Chapter Fourteen.

Saturday, March 19, 1961.

San Francisco International Airport.

San Francisco.

California.

USA.

The United Airlines DC8 jet landed at San Francisco International Airport at 2pm. A black Chevrolet Biscayne four-door sedan was waiting on the apron in front of the terminal building. As Charlotte and Callaghan came down the passenger stairway; the two men standing beside the Chevy stepped forward and flashed their FBI Department of Justice badges. The taller one spoke first.

'Agents Mckenna and Callaghan? We've been expecting you. I'm Walker…'

He waved in the direction of the other man;

'… and this is Boyce. We're taking you down to the San Francisco Divisional office where Supervisory Special Agent Mayfield will fill you in on our investigation.'

The ride into downtown Fan Francisco took a little over twenty minutes. Supervisory Special Agent Mayfield's office was on the fourth floor. Mayfield was middle-aged; six-foot, and about one-hundred-and-ninety pounds. He had a shrewd face, with a mouth that wore a wry smile. His eyes were quick and perceptive. The still-dark hair was brushed neatly to the right of a high forehead; and he wore a reasonably respectable three-piece suit. Mayfield gave the impression that he was an "old-school" sort of investigator… a sort of modern-day Eliot Ness; whose idea of investigative work did not involve a-hundred-and-fifty-watt lamp in your face, and a set of brass knuckles. Closing the door to his office, he invited them to sit, and opened a file on his desk.

'Washington has informed us that you reported a conspiracy that you had uncovered in Berlin recently, and this could tie in with an investigation we are involved with here, on the West coast. To fill you in; last year, we uncovered a trail that suggested that there was a huge conspiracy involving various politicians who were cosying up to the Mob, stretching right up to the top. It centred on an accusation made by a guy named Roberts at the University of Wisconsin, who had developed a process for creating synthetic rubies, and had been suckered by the Hughes Research Laboratories in Malibu to handing them over; that the Hughes guys had effectively stolen them. This was some time after Howard Hughes disappeared… Roberts also alleged that he had been kidnapped by the Mob; and that they were going to screw the government over these rubies, unless the Feds laid off their business interests.

Where it gets interesting; is that we've also had The Pentagon on our backs. They are keen to get their hands on these synthetic rubies. It's something to do with a machine they call a "Laser" that is being developed. Apparently, it emits a weird light unknown in nature. We're talking weapons here; maybe some kind of Death ray… real "Flash Gordon" stuff… which is why the CIA has jumped in.'

He looked up and studied Charlotte.

'Where you come in, is the package you had sent back from Seoul that was intercepted. They figure that, if these rubies are in the hands of the Mob; then this gemstone that was in the package might well be an alternative… and is an easier target to recover. We figure that the Korean crime family up in Chinatown have it; and might hand it over if we can put the frighteners on them with hints of deportation or putting the hard squeeze on their business operations around the city.'

14.00 Hrs, Friday, April 7, 1961.

Santa Clara County,

California.

USA.

The dark grey Chevrolet panel van sped down Highway 101 towards the town of Gilroy; keeping within the speed limits. Gabriella and Suzie Chang were not in the business of getting pulled over by some over-enthusiastic California Highway Patrol cop on this trip. They were heading out beyond Salinas to rendezvous with a shipment that was being brought in by one of Suzie's contacts. The ordnance that Suzie had arranged to be delivered for the Chang family's war with the Reno Mob was being flown in from Mexico.

Once through Salinas; the route to the pick-up point was down the Monterey-Salinas highway as far as the San Benancio turnoff just beyond a place named Torro Park. Once beyond San Benancio; it was about four-and-a-half miles down to the yield sign at the junction with Corral de Tierra road, where they should turn right. Two miles along this road; and they should turn left onto Underwood road which led up to a disused homestead and the landing site.

Underwood road followed a narrow valley between the wooded slopes of the surrounding hills. The road began to climb as they moved further away from the main highway. There were no houses... nothing except for trees. This was the perfect place. Almost five miles along Underwood Road, as they turned a sharp dog-leg corner; the homestead suddenly appeared from behind the trees to their right. It didn't look as though it had been inhabited for years. The barns were rusting; fences had rotted and fallen; and the house was missing half of its shingled roof.

Suzie glanced at Gabriella.

'Jeez! What a dump, Sis. It couldn't be more perfect!'

Gabriella nodded and glanced at her expensive Rolex.

'When is he due?'

Suzie smiled.

'Don't worry, Sis. He'll be here. What time have you?'

Gabriella scanned the skies. She didn't see anything save for a couple of vapour trails etching their feathery ribbons across the azure skies; heading north.

She glanced at her Rolex again.

'Three-twenty.'

Suzie smiled.

'We made good time. He's due at three-thirty.'

She reached into her purse, brought out a pack of Winston cigarettes and lit one. As she wound down the window to blow out the smoke; faintly, out to the south; in the distance... but getting louder all the while; came the distinctive deep snarl of an airplane engine. Suzie listened for a moment and then smiled.

'That's him. No mistaking that sound.

She started the van's motor and reversed back to the dog-leg bend. She then turned the van off the metalled roadway and began to follow a grassy farm track out into the fields to the south of the homestead, across to a large flat area, where she stopped on the edge of a long flat open field.

