They’d decided that Dominic, who’d undergone the FBI’s defensive driving course, would be behind the Opel’s wheel. True to Archie’s prediction, the traffic had slackened somewhat, but the roads still bore more of a resemblance to racetracks than to urban thoroughfares.
Archie climbed out from the backseat and leaned his arms against the passenger door. “That map of the Medina you’ve got is a fairly good one but not perfect, so keep your heads about you. Sure this can’t wait till morning?”
“Probably not,” Brian said.
“Well, then loosen up and smile. Act like tourists. Window-shop; haggle a bit; pick up some swag. Don’t march through the place like diggers—”
“‘Diggers’?”
“Soldiers. You can park on one of the side streets near the Corinthia—that monstrosity of a hotel we passed on the way here.”
“Got it.”
“It’s visible from pretty much everywhere in the Medina. If you get lost, head for it.”
Brian said, “Damn, man, you make it sound like we’re walking into the lion’s den.”
“Not a bad analogy. All in all, the Medina’s safe at night, but word’ll spread if you stand out. Two more things: Dump the car if you have to. I’ll report it stolen. Second, there’s a brown paper bag under the tire in the boot with some goodies inside.”
Dominic said, “I assume you’re not talking about snacks.”
“That I’m not, mate.”
64
NAYOAN LEFT THE EMBASSY at five p.m., took the bus to a park-and-ride lot off Columbus, and got into a blue Toyota Camry. With Clark at the wheel, they followed him to a first-floor apartment on the southwestern edge of San Francisco’s famous Tenderloin district, between the City Hall and Market Street. It was arguably the city’s worst neighborhood, with more than its fair share of poverty, crime, homelessness, ethnic restaurants, dive hotels, and fringe clubs and art galleries. There could be only one reason Nayoan had chosen this area in which to live, Clark and the others decided: The Tenderloin had a fairly healthy Asian-American population, which would allow him to move about in relative anonymity.
After a couple of hours at home, Nayoan emerged from the apartment in a somber black suit and got back in the Camry. This time with Jack in the driver’s seat, they followed him back downtown to the Holiday Inn. They watched him enter the lobby, waited ten minutes, and headed back to the Tenderloin.
“Why’s it called the Tenderloin?” Chavez asked as Clark turned off Hayes Street and started looking for a parking spot. The car’s headlights skimmed over tipped-over garbage cans and shadowed figures sitting on front stoops.
“Nobody knows for sure,” Jack said. “Sort of an urban legend. Stories range from it being the soft underbelly of the city to it once being a hazardous-pay neighborhood for cops, who could buy better cuts of meat with the extra money.”
“Been reading the Frommer’s, Jack?”
“That and a little Sun Tzu. Know thine enemy, right?”
“The place has got character, that’s for damned sure.”
Clark found a spot under a tree between two streetlamps and pulled in. He doused the headlights and shut off the engine. Nayoan’s apartment building was one block down and across the street.
Clark checked his watch. “Eight o’clock. Nayoan should be at the reception. Change,” Clark said.
They traded their downtown garb—khaki pants, sweaters, windbreakers—for the Tenderloin attire they’d picked up earlier at a secondhand shop: sweatshirts, flannel shirts, ball caps, and knit beanies.
“Twenty minutes, then back here,” Clark said. “Three-block radius. Same drill as before. It’s a shitty neighborhood, so look the part.”
“Which is?” Jack said.
Chavez answered, “You don’t fuck with me, I don’t fuck with you.”
They met back at the car, then walked south half a block and stood together beside an empty stoop. Chavez started: “Only saw one police cruiser. Looked like a mandatory drive-through. Didn’t do a lot of looking around.”
“Jack?”
“Didn’t see any lights on in the apartment. There’s an alley on the back side and a crappy wooden fence with an unlocked gate leading to a concrete patio. Dogs two yards down on either side. They barked as I walked by, but I didn’t see any faces come to the windows.”
“Back porch light?” Clark asked.
Jack nodded. “Bare bulb. And no screen door.”
“Why’s that important?”
Jack shrugged. “Screen doors squeak; they rattle.”
“Man gets a gold star.”
Thirty seconds apart, they circled the block, then met in the alley. Chavez went through the gate first, up the steps, then unscrewed the lightbulb and stepped down. Clark and Jack came through. Clark went up the steps and spent ninety seconds crouched by the door, working the knob lock,