Coughlan。 His voice was harsh with static and exasperation。
“Trucks 1； 3； 4； 8 and 9 accounted for。 They smell like dirty shorts and they don’t register on this
voodoo box。 Nothing in the building。 Trucks 2； 5 and 6 are picking up laundry。 The cops have
searched them。 Nothing。”
“Satisfied； Finn？ Or do you want me to go over anything again？”
Finn punched the transmit button。 “Negative。” He replaced the microphone and resumed
staring out at the city。
“You didn’t expect to find anything in those other trucks； did you？” said Riley。
“Whoever pulled off this job is a pro。 He has no connection with the laundry。 Probably bought
the driver； or killed him and took the truck。” Finn flexed his shoulders； releasing the tension of
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inactivity。 “He’ll dump the truck； switch to another vehicle and either go to ground or run。”
“Then why the fuss over the damned trucks？”
“You have a better idea of a good place to start？”
“Since I don’t know damn all about what was stolen； I wouldn’t know whether to start shaking
the local fences or to drag the local waters for stiffs in cement overcoats。”
“It wasn’t local talent；” said Finn。 “Odds are it wasn’t even American talent。”
Riley digested the implications of what Finn said。 “That rather widens the search area。”
Finn said nothing； just stared through the windshield at the city； watching the fog and waiting
because there was nothing else he could do。 He had discovered and described the quarry’s
spoor； and he had sent his beaters out through the foggy jungle。 Now he could only wait for the
quarry to be flushed。
And try not to count the seconds clicking by。 Try not to wonder if laundry truck number 7 was
here or there or anywhere at all。
Suddenly both men sat up and lunged for the volume control。
“ – in the 600 block along the waterfront。 Repeat。 Oakland police responded to a disturbance
involving Ho’s laundry truck number 17。”
Finn started the Ford and surged into traffic while Riley wrote in his notebook。 When the voice
said “17；” Riley swore。 He glanced at the speedometer。 “What’s the rush？ We’re looking for
number 7； not 17。”
“Ho only has nine trucks。”
Finn slid into a bicycle…sized opening between two trucks； then braked hard for a right turn。
“Ask when the truck was found；” he said。 “And tell Coughlan to keep the locals the hell away
from it。 There’s always some hero who can’t leave well enough alone。”
Riley spoke rapidly； his words lost to Finn beneath the sound of the Ford whining up to peak
acceleration。
“They found it an hour ago。”
“For the love of Christ；” snarled Finn； weaving around a startled motorist； “why weren’t we
notified！”
Riley braced himself on the dashboard。 “The APB was for truck number 7。”
“Shit！” said Finn； his voice furious； “nobody’s that dumb！”
“The locals hate our guts；” said Riley。 “The only reason they let us in on anything is because
they’re forced to。 If you go out there screaming like Coughlan； Oakland’s finest will do
everything they can to hamstring your investigation。”
Finn answered by throwing the car into a controlled skid。 He straightened the wheel and aimed
for the Bay Bridge rising out of the gloom。 The radio mumbled again。
“Three bodies were aboard and a fourth down in the street。 Coroner has them now。”
“Tell everyone to stay away from the truck；” said Finn。 He thought about those eager；
half…bright Oakland cops； all of them wondering what had the FBI so stirred up； crawling over
the truck and soaking up radiation。
The car raced onto the Bay Bridge as Riley replaced the microphone。
“Where’s the 600 block？” asked Finn。
“Bear to the right coming off the bridge； then make a hard right at the first cross street。 It’s on
the waterfront。”
“What about the Lawrence Radiation men？”
“They cleared Coughlan。 They’re finishing up at Hunters Point。 Should be here in about
forty…five minutes。”
Using first brake； then accelerator； Finn slid through a right turn and onto a rough waterfront
street。 A roadblock of police cars appeared a few blocks away。 The cop on the roadblock was
big and hard…bellied。 He let them pass grudgingly。
Finn parked the car； grabbed the radiation counter and walked quickly to the knot of men
around the laundry truck。 He adjusted dials as he went。 Riley followed at a trot； the only way he
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could match Finn’s long…legged stride。
A dozen men stood by the truck； six in police uniform； four in suits and two in the uniforms of。
factory security guards。 Finn ignored all of them。 He swept the counter’s wand back and forth。
