walked slowly to the dish, her every movement telling Finn that she could live very well without
him. The milk was like Finn, nice, but not necessary to her survival.
“That’s right, cat,” he said softly. “No guarantees.”
Jacame
50 Hours Before Trinity
Refugio drove without lights through the dry desert night as though it were noon. Drops of
Page 31
sweat gathered in his enormous black eyebrows like rain in a raven’s wings. That was the only
outward sign of the strength and concentration required to hold the rocketing Cadillac on the
narrow dirt road. Refugio dominated the car with a combination of drama and ruthlessness that
was uniquely Mexican.
Vanessa Lyons braced herself in the back seat, trying not to be shaken loose by each bump, each
rut, each lunge and swoop of the heavy car. She assumed that Refugio was indulging in the
strutting maleness she detested in all Latin cultures. She glanced at Masarek, silent in the front
seat. He balanced against the careening car with the cold self-control that was his trademark.
Vanessa started to speak, then decided not to. Her orders had been clear. All speed. Although
her orders were now nothing more than ashes flushed into the sewer, their urgency remained.
They had flown from Juarez to Mexicali and now were rushing toward the place where they
could safely cross into the United States.
Refugio glanced in the rearview mirror, attracted by the movement of Vanessa’s head.
Moonlight made her gold hair shimmer as though it were burning. Her eyes were the dense blue
of expensive English china.
And she was watching him.
Refugio’s black eyes shifted to the passenger in the front seat, the man called Masarek.
Contained, quiet, Masarek would have made a good smuggler or soldier or assassin. Refugio
suspected that Masarek had been all three. Though his hairline had retreated into gray and his
face showed the first inroads of age, Masarek moved with the ease of men half his years.
The car’s metal joints rattled and groaned over a straight segment of road that had attained the
washboard surface common to unpaved desert tracks. Gradually the car slowed until its
roostertail of dust no longer leaped toward the white moon.
“Is something wrong?” asked Vanessa, using the breathy voice she affected when she wanted
men to underestimate her.
“Do not worry, chica,” said Refugio, smiling and turning toward her to show teeth that were
hard and white. When he spoke English, his light accent gave his words a deceptively gentle
edge. “I drive slow now for the same reason I drove without lights. We are close to Jacame. The
American border patrol knows that Jacame is a poor place. Only smugglers have money for
cars. Bueno. We do not show our lights.”
Vanessa looked out the window, but saw nothing. Then she noticed the tiny brillance of lights
scattered in the distance like fallen stars.
“Is that it?” she asked.
Refugio chuckled. “No, chica. That is Jacumba, on the gringo side. The Mexicans in Jacame have
no electricity. What do smugglers need with light?”
“Are you sure the Americans don’t know about your route?” asked Vanessa, skepticism clear in
spite of her husky voice.
Refugio shrugged. “If they knew my route, they would put me in one of their grand calabozos
with hot and cold water and never let me out. They want me very much.”
“Then why don’t they shoot you?” asked Masarek in a colorless voice.
Refugio glanced at the other man. “That’s what you would do, no?” He laughed. “That’s what I
would do, too. But the gringos won’t shoot me because that would be against their rules.” He
looked at Vanessa in the rearview mirror. “It is a foolish idea they took from your country, no?”
Vanessa agreed, but did not answer, irritated to find that she agreed with Refugio about
anything that smacked of politics. One of the things that had driven her first to Fabian socialism,
then to Marxism and finally to radical communism, was the British male’s insistence on living –
and often losing – by arcane rules of chivalry.
Refugio laughed again, the full-bellied laugh of real amusement. “So the Americans have nice
rules and I have nice pleasure breaking them. They will never catch me because I am a man, not a
gentleman.”
Vanessa stared out the window, ignoring Refugio. “How far are we from the border?”
Page 32
“That way,” said Refugio, gesturing widely to her right, “Perhaps a kilometer. But from my
house, much less.”
The car bounced off the dirt road onto something that was little better than a goat path. Ahead
of the straining car, an amorphous black blot resolved into a cluster of small, worn houses.
Whether through neglect or design, the windows of the houses were so dirty as to almost
obscure the lantern light burning within.
A pack of rough-coated dogs burst from the direction of the houses. Lean, half-starved, the
dogs raced toward the Cadillac as though it were their natural prey.
Refugio neither slowed nor turned aside. He aimed the car into the center of the pack. At the
last second the dogs scattered to either side, snapping at tires before giving up and trotting back
toward the houses.
