Tell Me No Lies

by Elizabeth Lowell

  "Wonder if the pornography is in Chinese?" O'Donnel asked idly.

  "What makes you think it needs translation?"

  The younger man thought about it for an instant and laughed. "You're right. Grainy black-and-white close-ups transcend linguistic boundaries. Sort of an international hands across the water, as it were. Well, not hands, exactly."

  Laughter faded into silence as both men watched Pong's All-Night Grocery in the truck's side mirrors. There was little chance of the agents being noticed, for they were more than a full block from the store and were driving a grimy Ford pickup with a camper shell. They could have been working men looking for somewhere to relax the night before beginning the weekly grind. Several collapsed beer cans decorated the dash, wordlessly explaining why the occupants were inside the car rather than prowling the streets along with the mixed Anglo and Chinese crowd outside.

  Both agents wore work clothes that matched the grubby truck, although the effect would have been somewhat diminished if anyone had gotten close enough to see Stone's neatly clipped silver hair beneath the crumpled Giants baseball cap. Both men sipped coffee that had been substituted for Budweiser in their beer cans. Regulation FBI pistols and holsters were hidden beneath dark windbreakers. Sawed-off shotguns were clipped in a holder beneath the dash. A battered tool case under Stone's feet held extra rounds and binoculars that had been developed for night fighting in Vietnam.

  "Uh-oh," said O'Donnel, setting aside his coffee. "Here come two more whores."

  Stone watched the tightly dressed women stroll down the sidewalk toward them, rolling their hips and eyes at passing men. He let out a sound of relief when two eager customers snagged the women from a passing car. Short of flashing a badge, it was almost impossible to discourage streetwalkers looking for a fast fifty bucks and a few minutes out of San Francisco's raw night wind.

  "How much more time?" Stone asked.

  "Three minutes."

  Stone bent down until he could use the radio without being noticed from the sidewalk. He punched in the transmit button.

  "This is One. Anyone in place besides Three, Four and Nine?"

  "Twelve." "Five." "Ten." "Two."

  The calls came in. Stone waited for five seconds but no more units answered. "All right. Three and Four will follow the subjects. Ten will take the left parallel. Twelve will take the right. Five, stay in reserve behind Twelve. Two, back up Ten. Six, Seven, Eight and Eleven, call in when you get close enough to do us any good."

  The units checked in one by one, acknowledging their orders. Stone glanced around casually, but could spot only unit Three, a man and a woman sitting close together in the front seat of a Plymouth parked just outside one of the bars.

  "You know," O'Donnel said conversationally, looking at the stream of Toyotas, Nissans, Hondas, BMWs, Saabs, Volvos and Volkswagens surging down the city streets, "some day old Uncle Sam is going to get smart and realize that on the West Coast, damn near the only inexpensive American cars sold are bought by the federal government. Or state and local police." He made a disgusted sound. "We might as well wear a neon sign when we're on surveillance as drive a cheap American car."

  "Don't hold your breath waiting for the light to dawn on Congress," Stone said. "Can you imagine the stink in DC If politicians were asked to appropriate funds for buying a fleet of unAmerican surveillance cars? Shit Marie. You'd hear the screams of outrage all the way to Alaska."

  "Do the politicians want us to catch crooks or prop up Detroit?" retorted O'Donnel.

  Stone gave the young agent a sideways look. "Guess," he said succinctly. What O'Donnel said in return was lost in the sudden crackle of the radio.

  "This is Twelve. A cab just turned onto Stockton two blocks south of rendezvous. Male and female Caucasians in backseat. Could be them."

  "Twelve, this is One. Are you north or south of the store?" asked Stone.

  "North."

  As one, O'Donnel and Stone checked the mirrors. There were several taxis in view. One turned right at the stoplight behind them, one drove on past and one turned into the glass-sprinkled parking lot of Wo Pong's Ail-Night Grocery. A man and a woman got out. They were too far away for the agents to distinguish faces, but the man moved like Catlin.

  "This is Two. Subjects just entered the store,"

  "Ten, this is One," Stone said tersely. "Can you see the back door?"

