the bag that she was carrying.

Safely back in the DeSoto, Charlotte unzipped the bag and showed Callaghan the contents. He whistled softly through his teeth.

'Wow! There must be close on twenty-Gs in there. Nest Egg?... or Escape money?'

She shook her head.

'I have no idea. This is what interests me…'

She pulled out the envelope; tore it open, and removed a key. It looked very different from a normal house key. The teeth had a square profile, unlike normal keys. She glanced at Callaghan.

'A Bank safe deposit box key, maybe?'

He nodded.

'Could be. But apart from that engraved number: 2619; how the heck are we going to find out which bank it belongs to?'

She smiled quietly.

'I might just have an answer to that one. The office will have a locksmith on the books. He can probably tell what brand it is; and then we can trace through the banks by elimination… if we strike lucky, and it's an unusual brand of safe deposit boxes.'

Back at the CIA safe house apartment at 2002 Washington Street; Charlotte made a telephone call to the local office. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. Opening the door, she was confronted by a man in his mid-forties, wearing blue coveralls and carrying a plain tool bag. He identified himself as Brody Schaeffer; attached to the Technical section of the SFPD Planning Division, and was here to identify a certain key in her possession.

She smiled.

'Hi! I'm Charlotte and this is Callaghan. We have a key that was in the possession of a fugitive suspect, and would like to know what it unlocks.'

Brody Schaeffer nodded.

'Well, I'll give to my best shot; but unless it's a distinctive pattern it's gonna be a hit-and-miss guess.'

Charlotte gave him a rueful grin.

'OK; come and sit down, and take a look at it. Would you like a cup of coffee?'

Schaeffer nodded.

'Thanks. Cream, and no sugar, please.'

She handed him the key and went to make coffee whilst he studied it.'

When she returned, he was smiling.

'You're lucky. It's a "LeFebure" safe deposit box key that's about fifteen years old. Most of the city Banks changed over to "Diebold" brand boxes after LeFebure was taken over by Mosler and then, later, by Diebold.'

He pulled a slim black notebook from his tool bag and flipped through the pages. He looked up.

'There are only two banks still using LeFebure boxes… The Federal Reserve Bank on Sansome Street; and the Hibernia Bank on McAllister. My guess would be that this key belongs to the Federal Reserve.'

Charlotte smiled and nodded.

'Thank you very much.'

Schaeffer handed the key back to her, and closed the notebook.

'Don't get too much of a buzz just yet. You'll need a Federal Warrant before you can get to see what the box that this key fits, will contain. The way it works, is that a customer comes into the branch, walks up to the guy who looks after the boxes and says something like: "I'd like to get in my box please." He'll ask them their name, and then pull their card. They'll sign an entry slip, and he will compare the signature on the slip with the signature on the card. The box number is on the card.

He takes them into the vault, gets their key from them, inserts their key and his into the box, and opens the door. The boxes are actually long plastic containers behind the metal doors. He then hands the whole plastic container to the customer, and directs them to one of the privacy booths. Without a signature, you won't get access… hence the need for a Warrant. Even then, you might have trouble; so be prepared to use the National Security Act if you have to.'

10.30 Hrs, Thursday, May 4, 1961.

Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco,

400. Sansome Street.

Union Square-Financial District.

San Francisco.

California.

USA.

Callaghan parked up outside the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco Building, at Sansome Street, and turned to Charlotte.

'How d'you want to play this?'

She looked at him.

'First off; I guess we try the softly-softly approach with the Bank Manager. If he follows the Bank protocols, we hit him with the Warrant. If that fails; we play the National Security card.'

Together, the walked up the sweeping, steps that ran the whole frontage of the building and crossed the paved area beneath the Ionic colonnade. Inside; Charlotte approached the lobby guard and asked for the Manager. Disdainfully, he looked her up and down.

'You have an appointment?'

She returned the favour by looking him up and down with an equal measure of disdain.

'No. This is Federal Business.'

The guard almost sneered… almost; until he saw Callaghan; big, broad and forbidding; step up closer to her. His hand darted to the telephone on his table, and he quickly dialled a number. Within a couple of minutes, a young clerk came hurrying across the floor and invited them to follow him.

The Manager's office was on the second floor. Charlotte and Callaghan were ushered into the presence of the Manager… a portly, sleek, and urbane individual in his fifties; wearing rimless spectacles, and wearing a bespoke three-piece chalk-strip suit that must have cost the thick end of five-Gs. He stood, smiled benignly, and extended his hand to Charlotte; then invited her to sit. He spoke in a cultured Southern Californian accent.