The snarling growl of the approaching airplane was getting much louder now. It sounded just like the little yellow training airplanes that Gabriella remembered seeing as a child, as they flew out from Alameda Naval Air Station into the skies over San Francisco Bay.

Low, over the trees came a high-wing, tubby airplane. Sounding like an irate buzz saw; it banked around to the east; flew along the tree line, turned and came in to land. The pilot throttled back as he touched down and the angry buzz-saw noise diminished and became a deep, grumbling "buhlup-buhlup-buhlup-buhlup" noise as the airplane slowed with its propeller idling. The pilot turned at the end of the field and came back to where the van was parked. Leaving the motor running, they saw the pilot leave his seat and move back into the fuselage where he opened the port side door. Suzie drove the van forward; turned, and reversed up to the airplane; stopping behind the trailing edge of the port wing. Climbing out; she opened the rear doors and called to the pilot.

'Hi, Tyler. Still flying the old Norseman then? Dammit, I'd have thought you could have afforded a half-decent ship by now!'

Tyler Clark; a six-foot, Texan; built like a Bay City quarterback; and carrying a sawn-down, twelve-gauge, double-barrelled shotgun in a custom-made holster on his hip; had been a Mustang pilot during the Korean War; and, after the armistice negotiations of '53-'54; had become a modern-day buccaneer. He would smuggle anything... no questions asked. The only commodities he refused to carry were girls who were being supplied for prostitution, and drugs. He had met Suzie, and formed a working relationship with her when Seoul was being overrun for the second time by the North Koreans. He had flown her out from Kimpo; hidden away in the bomb bay of a B.26 bomber he was ordered to fly out to the south to prevent it from falling into the enemy's hands. Since then, they had done business together on several occasions.

Clarke grinned.

'Don't go bad-mouthing my old lady, Suzie-babe. She the best Goddamned ship on God's good earth for this kinda job. Short take-off and landing, gentle handling; good cargo space, and tough as a brick-built shitter!

Suzie grinned.

'OK, Tyler; don't go getting riled. What are you hauling for me?

He jerked his thumb at the stack of wooden packing cases.

'Five barrels of Ammonium Nitrate fertiliser; a hundred pounds of C4 plastique; four cases of Russian AK-47 Kalashnikov assault rifles with ten-thousand-rounds of ammo; and five cases of Russian RGD-5 hand grenades. Somebody must have really pissed you, babe!

Suzie nodded.

'Damn right… and in spades! Now let's get this load into the Chevy before the Feds wonder where that noisy old bitch disappeared to.

Tyler Clark grinned.

'No sweat there, Suzie-babe. They got no idea I'm here. I came up over the border through the Ensenada gap across the Ojos Negros valley through the radar dead zone. There's fuck-all down there but prairie dogs and tumbleweed; and I stayed below the peaks all the way.'

Suzie nodded,

'OK, Tyler but don't be too much of a smart-ass. The Feds out this way have no sense of humour at all when it comes to gun-running over the border. Now let's get this lot unloaded and you can be outta here.'

With the transfer finished. Tyler Clark slammed the fuselage door and, getting back into the cockpit; waved to the girls; turned the Norseman, and taxied back to the far end of the field. Turning again; he set the flaps and shoved the throttle forward. With a crescendo of noise; the Norseman rushed across the uneven field and rose ponderously into the air. With their ears singing from the harsh buzz-saw noise of the airplane taking off; Suzie and Gabriella carefully brought the van back to the metalled surface of Underwood road. As they headed back down towards the Highway Suzie glanced at Gabriella.

'Well, Sis? Will this be enough to sort out our problem with the Reno Mob?'

Gabriella nodded.

'Yeah, Suzie; I figure this'll do the job.'

Friday, April 14, 1961.

Black Warrior Peak Ranch,

Washoe County.

Nevada.

USA.

Big Frank Catelli was getting worried. He had lost ten of the family within the last two weeks. Four of his soldiers had been shot down as they did the rounds of downtown Reno on the protection money runs. There they were; minding their own business; just doing a little intimidation and coercion; and they had been whacked from passing autos in a hail of automatic gunfire. Nobody had seen anything... nobody knew anything. No money had been taken; they had simply been blown away. Two days later, three of his Caporegimes had been barbecued when a petrol bomb or some other sort of incendiary followed by a couple of hand grenades had been tossed through the door of the little hole-in-the-wall Italian Bistro on West Fourth Street that they used as a planning base. The cops, as usual, didn't have a clue and didn't really care.

A particularly damaging incident had occurred only three days ago. Big Frank Catelli's Underboss, Donnie Corallo and his latest showgirl squeeze met with a nasty accident as they were coming back down Highway 395 from Carson City.

Just south of Lake Washoe, Corallos' Chevy Corvette convertible was in a head-on collision with a Peterbilt eighteen-wheeler, semi-trailer. Corallo was driving with the power convertible top down; and was enjoying a little oral stimulation from the girl… or, at least; that's what they figured at the autopsy; due to the fact that Corallo's dick was missing from his corpse and had been discovered inside the remains of the girl's head. They guessed that the impact had caused the girl's jaws to snap shut whilst she was blowing him.

