Chapter Ten.

07.45 Hrs. Saturday, January 21, 1961.

Berlin-Charlottenburg.

West Germany

In the streets below, everything was covered under a thick layer of snow and frost. The frozen, ice-cold winter of Berlin in January was an uncompromising behemoth blanketing over every last metre of city that it could it reach; carried by the north-eastern winds of a cold front from the depths of Russia that blew in unhampered, across the flat, northern European plains from the Ural Mountains. Charlotte gazed out of the window of the apartment on Uhlandstrasse across the rooftops of Charlottenburg towards the distant Tiergarten. The snow was falling quietly, gently, from the dirty, grey-cotton, cloud-choked sky billowing overhead.

She looked back to the thin sheet of paper she held. Old Herr Günsche, the concierge-cum "gatekeeper" had brought it to her twenty minutes previously. One of his network of "Lamplighters"... the people who carried out surveillance, cleared dead-letter drop boxes, and intercepted mail… had delivered it to him from the drop-box arranged by Charlotte and Viktor Malinovskii two months previously; which was located at the Löwenbrücke... the Lions Bridge, in the south-western corner of the Grossen Tiergarten triangle, not far from the Neuer See lake. The dead-letter drop was in a small crack in one of the stone plinths that supported the leftmost of the two pairs of cast-iron Lion sculptures guarding the little wooden bridge. The note was brief, and came from Viktor Malinovskii. Charlotte, and Callaghan were to meet a contact in Friedrichshain; at a disused garage in Böcklinstrasse, a little to the north-east of what was left of the Berlin-Ostbahnhof marshalling yards. The contact; code-named "Aquila" was a trusted Stasi Captain... one of Malinovskii's informants; who had information concerning enquires that Malinovskii had ordered the Stasi to initiate with regard to any unidentified men of Cuban extraction in their sectors. Callaghan was wary. This could so easily be a trap.

Charlotte shook her head.

'No. Viktor is far too astute to be fooled by a Stasi double. We need to check this guy out; but if you're concerned; we'll take the Makarovs with us… that way; if he turns out to be dirty, we can deal with him and shift the blame back onto the Stasi, themselves.'

The streets were covered in a slight layer of snow as the flakes continued to fall from the pale-grey sky. The snow blowers had been out, and the Strasse des 17 Juni up to the Brandenburger Tor was reasonably clear. The young Volkspolizist under the archway was huddled deep into his greatcoat and sheltering against one of the right-hand Doric pillars from the biting wind. He merely waved them through and pulled his greatcoat collar further up around his ears. Unter den linden was deserted. There were no snow blowers this side of the border, and the snow lay thickly on the roadway. A few workmen with large brooms were sweeping the pavements, but other than that, the blanket of snow was pristine. There were no tyre tracks along Unter den Linden; no vehicles had travelled east this morning… at least, not recently. The few vehicles… mainly cars… that were parked up along the Boulevard were covered in a thick layer of snow.

Marx Engels Platz was almost deserted; as was the drive up to Alexanderplatz. There would be no car swap today. Malinovskii had suggested that they stay with the black Mercedes-Benz. The Stasi used black Mercedes-Benzes; and such a car heading out towards Stasi Headquarters in Lichtenberg would get scarcely a second glance… albeit a frightened one. There were more people in Alexanderplatz, heavily wrapped up against the bitter wind with the miasma of brown coal smoke on it that was driving sleet across the asphalt as they scurried along the pavements, overshadowed by the gaunt skeletons of the construction tower cranes looming ghostly against the lowering dirty-grey clouds and thickening snow.

As they turned into Karl Marx Allee, Callaghan passed a side-street and spotted a black Mercedes-Benz parked there. As soon as they drove past, it pulled out after them. He glanced into the rear-view mirror. It was one of the ubiquitous 190 models that were used widely as taxis. It might well have been a taxi, but there was no sign on its roof. It was almost certainly a Stasi vehicle. Callaghan nudged Charlotte. She folded down the sun visor as though she was touching up her make up and watched the black car. It kept pace, about fifty-yards behind. She folded the sun vizor back up and glanced at Callaghan.

'Just stay at this speed. They might just think we're one of theirs.'

He nodded and kept the Mercedes-Benz at a steady fifty Km/h. The trailing car stayed with them down the length of Karl Marx Allee past the rows of dreary, featureless buildings, all constructed from the same dirty, oatmeal-coloured concrete softened by a thin coating of ice on their exposed surfaces. At Frankfurter Tor… the intersection of Karl-Marx-Allee and Frankfurter Allee; Callaghan indicated a right turn and drove into Boxhagener Strasse. Glancing into the rear-view mirror, he saw the other black Mercedes-Benz cruise past the turn and continue down Frankfurter Allee. He exhaled in relief.

'Good call, "Frau Streckenbach!" You were right. They did think that we were one of theirs.'

At Wismar Platz, they took the right fork into the continuation of Boxhagener Strasse. Charlotte was watching the street signs.

'We should be close, now Gil… there! On the right!'

Böcklinstrasse, was flanked by the ruined site of a building that had once stood at the corner, and now looked to have been demolished completely, leaving nothing but some of the frame and old piles of bricks. The street was narrow, and particularly run down, having suffered a long period of neglect during the days of the GDR. Tumbles of concrete wreckage and twisted metal lay scattered across weed-infested vacant spaces that even two-feet of snow couldn't really soften to the gaze. This part of East Berlin was like stepping back into a whole different era of shabby, run-down streets, bullet-ridden façades, chipped cobblestones; and rusty signs hung on blackened buildings. It was as if time had stood still out here. Halfway down the street, an old BMW sedan was parked up outside what appeared to be a large pair of double-doors in one of the few intact buildings that remained. Callaghan cautiously pulled in behind it and switched off the engine. He reached inside his coat and flicked off the safety of the Makarov silenced pistol… just in case; then they waited.

Five minutes later, the worn, and paint-peeling garage doors were pulled slightly ajar, and a man stepped out onto the cracked pavement. He glanced cautiously up and down Böcklinstrasse; then walked purposefully to the Mercedes-Benz. Callaghan wound down the driver's door window and studied the man. Looking past Callaghan, the man addressed Charlotte. He was tall and well-built; about thirty-five, and spoke with a perfect Berlin accent.

Frau Streckenbach? I am "Aquila." Please, let us go inside.'

He stepped back as Callaghan and Charlotte got out of the car and walked towards the garage doors. He stepped back to let them enter. Callaghan slipped his hand inside his coat and grasped the butt of the silenced Makarov. "Aquila" noticed this and smiled wryly.

'There is no need for you to be on your guard, Herr Streckenbach. Firearms will not be necessary.'

He followed them inside and closed the doors. The garage was in deep gloom, and deserted, except for three chairs; and a table, upon which was placed a bottle of Polish vodka and three tumblers. "Aquila" walked to the far wall and flicked a light switch. The single, bare light bulb hanging from the roof glowed wanly; dispelling a little of the gloom. Inviting Charlotte and Callaghan to sit; "Aquila" came to the table and pulled out his own Makarov, which he placed on the table. He smiled amiably.