'Good morning. I am Clifford C. Scott; Manager of the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco. How may I be of assistance, Madam?'

Charlotte reached into her purse and withdrew the key; laying it on the wide, polished surface of the desk in front of him. Studying him carefully, she spoke.

'This key has been seized from the possessions of a fugitive suspect. It has been identified as, in all probability; being the key to a safe deposit box in your vaults. We would like to inspect the contents of the box that corresponds with this key'

Clifford C. Scott smiled condescendingly.

'Then I am afraid your visit will prove fruitless. The Bank Charter protocols with regard to safe deposit boxes require that only the depositor or an accredited signatory is permitted access to the said box.'

Charlotte nodded.

'I am aware of that; which is why I have a Federal Warrant issued by The Superior Court of The City and County of San Francisco, authorising me to seize any such evidence that the said box pertaining to this key, contains.'

Clifford C. Scott stared at her; and then, at the warrant she placed in front of him. He read it slowly; then looked up and shook his head.

Before he could say a word; Charlotte snapped her fingers at Callaghan; who crossed the room and stood by the door; arms folded and immobile; creating an obstruction for anyone who might try to enter.

She looked back at Scott.

'Very well, Mr. Scott. I must inform you that you are now very close to being in contravention of the National Security Act of 1947, with regard to wilful obstruction of an investigation concerning a matter of National Security.'

Clifford C. Scott. Slowly went pink, and spluttered,

'Who the hell are you?'

Holding his eyes with her cold, blue gaze; Charlotte produced her CIA Identification card and laid it on the desk next to the warrant. He stared at it, and slowly, his face changed from pink to white. She watched him for a few moments; and then, continued.

'If you choose to cooperate with me, all this will go away. Otherwise, I really don't think that you would be particularly well-suited to a ten-to-fifteen in somewhere like San Quentin, Mr Clifford.'

Ten minutes later; Charlotte and Callaghan were standing in the vault waiting for the clerk in charge to turn both his, and the suspect key in the two key slots of the door numbered 2619; halfway along the bank of identical doors lining the far walls of the vault. Along the other walls were hundreds of safe deposit boxes that contained who knows what?... priceless jewellery? A fortune in diamonds and other precious stones? Sheaves of thousand-Dollar bills, or Security Bonds? No matter; box 2619 was the only one that mattered. The thin oblong door swung open silently on precision hinges. The clerk pulled the long, plastic box out of the wall and invited them to follow him to a privacy cubicle across the vault that could be closed with a heavy curtain. He placed the box on a small examining table within the cubicle; stepped outside, and pulled the curtain across.

Charlotte lifted the lid. The only things inside were a silenced Beretta pistol and a little black pouch with a tightly pulled drawstring around its open end. She picked up the pouch and placed it on the table beside her. Leaving the Beretta in the box, she closed the lid and glanced at Callaghan. His face was impassive… no curiosity; no anticipation… just a steady gaze at the pouch. That was odd; after everything that they had been through. She dismissed the thought and carefully loosed the drawstring; then upturned the pouch. The object inside slipped out onto the table and lay there; its cut facets reflecting the light against the walls of the cubicle like steaks of blood.

Charlotte stared at it as it lay there; this malevolent artefact that she had been pursuing across three Continents for almost as long as she could remember… and perhaps, if there was any truth in these things that so many people down the years had said or felt about her; for so much longer than that; perhaps, even back to the beginnings of time itself… if the legend of "The Golden Child" that she had painstakingly translated in the ancient volumes discovered at Tunguska in the wastes of Siberia, was to be believed.

The "Red Horseman"… "The Destroyer of Worlds," lay there; a tiny blood-red spark flaring deep in its heart… as if infused with a chilling smugness or perhaps, malignant pleasure that this convoluted odyssey of hunt and evade; stretching back across the years, had now come, it seemed, full circle.

Staring at this Garnet gemstone laying quietly on the surface of the table; she suddenly shivered… as if, at that same moment; a grey goose had flown over her grave. Callaghan seemed not to notice. He was staring at the gemstone; and although it might just have been a trick of the reflected light spearing from the cut facets; as she glanced up at him, for a fleeting moment, the pupils of his eyes seemed to glow red. She shivered again, and carefully replaced the gemstone in the little pouch, then placed it in her purse. She glanced again at Callaghan. Whatever she thought that she might have seen was not there now. He picked up the box, and smiled.