The Corvette had disintegrated like an eggshell, and the remains were dragged for almost a quarter-mile back down the highway beneath the Peterbilt tractor unit before the gas tank exploded and incinerated the mangled remnants of Corallo and his squeeze. The shocked, but unharmed driver of the semi-trailer said that a dark-coloured panel van that Corallo was overtaking had seemed to drift out towards the centre-line of the highway and pushed the Corvette directly into his path.

"Capo Bastone" Corallo's demise really pissed Big Frank. From what was left after the cops scraped the remains off the highway; it meant that there would have to be another closed-casket funeral; in just the same way that his Consigliere, "Crazy Joe" DeCicco had to be buried, a little over two months previously. Big Frank figured that this was another deliberate slap in the face for the Family. A closed-casket service was the worst insult that could be made against the Family hierarchy; and now it had been done twice. It was time to stop fucking around and goddamned-well do something about it.

Big Frank ordered the North Reno crews to attend a meeting at the Mob ranch under Black Warrior Peak, close to Pyramid Lake to figure out a plan. The ranch was remote; there were no neighbours for at least fifteen miles in any direction; and he decided that this place would be as safe as any. No one could approach the within two miles without being observed. The crews duly gathered on the evening of the 14th. Big Frank had arranged the food and liquor from trusted sources.

The meeting attendees were given free choice of cuisine... why not? Big Frank could afford it. Consequently, French, Italian, and Chinese was ordered and brought out from Reno in the relevant company's delivery vans. Each van was carefully checked at the gate, three miles down the property access road. Big Frank was satisfied. Nothing but a goddamned air attack would get through to this meeting.Thirty of the Family's best soldiers were at the meeting. The atmosphere was relaxed; and a suitable plan of action looked as though it would be agreed. The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of the food, and the assembly moved to the big, glass-fronted dining room for the meal. As they were being served by waiters brought in by the delivery vans; one of the soldiers from the Sun Valley crew happened to glance up; and saw a delivery van roll into view outside the dining room... the Chinese cuisine van.

Gianni Nardi; Caporegime of the Spanish Springs crew, waved his fork towards the window and mumbled through a mouthful of Tagliatelle;

'Look! I guess that goddam Chink's kinda lost. He's going the wrong wa...'

He never finished the sentence. At that moment, a huge explosion rocked the building as two-hundred-pounds of gasoline-soaked Ammonium nitrate fertiliser detonated beneath the false floor of the Chevrolet step-van. The vehicle simply disintegrated; and the detonation blew in the large wall-to-ceiling windows of the ranch house. The flying glass and hot metal mixed with twenty pounds of hardware nails packed into the side panel of the van were lethal. The searing heat when the violent blast hit, tore apart those unfortunate enough to have been seated on the window side of the table; whilst those facing them caught the full impact of the shockwave and the shrapnel; which killed several of them outright.

Big Frank Catelli seated at the head of the table was just out of the main force of the blast; but was caught in the blast concussion, picked up, and thrown violently across the room into the end wall.

As a huge mushroom of smoke rose over the devastated ranch house; the Mob soldiers on the gate leapt into their four-wheel-drive station wagon and hightailed it up the three-mile access road towards the building as fast as they could.

They were watching the house so intently with disbelief as the roof sagged and began to collapse, that they completely missed the solitary figure on a small trail bike without lights, which had been concealed from the front gate guards by being suspended under the delivery van; speeding away across the sprawling corral to the right of the wrecked building.

Thursday, April 20, 1961.

Saint Mary's Hospital.

235, West 6th Street.

Reno. Nevada.

USA

Big Frank Catelli came to in a hospital bed; completely swathed in bandages; with a right arm that wouldn't move because of a smashed shoulder blade from where he had been hurled against the wall by the tremendous blast of the explosion. Apart from that; other than bruises and contusions; he had suffered no permanent damage. His one surviving Caporegime; Rudy Tramunti, who had sat at his boss's bedside for five days; told him that fourteen of his soldiers had been killed outright in the explosion; eight had died later of their injuries; and four… including Catelli's lieutenant and son-in-law, Marco Ferrante, would never be of any use for anything, other than maybe, for book-keeping.

Big Frank was silent for a while whilst he took this in. Twenty-five soldiers down… almost a third of his entire Reno Family… and Marco… his only daughter Francesca's husband, whom he was grooming to become Boss of the family when the time came for him to retire.

He looked at Rudy Tramunti; then spat out…

'Who did this to us Rudy? Who will die for this iniquity?'

Rudy Tramunti hesitated; fearful of the venom in his boss's eyes and voice.

The cops found two bodies that they think were the Chinese delivery guys in the desert just up aways from Wadsworth. Seems the delivery van was hijacked before it reached the ranch. My guess would be that it's the little yellow sonsofbitches giving us payback for you ordering a piece of work to be done on that Chang bitch down in 'Frisco a month ago.'

Big Frank nodded.

'Yeah; I'll buy that. Rudy; take a crew down there and straighten the bitch and her little yellow fuckers out once, and for all. Put 'em all away. I don't care how you do it… just get it done. Capiche?'

Tramunti nodded.

'OK, Boss. I'll round up Ritchie the Zip and Little Tony, and we'll go down and put it to bed.'

14.30 Hrs, Friday, April 21, 1961.

Montgomery Street.

Chinatown, San Francisco.

California.

USA.