  "This is Ten. The alley is covered. No one – Shit!"

  Stone didn't bother reprimanding Ten for breaking federal law by swearing over the airwaves. "Were you burned?" he demanded urgently.

  "Close. I saw the lights coming on in time to duck. I'm parked right on top of the damn thing. Black late-model Mercedes, tinted windows, four doors. Gee, can you imagine that," Ten added sarcastically. "The license plate light is out so I can't give you the numbers. Car is pulling into the back of the parking lot. I can't see any more.''

  There were a few seconds of silence, then a different voice came on.

  "This is Two. Subjects are being frisked. Professional job of it, too. Looking under collars for bugs and up sleeves for knives. They're getting into the Mercedes now. Can't read the license plate on the front, either. Confirm black and four doors. It's turning south on Stockton."

  "I don't envy Ten," said O'Donnel, starting up the track without turning on the headlights. "I'd hate to follow a snail through the center of Chinatown on Saturday night, much less attempt a parallel surveillance down Grant Street."

  Stone grunted. "Ten is Jackson. He's worked here for years. He should be used to the crowds, the narrow streets and the god-awful hills. Lord, to think people come from all over the world to this place. No accounting for tastes, I guess."

  The Mercedes moved south. Around it, surrounding it, unseen watchers fell into position.

  Stone reached for the mike. "Two, this is One. Take the next street over so that if Ten gets bottled up on Grant you'll be in place."

  "Roger."

  Using a small, carefully shielded flashlight, Stone looked at a street map and tried to anticipate the Mercedes. He picked up the mike again.

  "Five, this is One. Pull ahead and take Powell to Market. Turn south on Third. I've got a feeling they're headed for the docks."

  As soon as Five had acknowledged, another unit came on.

  "One, this is Seven. We're on Powell right now, heading north, between Post and Sutter."

  "One this is Eight. We're on Taylor heading north, between O'Farrell and Geary."

  "Roger, Seven and Eight. Five, try to stay at least a block ahead of the subjects. Seven and Eight will take Third. Do you copy?"

  The units acknowledged. A half mile away, two inexpensive American cars simultaneously made illegal U-turns in the center of different blocks and headed south to converge on Third Street. Back in Chinatown, Four and Three switched places, changing the profile of the car that was working in close to the Mercedes.

  "One, this is Four. Subject is pulling over to the side of the road just past Maude."

  "Probably checking for tails. Go on by," Stone ordered. "Ten, switch with Four where Stockton crosses O'Farrel. Wait until the Mercedes moves before you take up position. Five, take the backup on the right parallel. Two, you're the lead on the right parallel now. Units on left parallel be ready to take over primary surveillance if subject U-turns."

  Units acknowledged one after another. O'Donnel waited with no outward impatience, watching traffic in the driving mirrors, ready to pull out onto Stockton at a moment's notice. The Mercedes stayed parked.

  "Okay," Stone said to O'Donnel. "Nice and slow. Make up about six blocks on them."

  O'Donnel switched on the lights and pulled into traffic. Thirty seconds later the radio crackled to life again.

  "One this is Three. Subject U-turned. Going away fast!"

  "Five and Twelve, do you copy!" said Stone.

  Both units acknowledged.

  Stone sat tightly, swearing beneath his breath. Half
his units were arrayed along the waterfront that the Mercedes was now heading away from. But the waterfront was the logical place for an overseas shipment to arrive. Stone was betting heavily on that. He was also betting that anything as old, cumbersome and valuable as the bronzes wouldn't be moved around any more than absolutely necessary.

  "What if they shipped them into Marin County?" O'Donnel asked suddenly.

  Stone didn't answer. The same thought was haunting him.

  "Subject turning left onto Bush."

  Stone waited, prayed.

  "Subject turning left onto Powell."

  Stone held the microphone as though if he just squeezed it hard enough, the right words would come out.

  "Subject turning left onto Sutter."

  "Come on," muttered O'Donnel, visualizing the Mercedes making a complete circuit of a city block. "Come on, baby. One more time."