There is no need for you to draw your weapons. In normal circumstances, we might well have met in the interrogation cells of the Hohenschöenhauser…'

This was the Stasi establishment a few blocks from their main Headquarters. It was also one of the few places in Lichtenberg where the KGB did not maintain a presence. "Aquila" poured three good measures of vodka into the tumblers and leant back in his chair.

… 'However; these are not normal circumstances. It is time, as you say; to put our cards upon the table. I am not Stasi. I am a Major in the KGB, based at Karlshorst.'

He smiled.

'It is not necessary for you to reach for those silenced Makarovs that Colonel Malinovskii supplied to you. I am instructed to take you to Karlshorst, where Comrade Kondrashev; Head of the Berlin Section has arranged for you to have full access to all the Stasi records concerning this case. There is no precedent for this level of cooperation, and it is unlikely that there ever will be again. Moscow is deeply concerned about this supposed conspiracy; as is Washington. Communications have been exchanged, and it is agreed that you will retain your personas as ordinary West German citizens; and, as far as the Stasi and the Volkspolizei are concerned; you will be treated as such.'

Callaghan glanced at Charlotte who sat calmly listening to the Russian. At length, she spoke,

Thank you Major, for your candour. We appreciate your situation is an unusual one. Hopefully, this enterprise can be brought to a satisfactory conclusion within a reasonably short time.'

"Aquila" nodded.

'I hope so, too, Frau Streckenbach. If we fail and this supposed Cuban succeeds, then we will truly be stepping into the Valley of the Shadows.'

He drained his tumbler and poured himself another. Turning the glass in his hands, he gazed into its depths for a few moments and then, looked up.

'I must confess; I am not comfortable with this conspiracy theory. As yet, there has been precious little... if any, information unearthed by the Stasi about this Cuban. If they cannot trace him, then he is not in Berlin; and if he is not in Berlin, then we are truly chasing shadows. To ensure the people of East Germany remain submissive to Communist rule, the Stasi have their agents and informers everywhere. The population is constantly under surveillance, with telephone taps to West Berlin and West Germany. They have officers posted in every major industrial plant... in every school, university, and hospital.'

He continued.

'Without exception, one tenant in every apartment building is designated as a watchdog reporting to the area Volkspolizei. In turn, the police officer is the Stasi's man. If a relative or friend comes to stay overnight, it is reported. All denominations of churches have their informers, to the extent that even the Catholic confessionals are fitted with eavesdropping devices. Religion may well be frowned upon over here... but it does have its uses for information gathering.'

He smiled, and continued;

'You think your CIA and FBI are efficient? The Stasi's technicians have systematically bored holes in virtually every apartment and hotel wall in East Berlin to film suspects with special cameras fitted with listening equipment. Even bathrooms are monitored by the Stasi. Nothing is sacred, and like their predecessors, the Nazi Gestapo, the Stasi is another example of the sinister side of Deutsche Gründlichkeit... German thoroughness, to the extent that the communists' brutal oppression of the nation by means including murder as well as legal execution puts the Stasi leadership on a par with Hitler's gang.

East Berlin is a city based on lies and deceit, and you should trust no one or take them at face value. I cannot say for certain whether this Cuban exists. They should have uncovered something by now. Perhaps it is, as you say, "a wild goose chase"; but our two governments insist that we must apprehend this "Ghost" at all costs.'

He drained his tumbler, and scraped back his chair.

'It's time we proceeded to the Rezedentura. We'll go in my car. You can park your Mercedes out of sight in this garage.'

The ride to Karlshorst was a relatively direct and short one in spite of the fact that many of the pre-war streets that crossed Berlin were still impassable… a veritable tangle of dead-ends in a crumbling vista of dingy apartment blocks, run-down, and abandoned factories, and weed-choked, desolate bomb sites. The Rezedentura was located in a building within a compound and bound by four relatively intact streets: Bodenmaiser Weg, Zwieseler Strasse; Dewetalle, and Arberstrasse. On one side, the compound peeked slyly from behind its walled-fort; whilst, squatting on on the other side were the picture-perfect, red-tile roofed houses of the Russian officials in Berlin.

"Aquila" entered the compound through the main entrance on Zwieseler Strasse flanked by two guard houses, and drove onto the wide, cobblestone area fronting the cold and foreboding three-storey administration block built in an architectural style that was simple and almost featureless; a functional concrete building typical of the era of Soviet influence on its satellites. The front of the building was dominated by six tall, plain columns supporting an equally plain Doric-style portico over the main entrance which still bore the plastered-over, ghostly outline of the carved stone Wehrmacht eagle… "Die Heeresadler" that had once adorned the portico. There were a number of high antenna masts on the roof, all connected by cables.

Once inside; the lower halves of the stairwell and walls throughout the building were painted in an unpleasant shade of mustard, topped by a dull, neutral grey. The upper floor corridors ran the entire length of the long building, lined on both sides with door after door, leading to nameless rooms and offices. As they passed one doorway, a uniformed KGB operative came out, and as Charlotte glanced inside, she saw that the walls were padded, and what looked like traces of blood were evident on the floor beside an empty metal chair, to which handcuffs were attached.

Aquila led them to the far end of the corridor to an anonymous-looking door. Opening it, he invited them to enter. He closed the door behind them and snapped his fingers. Two large, uniformed KGB privates stepped forward from an adjoining room and took up positions flanking either side of the closed door with their AK47 submachine guns held diagonally across their chests.

KGB Zentrale-Karlshorst.

Zweiseler Strasse 4.

Berlin-Lichtenberg.

The Karlshorst Rezidentura surveillance files collated by the Stasi that Charlotte and Callaghan were allowed to access were comprehensive… several boxes of files bulging with sheaves of close-typewritten, flimsy, yellowing papers; but after three hours of extensive searching, revealed little that could be of any use with regard to the whereabouts or identity of any Cuban National who was a specific person of interest to the Stasi, or anyone else for that matter. They reported their findings to "Aquila" when he came to check on their progress. This appeared to be a dead-end.

He nodded.

'I didn't expect much else. The Stasi don't necessarily release all their information to us; but I can apply a certain amount of leverage. It means that we need to go over to their headquarters in Normannenstrasse. This, in itself is something of a challenge. They don't even like us visiting them; let alone taking two American agents with us. There is no way to know how they might react if they know who you are; so I shall inform them that you are two of our " illegal rezidents" based in West Berlin and under direct control of Karlshorst. That should placate them sufficiently for them to allow you to research any files that have so far, not been accessible to you.'

Aquila turned the BMW out into Tretskowallee and drove north through Friedrichsfelde to Frankfurter Allee; heading west, back towards Berlin-Lichtenberg. As he drove, he glanced at Charlotte in the front passenger seat beside him.

'When we reach the Stasi complex; let me do the talking. Just produce the passes I supplied and act dismissively towards them. That way, they will automatically assume that we are all KGB. It would be even better if you would speak German with a Soviet accent.'