The black Pontiac Catalina cruised up Montgomery Street and turned at the top of the hill. It slowly crept back down the street and stopped outside number 1120. The driver kept the motor running whilst two men got out and opened the trunk. The first man lifted out a pump-action shotgun and walked unconcernedly to the front of the property. He then put two shots into the front door; shattering the three-quarter-length glass panel. The second man walked from the Pontiac's trunk carrying a jerrycan. He placed it on the sidewalk; pulled two hand grenades from his coat pockets; pulled the pins, and tossed them through the shattered glass panel into the house. Bending down, he flipped the cap on the jerrycan and threw that into the house as well. Both men then turned and ran back to the car; got in, and, with a squeal of tyres the Pontiac took off down Montgomery Street. The ensuing explosion blew out the remains of the front door and engulfed the lower floors of the building in flames.

In the passenger seat; Ritchie the Zip pulled out a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes; lit one and grinned.

'Well; that's fucked them! You coulda blown me a bigger hole, Tony. It was goddam tight to get the gas can through!'

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Little Tony snorted.

'Always moaning. Throw a Gas can? You couldn't throw a fuckin' tantrum!'

Rudy Tramunti cut in.

Can it, you guys. Just relax and act natural. The whole goddam SFPD will be here soon. So let's haul ass and get outta here.'

When the San Francisco Fire department finally managed to get the inferno that had once been 1120 Montgomery Street under control, they discovered three bodies… a woman whom they estimated was in her twenties; and two young girls aged between ten, and twelve. Identification was difficult, but the medical examiner estimated that all three were Asian, and had died through smoke inhalation.

The FBI turned up and rummaged through the wreckage. There wasn’t much to see. The torchmen had done a proper job. There was so much debris it was difficult to find anywhere safe to step. All they found was the jerrycan; split wide open down its seam and punctured with what looked like shrapnel. Supervisory Special Agent Sam Mayfield had seen this before at the killings in California Street, two-and-a-half months previously. Then, it had been the burning out and slaughter of the Li Ying Tong. It was the same damn M.O… gasoline and hand grenades. He called for the jerrycan to be bagged, tagged, and sent to the Forensic Services Division. They might get lucky and find a print, but it was a long shot. The fire hoses had seen to that.

Sam Mayfield walked over to the medical examiner's unmarked panel van and glanced at the three body bags. He knew all too well, who had lived at this address. The two smaller ones were easy. They contained Gabriella Chang's nieces. Was she in the larger one? It seemed likely, but due to the fire; only dental records would confirm this. He shook his head. If it wasn't Gabriella… he gave a quiet shiver. He knew what would happen. Gabriella Chang with her tail up… as it most certainly would be with the killing of her little nieces; was not something he wanted to spend any time at all thinking about.

06.40 Hrs, Saturday, April 22, 1961.

2004 Washington St.

Pacific Heights. San Francisco.

California.

USA.

The insistent ring of the phone had a certain sense of desperation to it. Charlotte carefully extricated herself from the warmth and comfort of the still-sleeping Callaghan's arms and picked up the receiver. Sleepily, she spoke into the mouthpiece.

'Hello?'

It was long-distance… Washington The voice on the other end of the line was terse.

'Charlotte? This is KUCLUB.'

This was the cryptonym for the CIA Office of Communications. Something damn serious must have occurred for them to be making contact over an unsecured line. The voice said that she and Callaghan were directed to continue their investigation with all haste. ZAPATA… launched five days previously had failed; and Washington was in uproar, with GPIDEAL about to take responsibility.

This cryptonymous message meant that the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba had been a disaster and the President was preparing to take the blame. Consequently, there would now be a massive witch-hunt within the Company, with The Pentagon snapping at their heels. The acquisition of Charlotte's target gemstone was now vital to placate the Hawks across the Potomac. Charlotte replaced the telephone receiver. Callaghan stirred. She looked over at his face and smiled;

'Sorry the phone woke you.

He gave a sleepy grin.

'Actually, babe; the bed got cold when you moved. That's what woke me.'

He scratched at his tousled hair.

'Something important?'

She nodded.

'It was Washington. The words "shit" and "fan" spring most readily to mind. They've completely screwed up the Cuban job. The home team wiped the floor with them, and Kennedy is going to "The Hill" to put his hands up. That means everybody is about to go on a top-dollar, fall guy hunt. We have to find Gabriella Chang and the gemstone pretty damn quick before the Director and The Pentagon get embroiled in a major dick-measuring contest.'

Callaghan sat up in bed, grinning broadly. She frowned at him.

'It's not funny, Callaghan.'

He bravely attempted a serious expression… and failed, hopelessly.

'I know it's not, babe… but you have such a way with words.'

He chuckled to himself…

'Dick-measuring contest… that's a classic!'

The apartment on the fifth floor of the elegant, white stone, seven-storey apartment building at 2002 Washington Street overlooking Lafayette Park; had been a CIA safe house for several years; and was used as a base by out-of-town agents when it was not being used for its normal purpose.

