“Yes.”
“Where’s Coughlan?”
“On his way to boot camp.”
“He’s too goddamn old to be drafted.”
“So are you,” said Riley, “but you’ll get used to it if you live long enough.”
Jones looked from Riley to Finn, then back to Riley. Abruptly, he laughed. “I almost hope
you’re telling the truth. Be worth it to see that loudmouth sonofabitch Coughlan sweat out a
forced march.” He turned to Finn. “You’ll get the reports as soon as I do. Anything else you
want?”
“There will be men out to go over what you removed from the truck. Don’t get in their way.
Cordon off this block. Call back everyone who was at the scene, but keep them out of my way
Page 86
until I want them.”
“Everyone’s still here but the coroner and his men.”
“Get them back here.”
“You want the four bodies, too?” asked the chief of detectives sarcastically.
“That’s up to the lab. But the live ones have to be checked for… poison.”
Jones turned and walked toward the men who had been waiting beyond the truck. One of those
men ignored the detective and walked toward Riley and Finn. The man moved with a hesitation
that was just short of a limp. Riley took one look and swore under his breath.
“We got trouble,” said Riley. “That guy is Hecht, a reporter. This is what he’s been dreaming of
– war and hell and all the things he’d love to write about. He won’t cooperate. Count on it.”
Finn studied the approaching reporter. He was Riley’s age or younger. As though the reporter
sensed the scrutiny, his limp became more pronounced, a visible explanation of why he was
carrying a notebook rather than an Army rifle.
“Leave him to me,” said Finn. “Take the counter and go stand by that fence.”
Riley casually walked away, then turned and leaned on the sheetmetal fence that separated piles
of rusting auto bodies from the cracked sidewalk. He strained to hear what was being said, but
all he could hear was a dog sniffing on the opposite side of the fence.
The dog sensed Riley’s presence, but made no noise. Nor did the animal walk away. It stood
silently, poised, waiting for Riley to go over the fence or down the street. Somehow, Riley was
reminded of Finn.
Riley looked up as the reporter turned suddenly and limped away, as though he wanted to put as
much distance as possible between himself and the man called Finn. Riley waited for a moment
longer, then walked back to the truck.
Behind the metal fence, the dog snarled.
Moscow
4 Hours 41 Minutes After Trinity
Lavrenti Beria’s dark, narrow eyes neither blinked nor shifted from the speaker’s nervous face.
“Read it again,” said Beria, flicking his fingernail against the edge of his desk. “Slowly, this
time.”
The assistant risked a quick throat-clearing before he began to read from the cable in his hands.
To be Comrade Beria’s most confidential assistant was both an honor and a trial. Beria’s scrutiny
could be dangerous. The head of the Commissariat of Internal Affairs was known for abrupt and
irrevocable decisions.
“Proceed,” said Beria.
“Yes, comrade. ‘To the Commissariat of Soviet Fisheries: Encountered stormy weather while
transferring cargo at sea. First mate swept overboard, almost certainly dead. Hired crew gone.
Cargo lost. Am pursuing promising methods of salvage, but require an experienced, trustworthy
crew. Repeat. Trustworthy.’” The assistant cleared his throat again. “It’s signed ‘V,’ comrade.”
Beria stared at the floor for several minutes, as though he could see halfway around the world.
His fingernail tapped in counterpoint to his thoughts. At least Vanessa had followed orders and
avoided contacting any Russian agents in San Francisco. This was a secret operation. Only Beria
himself knew the extent and necessity of that secrecy.
Cargo lost.
The fingernail hesitated, then resumed its rhythmic tapping. If only he could be sure that the
U-235 would stay lost… but that was impossible. As long as the uranium was within American
reach, the future of Soviet Russia was written on an atomic cloud.
If Russia had the uranium, however, it was America whose future was written in radioactivity.
America would foolishly commit more and more of her men and wealth to Japan’s conquest.
When the fighting was at its height and all of America’s strength was locked in final battle with
the Emperor’s foolish pawns, a Russian plane would fly over Japan. Or London, Or
Page 87
Washington, D.C.
Then a second sun would rise. A Russian sun.
Russia had every drawing of importance, every schematic, every design made at Los Alamos.
Even so, the plutonium bomb, with its intricate spherical wrapper of sixty-four lens-shaped
explosive charges and millionth-second timers, was beyond Russia’s engineering capabilities.