Charlotte nodded.

That's not a problem. Would a standard Moscow accent be OK?'

Aquila grinned.

'It most certainly would! It would make them think you were out of the Lubyanka, and they'd probably crap themselves!'

Charlotte smiled.

"Kak eto zvuchit"?... How does this sound?'

Aquila grinned again.

'Perfect! Just the correct cold feeling to it. OK, here we are.'

He turned into Ruschestrasse, and drove along the street dominated by towering "Plattenbau" buildings... the German expression for a structure constructed of large, prefabricated concrete slabs; that ran the entire length of the right-hand side of Ruschestrasse They were huge and ugly; fourteen storeys of dismal grey concrete panels; with each panel pierced through with a plain-double paned window. "Aquila" nodded.

'And this is just the one side. The complex covers the entire square bounded by Frankfurter Allee, Ruschestrasse; Normannenstrasse, and Magdalenenstrasse. Building One, where the minister's office is located, is at the centre of the complex. The office of Markus Wolf, the head of the General Intelligence Administration, where we are heading; is in Building Fifteen.'

At the end of the main block which didn't actually stretch the full length of Ruschestrasse, but was continued as a four-storey annex constructed in the same grim concrete panels, Aquila turned into an access road that led through a short tunnel under the annex, and stopped at the red and white pole barrier. A mean-looking guard wearing a grey-green uniform stepped forward and snapped his fingers officiously.

"Identifikation bitte"…'Identification, please.'

He glanced at their identification cards, then peered into the interior of the car, and snapped contemptuously,

"Was machst du hier? Dies ist ein eingeschränkter Komplex."... 'What are you doing here? This is a restricted complex.'

Aquila looked him up and down.

'We are here to meet Herr Wolf; head of the General Intelligence Administration.'

The guard glanced at Callaghan in the back seat, and then fixed his insolent gaze on Charlotte.

"Und wer könntest du sein?"...'And who might you be?'

She gave him an icy stare and replied in gutter German, with an ominous Russian accent...

"Wer ich bin, geht dich nichts an, Soldat."…'Who I am, is none of your business, soldier.'

He stared at her as though he couldn't believe what he had just heard. His face reddened and he snapped.

"Du kannst so nicht mit mir reden"... 'You can't talk to me like that...'

Charlotte interrupted his blustering rant in mid-flow. Changing from German to Russian, with a portentous, icy tone; and her cold blue eyes boring into him, she spoke quietly...

"Dlya menya eto vse odinakovo. Mne plevat', chto ty dumayesh'."... It's all the same to me. I don't give a shit what you think.'

The guard started. This woman had to be important and influential to dare to speak to any member of the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, in that tone of voice... and in Russian. He couldn't understand exactly what she had said... his grasp of Russian wasn't that good; but he certainly got the gist of it. The tone said to him that if he continued with this particular line of enquiry; at best, he would find himself on permanent cleaning out of the interrogation cells duty; and at worst; would end up freezing his nuts off with the Coastal Border Command up on the Barents Sea coast. Stepping smartly back; he raised the barrier and waved Aquila's BMW through into the central courtyard of the complex.

Aquila pulled into a parking space at the southern end of the central courtyard and switched off the engine. He turned in his seat and spoke quietly.

'When we get up to Markus Wolf's office, let me do the talking.'

He glanced around the courtyard. There were a few cars parked up there; mainly Ladas and the ominous black Mercedes-Benze; but there were also several plain, off-white box vans. Pointing to the one with an incongruous sign painted on its side, which declared: "Frisches Obst und Gemüse"... "Fresh Fruits and vegetables"; his voice became circumspect.

'They are the new Barkas Stasi-Gefangentransporter.... prisoner transport vans, which are mainly used to move prisoners between here and the Hohenschönhausen Remand Prison... but they also to snatch suspects off the streets. They are disguised as bread or grocery delivery vans and hold up to six suspects or convicted prisoners in individual prisoner isolation cages that have no windows or light. It's part of the Stasi system of disorientation which makes the subsequent interrogations more effective. The prisoners don't even know what they are charged with; are kept in darkness, and have no clue where they are going; because the Stasi drive them around the streets of Berlin for five or six hours to completely disorientate them before they actually arrive at the prison.'

Leaving the car, they walked across central Courtyard Five towards the Frankfurter Allee end of the complex; passing between the HVA... Hauptverwaltung Aufklärung... General Intelligence Administration Block Fifteen annex and the six-storey Building Seven... where the Stasi Department V, responsible for the internal surveillance of East Berlin citizens was based.

Walking purposefully into Courtyard Six, which was surrounded on three sides by the massive, grey cement, asbestos and prefabricated concrete Building Fifteen, which incorporated three, adjoining, fourteen-storey blocks on the western corner of the complex, facing out onto Frankfurter Alee and Ruschestrasse; they were met by a sour-faced Oberfähnrich who conducted them along, wood-panelled, impersonal corridors, lined with anonymous office doors, to Markus Wolf's office suite. Behind these doors, almost anything could be happening: interrogations, imprisonment; examinations, education, or simply, administration. Inlaid into the dark laminate, corridor floor at regular intervals were pale wood strips proclaiming in bright red, capital letters; the same, repetitious, chilling slogan:

"DER FEIND IST, WER ANDERS DENKT."

("THE ENEMY IS WHOEVER THINKS DIFFERENTLY.")

This played a suitably paranoid counterpoint to prominent notices, also at regular intervals along the wall, which proclaimed:

"Staatssicherheit, Garant der SED-Diktatur."

"State security, Guarantor of the SED Dictatorship"

where "SED" stood for Socialist Union Party.

The Oberfähnrich knocked on the door at the end of the corridor, and opened it; motioning that they should enter. The room was panelled in similar wood to the corridors. Behind a large, light-wood desk sat an athletic-looking man, aged about forty; with greying hair, a long, intelligent face, and penetrating brown eyes. He stood as they entered, and surveyed them with a wry smile. Tall, suave, and impeccably dressed; Wolf was the absolute antithesis of the colourless, vapid apparatchiks who ran East Germany. Stepping out from behind the desk, he held out his hand to Aquila... a hand with long, artistic fingers. He spoke, with an educated accent.

'Welcome, Stepan. It's good to see you. How may I be of assistance to you, today?'

Aquila shook hands and smiled.

'You are looking well. Markus. We need a little information from you if you don't mind.'

He turned to Charlotte and Callaghan.

'May I introduce you to my fellow investigators, Colonel Nadia Tolenkanovna and Major Sevastian Levkova of the Second Chief Directorate; attached to the Rezidentura, Karlshorst. They are seeking information on a Cuban dissident who is alleged to be active in the GDR. It is suspected that he may be involved in a well-organised covert conspiracy. This is a matter of extremely high security, not only within the intelligence community, but on the highest levels of government. If this conspiracy succeeds, it could spark another World War.'

Wolf directed his gaze towards Charlotte.

'Comrade Colonel; what makes you think this Cuban is involved in a conspiracy of this magnitude?'

