Dirty Harry 06 - City of Blood Page 3

  “Do you know what has happened to my partners?” Harry was speaking to Owens now, hoping to discourage him from undertaking this assignment.

  Owens matter-of-factly answered: “Gerrard Fanducci, deceased. Deitzick, wounded. Gonsales, wounded. Smith, deceased. DiGeorgio, wounded. Moore, deceased.”

  Harry regarded him with astonishment. Not only had he known it all, but he’d gotten the names, the order, and their fates precisely. “And you still want to work with me?”

  “I try not to go by precedent. Human beings would never have evolved if they had relied on precedent alone.”

  “Shit,” Harry muttered, shaking his head. It wasn’t that he objected to what Owens had said or the conviction with which he had said it. Rather it was the feeling that he was being burdened with the responsibility for another man’s life, that he’d spend as much time protecting Owens from harm as he would running down the Knifer, Mission Street or Tocador, whichever came first.

  “If it doesn’t work out after a few weeks you can pull me off the case,” Owens said, eager to allay Harry’s fears.

  “There is a special reason I am assigning Owens to you, Harry,” Bressler said. “Owens is the best decoy we have on this force. It may surprise you to learn that in his past life Drake Owens was a star of TV and movies.”

  Owens demurred. “Sir, if I may, not exactly a star. But I did a lot of work in many forgettable films when I was living in L.A.”

  This man was full of surprises. “And you quit Hollywood to become a cop in San Francisco? You’re more insane than I thought.”

  Owens laughed. Bressler only smiled. Bressler was the sort who never got beyond smiling, didn’t want to give too much away.

  “Well, I didn’t think I was accomplishing very much being a bad actor in worse films. I decided to employ my talent in another direction is all.”

  “It’s your life.”

  Or it was before he volunteered for duty with Harry Callahan.

  C H A P T E R

  T w o

  William Maxim Davis took the most stringent precautions in even the most routine of tasks. His houses in the bay area, and the two he owned and a third he leased in town for business purposes, were guarded by a private security agency that supplemented its contingent of armed watchmen and Belgian shepherds, specially trained to leap instantly for a man’s throat if given a signal, with the most advanced electronic sensors and alarm equipment.

  The times Davis left his office near Jackson Square were shifted constantly, the routes he took to and from work also varied so that no one could successfully predict his movements and plan his assassination.

  The limousine that Davis rode in cost him almost a quarter of a million dollars. It was an extraordinary vehicle, not only because of the luxuries that it offered—the television and the telephone that connected him to his office or to any one of his branch offices around the world and the well-stocked refrigerator and the ample space in back—but because of the safety devices that had been installed in it.

  The glass was naturally bulletproof. The tires were resilient enough to take several bullets before giving way, and in any case, the limousine could still navigate at a sufficiently high speed even when all four tires were punctured. The gas tank occupied a position underneath the seat in the interior of the car so that no one could ignite it from the outside. (This did make it a cumbersome chore to replenish the gas, but like the older-model Mercedes, this tank held an enormous amount of fuel, and in any case, replenishing it was the sort of thing the chauffeurs were paid for.) The partition, between front and back, was remarkably strong; no bullet of any caliber could pass through it.

  But the pièce de résistance in this elaborate system of defense was to be found under the seat next to where the chauffeur sat. In the likelihood that a terrorist could gain entrance to the vehicle, and threaten the driver, a final, and fatal, recourse was available.

  A small toggle switch, within easy reach, could be pulled which would trigger a specially designed shotgun that was positioned underneath the cushion; it would then discharge upward, in rapid succession, three pellets into the ass and through the body of the unsuspecting terrorist. This would presumably have the effect of neutralizing any threat immediately.

  Though assurances were given to all the chauffeurs that the pellets would continue through the roof if they exited from the body, Davis wasn’t absolutely certain that they too wouldn’t be injured in the blast. But he didn’t care to warn them of this. It would, he believed, only disquiet them and make them more reluctant to resort to the use of the shotgun in the event of an emergency.

  As befitted his position as the chairman of the board of Cavanaugh-Sterling, Davis was an imposing figure, forty-three years of age, with sandy hair turning gray about the edges and a face that seemed incapable of ever expressing passion, amusement, or joy. There had been no time for passion, amusement, or joy since Davis had begun his climb to the top of Cavanaugh-Sterling, a multinational corporation that had begun as a drugstore chain and branched out so promiscuously that it now owned moving lines, marinas, movie theaters, a cable TV network, granaries in the Midwest, shrimp fisheries in the South, a microchip factory in the North, and an aircraft company in the Northwest.

  With Davis today was the diminutive, very dapper Mr. Hiroshi Asabuka, the production head of Cavanaugh-Sterling’s Tokyo division. Asabuka loved jazz, baseball, and McDonald’s hamburgers; in fact, he revelled in everything American. He admired Davis, believing that he was the forerunner of a new breed of American entrepreneur who would fundamentally restore the ailing economy and, not so incidentally, the uncertain political landscape.