Charlotte and Callaghan showered; grabbed a swift breakfast; and began to plan over several cups of coffee. The first place to begin their investigations would surely be the burned-out property in Montgomery Street. Perhaps someone had seen something. It was doubtful that anyone would give out any information; the SFPD and FBI had already tried; but any lead... any lead at all might be helpful. The San Francisco Office had provided Charlotte and Callaghan with a totally flamboyant ride... working on the simple principle that anyone who was a government agent would never be seen dead in such an blatently eye-catching automobile. It was a two-tone red-and-black, 1956 two-door DeSoto Firedome Seville; modified with a four-on-the-floor Hurst-Campbell stick shift instead of the standard two-speed, Torqueflight push-button automatic transmission; and was fitted with a much more powerful, 345 Hemi Vee-eight from a DeSoto Adventurer with a dual Carter four-barrel carb. The mechanic who dropped it off said, that in the right hands; this outwardly luxurious family cruiser would hit one-hundred-and-forty miles per hour.

The two-mile drive along Washington Street into Chinatown took twenty minutes through the morning traffic. At the intersection of Washington and Montgomery; by the Bank of America, Callaghan turned left and headed up towards, and crossed Broadway into the northernmost section of Montgomery Street. Driving up the steep slope to the end of the street; Callaghan pulled into the kerb. Setting the parking brake; he and Charlotte left the DeSoto and began walking back down the street to the burned out shell of number 1120. The once-attractive town house was gutted. Anyone who had been in there wouldn't have stood a chance. There was nothing here that the Forensic Services Division guys wouldn't have uncovered. Charlotte glanced back up the street. So, what now? Door-to-door enquiries?

A movement at the top of the street caught her eye. A group of young Asian men were gathering around the parked-up DeSoto... and they didn't give the impression that they were just admiring the ride. Callaghan saw them too. His hand slipped, almost involuntarily into his jacket towards his shoulder holster. Charlotte caught his arm.

'Leave this to me, Gil; just watch my back.'

She turned, and strolled up the street towards the group; who were lolling against the side of the DeSoto; watching her approach with hostile indifference. She stopped in front of them; and smiled.

'Good Morning...'

One of them gave her an intimidatory stare; and snapped, in gutter Korean...

'Ne? dodaeche wonhaneun ge mwoya'… Yeah? What the fuck do you want?'

She smiled; and replied amiably in perfect Korean...

'Jeongboleul chajgo iss-eoyo'… 'I'm looking for information'...

She saw their faces harden. They knew something. She continued.

'I'm trying to find Gabriella Chang'...

Their body language showed that they were becoming truculent and threatening. Her smile faded and she slipped off her jacket. They could not fail to notice the Colt M·32 automatic in the neat shoulder holster under her left arm. They could also not fail to notice the tattoo of two dragons curling over each other; on her upper arm. The punks' attitude faded as swiftly as morning mist out on the Bay. They knew what this was; the mark of Ssang Yong Pa... The Double Dragon Geondal... the Korean Mafia. She spoke again. Her voice was soft... soft enough to make the punks' stomachs knot in apprehension.

'I can be either a benevolent friend... or your worst fucking nightmare. The choice is entirely yours.'

One of the punks... the obvious leader; bowed imperceptibly to her and switched to English.

'Honourable Mistress; There is little to tell of this. Gabriella was not here when the fire happened. Her sister Suzie, and the two young nieces died in this place. Old Han Hyang-Soon who lives across the street heard gunshots; but, he is an ancient, and by the time he had reached the window to observe; the fire was raging. He did see a black automobile speeding away down the street. He said that he thought it was a Plymouth; perhaps a Catalina; but his eyesight is not as it once was. All this was told to the cops.

Charlotte nodded.

'Thank you. Your cooperation will be noted; and I promise your business endeavours will not be interfered with in this area.

She bowed imperceptibly and turned, to walk back down the street.

The punk called after her.

'Honourable Mistress; how are you called?

She turned and smiled enigmatically;

'I am "Hin-saek Gu-kwa"… 'The White Chrysanthemum.'

The boy paled noticeably. He knew exactly what this meant. It had been whispered on street corners for years, of the existence of a shadowy position in the Geondal structure that bore this name. In Korean custom; the white chrysanthemum was symbolic of death and was only ever used for funerals. She was a Geondal assassin! No one would ever choose to be called by that name unless they were exactly that.

He nervously stepped forward.

'Honourable Mistress; It is said that Gabriella moved to the south of the city... somewhere in the Mission-Bayview area.

Charlotte nodded.

"Gamsahabnida"… 'Thank you.'

Then turned, and beckoned Callaghan to join her.

He came up the street just as she imagined he would. Shoulders squared; intimidatory; and with a purposeful stride. The punks moved back as he came around the side of the De Soto and opened the door for Charlotte to get in. He then walked around to the driver's door, got in, and fired up the big Hemi. Punching the gas pedal, he sent the car booming off down the hill; with the rasp of the big, twin exhausts bouncing off the buildings back and forth across the street.

As they turned into Broadway, he glanced at Charlotte.

'Where the hell did you get that tattoo? It wasn't there last night.'

She smiled.

'Like it? It's just a little something I drew on this morning with my eyebrow pencil and lip liner whilst you were shaving. Seemed to work though… that poor kid nearly crapped himself when he saw it. It'll come off easily with makeup remover; but I'll keep it for a while whilst we're moseying around the Korean areas. It might come in useful again.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Sneaky! What does it mean, anyway?'

She smiled.