She glanced at Aquila, who nodded imperceptibly.

'We have established that there is a Cuban operative buried on this side of the border. He is a grave danger to both us; and also to the Western Powers. This threat is believed by certain officials of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union to be some well-organised conspiracy on the part of some group or groups inside the United States… or somewhere close by in that part of the world. The conspiracy involves the projected assassination of the newly-inaugurated American President, John F. Kennedy.

The suspicion is that the plot is being covertly funded by Kremlin black funds through an intermediary who has contracted this Cuban. They couldn't risk using a Soviet. The conspirators will try to make it look as though the perpetrator was on our side; but it will be a home-grown American plot.'

Wolf studied her for a few moments. He leaned forward across his desk, and nodded.

'I agree, Comrade Colonel. If this conspiracy actually exists, then it has severe implications for all of us. We have detailed files on over five million East German citizens as well as all Foreign Nationals within our borders. All phone calls to and from the West are monitored, as is all mail. If this Cuban is within our borders, then rest assured that we shall find him. I must, however, inform you that Castro's regime in Cuba is particularly interested in receiving training from us. I have instructors working in Cuba, and Cuban communists receiving training in certain facilities located in the east. The intention is to set up the GDR system in Cuba. It is unlikely, but not impossible that one of the Cubans receiving training in East Germany is the one that you are seeking. I shall initiate an investigation into this possibility and notify Colonel Marisova here, of our findings at the earliest opportunity.'

Charlotte nodded.

'Thank you, Herr Wolf. Your assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated. Moscow Central is extremely concerned of the possible consequences if this Cuban manages to evade detection and initiates this perilous enterprise.'

Wolf smiled; an open charming smile.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

'You are most welcome Comrade Colonel. I am only too pleased to be of assistance to you. It was a great pleasure to meet you.'

Charlotte returned his smile. She had astutely figured this charming, urbane spymaster out... as far as anyone might ever figure him out. He understood the attractions of the West and had a taste for life's luxuries, as well as an eye for beautiful women. For many men the Cold War was a game, and clearly, Markus Wolf was very good at the game.

Returning to the car, Callaghan nudged Charlotte.

'Jesus H. Christ! This place makes Foggy Bottom look like a goddamned college dormitory!... and, we've just met the guy they call "The Man Without a Face" because he's so damned good at avoiding being photographed! The Western intelligence agencies have only ever managed to get one grainy shot of him... and we've just spent twenty minutes close enough to see if he had a decent shave this morning!

Charlotte smiled.

'True; but don't forget the First Commandment of Spookcraft... "Thou Shalt Not Get Caught"… and we really don't need to give the slightest intimation to these Stasi bastards that we are anything other than a pair of hard-nosed, intransigent investigators from Moscow Central. Our best course of action now, is to behave with complete arrogance towards them and follow Karlshorst's lead. We sit tight and wait for Colonel Marisova or Viktor to contact us.'

Callaghan nodded.

'Yeah, that sounds good to me. How does a Russian Major act towards these Commie Krauts?'

Charlotte smiled again.

'The same way that I behaved towards the North Koreans… and the Nazi's for that matter, when I was coming out of Berlin just before it fell to the Russians in '45… the cold, disdainful stare, and the "I really can't be bothered to carry on a conversation with a piece of shit like you" tone of voice.

You have to remember; all the foot soldiers of these totalitarian regimes… especially the East Germans; are a nation of natural slaves. They've always responded to the crack of the whip and the threat of the jackboot; to the shrill blast of the whistle, and the hectoring shouts of their superiors. Treat them like a dog turd you've just stepped in on the sidewalk, and it will never cross their minds that you are anything other than what they imagine you to be.'

Tuesday, January 24th, 1961.

Chinatown, San Francisco.

California.

U.S.A.

Chang Ho-Pyong; patriarch of the Chang criminal family sat in the study of the elegant, bay-windowed property number 1120; situated at the top of Montgomery Street in the Telegraph Hill district… the heart of Chinatown. He studied the pigeon-egg-sized, blood-red Garnet gemstone that had arrived from his granddaughter, Chang Su-Dae after being diverted by her from its scheduled flight to the United States as a result of an oversight by the Embassy in Seoul. Normally, such an item should have been despatched in a Diplomatic pouch, but it had been dealt with in the Embassy post room by a Korean, who had been planted there by Kim Jonghyun, mob boss of Seoul's notorious Yangeundongpa gang, who had arranged for him to be placed in the post room, specifically for the purpose of locating this gemstone.

Kim Jonghyun had been tracking the Garnet gemstone for years, reasoning that since he had originally made a gift of the Garnet to the North Korean leader, Kim Il Sung; and therefore, there had been an inferred obligation, which had not been honoured by reason that the South had not fallen during the war; it was his right to repossess the gemstone. It was a potent bargaining chip in the shadowy, dangerous world of Oriental organised crime. The Garnet carried significant reverence in Chinese beliefs as bestowing immunity to injury upon its wearer. It was also believed to attract the energy and influence of the Sun. The larger the gem, the greater the attraction; and a Triad Dragon Lord would bestow great favour and acceptance upon a rival mob boss offering such a prize. Kim Jonghyun's Yangeundongpa gang was powerful in Seoul, but nowhere near as powerful as the Chinese Triads that were moving in. Such a gift as the Garnet gemstone to the right Dragon Lord would guarantee co-operation in criminal enterprises and ensure that the Yangeundongpa gang would retain face and dignity.

Chang Ho-Pyong had decided, quite autonomously, to adhere to the same protocol. The Chinatown Lai Ying gang; a supposed martial arts club headed by a Kung Fu Master who was actually a Triad Straw Sandal; was becoming a serious threat to Chang Ho-Pyong's operations. The Lai Ying gang members supposedly studied the martial arts, but drove away American-born young Chinese from Chinatown and "protected" the community from outsiders. This protection had evolved into gun trafficking, prostitution, drug money laundering; illegal gambling operation, arson; hire for murder, and assault. Lai Ying's Master would be a powerful ally for the Chang criminal family; who, as a matter of professional courtesy, had, up to now, concentrated their operations within the Korean community in the Bay Area of San Francisco. The Lai Ying gang members were beginning to prey upon this community. Some of the younger family members were already protesting that they should teach these Chinese Geseki deul… sons of bitches, a lesson they would never forget. The last thing that Chang Ho-Pyong wanted was all-out turf war… it was not conclusive to good business. As undisputed patriarch of the Chang criminal family, his word was absolute law; but he still had his suspicions that sooner or later, one of the young hotheads would do something really stupid. The time was ripe to negotiate with the Lai Ying Master.

Chang Ho-Pyong sat and mused for a while. It would not be prudent to entrust this task to one of the young men of the "Family." They were impetuous; they lacked the coolness of mind normally associated with their Buddhist creed. They had been in America for too long and the ways of the Old country… "The Land of the Morning Calm" had been diminished by too many television shows, and Wild West, and Gangster movies. He would send his other granddaughter; Gabriella Chang.