  "Subject turning right onto Stockton."

  O'Donnel let out a subdued whoop and then held his breath in case the Mercedes decided to do another lap just for the hell of it.

  The Mercedes did just that, then pulled into a parking place along Stockton and watched the traffic go by for five minutes. The headlights of the cars had a subtle nimbus now, telling of moisture rapidly condensing hi the air, forerunner of the city's famous fog. Stone watched the hands of his watch and tersely ordered the units to find a spot and stay there until further notice. Then he sat tight and thought of all the ways a surveillance could go sour. He had gotten up to fifteen separate disasters when the radio came to life again.

  "U-turn. Repeat. U-turn. Subject now heading south on Stockton."

  Stone's fingers loosened on the mike. He settled the map across his thighs and went back to positioning his units. Reports came in steadily. When the Mercedes turned south on Third Street, heading for the waterfront north of Hunters Point, Stone allowed himself a small feeling of triumph. He pushed down the transmit button.

  "Unit Thirteen, this is One. Have you spotted the subject on Third?"

  The distinctive whap-whap-whap of a helicopter's rotors accompanied Thirteen's response.

  "That's a roger. We've got them dead center on the night scope. Southbound on Third. Patchy fog. Hardly any traffic. Better tell the guys down there to hang way back or they'll take a burn if he goes to ground again."

  "Roger, Thirteen. All ground units, this is One. Rendezvous with me as per Plan Alpha. Thirteen, call me the instant that Mercedes chooses a warehouse."

  Stone listened to the acknowledgments, then settled in and began to worry in earnest about the streamers of fog that were condensing across the face of the night.

  Inside the Mercedes, Lindsay tried not to show her dismay when the driver shut off his headlights, made a sudden U-turn on the wet, gray waterfront street and pulled off onto a cross street that led between unlighted buildings. Though the engine remained on, the driver settled back in the seat, obviously not planning on going anywhere right away.

  As before, Catlin had braced Lindsay during the sudden maneuver and then held her, letting her feel his relaxation, silently reassuring her that everything was all right. Privately he wasn't all that certain that everything was proceeding according to Stone's schedule. The Mercedes hadn't gone blasting the wrong way up a one-way street, but it had done most of the other things that were guaranteed to flush tails.

  On the other hand, the FBI had a lot of highly trained manpower. That was what was required to combat evasive maneuvers on the part of a surveillance subject. The Bureau could afford to put a moving net of units around the Mercedes without giving away the game. Only once, back at Wo Pong's Grocery, had Catlin seen any sign of the Bureau's presence, and that had been a block away from the store, where Wu's men weren't likely to be anticipating surveillance.

  But the waterfront road where they were now parked was deserted. The sheer numbers of the FBI would work against them here. Headlights would stand out like beacons against the drifts of fog. Catlin stared out the window and wondered if one of the aircraft he saw dancing above the city lights belonged to the FBI.

  "It's all right," Catlin said softly against Lindsay's hair. "Look at all those lights across the bay. You don't get many nights as clear as this in San Francisco."

  Lindsay took a deep breath and forced her fingers to relax on the fabric of Catlin's black denim jacket. "It's very pretty," she said mechanically.

  Then she realized that Catlin was right. All around the bay, dots of incandescent silver and gold burned against the black velvet night. Patches of nebulous, translucent fog drifted over water and city alike, muting the brilliant lights without concealing them. The result was a view that was gauzy and crystalline at once, as though she were watching through a window where etched glass alternated with clear in a random pattern.

  No traffic passed them. No other people were walking around. The driver of the Mercedes was a soundless, motionless silhouette against the windshield, and the mechanical purr of the idling car was barely audible. Only Lindsay and Catlin seemed alive within the black crystal and radiant fog of night.

  "It doesn't look real," Lindsay said quietly.

  "It isn't," murmured Catlin against her ear. "None of this is, remember?"

  She turned and saw the harsh illumination of a distant streetlight reflected in his golden eyes. "It feels real," she whispered.

  "It won't tomorrow."