'It's the tattoo of the Double Dragon Mob. Their turf is Gwangju, the sixth largest city in South Korea. When confronted by other mobs, they show their tattoos to help identify themselves. The tattoo can also be used as a warning to the public. There's no reason to suppose that those kids possibly suspected that I was anything other than what I led them to believe… that I was a Mob torpedo; allied to the West coast Korean syndicates.'

Callaghan stared at her.

So; you're telling me we're undercover again?'

She nodded.

'That's the way it rocks, baby; and you're my bad-ass backup as far as they're concerned. Now; let's get on down to the southeast side and see what we can dig up.'

Monday, April 24, 1961.

FBI Divisional Office.

Federal Office Building.

San Francisco.

California.

USA.

Supervisory Special Agent Sam Mayfield sat with Charlotte and Callaghan in his office, and pushed a file across the top of his desk to her. Opening it, she was confronted by a street photograph of a pretty, Asian girl. Mayfield spoke.

'Meet Gabriella Chang. She's the boss of the Korean Chang crime family that used to be resident in Montgomery Street. The property was torched last Friday. Three bodies were found inside… two female children and a female woman. We thought at first, that it was Gabriella Chang; but, dental comparison has proved it was not. Our Reno office has been reporting absolute bloody mayhem centred on the Reno Mob. Fire and grenade bombings; a delivery van bomb; and a very suspicious auto accident involving the death of their underboss.

We're pretty sure that this is a war between the Chang family and the Reno Mob; caused by the killing of the Chang family patriarch in the city, three months ago. That hit had all the hallmarks of a Mob execution.

You know you don't have any domestic jurisdiction; that's down to us; but I need you in your capacity of CIA agents, to put the frighteners on her; using whatever "National Security" shit you can come up with. If this goes on much longer; they're gonna start killing innocent people… and that ain't gonna happen on my watch if I can help it. I'm giving you full access to my field agents and any resources you need. The Secret Service is beginning to sniff around; which means that Washington has an interest. I have no idea why; but I figure there must be something in this "Death Ray" crap. We need to find out what happened to this gemstone that went missing… my gut tells me that's what they're really after. Perhaps Gabriella Chang is the key to this.'

Charlotte glanced at Callaghan; and then back at Sam Mayfield. What she. and Callaghan had learned up in Montgomery Street would stay with them for now. She didn't need the FBI blundering about and scaring off any leads. She nodded.

'You could well be right, Agent Mayfield. So, where do we start? Where d'you think this Chang woman is likely to be?

Sam Mayfield shrugged.

'I've had an APB out with the SFPD since Friday; but, so far… zilch! They tell me you speak Korean. Check out Chinatown, and what's left of the Chang family soldiers. You might have more luck than my guys and gals. All they get is a dumb, polite silence.'

Charlotte smiled.

'Yes; that's what's called "showing the blank face" in Korea, and they're damned good at it. OK, Agent Mayfield; we'll see what we can do.'

Sam Mayfield nodded.

'OK; but for Chrissakes be careful. Knowing that her two nieces have been killed; I figure Gabriella is gonna go for broke from here on in… and she was fuckin' dangerous and detached at the best of times; cold, calculating, and methodical. Now, she's going to be nothing less than deadly… a ruthless, efficient killing machine. In her mind; she'll have nothing left to lose.'

Charlotte glanced at Callaghan. He gave no clue as to what his thoughts were. She turned her gaze back to Sam Mayfield.

'Have we any idea where she might be now? Obviously she won't be at the Montgomery Street address.'

Sam Mayfield shrugged.

'I have no idea. I'm heading down to city hall to try to get a Federal warrant issued on the grounds of reasonable suspicion and probable cause in regard to these hits. If I get one, I can put the squeeze on her Bankers and Lawyers to give me her new address. My main worry is that she is staying with someone. If that's the case; we won't find her until she makes her next hit.'

Friday, April 28, 1961.

The Mapes Hotel.

10 N. Virginia St,

Reno. Nevada.

USA.

Big Frank Catelli and five of his boys strolled into the twelve-storey Mapes Hotel at the corner of Virginia Street and East First Street in downtown Reno. He was heading for the Sky Room at the top of the hotel for a little "chat" over unpaid protection money with the manager. The Sky Room was a beautifully appointed top-floor dining, dancing, drinking, and gambling room surrounded by large windows providing a gorgeous view of the Washoe Valley. Big Frank intended to show the bum a gorgeous view of the Washoe Valley… but from outside one of the windows.

The party headed across the expansive lobby to the elevators. One of Frank's soldiers pressed the call button, whilst the others scanned the lobby with cold, reptilian stares. No one bothered to take any notice of the pretty, little Asian maid as she picked up the reception desk telephone and dialled a number.

Gabriella Chang; looking very sexy in her maid's uniform, quietly told her accomplice up in the elevator machine room that the target was about to get into elevator two; and he should wait for her signal… three telephone rings, before he acted. She then replaced the receiver and slipped away to an upper floor.

As Big Frank's party waited for the elevator; one of his old buddies came across and invited him for a drink. As they were talking, the elevator arrived. Big Frank told his boys to go on up and introduce themselves. He would follow on up when he had finished talking.