  The two, shadowed by the usual assortment of security guards, and accompanied by aides to Davis, who were all called vice presidents, regardless of how little power they actually wielded, were emerging from Cavanaugh-Sterling Headquarters, a gleaming new tower that was sheathed in glass tinted aquamarine.

  Davis was a man who would look in both directions before crossing a one-way street; he was that cautious. Life represented a series of obstacles to be overcome. And the higher he rose in business the more obstacles there seemed to be. Which was not exactly what he’d expected when he started out.

  Because of his substantial interests overseas, in Italy, the Middle East, and the Caribbean as well as in Japan, there was good reason for caution. Terrorists were launching attacks against businessmen with ever increasing frequency, and while these attacks had so far failed to happen in America, Davis, and his counterparts who managed other corporations, believed it only a matter of time before they, too, were targets of extremists.

  But it is impossible for a man to concentrate entirely on matters of security—especially when that man’s mind is filled with thoughts of mergers, SEC proceedings, and pretax profits. And, in any case, the private agency that Cavanaugh-Sterling had authorized to protect its chief executive was supposed to concern itself with such things.

  No one, however, was prepared for an outright assault on this rainy October afternoon. Jackson Square just didn’t seem appropriate for something so bold and violent.

  It was possible that the intended victim was not Davis but rather Asabuka, who was a notorious right wing fanatic in his own country, ever ready to chastise the Japanese citizenry for not doing enough to forestall the spread of world communism. Whomever was supposed to be assassinated was apparently never going to be clear simply because the assailants, who’d elected a rooftop to do their shooting from, opened up on everyone in sight.

  The building that the gunmen had taken positions on faced Cavanaugh-Sterling Headquarters; it was a forgettable specimen of architecture that might have housed a welfare hotel or a bleak municipal office.

  The rattle of gunfire at first seemed so far-off that Davis believed it a series of backfires from traffic on one of the neighboring streets. It was only when the guard in back of him lurched to the right, a small pink hole staining his white shirt, that Davis realized what was happenin
g.

  But by then another guard had thrown himself on Davis, sending him toppling down on the cold marble steps that descended from the Cavanaugh-Sterling building. Another man did the same to Asabuka, causing the small man’s head to bang against the step, an injury much easier to recover from than a bullet wound.

  But the assassins on the rooftop had the advantage not only of surprise but also of a commanding location. They could—and did—fire at will, scattering a hail of bullets along the steps, riddling three of the guards, two who now lay lifeless, draped over Asabuka and Davis and one of Davis’ vice presidents.

  More unpleasant than being in danger of his life, in Davis’ view, was lying helplessly on the steps while his bodyguard’s blood leaked steadily onto his back and then began running down his face.

  Only the Japanese seemed unconcerned; actually, he looked a bit entertained as though this were a Wild West show he’d somehow stumbled into. That he might meet his end any moment now was a fact that had yet to register in his mind.

  One of the vice presidents, injured in an arm which hung limply at his side, a bloody swath of sinew where his shoulder ought to be, decided to climb back up the steps into the safety of the building. Groaning, he scrambled quickly and made it to the revolving door, perhaps thinking that his effort had paid off, only to discover that his progress had not gone unnoticed by the men on the rooftop. They busied themselves, almost in a sporting manner, emptying much of their clips into his back, causing blood to erupt in a dozen places. In this red shower the vice president promptly ended his career at Cavanaugh-Sterling. All things considered, he would have preferred a pink slip.

  By this time, of course, witnesses inside the Cavanaugh-Sterling complex had caught on to what was happening and several phone calls had been made to the police.

  Sirens could now be heard, signalling their impending arrival, but while the gunmen must have taken note of this they did not relent. On the contrary, they increased the intensity of their fusillade.

  Davis realized that the assassins would have undoubtedly provided for an escape route, over onto another rooftop or through a secret passageway in the building whose rooftop they now occupied, and that it was likely the police had not been informed of what sort of opposition they should expect. A SWAT team would be necessary, not a contingent of patrol cops.

  Despite the danger, Davis was only marginally interested in how this confrontation would turn out. For one thing, he was convinced, with that certainty that had gotten him this far, that he would survive. For another, he had business to attend to, a dinner date with a pretty woman, and this assault was going to make him very late. What’s more, he would have to go back to his office and change; he was unaccustomed to having blood all over his Brooks Brothers suit.

  At last a police cruiser came into view, stopping just past the intersection, out of the line of fire. Two patrolmen appeared, guns raised, but no sooner had they emerged from their car than they recognized how little good they could do in a situation like this. They returned to the safety of the cruiser and radioed in for more substantial backup.

  In the meantime, other cruisers pulled up along with the occasional unmarked car. Inside one of these unmarked cars, with a license plate that began with the letter Z—the telltale sign of police proprietorship throughout the country—sat Harry Callahan and his newest partner, Drake Owens.

  It was Owens’ decision to accompany Harry; whoever the snipers were they were clearly not the Mission Street Knifer and that was all, theoretically, that Owens was responsible for. However, he had insisted, partially, Harry suspected, because he wished to prove that he had a talent for doing something other than playing bit parts in Grade B movies.