'Is that it? Is that really what all this fuss has been about?'

She nodded;

'Yes, Gil. This is the "Red Horseman." It's evil, and has brought so much death and misery to so many people. I had hoped that it would have been locked away forever by now; but, seeing as they couldn't even do that one small thing; now, I have to destroy it forever.'

He stared at her.

'But, what about our mission? What about the Pentagon? Don't they want it as a possible alternative to the synthetic rubies for designing this "Death Ray" that they're talking about?'

She gave him a hard look.

'Yes; and that's why they're not going to get their hands on it. I don't want to talk about it any more. Let's just get out of here.'

Callaghan was quiet on the journey back to the Washington Street apartment. Charlotte tried several times, to strike up a conversation; but without much success. She assumed that this was down to her decision to defy Washington, and the Pentagon in particular; with regard to this evil gemstone now nestling in her purse. She was confused about his sudden change in attitude. They had often talked about what should happen if, and when she finally managed to recover the gemstone. She had explained in detail what it was said to be capable of; and what it was alleged to be. She had recounted in detail, her Siberian journey; the discovery of the sealed artefact; and what had ensued when it had finally been released from its confinement in Nazi Germany. He had seemed to understand; he had never questioned her intent… until now.

She studied him as he turned the DeSoto into Washington Street. This man whom she loved; this man who had declared his love for her; was now reticent and cold. She sighed. Whatever was bothering him would have to be brought out into the open… quickly; if their relationship was to get back onto an even footing. They needed to have a serious discussion… right now.

Inside the apartment; she confronted him.

'Gil; sit down. We need to talk.'

She sat on the sofa next to him, and studied his morose expression. Taking a deep breath. She began.

I have no idea why you have suddenly become like this, Gil. You always knew that if I found this goddamned "Red Horseman"; my intention was either to destroy it, or make sure that it was locked away in some place where it could no longer do any harm. If the Pentagon hawks get their hands on it; there is no knowing what they might unleash. The whole situation since the Bay of Pigs fiasco has become a major embarrassment for Kennedy; and he and his brother seem to be getting obsessed over toppling the Castro regime.

Castro; and by association… the Russians, are really pissed; and think that we might try again. It's possible that the Russians will try to install nuclear weapons on Cuban soil… and that could lead to a nuclear confrontation between us, and them. I for one, don't much fancy mushroom clouds for breakfast. That is why I have to do what I have to do.'

Callaghan was quiet… no argument; no opposition to her stance. He shrugged, and said, quite simply,

'OK… your decision.'

He stood up and glanced at his wristwatch.

'I'm hungry. D'you fancy some lunch?'

She nodded and began to get up from the sofa.

'Yeah, fine. I'll go make something.'

He put a hand on her shoulder to prevent her from standing.

'No; stay there. I'll do it. How about a cheese omelette with hash brown patties?'

She smiled up at him.

'Yes, thank you. That will be fine.'

He smiled. The old, easy smile that she had come to love.

'It's the least I can do after being so grouchy.'

In the kitchen, Callaghan began to prepare the meal. He checked the big General Electric Refrigerator… plenty of eggs; an unopened pack of commercial Hash Brown patties, and a fair-sized half-round block of Colby cheese. Taking the block, he began grating the cheese into a bowl, whilst the omelette and Hash brown skillets were warming on the stove. he then placed four of the Hash Brown patties into the first skillet and increased the heat. Breaking four eggs into another bowl, he began whisking them with a fork. Adding a small square of butter into the other skillet; he added the grated cheese; whisking again.

He furtively pulled a small pill bottle from his pocket that had been supplied to him by the Foggy Bottom facilitators at the start of the mission. Shaking out three of the anonymous white pills; he placed them in the bowl of a dessertspoon and crushed them down to a powder with the back of the bowl of another spoon.

The pills that Callaghan had crushed were a particularly powerful and fast-acting Pentobarbital. There would be no suspicion… she would feel no symptoms. She would simply fall asleep; and then, he could complete the mission that he had been allocated by the CIA Covert Operations office in Langley. This mission had been reluctantly agreed to by Langley after the Pentagon's more belligerent Hawks had applied pressure on the CIA under the excuse of being in the interests of "National Security", for the recovery of the malignant gemstone she had discovered; which they were desperate to secure as a replacement for the original synthetic rubies lost, supposedly to The Mob. It was to be used in the development of this "Laser machine" to create some sort of weaponised "Death Ray" without any thought of what the consequences might be.