The buildings were scattered in a random arrangement dictated by the rumpled nature of the
land. What once might have been a town square was now the final refuge for a canted,
three-wheeled wagon and the rusty remains of cars that had no wheels at all. Dirt and sand crept
up the sides of the vehicles, engulfing them silently, blurring the boundary between artifact and
desert, past and present. Just beyond, almost hidden by the wreckage, was the communal well. It
was circled by a low stone wall and roofed by a ragged wooden structure. When the car bounced
by, doves fled into the night, cooing their distress in liquid tones.
The car skidded to a stop in a turbulent cloud of grit that was swirled away by the pre-dawn
wind. Refugio got out, stretched, and walked to meet the two men who were approaching from
separate directions. Like those men, Refugio was just over medium height, black-haired, with
brown skin and ebony eyes. Unlike him, the men were bent by poverty.
“Buenas noches, don Refugio,” said the first man. Then like an echo, the second man said
exactly the same words. “Buenas noches, don Refugio.”
Both men moved toward Refugio with the subtle stiffness that came from a combination of
grinding labor, indifferent health and growing age. They wore the loose white cotton pants and
camisa of the Mexican peon, and greeted Refugio with the deference of vassal to lord.
“Buenas noches, Jorge. Cómo estas?” said Refugio. “Juanito,” he said, recognizing the other
man. “Cómo estas?”
In low, rapid Spanish, Refugio gave orders. Then he turned his shoulders against a gust of dry,
dirty wind and walked back to the car. He noticed Vanessa’s window had been rolled down and
knew she had been listening. He wondered how much she had heard, and how much she had
understood. Earlier that night he had spoken Spanish within her hearing, describing in moist
detail his seduction of a young girl. Not once had Vanessa’s expression revealed that she
understood the language.
“Come, Se?or Masarek,” Refugio said. “You will see that my house is as I told you.”
Even before Masarek was out of the car, Vanessa was standing in the cool, dry wind.
Refugio saw Vanessa walking toward him, her slim silk-sheathed legs silver beneath a loose blue
skin that rose with every breath of wind. Refugio started to object, then shrugged. Apparently
Masarek did not mind parading his fine-boned bitch in front of hungry dogs.
Refugio led the way to Jorge’s house. Without knocking, he pushed open the door and walked
in. Vanessa and Masarek entered, followed closely by Jorge and Juan. The Mexicans could hardly
take their eyes from the delicate curve of Vanessa’s legs. In such a setting, she was like a stroke of
lightning – unexpected, brilliant, dangerous.
The house smelled of kerosene and chile peppers. A small lamp with a cracked chimney sat on a
heavy wood table in the middle of the room. The lamp’s wick was so short that the flame barely
illuminated the dark center of the room, leaving deep shadows all around. Masarek scanned the
circling darkness. Eyes stared back, watching him unblinkingly.
Refugio lifted the kerosene lamp off the table. Shadows drained like dark water from the
impassive face of a fat woman and the bunched, curious faces of her children. Their eyes
glittered, following the lamp in Refugio’s hand. Jorge and Juan moved to opposite sides of the
Page 33
thick oak table, then lifted it aside with a precision that suggested long practice.
“You will see,” said Refugio. “Below this floor is a shaft, then a tunnel that goes to the American
side. The tunnel is not large. It is good only for moving people and small things such as opium.
But you have told me that what you want moved is smaller than a man, no?”
Without waiting for an answer, Refugio made a curt motion. Jorge bent and pulled aside the rug.
Beneath the rug the faint outline of a trapdoor was revealed by the dim kerosene light. Moving
quickly, Juan opened the trapdoor and Jorge lowered himself into the darkness. A second lamp
flared below, dispelling the absolute black of the shaft. A ladder suddenly poked up into the
room.
“The se?orita will wait here,” said Refugio.
As though she had not heard, Vanessa walked toward the ladder, grasped its splintery sides and
started down. Refugio gave Masarek a quick, probing look, but the East European seemed
indifferent to Vanessa’s show of independence.
Vanessa vanished, descending with quick, precise steps until she came face to face with a leering
Jorge. He had stood below, watching her descent with singular attention.
“You are a swine,” said Vanessa in Russian. “An eater of shit.”
Jorge smiled and nodded, responding to the intimate tone rather than the incomprehensible
language.
“Your betters are dying in Russia right now,” continued Vanessa, “dying so that your miserably
begotten children won’t be slaves of class oppression. But you don’t care about that, do you?
Like all peasants, you only care about your gut and your balls. You belong to the decadent past.
You are as stupid as you are ugly. You disgust me. Swine.”