But the uranium bomb was not. Russia would not even have to worry about such sophisticated
items as proximity fuses. All that was required was a simple casing and a suicide crew to
detonate the bomb a few hundred feet above the ground.
The possibilities were limited only by the detail of the missing uranium – and Stalin’s refusal to
recognize the atomic bomb as the most revolutionary political tool since the musket.
“Direct V to the nearest secure radio,” said Beria calmly. “Tell V not to trust anyone in that cell.
Those agents are fit only to count ships passing. I’ll send one good man, usual recognition
signals.”
Beria hesitated. He wanted to send more for Vanessa, much more, but could not do so secretly.
Even as much as he had done so far would cost him his life if Stalin found out. The Great Leader
had given no orders to steal uranium. He did not even know it had been attempted. Only Beria
was the right combination of visionary and opportunist and strategist to appreciate the awesome
political potential of the atomic bomb. Stalin’s usually acute grasp of global politics had been
blunted by the parochial necessities of governing a Russia at war.
Once the bomb had been presented to Russia as a fait accompli, Stalin would accept and reward
his loyal comrade, Lavrenti Beria. Until then, Beria’s actions invited misunderstanding.
Beria’s nail tapped the desk four times in rapid succession. He still wished he could send
Vanessa every Russian agent in the United States, but he would be dead or in exile before she
could put them to use.
The fingernail descended to the polished desk a final time.
“Notify me immediately of any further communications from V,” said Beria, dismissing his
assistant with a motion of his finger.
Oakland
4 Hours 46 Minutes After Trinity
Finn turned off the radiation counter and walked back up the street from the spot where the
fourth body had been found. If the dead man had carried the uranium, it was gone now. The
counter had picked up residual radiation where the body had been, but nothing more.
“Okay, Detective,” said Finn, coming up to Jones. “Let’s go over it again.”
Jones arranged weapons and labeled bags on the hood of a squad car as he spoke. “When I got
here, there was a DB down the road. Male Mexican, about thirty, powerful arms. This knife,”
Jones indicated a short-bladed sheath knife, “was near him. This bag has the contents of his
pockets. No wallet. No ID, just matches, cigarets and money.”
“Mexican or American?”
“Mexican all the way. He smoked Dóminos. His dead pal in the van smoked some other greaser
brand.”
Finn sorted the contents of the bag on the car’s hood. The matches were from the Green Parrot.
He thought immediately of Refugio, but dismissed it. Refugio’s eyebrows, not his arms, were his
most outstanding characteristic.
“How did he die?”
“Bullet wounds in the face and chest.”
“How about the van?”
Jones shifted a narrow cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Well, the dead Chink was
in the back, stuffed in a laundry bag.”
Riley looked up at Finn, remembering what he had said earlier about the driver either being
bought or killed.
Page 88
“Funny thing about the Chink,” Jones continued. “If his shirt hadn’t been off, we’d still be
looking for what killed him. The wound wasn’t as wide as my finger. Not a drop of blood.
Whoever did it was a pro.”
Finn looked in the bag holding the Chinese driver’s possessions. He riffled through the wallet,
finding the paper residue of a life spent obeying white law in public and tong law in private.
Nothing for Finn to use. It was the same for the bag holding more Mexican cigarets and Green
Parrot match books.
“Shot through the eye,” said Jones before Finn could ask about the second Mexican. “Fell just in
back of the front seat.”
Finn nodded. He had seen the puddle of blood. He had also seen blood sprayed across the
inside of the windshield, the passenger side and down both sides of the seat. As one cop had
pointed out, they had had their own little war in the van.
“You said four bodies,” Finn said, looking for another bag of personal effects.
“Nothing in the fourth guy’s pockets but lint – and not much of that. Not even labels.”
“Describe him,” demanded Finn quickly. It would be like Masarek to leave no trace of his
identity, not even labels in his clothes.
Detective Jones shrugged. “Male, over thirty.”
“That’s not much help,” said Riley.
Jones took out his cigar and blew on its smoldering tip. “Ever seen a razor wire, son?”
“Huh?” said Riley.
“Well, this wire job was bungled,” said Jones. “Victim got a hand under the wire before it
closed. Between the blood and the usual eye-popping, his own mother wouldn’t know him.”
Riley made an odd sound as he swallowed.
“Hair color?” Finn asked calmly.
