“I HAVE TO TELL you,” Tate said, “I find this amazing. I mean, shit, we’ve just dropped a fortune in jewels in a goddam trash can. And here we are—” Sitting in the front passenger seat of the Honda, Tate swept the surrounding greenery of Golden Gate Park with a muscular arm. The gesture exposed the big nine-millimeter automatic in its shoulder holster slung beneath his right arm. An identical gun, Bernhardt knew, was slung under his left arm. “Here we are, hoping that this goddam Chinaman is going to give us a—”
The telephone mounted between the seats beeped.
“Yes?”
“We have the goods,” Chin said. “No problem. Are you ready to copy the information I have for you?”
Bernhardt took his ballpoint pen and notebook from his pocket. “Go ahead.”
“The address is twenty-four-twenty Noriega. Do you remember my instructions concerning the keys?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then, our business is concluded. Perhaps, Mr. Bernhardt, we can do business again. In my line of work, it’s not practical to advertise. But I think you’d be impressed. Meanwhile, though, I’ll sign off.”
Bernhardt slammed down the telephone, twisted the key in the ignition, started the engine. In minutes he would see Paula, touch her, hold her close.