The man reemerged wordlessly through the curtain, leaving the beads to clack against each other in his wake. Without comment, he handed Blaine a simple manila envelope that had packing tape wrapped around its top so that the metal clasp was obscured. McCracken folded the envelope in two, pocketed it, and turned back for the door. Simple as that. Playing a role, about to find out what Al-Akir had so desperately sought.
“A gift from Allah — that is what Al-Akir called it. A force that will allow us to destroy our enemies at last. A force that makes whoever holds it invincible.”
Blaine found that the Arab Fazil’s words were far less unnerving now that the envelope was in his possession.
He stepped out of the shop and headed back for the courtyard. Around him Ghirardelli Square was even more crowded with lunchtime shoppers and strollers, many wishing to partake of the various eateries and stands. Any one of the dozens of people could have been watching him, and McCracken was sensitive to the feeling of eyes cast his way. He took his time making his exit, emerging finally on Beach Street, the same route by which he had entered.
Beach Street runs parallel to the bay, and is flat as a result. It is the only street adjacent to Ghirardelli, and having its own red-brick storefronts built into the square’s side resulted in an outdoor mall-like strip made up of the same type of shops as those found within. Beach was open to traffic, but cars had to inch their way forward against the frequent clutter of shoppers spilling out into the street before them.
The beautiful spring afternoon did nothing to make McCracken relax. Around him San Francisco breathed like no other American city. Young men buzzed the streets on Rollerblades. Couples of both the mixed and single-sex varieties strolled arm-in-arm without hesitation or reservation. McCracken fell in behind a youngish pair of men sporting identical ponytails.
“I told him no way I’d pay that kind of rent,” McCracken heard a high-pitched voice saying, directly to his rear. “I mean, can you believe it? I mean, have you ever?”
McCracken kept walking. Before him, a pair of balding men in dark suits slid in behind the young ponytailed couple. Something about the motion disturbed Blaine. He started to slow, considered veering off, and moved his hand ever so slightly for the SIG-Sauer 9mm pistol holstered on his hip.
“Keep walking, sweetie,” the already-familiar high-pitched voice ordered from a yard back. “And please, please, don’t reach for the gun.”
Blaine let his hand dangle back by his side.
“That’s better, sweetie. Keep walking now.”
McCracken’s eyes cheated about him. He’d been boxed in; that much was clear. What remained to be determined was exactly how many were enclosing him. There were four at least, two in front of him and two behind, and four could be handled.
“My,” the high voice started, “you’re a big one, aren’t you? Know what I’d like you to do now? Just whip out that oh-so-big weapon of yours and hold it by the barrel. Play any games and I’ll have to shoot you, and wouldn’t that be a waste?”
McCracken’s hand slid up the nylon of his holster. He could take out the pair of balding men before him without bothering to draw the SIG, but that would still leave the two behind him, including the speaker. Obnoxiously high voice or not, the leader had played this game before and knew what he was doing. At the very least Blaine needed the gun free before he acted. He slid it from the holster, holding it along the top halfway down the barrel. Then he started to ease it out from beneath his jacket. A simple matter now to have it palmed and ready to fire.
McCracken heard the grinding of wheels an instant before one of the young men on Rollerblades sped close. Before he could respond, the SIG was torn from his hand and the young man was gone.
A high, piercing laugh invaded his ears. “Weren’t expecting that, were you, sweetie?”
“Can’t say that I was.”
“He speaks! Oh my, I’m in heaven. I always did want to meet you, Blaine McCracken. We were expecting someone else entirely. An Arab, and I do detest them so.” The laugh again, slightly embarrassed. “I have your picture.”
“Don’t tell me, you want my autograph.”
“No, sweetie, what I want is for you to keep walking to that van parked up there on our right with its rear doors open.”
McCracken had picked out the van in question several seconds before. Chancing a move now unarmed, with no clear picture on the enemy’s strength, was suicide. He had no choice other than to cooperate until he could make a more defined assessment.
Rollerbladers … What was next?
“I like your beard, so scruffy and ruffled-looking. Makes you look strong. Tell me, do you lift weights?”
McCracken twisted his head backward in order to glimpse the high-voiced speaker. The man was short and frail looking with close-cropped hair over a balding dome and baby-perfect skin. His teeth looked like something ordered out of a catalog.
“Do I please you? Think hard now. Your fate rests in my hands.”
“My fate … Could be worse, I guess.”
The little man’s expression stiffened. “The van’s just up ahead, sweetie. No tricks or you’ll have to be hurt.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes. I would.”
McCracken returned all of his attention to the van, now only twenty feet away. Heavyset men in workmen’s overalls stood on either side of the open rear doors. The Rollerbladers were coasting about the front. The little man had been waiting for Al-Akir, obviously to keep him from retaining the manila envelope and to ensure that he would never pursue it again. So somebody else knew about the prize the Arabs were seeking, somebody whom the little man was working for.
“Slide to your left now, sweetie.”
Blaine knew that once he was inside the van, it was over. If he was going to make a move, it had to be outside. It had to be now.
“Looks like you’ve finally met your match, sweetie. This is one for the record books. I can’t wait to tell my friends.”
Almost to the van now, Blaine knew he would have to try something desperate and hope for the best.
“Be a good boy, sweetie.”
McCracken had tensed his fingers for action when he saw the group of seven Chinese teenagers swaggering down the sidewalk in the van’s direction twirling nunchaku and clubs about in their hands. He figured they were the little man’s final bit of insurance, until he sensed behind him that the dandy had tensed slightly. The boys were wearing matching black vinyl jackets with red Chinese writing stitched across both sides of the chest. The lead ones slid close, and Blaine saw the fire-breathing dragons embroidered on their jackets’ rears.
McCracken halted a mere six feet from the van.
“Hey—” the little man started, reaching to push him on.
But Blaine had other ideas. “Fuck the Dragons,” he said loudly to the group just passing.
The boys swung on their heels and turned his way in unison, showing their weapons.
“What’d you say, man?” said the one in the front menacingly.
“Wasn’t me,” McCracken told the kid. “It was him!”
As he spoke the final word, Blaine grabbed one of the pair of balding men and flung him toward the gang members. A club swished through the air and cracked the man’s skull. The gang members stormed forward with weapons swinging. Blaine stepped into the confusion, grabbed a boy who was wielding a set of nunchaku, and tossed him into the little man, who had just managed to free his gun. The little man’s face exploded in rage, the soft flesh seeming to tighten and tear.