“Dark. Might have been gray at the temples. Kinda hard to tell, what with all the mess.” Jones
shot a quick glance at Riley. “You know, when you put the kind of pressure on a man’s artery,
not only does the face turn purple and the eyes bug out, but – “
“I’ll bet,” said Riley loudly, cutting across the details of death, “that you get a boot out of
putting razor blades in trick-or-treat apples.”
Detective Jones laughed, not at all offended. “Kid, the first thing you learn as a homicide dick is
that corpses stink, blood washes off and lunchtime comes at noon.”
“ ‘Dead is pretty much dead,’” quoted Finn. “Right, Riley?”
“Yeah. Right.”
Finn turned away and walked back to the van, with both men following.
The air inside still smelled of cordite. That told him nothing new; the cordite was
American-made and blood was the same the world over.
Only the uranium was unique, and it was gone.
“The way I figure it,” said Jones, leaning into the front seat of the van next to Finn, “is that the
guy with the wire and his pal stood behind the front seat, dropped the wire around the
passenger, and – “Jones made a juicy, descriptive sound.
“The passenger stays kicking long enough to do for the pal – bang bang – but can’t get to the
guy pulling on the wire.”
Finn’s glance raked over the truck, re-creating the scene in his mind. “The driver was shot by the
passenger before the wire dropped,” said Finn. He pointed to a veneer of blood on the driver’s
side that clearly showed the imprint of a seated man. There was a bright streak where a bullet
had stripped paint off the driver’s door. “Went through the thigh, probably.”
“Nope. None of the DBs had leg wounds. Every other damn thing but that. I checked.”
“Then the driver limped away,” said Finn reasonably.
“Doubt it. None of the guards saw him. And guys were looking, believe me.” Jones jerked his
thumb over his shoulder at the two gray-haired factory guards who were still talking to the
uniformed officers. “This was the most exciting thing they’d ever seen.”
Page 89
Finn stared at Jones in disbelief. “Between them, those two guys are about one hundred and
thirty. On a foggy night, I could steal their goddamn factory piece by piece and they wouldn’t
see a thing. Put out an APB for a male with a leg wound.”
As Jones walked off, Finn opened a large bag and began sorting through the weapons. There
were knives, handguns and beneath them a sawed-off shotgun with silver inlays in the stock. Finn
pulled it out of the bag.
“Salvador,” murdered Finn. “ Refugio.”
“Gesundheit,” said Riley.
Finn looked up, almost smiled. “Salvador Leon is a Mexicali thug with a reputation for murder.
He carries an escopeta like this and works for a crook called Refugio.”
“Can’t be too many like it.” said Riley, looking at the gaudy gun. “Looks like whore’s
Christmas.”
This time Finn smiled. “It kills just as dead as the plain models.” Finn sniffed the barrel. “Hasn’t
been fired today.”
Riley peered into the bag and removed a pistol with a silencer attached. “That explains it.”
Finn looked up. “Explains what?”
“The guards only heard a few shots, but from what the cops said, a lot of lead must have been
flying.”
“Of course,” said Finn matter-of-factly. “That’s why no one at Hunters Point heard the sentry
die.”
Riley put down the gun and went toward the back doors of the van. As he reached for the
handles, Finn spoke.
“Don’t.”
Finn’s voice was flat, yet somehow urgent. Responding to the tone as much as to the command
itself, Riley let go of the handles and stepped back quickly.
“What’s wrong?” complained Riley. “You said there’s nothing in there but blood.”
“Stay away from the back end of the truck,” Finn said. “Do your sightseeing from the front, and
don’t be too long about it.”
With a motion that was becoming second nature, Finn turned on the radiation counter and
walked around to the back of the truck. The clicks increased in volume and frequency as he
approached the point where Riley stood. Hastily, Riley stepped aside. The clicks did not
diminish with his absence. By the time Finn was at the back doors, he had had to recalibrate
twice. The radiation was still within safety limits, but Finn knew when he opened the door the
counter would scream.
He moved the counter slowly across the back of the van. The radiation was highest at the center
of the bumper, where blood had dripped from the van floor onto the chrome, as though the
surviving thief had set down the two pieces of metal, slid out of the truck, and then pulled the
uranium after him.
Finn was accustomed to the counter now. He found it helpful, so long as he remembered to rely
on it and not the eyes to trace the invisible patterns of radiation that he knew were present. He