Gabriella was a beautiful, American-born Korean, twenty-two-years-old; with dark, almond eyes, a pretty, retroussé nose; and rose-petal lips. She wore no more than a touch of make-up and did not need to, for she had that rosy-tinted skin on a pale, honey-gold background… the colours of a pale peach, which was quite common among Korean women. Her hair was black with dark-brown highlights. It fell in tumbling waves to her shoulders, with a soft fringe that ended an inch or so above her straight, fine eyebrows.

Her teeth were even and white, and showed no more prominently between the lips than a Caucasian girl. She had a beautiful figure, equal to that of any of the chorus girls to be found in the elegant venues in the San Francisco Bay Area. Visually, she was beautifully delicate and feminine; but Gabriella Chang had a secret; and one that could prove lethal to any hotshot Chinese street-gang punk who thought he could get lucky... or, perhaps, try to force himself upon her.

Gabriella Chang was a Fourth Degree Black belt in the Korean Martial Art of Hapkido… a discipline that used the opponents' force against themselves. As if this was not enough, she also carried, as a matter of course whilst on family business transactions, a wicked-looking spring cosh of Nazi Gestapo, World War II vintage… the dreadful "SiPO Stahlrute," which had probably been brought home by some G.I. as a war trophy. How it had come into the possession of Chang Ho-Pyong was another story, but suffice it to say that Gabriella was more than capable of using it in a way that its original owners would have been proud of.

Gabriella Chang turned her jet-black Porsche 356 cabriolet into California Street; the fifty-four-blocks-long, dead straight artery that split the city of San Francisco east-to-west from the San Francisco Bay waterfront to Lincoln Park in the far northwest corner of the city overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and accelerated up the hill in the direction of Nob Hill. Grandfather Chang Ho-Pyong said that the Lai Ying gang's headquarters was located behind the Chan Yang Garden restaurant just west of Sabin Place.

A little way past the Spring Street junction, glancing into the rear-view mirror, she noticed a gaudily customised Chevrolet Bel Air sedan slide out of an alley and begin to follow her. It had all the characteristics of being a Chinese street-gang ride. She smiled. It was no more than she had expected. It just depended on what their intentions were. The Chevy held back and kept pace with her speed. As she came to the Chan Yang Garden restaurant and pulled into the sidewalk curb, the Chevy pulled in about twenty-feet behind. Gabriella scanned the restaurant. It was closed up. There was no bell push; at least, none she could see on the street frontage; but there was an alleyway alongside the building. Getting out of the little Porsche, she walked around the corner into the alleyway. It was a crooked brick canyon; dark, and very narrow; with a thirty-foot wall at the far end… just the sort of place to get trapped.

She felt in her purse for the spring cosh and closed her delicate, slender fingers around the butt end. The dingy brick cliff-face to her left was solid, and unbroken by any windows or doors, with a couple of grimy, overfilled dumpsters shoved up against its base; spilling garbage onto the squalid, cracked asphalt surface of the alleyway. Halfway along the right wall was a solitary, nondescript doorway set slightly back. That must be the place.

Carefully, she began making her way along the filthy alleyway, trying not to soil her expensive, Italian "Bruno Magli" heels. Suddenly, there was a squeal of tyres out on the street as the Chevy pulled sharply across the entrance, effectively trapping her. Five Chinese "Dudes"… or what they imagined themselves to be; the epitome of Chinatown "Cool"… T-shirts, chinos, and excessively arrogant swagger; piled out of the car, and, spreading out across the alleyway, began to stroll towards her.

The leader of the group; a real tough guy wearing a pair of cheap, imitation Wayfarer sunglasses; laughed.

'Well! What do we have here? Looks like dài dàng fù… a Korean slut. Wanna make out, baby?'

Gabriella Chang began backing away along the alleyway. The five Chinese were laughing as they began moving forward. Judging by the bulges in their chinos, their idea was to turn this into a gang rape. The leader grinned. This would be good. This lone girl looked frightened, but defiant. He laughed again… a harsh, pitiless laugh.

'You can blow me first, baby; and then the troops can get their piece of ass.'

A thin black tube appeared in the girl's hand. She flicked her wrist, and, with an evil click that echoed between the tall brick cliffs of the alleyway, the tube instantly extended into a baton… a flexible, spring baton about sixteen inches long; with a vicious-looking ferrule at its tip. The Chinese hesitated; then the leader grinned.

'Stupid mŭ gou!… bitch! You were only going to get fucked. Now, you're gonna get cut up … and fucked, for your insolence.'

He pulled a vicious-looking switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open. He gave an evil, toothy grin.

'Here it comes… it's Showtime, Bitch!'

Slowly, he began to advance on Gabriella; with his four buddies spread out behind him. She stood her ground with the mean-looking spring cosh held ready in her hand. When he was less than three feet from her, and poised to strike; he gave an ominous grin.

'It's gonna hurt…'

Gabriella gave him a cold, thin smile.

'You're certainly not wrong about that; asshole…'

And, with an almost balletic fluidity; she crouched, and rapidly whirling about, slashed him across his kneecaps with the spring baton. With a sickening crack of bone, he went down like a two-dollar whore; screaming and writhing in agony on the filthy, cracked asphalt. His buddies faltered momentarily then rushed at her.

Suddenly, the door opened behind them as a tall, distinguished-looking, middle-aged Chinese man stepped into the alleyway and spoke one word in Mandarin… a cold, commanding word…

'Dāng!... Stop!'

The four Chinese thugs froze. The man walked past them towards Gabriella, and as he did so; swiftly disarmed the writhing, whimpering leader, tossing the switchblade into the nearest dumpster. He stood in front of her; pointed at the spring cosh, and gave a thin smile.

'You may close that weapon, my dear. You will not need to use it again. May I introduce myself? I am Sebastian Lee; Master of the Li Ying Tong; and you are the granddaughter of the venerable Chang Ho-Pyong; I believe?'

Gabriella Chang nodded as she twisted the springs of the extended cosh and closed it.

Sebastian Lee nodded and turned to his five cowering pupils. He spoke in Mandarin; quietly, and without rancour, but the cold tone in his voice caused Gabriella to shiver imperceptibly.

'Chīrén chī fú… A fool suffers foolish fortune.'

He turned to her again.

'Forgive me; it is an ancient Chinese idiom that they will come to understand in its entirety. These fools are without honour, and bring shame upon their ancestors. They will be suitably chastised. Now; I understand that your grandfather wishes to take counsel with me?'

She nodded;

'Yes, Honourable Master Lee. The suggested venue is to be a neutral location of your choice for both parties, without subordinates from either side.'

Sebastian Lee smiled.

Your grandfather is a careful, and honourable man. We will arrange this counsel and hopefully, reduce the danger and tension in what has become a difficult situation in Chinatown for both of our organisations.'

Gabriella Chang smiled;

'I will relay your reply to him, Honourable Master Lee. Your magnanimity in this difficult matter will certainly be rewarded.'