  Catlin's voice was a blend of certainty and regret. He knew what happened when the undercover game was over, how the mind adjusted very quickly to changed circumstances. Lindsay didn't understand that. Not yet. She would soon, though. She would be dropped back into her old life, her old reality reaching out to enfold her; and that reality didn't include him.

  Lindsay rested her cheek against Catlin's chest and tried to imagine tomorrow. She couldn't. She could imagine nothing beyond the moment when she would see one of Qin's magnificent charioteers. She felt as though she had worked her entire life for the coming instant, the culmination of so many dreams, so many fears. That was all that was real. That was all that mattered. Nor would that change tomorrow.

  "It will always be – " she began.

  Lindsay's words ended in a startled sound as the Mercedes darted out and made another unexpected U-turn before resuming its slow prowling of Third Street. Buildings bulked blackly along the waterfront, warehouses where cargo was stored before being shipped across the face of America by truck or rail.

  "I hope that's the last of it," Lindsay said tartly, suspecting that the Chinese driver spoke more English than he had acknowledged up to now. "Being dragged out of bed at midnight is bad enough. Being jerked around by San Francisco's answer to Mario Andretti is adding injury to insult."

  Catlin's laughter, like the silent pressure of his embrace, approved of Lindsay's resilience. He knew that the game of sudden starts and stops and wild turns were eating away at her nerves, reminding her of just how helpless the two of them had become once they had entered the black Mercedes.

  "Oh, I think our silent friend up front has about accepted the fact that I lost any tails long before we showed up at Wo Pong's Grocery," Catlin said, shifting his arm until he could read the luminous face of his watch. "He's just shadow boxing to kill time before the banks in Hong Kong begin answering their phones. It shouldn't be long now."

  The driver's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Other than that, there was no response to Catlin's baiting. A few minutes later, the driver killed the headlights again. The darkened Mercedes prowled through the misty night, visible only in the pools of illumination thrown by occasional streetlights.

  In a manner characteristic of the Bay Area, the streamers of mist that had been so fragile a few minutes before had swelled and thickened into true fog. The driver switched on the windshield wipers in answer to the wet, clinging fog, but not the headlights. He kept on driving as though confident that the street was deserted. Catlin hoped the driver was right – without headlights, the visibility w
as down to twenty feet.

  With the usual lack of warning, the driver made a hard left into an opening between buildings that was too narrow to be called a street and too wide to be a driveway. No lights showed in any of the buildings, nor was there any gleam of reflected illumination from windows. The driver slowed, then blinked the parking lights on and off several times.

  Ahead and to the right a slender glimmer of light appeared. Slowly it widened into a tall rectangular doorway leading into a warehouse. The driver accelerated smoothly up the road and into the warehouse. Three Chinese men appeared and wrestled the sagging door shut.

  Catlin looked at his watch, marking down the instant that the Mercedes had vanished inside the warehouse. If the FBI hadn't lost them in the U-turns and fog, the clock was running. Stone would wait forty-five minutes before he blew the lid off the night. Catlin planned to be out of the way by then. He had seen too many hostages killed by desperate, foolish men to risk Lindsay's life that way.

  A quick look around told him that the warehouse was small and probably had been abandoned years ago. Junk slumped amorphously in the corners, rotting and rusting in slow dissolution. Several cars and a truck had left tire tracks in the glaze of time and dust that covered the stained concrete floor. High up along the walls, openings that had once been windows were boarded over. The only interior illumination came from the headlights of two cars that had been angled so as to illuminate the far side of the small delivery truck parked sideways between them.

  There were eight people visible. Three were Mrs. Zhu, Mr. Pao and Chen Yi. With them were four men whose body language fairly screamed soldier. Although no weapons were visible, the men hovered particularly close to Yi. All the mainland Chinese wore dark blue slacks and the military-cut jacket that Mao had made popular.

  Hsiang Wu, wearing a pearl gray silk suit, stood apart from the representatives of the PRC. The three men who had dragged shut the old-fashioned door reappeared to stand impassively behind Wu.

  "Aren't they – " began Lindsay, looking at the men standing near Wu.