Lana had a stunned look on her face, almost like a teenager gazing at a favorite rock star. She handed the pistol back to him and said, "Holy smoke."
"I've heard so much about you," Lana told him. "The Cobra. I can't believe it." She smiled at Blake. "I always pictured the Cobra as a big ugly brute with scars. You look so clean-cut and . . . handsome."
"Thanks," he said. He felt pleased and slightly embarrassed that she found him good-looking. More than that, he was relieved that she had bought his identity. Decker had told him that very few members of the People's Strike Force had ever seen the Cobra. The group's chief assassin worked alone, taking his orders straight from Carlos. Show her the pistol, Decker had said, and you're in. Thank goodness he was right.
"What were you doing in the restaurant?" Lana asked.
"Trying to eat. Then you walked in. Small world."
"Are you in town for a hit?" she asked.
"I can't talk about that."
"No," she said. "Of course not."
"Look, we'd better get off the streets."
"We've got a safe-house," Lana said. "Over on Taylor, just above North Beach. Let's go there. You can meet the others."
Blake frowned, but his heart raced. This is what they had hoped for. Lana was not only willing but eager to take him to meet the members of her attack group. But he knew he shouldn't show he was eager. "I don't know," he muttered. "It's bad enough that you've seen my face. The fewer people who can recognize me, the more I like it."
"You can trust them," she said.
"How many are there?"
"Four others," Lana told him. "They're all good people, dedicated to the cause. You can trust them," she repeated.
"I'll be the one to decide who I can trust. Name them."
"Willie Jackson, Irma Getz, Blitzer Hogan and Herb Leonard."
Blake nodded. "I've heard good things about Getz and Hogan," he said. He had heard of those two, all right, but nothing good. The pair was on the FBI's "Most Wanted" list for more than a dozen bank robberies. They had shot two guards. It came as news to Blake, however, that they were with the PSF. They weren't just a couple of greedy stickup artists, after all. They were terrorists stealing to buy weapons for their "movement." If he could bust those two . . . This was almost too good to be true.
"If there's you, Getz and Hogan," he said, "you must be planning a bank hit."
"The First Federal on Grant Street. Tomorrow. So how about it? I know they'd be really honored to meet you. You're something of a legend, you know."
"If you think I'm going in on the bank hit with you," Blake said, "forget it. That's not my job."
"No. I would never ask you to do that. You're much too important to be risked in a hold-up."
"All right, then. Point the way."
Lana gave him directions. A few minutes later, he turned onto Taylor Street. The road, above the Broadway tunnel leading to North Beach, slanted steeply upward between two rows of apartment houses. When he swung toward the curb to park, the car tipped so much that his stomach lurched. He thought for a moment that the car might flip over, but it didn't.
He opened his door. Its surprising weight jerked the handle from his grip.
The door flew wide, slamming into a black van parked a yard downhill. He climbed out. Lana didn't even try to push open the passenger door. Instead, she slipped across the seats and got out on Blake's side.
"This way," Lana said.
He followed her up the sidewalk. Turning around, she took a few backward steps and smiled at him. The breeze blew her long hair across her face. Returning her smile, Blake felt a pang of regret. Such a shame, he thought. She's so beautiful. He could easily get to like her. But how could he like a cold-blooded terrorist?
"She's a snake," Decker had said.
She didn't look at all like a snake.
But Blake had a job to do. He would do it, no matter what she looked like.
He followed her across a walkway to the entrance of the house.
In front of the door, she pushed a button for one of the apartments. "It's Lana," she said into the speaker.
"Who's that with you?" asked a man's rough voice. He must have seen them from a window.
"He's okay. He's one of us. He's someone you know."
"I don't know him," said the voice.
"You know of him," Lana said. "It's all right. Open up."
A buzzer sounded, and Lana pushed the door open. Blake stepped into the foyer behind her. Stopping at the foot of the deserted staircase, he pulled the pistol from under his drab green jacket.
Lana looked at him. She narrowed her eyes. "What's that for?"
"I haven't stayed alive this long by being careless," Blake said. He pressed a button to drop the magazine from the pistol's handle. As the flat, metal container slid down, he felt himself break into a sweat. Had he emptied it at Hunter and McBain? Of course he had. But he hesitated. What if he was wrong? What if a single blank cartridge was still there and Lana saw it? I'm not wrong, he told himself. But he turned away from her, just in case. He dropped the magazine into his hand. It was empty.
He took a fresh magazine from his pocket. This one held live rounds. He slid it into the automatic, and jacked a cartridge into the firing chamber. He made sure the safety was off.
"You're not very trusting," Lana said.
"That's right. How do I know one of your pals isn't really an undercover cop? The Cobra would be a big prize for him. I'm worth more than the rest of your little group put together. He wouldn't mind blowing his cover for a catch like me."
Lana stared into his eyes.
For a moment, Blake felt close to panic. He'd gone too far. He shouldn't have brought up the subject of undercover cops. He shouldn't have planted the thought in her head. But it was too late to call back the words.
"You don't have to worry," Lana said. Her voice trembled slightly. "Come on," she said.
Blake's legs felt weak as he climbed the stairs behind her. The pistol was slippery in his sweaty hand.
Get out of here! he thought. You can't face all of them. They'll be waiting with guns, just in case. Lana will give the word, and it'll be all over.
But he couldn't allow himself to back down. He followed Lana to the top of the stairs, and up to the door of room 2B.
Turning to him, Lana said, "You'd better put the gun away. If you walk in with that in your hand . . ." She shook her head.
"Right," Blake said. He pushed the slim barrel under his belt.
Lana knocked on the door. A moment later, it swung open. He followed her into the apartment. Across the room stood a skinny, long-haired man with an M-16 automatic rifle. The muzzle was aimed at Blake. He pictured himself leaping aside, rolling, drawing his pistol. But before he could act, Lana said, "It's all right, Willie. Put down the gun. Meet the Cobra."
Willie looked amazed. He lowered the rifle and propped it against the wall. "The Cobra?" he asked.
Irma Getz looked up at him from a card table where she was playing chess with a strong-looking bearded man.
The door slammed shut behind Blake. He turned around and looked into the eyes of Blitzer Hogan. Blitzer pushed his revolver into his shoulder holster. "You're the Cobra?" he asked.
Lana answered for Blake. "He's got the Walther with the snake. Show him," she told Blake.
It could be a trick to disarm him, he thought. But this wasn't the right time to try to take them. They were too spread out, and too close to their weapons. He decided to play along. He pulled the pistol from his belt and handed it to Blitzer.