Lee nodded, and brushing past his five cringing "Dudes"; escorted her out to California Street to where her Porsche was parked up.

Two days later; in the North Beach neighbourhood of San Francisco known as Little Italy, which was slightly to the north of Chinatown; two expensive automobiles approached each other from opposite ends of Vallejo Street and stopped outside the elegant, and discreet Ristorante Césarina. An elderly Oriental gentleman climbed out of the large, imported English Jaguar Mark VIII, dove-grey, four-door sports sedan under the watchful gaze of his driver; who escorted the old man to the restaurant's entrance. A little way down the street, the gleaming black Lincoln Continental Limousine disgorged its black-suited driver who opened the rear door for a tall, distinguished-looking, middle-aged Chinese man, who strode across the sidewalk to the restaurant entrance, nodded at the old gentleman's driver, and entered the establishment. The two drivers returned to their respective automobiles and, getting in behind their steering wheels; watched each other with ill-concealed suspicion.

Inside the Ristorante Césarina, Chang Ho-Pyong and Sebastian Lee faced each other across a check-clothed table in an unobtrusive booth towards the rear of the dining area. Chang Ho-Pyong motioned to the discreetly hovering waiter and smiled at Sebastian Lee.

'Would you care for a proper American drink, Mr Lee? I fear that rice wine is probably not on their wine list.'

Sebastian Lee smiled at the old Korean gang boss.

Thank you Mr Chang; the lack of rice wine is of little consequence; for I much prefer a Kentucky sour mash Bourbon.'

Chang Ho-Pyong nodded approvingly.

'Bourbon is as American as Apple pie, Bald eagles, and the Wild West, Mr Lee. I salute you in your embrace of our adopted land.'

He motioned to the waiter.

'Bring us a bottle of Old Crow Bourbon and two decent-sized glasses, if you please.'

Chang Ho-Pyong broke the foil seal on the bottle and pulled the cork. Pouring a good four-fingers of the deep, golden liquid into each glass; he handed one to Sebastian Lee and gazed into the depths of his own glass. Then he looked up. His gaze was calm, but thoughtful. He spoke quietly.

'Mr Lee; I have asked for this meeting because I am concerned that a disquieting situation appears to be developing between my family and your organisation. It would seem that the younger members of my family and the youths of the Lai Ying club are nurturing a burgeoning animosity towards each other. My fear is that, unless we curtail this situation forthwith; we may be facing an all-out street war. This, of course would be extremely detrimental to our respective business interests in Chinatown.'

Sebastian Lee took a generous pull from his glass and nodded.

'I agree, Mr Chang. It has already become necessary for me to make an example of five Lai Ying members for just this sort of thing. They accosted your granddaughter outside my premises when she came to arrange this meeting. Please assure the young lady that they have been dealt with accordingly.'

He paused, and took another pull at his glass.

'I concur that we need to reach an accord in this matter. I suggest that we designate district boundaries for our activities. In this way we may exist in harmony with each other.'

Chang Ho-Pyong nodded and reached into his pocket. He brought out a small, velvet pouch and pushed it across the table to Sebastian Lee.

Please accept this modest gift as a token of our accord. Its meaning, and worth is more profound to you, and your countrymen than it is to mine.'

Sebastian Lee released the pouch's drawstring and tipped the contents onto the table. The large, blood-red Garnet gemstone sparkled in the subdued lighting of the booth. He glanced up at Chang, who smiled benevolently.

'This is an artefact of great worth, Mr Chang. I am honoured by your generosity.'

Chang Ho-Pyong bowed his head imperceptibly.

'I am honoured that you consider it worthy of acceptance, Mr Lee.'

Pouring two more large measures of Bourbon, Sebastian Lee raised his glass.

'To our accord, and friendship, Mr Chang.'

Outside the Ristorante Césarina, the two drivers were still engaged in attempting to stare each other down from behind the windshields of their respective automobiles. They were so immersed in their battle of wills that they failed to notice a dark-coloured Buick pull into the sidewalk some thirty yards behind them. Two men emerged and began strolling down Vallejo Street in the direction of the Ristorante Césarina. When they reached the rear of Chang's Jaguar, one man stopped, and bent down as if to tie a shoelace. The other man walked past the entrance of the restaurant towards Lee's Lincoln. When he was alongside the driver's door, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He paused, and began searching for a match. The Lincoln's driver watched him suspiciously. The man shrugged, and turned to the driver's door, motioning that he should wind down the window. As he did so, the man smiled apologetically and asked if the driver had a match.

The Lincoln's driver shrugged, and reached for his Zippo. As he looked away momentarily, the stubby nose of a silenced pistol suddenly appeared in the man's hand. There was a dull "Phft!" as the silencer muffled the noise of the bullet and the driver was thrown across the front seats as it smashed into his face and blew his brains across the passenger-side window. Chang Ho-Pyong's horrified driver saw this and clawed for the pistol in his shoulder holster as the man with the shoelaces rose up alongside the passenger side of Chang's Jaguar and pumped two shots from his silenced weapon into Ho-Pyong's driver's head; throwing him against the plush interior door panel as the top of his head exploded, hurling bloody debris against the leather and glass. Both men then entered Ristorante Césarina and walked quietly to the rear of the dining area. They each raised a silenced pistol and shot both Sebastian Lee and Chang Ho-Pyong dead in their booth, with headshots placed with surgical precision.

The silencers made whispers of the gunshots. The two men then calmly finished the dead men's drinks, picked up the Garnet gemstone, and casually strolled out of the restaurant.

Vinnie Culotta and Angelo Valachi; the two gunmen who had executed the mob bosses, Sebastian Lee and Chang Ho-Pyong in the Ristorante Césarina were making good time on Interstate 80 towards Sacramento. They were Mafia torpedoes out of Reno, Nevada, sent down to San Francisco by their crime family Consigliere: Joseph "Crazy Joe" DeCicco, to "whack" the two principal Asian criminal gang bosses in the city. The objective of this "hit" was to set the two Asian gangs at each other's throats, in order that the avenging attrition rate would be so far-reaching, that the Asian gangs' hold on the lucrative trade of prostitution and drug dealing, together with the extensive money laundering; protection rackets, and gambling profits, would be effectively broken. The Lanza crime syndicate could then step in, and run San Francisco. This was just one of the several city take-overs that La Cosa Nostra was planning. The ultimate goal was that organised crime across the United States would be syndicated solely by "The Commission"… the governing body of the American Mafia.

As the lights of Sacramento appeared in the distance; Vinnie Culotta tipped the Garnet gemstone into his palm and admired it as it reflected the light from the Buick's dashboard. His boss would be pleased with this gem… and with the successful method that they had employed in the hit. He might even promote both of them from being lowly "Soldati" to a much higher rank in the family… perhaps, even a "Made Man." This signified that thy would then become untouchable in the criminal underworld and any harm brought to them would be met with instant retaliation from "The Family." He glanced across at Angelo Valachi and nodded contentedly. Only another two and a half hours to Reno at a steady cruise speed; and then, the accolades of the Family would be theirs.