On the third floor, Gabriella was watching the indicator arrow for elevator two advancing around its semi-circular dial plate. As the arrow reached floor ten; she picked up the corridor service telephone. The arrow crept around to eleven… she dialled the number and let the phone ring three times; then replaced the receiver and hurried to the stairs. A dull thump shook the building as her accomplice detonated a quarter-pound C4 explosive charge at the top of the elevator shaft, which severed the cables suspending the car of elevator two and its connected counterweight. As both began to fall; the safety bolts fitted to the car activated… and then, snapped off at the point at which they had been partially sawn through; sending the elevator car plunging uncontrollably down the shaft.

The Reno police engineer calculated that the elevator car was doing close on eighty-miles-per-hour when it collided with the fallen counterweight which sheared through the floor of the car moments before it finally hit the basement floor. When they managed to scrape the corpses of the five occupants out of the wreckage, the medical examiner discovered that not one of them was above three-feet-tall. The impact had splintered their legs like kindling and rammed the shattered bones up into their abdominal cavities. He estimated that none of them had taken much less than seven, or eight minutes to die. It had not been a pleasant way to go.

Sitting in the rear seat of the gleaming black Thunderbird as it cruised calmly out beyond Reno's city limits, and headed south for Interstate 80; Gabriella Chang was fuming. After they had dropped the elevator, she had slipped into the room she had reserved, and changed out of the maid's uniform into a black, Givenchy silk shantung sheath dress, her Prada heels; a black wide brim picture hat, and, to complete the ensemble; a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses. She stepped out into the corridor; looking every inch, the sexy, sophisticated, café society girl. Her accomplice had escaped down the fire stairs and now waited for her in the reception lobby, dressed immaculately as her chauffeur. As he guided her through the throng of hotel gusts gawking down the elevator shaft at the mangled wreckage; she had been taken aback to recognise Big Frank Catelli standing at the reception desk, white-faced and shocked. Quickly, her "chauffeur" had guided her outside to the waiting automobile; put her in, and driven away. As they crossed the State Line, Gabriella leaned forward.

'How did we miss the fat pig, Marty? The plan was perfect.'

Marty Ryom glanced into the rear-view mirror.

'The Fates decided that it was not his time to die, Madam. Do not distress yourself. His time will come.'

14.20 Hrs, Friday, April 28, 1961.

SFPD Potrero Station. 2300 Third Street,

Dogpatch Neighbourhood,

San Francisco.

California.

USA.

Callaghan turned the DeSoto off Twentieth Street in the Dogpatch Neighbourhood located on the eastern side of the city, adjacent to the waterfront of San Francisco Bay, and drove into the yard behind the SFPD Potrero Station on the corner of Third and Twentieth Streets. He pulled in behind two parked-up Ford Galaxie black-and-whites, switched off the motor, and glanced at Charlotte.

'Hell, babe; I wish you hadn't left your piece at home. From what I've seen as we came in, this looks like a real shithole neighbourhood.

She smiled briefly.

'Dammit, Gil; I can't wear a jacket if I want them to see the tattoo; which means that a concealed carry is out of the question… besides which; the word will already be on the streets that a Geondal bitch has come to town. That, in itself, should be more than enough to spook the local low-life.'

Potrero Station was a two-storey, white stucco, Mission Revival-style building with a tile hipped roof. Inside; for a police station, it was very cramped. After showing their identification, they were shown upstairs to the office of the station Captain.

Neil Halloran was fiftyish; built like a longshoreman, with a broad Irish face, steel-grey hair and piercing green… almost turquoise eyes. He had an almost fatherly aura about him; but as he grasped her hand in a firm handshake; Charlotte sensed that he had learned his trade on the mean, violent streets that made up the nine-block neighbourhood that went by the name of Dogpatch. This was not a man to take liberties with. He invited them both to sit and asked what he could do for them. Charlotte studied this tough old cop and decided to lay it all out for him.

'We are down here to try to locate an American-Korean girl named Gabriella Chang. She is the head of the Chang criminal family up in Chinatown, and is believed to be carrying out a sustained series of killings of members of the Reno Mafia in retaliation for the targeting of her family members and associates. We need to find her quickly, before she herself is killed.

She is in possession, or knows the whereabouts of an item that Washington has instructed us to recover. We need your help, Captain. If we fail; then the FBI and the Secret Service will be all over this neighbourhood like a rash. We can go in without the bullshit and shields. All we need from your boys are eyes and ears on the streets; and for you to let them know that we are working the area.'

Halloran listened; and when she had finished; studied her thoughtfully. He spoke with a faint Irish brogue.

Yeah; I can do that for you; but, I must caution you; this neighbourhood is not like the rest of the city. It's probably the most run- down and violent area in 'Frisco It has become increasingly segregated from the rest of the City; and is mainly Black-American, blue-collar workers and other racial minorities. Since the end of the War, the neighbourhood has declined as jobs have dried up at the shipyard, the slaughterhouses, and various other industries such as Western Sugar Refinery and Tubbs Cordage Company, who have closed up shop and moved overseas. Those are some damned mean streets out there.'

He paused and held her gaze.

'Are you carrying?'

She shook her head.

'No; but Mr Callaghan is armed.

She showed him her right arm.

'This is the mark of the Korean "Double Dragon" Mafia; and I speak fluent Korean. The design is only drawn on with makeup; but a swift glance at it is enough to make anyone where we're going; very nervous indeed.'