Conversation stopped； everyone stared at Finn。 He moved the wand； testing the outside of the
vehicle。 In the silence； the click of the counter was clear。 Finn moved the dial up again before
opening the truck’s front door and sticking the probe inside。
The clicking increased。 Finn reset the dial。 The clicking slowed。 He checked the front seat；
looking carefully at every place where the uranium might have been hidden。 The seat was intact；
the glove compartment empty； the wall panels untouched。
Finn turned his attention to the back of the truck。 As he moved toward the rear doors； the
counter shrieked。 Finn retreated； there was no reason to stay。 The spots that set off the counter
were patently bare patches of floor。 The isotope that had irradiated the floor was gone。
Slamming the door； Finn examined the number of the truck。 The electricians tape that had made
7 into 17 was half…peeled off； curling back on itself like a dying leaf。
The chief of detectives wandered over to Finn。 “Just discovered that little bit of tape a few
minutes ago。 If we’d seen it sooner；” he smiled insincerely； “we’d have called you Feds right
away； just like our orders said to do。”
The man waited； but Finn had nothing to say。
“But don’t worry；” continued the detective。 “Our Crime boys took care of everything。 You
should have the report sometime next week。”
“There were two chunks of metal； one fist sized； one about three times as large。 Where are
they？”
The cop shrugged。 “I tagged the evidence myself。 Only thing we took out of that truck was
bodies； laundry and weapons。”
“For your sake； I hope that’s true。 What’s your security clearance？”
“I’m Abel Jones； chief of detectives；” snapped the gray…haired cop。 “That’s all the clearance I
need。”
“This truck； this block and everything that happened is classified。 Top Secret。 Therefore you and
your men are in violation of wartime security regulations。 You’re under arrest。”
“What？ Now you listen here； you smart…mouthed son…ofabitch – “
“Can it。”
Finn’s voice was not loud； but it easily cut across the cop’s words。 “I’m not the kind of Fed
you’re used to。” He smiled。 “I’m a lot nicer。”
Riley looked uneasily at Finn； but said nothing。
“If you cooperate；” continued Finn； “you’ll get a star on our fitness report the next time around。
If you don’t cooperate； you won’t be around long enough to get another report。 You’ll be
Private Abel Jones。 Don’t take my word for it。 Please don’t。 Uncle Sam needs all the cannon
fodder he can get。”
Finn waited。 Chief of Detectives Abel Jones said nothing。 He turned to Riley； recognizing him。
“Does this guy have more than a mouth？”
“Yes。”
“Where’s Coughlan？”
“On his way to boot camp。”
“He’s too goddamn old to be drafted。”
“So are you；” said Riley； “but you’ll get used to it if you live long enough。”
Jones looked from Riley to Finn； then back to Riley。 Abruptly； he laughed。 “I almost hope
you’re telling the truth。 Be worth it to see that loudmouth sonofabitch Coughlan sweat out a
forced march。” He turned to Finn。 “You’ll get the reports as soon as I do。 Anything else you
want？”
“There will be men out to go over what you removed from the truck。 Don’t get in their way。
Cordon off this block。 Call back everyone who was at the scene； but keep them out of my way
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until I want them。”
“Everyone’s still here but the coroner and his men。”
“Get them back here。”
“You want the four bodies； too？” asked the chief of detectives sarcastically。
“That’s up to the lab。 But the live ones have to be checked for… poison。”
Jones turned and walked toward the men who had been waiting beyond the truck。 One of those
men ignored the detective and walked toward Riley and Finn。 The man moved with a hesitation
that was just short of a limp。 Riley took one look and swore under his breath。
“We got trouble；” said Riley。 “That guy is Hecht； a reporter。 This is what he’s been dreaming of
– war and hell and all the things he’d love to write about。 He won’t cooperate。 Count on it。”
Finn studied the approaching reporter。 He was Riley’s age or younger。 As though the reporter
sensed the scrutiny； his limp became more pronounced； a visible explanation of why he was
carrying a notebook rather than an Army rifle。
“Leave him to me；” said Finn。 “Take the counter and go stand by that fence。”
Riley casually walked away； then turned and leaned on the sheetmetal fence that separated piles
of rusting auto bodies from the cracked sidewalk。 He strained to hear what was being said； but
all he could hear was a dog sniffing on the opposit