San Francisco's finest didn't take very long to reach the Ristorante Césarina in Vallejo Street once the alarm had been raised… the Police Department Central Station was only four blocks down the street. Homicide detective Jack Reed scrutinised the scene of carnage in the cosy booth. Both victims had been shot in the forehead with a single bullet. Judging by the splatter of blood, bone fragments and brain matter that was plastered across a considerable area of the booth's walls; the gunmen had used hollow-cavity bullets… similar to the standard hollow-points, but with a much larger cavity in the tip of the bullet. These rounds didn't have much penetration…but they expanded rapidly upon impact; inflicting enormous damage; and by the look of the massive holes in the backs of the victims' heads; the rounds had been fired at a very close range. This observation was completely contradicted by the absence of any powder-burn stippling around the entrance wounds in the foreheads.

Jack Reed nodded to himself. These killers had used silencers. This was a professional hit… and this was a goddamned ominous sign. Both victims were known to him. They were both Asian, organised crime bosses. Might this be the beginning of all-out gang warfare? His thoughts were interrupted by his partner, Charlie Ramirez, who came into the restaurant looking distinctly pale. He had been checking out the two dead drivers. He stared at the two bodies slumped in the booth and turned to Reed.

'The two stiffs outside in the automobiles; they were popped in just the same way, Jack. What in the hell is going down here?'

Jack Reed shook his head.

'Dunno, Charlie. This has all the marks of being a…'

He was interrupted by a howling siren and screeching brakes outside in the street. Red reflected lights danced around the walls of the buildings across the street as a car door slammed, and the Precinct Captain hurried in through the door. He called out to Reed.

'What's the situation, Jack? I got a Code Two, Ten-Seventy-One as I was coming in.'

Reed jerked his thumb in the direction of the booth.

'Multiple homicide, Captain. Two here; and the two drivers outside.'

Captain Ed Delaney was fiftyish; short, square, and solid; a human bulldog running a little to jowl and paunch. Delaney wasn't a smart cop; but he was a street-wise, thirty-year veteran; and on these mean streets that was a pretty damned rare thing. He walked over to the booth and peered inside. Slowly turning; he stared at Reed; grim-faced and silent. Then he spoke.

'Holy Mary, Mother of God! I thought I'd seen the end of these sorts of killings when I was a rookie patrol officer during the Tong wars of the thirties. Whatcha got so far?'

Reed shrugged.

'Not a lot, Captain. Two hit men; white, and cocky. After they executed the Chink and the Gook; they calmly finished off the victims' drinks and just strolled out. One of the waitresses saw a dark Buick… possibly an Electra, zipping past the front of the restaurant just after the shooting. She caught a partial licence plate… blue on white… probably Nevada; starting with the letter "W"… and with the last three numbers "812." She said there was nothing else on the street.'

Delaney nodded.

'OK. Put out an APB to the Highway Patrol. Tell 'em these guys are armed and dangerous, and likely to be running up Interstate 80, heading east.'

Nevada Highway Patrol State trooper Herbie Jepson sat in his blue-and-white Pontiac Pursuit Special a few miles to the west of Reno, just inside the Nevada State Line; and parked up, hidden behind a large, free-standing billboard which bore a cartoon character of a dozing driver clutching a steering wheel, alongside a tombstone; and sternly cautioned errant drivers…"Sleepy?...From Short Nap comes Long Nap." He had been here for about twenty-five minutes having been sent out here in response to the urgent telex from The San Francisco P.D. He was on the lookout for a dark, possibly blue, Buick Electra coming up Interstate 80 from the direction of Sacramento.

Herbie was bored and annoyed. Twenty minutes before the end of his shift, and the dispatcher had called him up and told him to stop this damned suspect auto on sight. Just to keep it interesting; he had added that the SFPD Homicide Division had also said that it contained two men, who were armed and dangerous. Great! Apart from fucking up his plans for the night, there was also the real chance that he could end up getting his head blown off.

Herbie's idea of "blown off," that night, was what he was hoping the pretty little blonde blackjack dealer at the Silver Dollar Casino whom he had been humping for the last few weeks, would have done for him in the back seat of the Pursuit Special if only he had been on the other side of Reno when the squawk came in.

It was a dark night with a waning moon. The distant mass of the mountains jutted into the starlit sky out to the right. In the distance, lightning was flashing, but there was no sign of rain. This was typical desert weather tonight… hot, dry, and windy. Out to the left, there was nothing except the endless shadow of the Tahoe National Park and the gunmetal shimmer of the moon on the asphalt of Interstate 80. Herbie could see for miles back down the highway. The glow from the lights of Sacramento washed across the horizon; but there were no headlights anywhere to be seen.

He glanced at his wristwatch. The big luminous minute hand was crawling round to eleven o'clock. He swore quietly. What a waste of fucking time. The suspects probably weren't even coming this way any time soon… if at all… and by now, he'd have had the panties off his pretty little blonde blackjack dealer and be well into getting it on with a really sweet piece of ass.

Morosely, he lit another Chesterfield and settled himself more comfortably in the driver's seat of the Pursuit Special. He glanced at his wristwatch again. The big luminous minute hand was just coming up to eleven-fifteen. Now the thunder was rumbling fitfully; delayed, and distant. Briefly, the lightning flashed again, far off, beyond the crouching shadow of the mountains. He took a deep drag from his cigarette and began fantasising about his little blonde. He grinned to himself; Oh man! She could suck dick like she was siphoning gasoline.

His boner-inspiring fantasy was rudely interrupted by headlights coming up the highway from the direction of Sacramento at quite a speed. Tossing the cigarette out of the window; Herbie Jepson fired up the motor, and prepared to hit the gas. A car flashed past… a dark car that looked like a Buick, judging by the shape of its tail lights. Herbie punched the gas pedal to the floor, and, with the rear tires squealing and spinning against the gravel, slewed the Pursuit Special out onto the highway. The Sonofabitch was moving fast; but not fast enough for Herbie's three-sixty-one cubic inch, Vee-eight motor pushing out three-hundred-and-ten kick-ass horses. He switched on the lights and siren and accelerated after the dancing tail lights. The speedometer needle of the Pontiac was climbing past the eighty mark. He smiled grimly. Even if they weren't the suspects, he'd got them. A straightforward speeding citation would just round the night off nicely, and then he could go pick up his little blonde and go get it into her; but, just in case; with one hand still on the wheel, he reached across for his new Mossberg pump-action shotgun, shoved the shoulder stock down onto the seat between his legs; and cycled the slide with a mean, ominous "Ka-chack." Now; if they were the suspects, he had six rounds of buckshot that he could slamfire into them.

Angelo Valachi glanced into the rear-view mirror and swore quietly. The flashing red light of the cop car was getting closer. He glanced at Vinnie Culotta.

Well, whaddya wanna do now, Vinnie? Do we act cute… or give this dumbfuck the hard good-bye?'

Vinnie Culotta grinned.

'We'll pull over like we're good citizens; then, when he comes to the window, we'll take him down.'