Vanessa smiled while she whispered the final word. Then she stepped aside, making room for
Masarek, who was quickly followed by Refugio. The Mexican moved easily, almost carelessly,
holding the lamp. The ladder and tunnel were as familiar to him as the gold rings he wore on
both hands.
Masarek moved differently in the depths of the tunnel, as though his body were tightly coiled
against a lurking danger. The lantern light revealed faint lines on his face, traces of an emotion
Vanessa recognized but never before had associated with the assassin – fear. It was the first flaw
she had found in Masarek’s seamless competence.
Holding the kerosene lamp high, Refugio slowly moved his arm until every curve of the circular
chamber was revealed. The walls of the tiny room were rough, composed of an aggregate that
looked as unstable as the gravel it once had been, when the desert was the bottom of an ancient
sea. Compressed by the passage of eons, stones and dirt had combined.
The walls of the chamber were not shored, except in one spot where a softness in the aggregate
had spilled several cubic yards of material onto the floor. Walls, ceiling and floor were a uniform
sand color that turned to gold in the lantern light.
“It is just as I told you, no?” said Refugio when he had finished lighting every corner of the small
anteroom at the head of the tunnel. “See?”
“I see a little dirt room and what could be the opening of a tunnel over there,” said Masarek,
gesturing contemptuously toward the opposite side of the chamber. “I have only your word that
the tunnel – if that is a tunnel – goes anywhere.”
“Come then, I will show you.” Refugio smiled cruelly, for he had seen Masarek’s instant of fear.
“The tunnel was dug by Chinese to smuggle other Chinese. They are not a big people, se?or, as
you will find out when you use their tunnel. The walls come in very close.”
Refugio laughed silently, and the sweat in his massive eyebrows winked as though sharing the
joke. As Masarek turned toward the tunnel, he decided that when the smuggler’s usefulness was
done, he would teach Refugio the meaning of terror. And then Refugio would die.
Imperial General HQ
Tokyo
50 Hours Before Trinity
Page 34
(Excerpts from radio log of American Intelligence Section of Imperial Army Intelligence.
Decoded.)
AMERICANS SOON WILL TEST NEW WEAPON IN DESERT NORTH OF
ALAMOGORDO, NEW MEXICO. NATURE OF WEAPON STILL UNKNOWN. IT IS
SMALL ENOUGH TO BE CARRIED BY ONE MAN, YET POWERFUL (OR
UNPREDICTABLE) ENOUGH TO REQUIRE A DISTANCE OF SEVERAL MILES
BETWEEN OBSERVERS AND TEST.
ANOTHER WEAPON SOON TO BE SHIPPED FROM LOS ALAMOS TO SAN
FRANCISCO. FROM THERE, IT MUST BE ASSUMED THE WEAPON WILL BE PUT
INTO USE AGAINST JAPAN.
RUSSIAN SPY PLANS TO STEAL WEAPON IN SAN FRANCISCO. I WILL GO THERE
AND STEAL WEAPON FROM HIM. KESTREL
(Reply. Decoded.)
ANY WEAPON SMALL ENOUGH FOR ONE MAN TO CARRY CAN’T AFFECT
JAPAN’S IMMEDIATE FUTURE AND THEREFORE IS NOT TO BE FEARED. THERE
MUST BE TWO DIFFERENT WEAPONS.
REMAIN IN JUAREZ AND DETERMINE THE NATURE OF WEAPON TO BE
TESTED IN THE DESERT. MAJ. GEN. ARISUE
(Reply. Decoded.)
ANY WEAPON THAT SETS ALLIES AGAINST EACH OTHER MUST BE
ENORMOUSLY VALUABLE TO AN ENEMY. URGENTLY REQUEST PERMISSION
TO FOLLOW RUSSIAN TO SAN FRANCISCO. KESTREL
(Reply. Decoded.)
REQUEST UNDER CONSIDERATION. MAJ. GEN. ARISUE
Beneath Mexican-American Border
49 Hours Before Trinity
Once, half-revealed by a swinging yellow light, they saw Buddha staring from a wall niche, his
dust-covered eyes contemplating far more distant borders than the one the tunnel had been built
to circumvent.
“The Chinese,” said Refugio as he passed the niche, “built this tunnel with the skills they learned
on gringo railroad crews, and then they used this tunnel to smuggle thousands of Chinese into
the United States.”
“My father’s uncle,” Refugio said, “married the only child of the man who owned the houses on
both sides of the border, and the tunnel between. She was Chinese, but our family wanted the
tunnel very badly. She died soon and he married a good Mexican girl. The tunnel is ours now, as