  Though his colleagues were seemingly content to sit and wait until reinforcements and additional firepower arrived, Harry refused to wait along with them. Followed by Owens, he headed around the block, thinking that there might be access to the rear of the building where the gunmen were.

  But their hope proved short-lived. For there was another building, a bank crowned by a neoclassical cupola, that stood in the way. Nor was there any alleyway by which they could gain the entrance they sought. There was no doubt that the only way to get into the building was directly through the front door; to try and do that meant exposing oneself to the steady barrage the gunmen continued to lay down.

  “What do we do now?” Owens asked, in some way relieved that their options had been foreclosed, that they, too, would have to wait for a SWAT team. This seemed to demand a military-scale operation in any case if they were to dislodge the men from the rooftop.

  “What we do now is go in by the front,” Harry said, none too pleased by the prospect himself.

  “We could get killed doing that,” Owens pointed out.

  “We certainly could.” The unspoken offer was there in his voice; if Owens wished to back out Harry would pose no objection.

  But Owens had no intention of doing so. He just silently prayed that Harry knew what he was doing.

  Harry had an idea but didn’t exactly know. He motioned to Owens, and they made another circle of the block, this time from the other side. Observing the physical configuration of the street they looked down, the manner in which the buildings were arrayed, the way in which cornices and buttresses and gutter pipes protruded, and the present position of the shadows along the surface of the adjoining sidewalk, he told Owens, “Seems to me if we stick close to the buildings, staying within the border defined by the shadows, we have a fairly good chance to avoid being spotted.”

  Across the street, pinned down on the great white marble steps, Davis and members of his entourage, alive and dead and in between, were clustered cheek and jowl with one another. Blood drained down the steps in rivulets, forming small pools in the crevices and sags that the weather and the passage of thousands of feet had produced over time.

  Otherwise, the street was deserted, pedestrian traffic having instantly come to a halt when the firing broke out. One man, unwittingly caught in the shooting, lay sprawled out in the middle of the street, his trenchcoat stained with blood, his umbrella thrown to the side; but he was still alive, wiggling slowly, hopelessely, in the direction of the intersection. No one could get help to him any more than they could get help to the people on the steps.

  A gray limousine parked in front of Cavanaugh-Sterling Headquarters (a rented limo, not Davis’ special) sustained some of the injuries intended for its prospective passengers. Windows would pop loudly as the bullets impacted. A series of jagged holes appeared across its chassis. It occurred to Harry that the gunmen were not simply failing to hit their human targets but were having some sport as well, riddling the limousine, perhaps to express their ideological antipathy to such extravagant means of transportation.

  But the fate of this limousine (very likely the scrap heap) was of no concern to Harry. He now directed Owens, proceeding quickly, maneuvering as close as he could alongside the structures fronting the street. The din at this point was quite furious, what with the incessent gunfire and the mad cacophony of sirens that signalled the approach of yet more cruisers, ambulances, rescue trucks, and police vans.

  So long as no gunman peered down from the edge of the rooftop Harry and Owens could consider themselves safe. But their luck stretched only so far. As they came near to their objective the sidewalk exploded just behind Harry and immediately in front of Owens, sending up a cloud of dust and cement fragments that began raining down on them.

  Because there was no sense in returning the fire—they could barely expect to hit their antagonists from their earth-bound position—they ran, zigzagging, no longer worried about the protection of the shadows since they’d already been seen.

  Their tactics did not go unrewarded. The bullets that carved out great swaths of the sidewalk failed to hit them. Moreover, the terrorists could not concentrate entirely on the two men directly below them if they were to keep the men across the street from escaping.

  Breathing hard, their lu
ngs straining from the exertion, Harry and Owens found themselves at the dull green door that led into the building they wanted. Over the door a sign read “Animal Shelter League,” but by the looks of this sign, and the drab façade itself, the Animal Shelter League people and their adopted pets had moved out long ago, leaving behind empty rooms and lots of dust.

  The door was locked but the lock was not strong enough to resist the strength of a .44 round which easily mangled the shabby armor.

  In the event that one of the gunmen was waiting in ambush, Harry kicked open the door and stood back. Owens faced him, flush against the opposite jamb.

  Harry then dived into a hallway that hadn’t seen light, natural or artificial, for several years. Owens duplicated his maneuver, his .356 Magnum extended in his hands.

  No opposition presented itself, only a faint smell of must and decay reached their nostrils as they crouched warily, trying to make out what awaited them in the profound darkness.

  Silently, the two men started to move, using their hands like the blind to guide themselves down the hallway. Within half a minute they had fully explored the entirety of the groundfloor in this clumsy manner, and yet had failed to locate any means of ascending higher in the building. Harry risked employing his lighter, sending a small flame into the air that was sufficient to reveal a door to a freight elevator and by its side the button that apparently could control it.

  Owens pushed. They waited, at first hearing nothing but the muffled rattle of gunfire in the street and the more distant shriek of sirens.

  Then, from high up in the shaft came the groaning, tortured sound of cables, and obsolescent machinery. The antiquated elevator began its grudging descent but there was, of course, no way of telling whether anyone was descending with it.