Free Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River by Dane Hartman

little of it remained to him, was going gray at the temples. His eyes were a strange blue color, like the sky at twilight. His lips were tight, as though it was an effort for him to resist smiling.
    At the foot of the stairs he stopped and looked up the block. Almost instantaneously a limousine drew up alongside him. Turning to Kilborn, the man with the umbrella said a few words, shook his hand, then got into the waiting car.
    Kilborn watched it drive off with a certain hopelessness, probably resentful that he too hadn’t been invited for a ride in such a wonderful and expensive vehicle.
    Harry was well out of sight, but Kilborn never once looked across the street. Instead, with a certain weariness to his step, he began to walk back to his car. He seemed to have all the time in the world, which led Harry to assume that his business in San Francisco was over.
    Harry prepared to follow him mainly because there was no telling what trouble Kilborn could get himself in before the day was out.
    Harry didn’t get very far though. Just ahead of him a man in a cashmere coat was approaching. Across the street was another man, in a London Fog, and he was approaching too. Aside from the difference in their coats, the two men could have been twins. Both were in their mid-thirties, and both wore earnest expressions that attested to the seriousness of their purpose.
    Their purpose, Harry quickly deduced, was him.
    Their pace increased. The man facing him addressed him now.
    “Drug Enforcement Agency,” he said, holding up what Harry supposed must be his ID. It was difficult to know for certain at this distance. The other man in the London Fog didn’t bother to bring his credentials into view. He held a gun instead, very discreetly so as not to alarm the passers-by on Beach Street who were oblivious to the developing confrontation.
    If these men truly were with the DEA, that meant big trouble. Extraordinary trouble even. This pair took their orders not from San Francisco, not from Sacramento, but Washington, D.C.
    The two were drawing closer to him. They moved with some hesitancy, Harry noticed, probably because they knew Harry’s reputation and were unsure how he was going to react. That was the one thing Harry had in common with them; he wasn’t sure of them either.
    Harry affected a nonchalant attitude at first. “I am afraid you’ve made some mistake. Far as I know I haven’t violated any drug laws.”
    At the same time, he was thinking: This Kilborn character has unbelievable connections.
    “That is not our determination to make,” the first one said.
    “Then why the gun?”
    “It’s just a precaution, Mr. Callahan. We want to be certain you will cooperate with us.”
    “That translates how?”
    “We would like you to accompany us.”
    “You wouldn’t want to tell me where, would you?”
    The DEA officer shook his head.
    “I didn’t think so. Is there any charge against me? Specifically?”
    “Obstructing a government investigation. Specifically.”
    “Obstructing an investigation. Now which investigation would that be?”
    The gentlemen from the DEA were not disposed to going into detail. Harry had not expected they would be.
    Judging the situation, Harry reasoned that he still had the advantage in spite of the fact that a gun was trained on him. It was unlikely that the man in the London Fog would fire it without extreme provocation. If someone wanted him killed he would not have chosen to arrange the execution in so public a forum. The murderers might be identified by witnesses.
    And there would be witnesses. An entire tour group, in fact, was beginning to march down the block in the direction of Fisherman’s Wharf. A garrulous pink-faced man in a brightly checkered jacket was leading the way, “Originally Fisherman’s Wharf was known as Meigg’s Wharf,” he was saying in a loud voice, “but it derives its present name from all those fishermen who made their living from the Pacific. First came the Genoese