Posing as a Staff Sergeant Steward on board the Boeing Stratocruiser that had carried her home to the United States; he had intercepted Charlotte at Yokota Air Base in Japan and was instructed to begin to cajole her to gain her affections, and eventually, secure the gemstone from her. He shook his head. Fuck them all to Hell. After all that they had been through together, he wouldn't play their dirty little games. It was betrayal, pure-and-simple. He walked across to the kitchen sink, and, turning on the cold faucet, swilled the white powder down the drain. Turning the Hash browns, he poured the omelette mix into the skillet.

With a spatula, he turned the omelette and cooked the other side. Arranging the cooked hash brown patties on a warm plate; he turned out the omelette and picked up a knife and fork. He then carried the completed plate in to Charlotte.

She looked up.

'Mmm! That smells good. I wasn't aware that you're a cook as well!

Callaghan smiled and handed her the plate. She cut into the omelette and tasted it.

'That's a really good omelette, Gil.

He nodded.

'I figured that you might like it. I'll go make mine now. Enjoy!'

Ten minutes later; she had finished her meal and he was half-way through his; when she turned to him.

'God! I'm bushed! I think I'll have a lie-down.'

He nodded.

'It's been a hell of a busy few days. Go get some sleep.'

The next morning; they left the CIA safe house apartment at 2002 Washington Street; took the lift down to street level, walked across to the parked-up DeSoto; fired it up, and drove away; heading out through the city through the Mission District to join US route 101 which led down to San Francisco International Airport.

They had travelled about nine miles south and joined the Bayshore Freeway, when the beginnings of a sprawling industrial complex began to appear on their right. Half-a-mile further on, Charlotte pointed to an off-ramp sign marked Sierra Point.

'Take that exit, Gil.'

He shrugged.

'OK.'

He swung the DeSoto onto the off-ramp and, as she directed him; turned right onto Lagoon Road that ran along the northern shore of a large inland lake named Brisbane Lagoon leading into a heavily industrialised area. She pointed to a derelict factory building; across the frontage of which the remaining words "Machine Corporation" could still be seen; although the Company name was unreadable.

She nodded.

'Stop here, Gil. This looks promising.'

He shrugged and stopped the car. Getting out she squeezed through a gap in the broken chain-link fence followed by Callaghan; crossed the cracked and crumbling asphalt of what had once probably been a car park; but now was an expanse of weeds and grass growing through the surface; and approached a side door with broken hinges that was leaning against the decaying brickwork of the far wall that had at sometime been distempered white, but was now flaking and peeling away, exposing the old red brickwork. Carefully, she eased the door open and looked inside.

The building was empty, except for lines of obsolete pieces of corroding lathes, pillar drills, and other machine shop equipment flanked by workbenches fitted with rusting engineers' vices and industrial angle-poise lamps slowly flaking their paint, stretching away into the dim interior. It looked as though it hadn't been used for years. The whole place was dilapidated and stale-smelling. Daylight glowed faintly in through a row of dusty skylights stretching the length of the steeper surfaces of the saw-tooth roof which was supported by girder beams stretched high overhead, from which large, green-enamelled, industrial high-bay lamp shades with either broken or missing bulbs dangled on spider-web-festooned, cloth-covered electrical flex looping through the rusty links of their suspension chains.

The floor was littered with grimy, broken glass; although all the skylights seemed to be intact. Obviously, the one side of this part of the building had originally contained offices with thin, partitioned walls. When the walls had been ripped out, the builders hadn't been particularly careful about clearing up the broken window and door glass.

The floor was also strewn with all the usual rubbish that would usually be found in derelict buildings... empty beer bottles; old newspaper blown in by the wind; broken neon light tubes; a couple of dead pigeons, pools of slimy water from roof leaks; an old mattress, and evidence of fires having been lit. The smell of damp, and mildewed brickwork hung in the stale air competing unsuccessfully with the flat, rank smell of human excrement; long-congealed machine cutting-fluid, and rancid grease. Gantry walkways stretched either side of the building which had once been reached by metal stairs now rusting precariously, and looking very unsafe.

Callaghan stood behind her, looking around the dilapidated interior of the machine shop.

'So; what the heck d'you want to do in here?'

He said with an inquiring tone in his voice. She glanced at him.