Halloran nodded. This lady had balls.

'OK, Agent Mckenna; I'll brief the guys at the next roll call. Until then, I suggest you don't start snooping around until they're all tuned in to you being here. Go cruise the neighbourhood for a day or so; get familiar with the place, and I'll clue you in on any word out on the streets in a couple of days.'

Charlotte nodded;

OK, Captain; I guess the place to start is where the Koreans live and work. Where would that be?'

Halloran stood up; walked across to a large-scale map on the wall; and pointed to an area slightly to the east of Dogpatch.

'Most of them are in the Potrero Hill neighbourhood, around here; and pushing out towards the Mission district. You'll also find some of them down on the Central Waterfront, down here. You'll need to be cute; the streets you'll be working are predominantly Black; and the smaller ethnic groups tend to isolate themselves.'

Charlotte stood up;

'Well, thank you, Captain. We'll go take a ride around, and be in touch in a couple of days.'

Halloran smiled.

'OK Ma'am; but just remember the first rule of policing these streets… Don't go sticking your neck out.'

As Charlotte and Callaghan reached the door, she turned, and smiled.

'Good advice, Captain; but it's what I do!'

07.30 Hrs, Sunday, April 30, 1961

810 Kansas Street,

Potrero Hill,

San Francisco.

California.

USA.

Gabriella Chang put down the thin, black hardcover notebook with elastic band closures, which was one of the two notebooks Jimmy Yoo had found at the residence of the very late Reno crime family Consigliere: Joseph "Crazy Joe" DeCicco. It was filled with the names and addresses of the Reno, and San Francisco Mobs' contacts and associates. Turning to a street map of Reno, she traced down the index pages until she found the address she was searching for. So, Big Frank Catelli lived on Basque Lane in southwest Reno, on what must have been a million-dollar, gated country estate. She smiled grimly. Time to take a little road trip.

Fourteen blocks west of Potrero Police Station; rookie patrol officer Mervin Nicholson was just turning into Kansas Street from off Twentieth Street when he saw an almost new, black Ford Thunderbird pull out of the ground floor garage of number 810. He was rather surprised to see an automobile of this sort in this area. Most vehicles around here were beat-up old wrecks. A young Asian man climbed out and walked back to close the garage doors; as the pretty Asian girl in the passenger seat wearing a stylish trenchcoat glanced at the young officer and smiled.

Nicholson returned her smile and continued on his patrol. He had perhaps gone ten feet, when, with a squeal of tyres, the Thunderbird pulled out and accelerated away; heading north for the city. Nicholson turned, and took a note of the licence plate. Why? It was just a hunch; but it was strange, seeing such an automobile in an area like this.

As the Thunderbird crossed Twentieth Street; Marty Ryom glanced into the rear-view mirror and saw that the young cop had paused and was watching the Thunderbird disappear over the rise. He glanced at Gabriella.

'D'you think that Sonofabitch made us?

She shook her head.

'No.... Why should he? He was probably just drooling over the wheels. They aren't looking for us, and we aren't known in this part of town.'

Marty Ryom grunted.

'I don't like it. He was showing too much damn interest.'

She smiled.

'You worry too much, Marty. He'll figure that we're just another couple of slants who've made good with the American Dream!'

The journey up to Reno was uneventful. Four miles inside the city limits, Marty Ryom turned the Thunderbird off Interstate 80 into West Fourth Street. Gabriella was studying the road map. She jabbed her finger at the page.

'Fourth to your right in about a mile, Marty. Mayberry Drive.'

Marty nodded and dropped the Thunderbird's speed down. Turning into Mayberry Drive, he further reduced speed to the legal thirty-miles-per-hour. They didn't want any keen cops pulling them over at this stage of the game. Gabriella consulted the road map again.

'OK; fourth to your right; Juniper Hill Road, in two miles.'

As they approached the turn-off to Juniper Hill Road, Marty spotted the nose of a black-and-white Reno PD squad car slow at the junction with its left-turn signal blinking. He swore volubly.

'Shit! That's all we need!'

Gabriella spoke quietly.

'Just drive on. We'll turn around and come back when he's gone.'

Marty drove on past Juniper Hill Road as the cop waited. Gabriella glanced at the black-and-white and gave the young cop a fleeting smile. She pulled down the sun vizor as if to touch up her makeup, and watched, in the vanity mirror as the black-and-white pulled out and moved off along Mayberry Drive in the opposite direction.

Marty turned in at the next left-hand junction leading into a residential development. Turning the Thunderbird around; he cruised back to the junction with Mayberry drive, and pulled out; retracing their steps to Juniper Hill Road. Turning in, he followed the road for almost a mile up to the Basque Lane junction. There were few houses around here. This was looking good for what Gabriella had in mind. It was just a question of whether the Mafia Boss, Catelli was home.

Basque lane was a dead end street a little over three-quarters of a mile in length, and dotted with a few examples of high-value real estate. Catelli's residence was half-way along the lane. Marty approached slowly, and stopped a little way beyond the sweeping driveway. The property was large and ostentatious; flanked with neat, white-painted, corral-style fencing. Even from the lane, they could hear the sounds of music and laughter. Catelli was at home… and judging by the sounds being made; he was throwing a pool party.