Herbie Jepson was coming up fast behind the Buick, when he saw the right rear turn signal suddenly begin blinking, and the stop lamps light up as the driver began pulling over onto the shoulder of the highway. He switched off the siren and pulled in behind the Buick; stopping some twenty feet back. Setting the parking brake but leaving the motor idling; he picked up the Mossberg; stepped out of the Pursuit Special; and began to walk towards the Buick. Angelo Valachi glanced in the side mirror and watched the cop walking slowly along his side of the car; rolling his window down as the cop approached; and feeling for the silenced pistol out of the cop's line of sight.

With the Mossberg held barrel to the sky and resting against his shoulder; but with his finger on the trigger… just in case; Jepson shone his flashlight into the car and looked Angelo Valachi up and down.

'Do you know why I pulled you over, Sir?'

Valachi looked at the cop guiltily.

'I guess I was doing a little over the speed limit, officer.'

Jepson nodded.

'Yeah; you could say that. The speed limit here is sixty-five miles an hour and I clocked you at well over ninety. Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.'

It was the last thing he ever said.

Valachi and Culotta fired at the same time. The two bullets smacked into Herbie Jepson's chest and hurled him backwards. The Mossberg's barrel toppled over from its upright position as Jepson's almost-dead finger jerked on the trigger by pure reflex. The twelve-gauge buckshot blast took Valachi full in the face and blew most of his head off, splattering Culotta with blood, brains, and bone fragments.

Vinnie Culotta sat, frozen in the passenger seat of the Buick; the interior of which looked as though someone had tossed a bucket of slaughterhouse offal in through the window. For a few minutes he sat motionless, staring at the remains of Valachi's head; and totally shocked by what had just happened… then self-preservation kicked in. What the fuck should he do now? One dead cop; one dead partner with only half a head.

He forced his brain to think. Dump Valachi out on the highway along with the cop; high tail it on to Reno, and hand over the gemstone and the details of the successful hit and the death of Angelo Valachi to "Crazy Joe" DeCicco. After that it would sure as hell be time to get the fuck outta Dodge and go to ground somewhere he couldn't be found… like Las Vegas.

With the interior of the Buick spattered with the remains of Angelo Valachi's head, Vinnie Culotta decided that it would be a damned good idea to pull off Interstate 80 as soon as he possibly could. Cops tended to notice shit like a car drenched in blood barrelling up the highway late at night. Just to the north of the town of Truckee, he swung the car onto Highway 89 that ran north to Sierraville and accelerated away up the deserted asphalt ribbon. To the west; beyond the mountains, a bolt of lightning silently streaked the sky, and light rain began to spatter the Buick's windshield.

Two miles to the north, Vinnie Culotta turned onto the back road that led up past Prosser Creek reservoir and continued on past Stampede reservoir. He knew that this back road would be deserted, and would eventually double back towards Reno. After he re-crossed Interstate 80, he could take the fire-roads through the Sunflower Mountain forest towards "Crazy Joe" DeCicco's imposing residence overlooking Virginia Lake in the suburbs of Reno.

The drive took Vinnie Culotta twenty minutes before Crazy Joe's Prairie-style house came into view. Parking the Buick up at the side of the house; Vinnie Culotta walked around to the front door and reached for the doorknob. Opening the door, he stepped inside; and then, before he knew it, a gun was pressed to his temple and a big hand grabbed his shoulder. A hard voice with a pronounced Chicago accent rasped in his ear.

'Welcome home, Vinnie. We're havin' a house party, and you're the Star turn.'

Vinnie Culotta was roughly shoved into the living room. Four men were standing around; and sitting in an expensive leather recliner was the Mob Consigliere: Joseph "Crazy Joe" DeCicco smoking a fat Havana cigar. Two of the men grabbed Vinnie and roughly dropped him into a chair opposite DeCicco.

DeCicco tapped the ash from his cigar and studied Vinnie. Then he spoke.

'Hi, Vinnie. News travels fast. Now, we're gonna have a little session about how you've pretty well fucked up our plans for taking over San Francisco's business interests…'

Vinnie opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say a word; DeCicco leaned forward and slammed him hard in the nose with his fist. As blood spurted, "Crazy Joe" grinned.

'Damn! That smarts, don't it, Vinnie? Gettin' socked in the nose fucks you up real good. You got that pain shootin' up through your brain. Your eyes fill up with water. It ain't any kind of fun. But that's as good as it's ever gonna fuckin' get for you, and it won't ever get that good again. Whatsamatta? Can't breathe? Get used to it. We got a beef with you, Vinnie boy. You got yourself eyeballed when you hightailed it outta there after you whacked the Chink and the Gook in that shithole eatery. You wouldda gotten away with it, but no; you fuckheads had to go and take down some dumb-ass cop out on the highway. Every fuckin' cop in Reno is runnin' around like their butts are on fire, and they're fucking up business real good. Clipping that cop was right off the fuckin' record; and I don't believe even you could be that fuckin' stupid…your shithead buddy, Valachi; Yeah, I could believe it from that fuckin' "mortadella"; but you?'

Vinnie dripped blood over Crazy Joe's finest English Wilton, white carpet. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the little velvet pouch; handing it to DeCicco. Sniffing back the blood, he looked at his boss pleadingly.

'Valachi bought the goddam farm, so I left him out there with his fuckin' head blown off. Shooting the cop was his idea. We took this from the Chink. We figured you might like it.'

Crazy Joe tipped the contents of the pouch into his palm. The big, blood-red Garnet sparkled in the light from the chandelier; and a bright spark glowed deep in its heart. DeCicco smiled.

'That's a pretty thing. You think it makes things OK between us now, you fuckin' "Pucchiacha?" A headless stiff who can lead the law straight back here…with a dead cop for company? And just to make it really peachy… the Chink and Gook street gangs have begun rubbing out every soldier in Chinatown and the Bay area that they can chase down. It's "Gira diment" down there… and all because you and Valachi fucked up. No dice, Vinnie boy. You're a fuckin' busted flush.'

He turned to one of the men standing in the room.

'Frankie; take Vinnie here for a nice little road trip.'

The man grabbed Vinnie by the collar and yanked him to his feet. With a swift, practised movement, he yanked the collar of Vinnie's jacket down, trapping his arms; and frog-marched him out of the room. DeCicco leaned back on his recliner, admiring the gemstone. Taking a long puff from his cigar, he glanced at another of the men.

'Marty; go lose that goddamned heap of junk messing up my driveway. Vinnie won't be needing it any more.'

Two days later a delivery man was driving up from Reno on the road to Pyramid Lake when he spotted something pink sticking up out of the Black Rock Desert. Stopping his truck to check it out; he discovered that it was an arm; and the hand at the top of the arm was holding a busted flush of King, Queen, Nine, and Three of Hearts, with a Jack of Clubs, all neatly fanned out. The cops eventually arrived with spades and dug around for a while until they found the rest of the guy on the other end of the arm. He had been buried with the back of his head blown off.

It was Vinnie Culotta.