'What I'm looking for isn't in this part of the factory. Let's go on down there.'

She said; pointing at the distant end wall. He shrugged. He had no idea what she was looking for but knew her well enough by now not to question her motives. A pair of large, rusted metal double doors led through the end wall of the machine shop into an even larger machine gallery dominated by a series of huge hydraulic presses. She turned to Callaghan and smiled.

'This is what I was hoping to find. Let's just hope one of them still works.'

He shrugged.

'Fat chance. They probably shut off any power years ago.'

She nodded;

'Maybe the standard hundred-and-twenty-volt supply; but I bet the three-phase supply is still connected. It will have cost them too much to do a full disconnect.'

She walked over to the nearest four-column press. Its massive bulk hunched in the gloom like some huge slumbering animal. The upper slide plate was raised; and there were no moulds or jigs lying on the lower press bed. The tarnished manufacturer's data plate stated that this was a Lombard Corporation 8,000 ton extrusion press. The safety gate was still in place and seemed to be free-moving. On the wall behind the press was a control panel. She glanced at Callaghan, reached out, and grasped the large, power-on lever. Oh, well; here goes nothing!

She pulled the lever down to the "ON" position. The panel lamps lit up like the Fourth of July. She pushed up the safety gate guarding the end of the press bolster plate; took the little velvet pouch containing the malignant "Red Horseman" gemstone from her purse, and, reaching into the dark maw of the machine; placed it in the centre of the press bed. Pulling down the safety gate, she moved to the control panel and pressed the "MOTOR ON AND START" button. Somewhere, a hydraulic pump hummed into life; the "HYDRAULIC PRESSURE" lamp glowed brightly; and the upper slide plate began to descend slowly; emitting a rasping, screeching sound; setting the teeth on edge as the corner bushings of the upper slide plate slowly scraped down the rusty columns as the hydraulic pressure built up.

As the upper slide plate reached the little velvet pouch and began to exert its gargantuan pressure; the press shop echoed with a sharp, stabbing crack and grinding shriek as the gemstone began to disintegrate into fragments grinding against each other. The hum of the pump began to labour as the two plates attained their maximum pressure; and a green lamp labelled "RETRACT" glowed. Charlotte pressed a button on the control panel labelled "RAISE"; and the pump note changed as the upper slide plate began to rise. As the upper slide plate reached the top of its travel, another lamp glowed green and the pump stopped humming.

She studied the control panel. The lamp labelled "HYDRAULIC PRESSURE" had flicked out; and the huge press lay silent. She grasped the large, power-on lever and pushed it back up to the "OFF" position. Tentatively, she gripped the safety gate and lifted. It rose smoothly. Apprehensively glancing up at the raised upper slide plate; she carefully reached into yawning depths of the massive structure and retrieved the flattened velvet pouch. It felt as though it contained confectioner's sugar. She turned to Callaghan.

'OK, we're done here. Let's go.'

He shrugged.

'OK. But I don't get the point of all this.'

She gave him a wry smile.

'You will. Gil; you will.'

As they retraced their steps to the broken chain-link fence, Callaghan glanced at Charlotte.

'So; are you going to tell me what that was all about?'

As they got back into the DeSoto, she looked at him steadily.

'This is almost the end of that goddamned "Red Horseman." Now nobody will be able to lay hands on it; and there's just one more thing to do.'

Callaghan turned the DeSoto out from the derelict Industrial area back onto Lagoon Road, heading back towards the Bayshore Freeway. About halfway along the northern shore of Brisbane Lagoon, she told him to pull the car over and stop. Getting out; she walked across the expanse of grass and stopped at the water's edge.

Carefully taking the flattened velvet pouch from her purse, she released the silk drawstring and opened it. Holding it at arms length, she began sprinkling the contents into the lagoon; walking along the bank as she did so. The red dust that was once the malignant gemstone settled on the mirror-like surface of the lagoon in a pale, pink smudge which slowly dissipated across the surface of the water and disappeared from view. Reaching down; she picked up a pebble and slipped it into the pouch; pulling the silk drawstring closed. She then threw the pouch far out into the lagoon where it fell into the water with a soft plop and sank out of sight.

Getting back into the car, she smiled and nodded to Callaghan.

'That's it. It's done… it's finished. Now we can go home and start living the rest of our lives.'

Callaghan nodded; started the DeSoto's motor, and slipped the gearshift into drive; heading back towards the Bayshore Freeway, and San Francisco International Airport.