Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第10部分

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Masarek　lit　another　cigaret；　frowning　around　the　smoke　stinging　his　eyes。　“If　the　comrade’s
information　is　good…。”He　shrugged。　“One　guard。　Can　we　trust　the　information？”
“The　comrade　was　sure。　He　said；　‘It’s　a　naval　base　What　the　hell　do　they　need　guards　for？’　“
Masarek　grunted。　“Just　like　an　intellectual。　He　thinks　because　they　are　at　war　and　wear　uniforms
they　are　soldiers。　Fool。”
Vanessa　took　Masarek’s　cigaret；　drew　a　deep　breath　and　returned　the　cigaret　to　him。　“At　least
he’s　a　well…briefed　fool。　Someone　from　the　lab　will　inspect　the？Bronx　shipment　at　midnight。　The
uranium　will　be　stored　in　Delta　warehouse　on　the　southeastern　side　of　the　base。　The　shipment
will　be　inspected　again　at　0700　of　the　16th；　after　it’s　loaded　aboard　the　Indianapolis。　That　gives
us　seven　hours　to　steal　the　uranium。”
“Why　are　they　inspecting　this　shipment　so　often　if　they　don’t　want　to　call　attention　to　it？”　asked
Masarek。
The　question　surprised　Vanessa。　She　understood　that　radioactive　materials　could　be　dangerous；
but　she　had　seen　no　need　to　explain　that　to　Masarek。　So　long　as　he　followed　her　orders；　there
was　no　need　for　him　to　worry。
“He　didn’t　say　why。”　Vanessa　paused；　then　added；　“If　it　were　important；　he　would　have　told
us。”
Masarek　cocked　his　head　as　though　listening　to　what　Vanessa　had　not　said　as　well　as　what　she
had。　Then　he　shrugged；　pulled　hard　on　the　cigaret；　and　muttered；　“I　don’t　like　depending　on
intellectuals。”
“They　don’t　allow　assassins　or　even　ordinary　communists　at　the　Radiation　Laboratory；”　Vanessa
Page　47
remarked。　“The　Americans　are　narrow…minded　about　some　things。”
“And　stupid　about　others；　it　seems。　But　they　did　well　enough　against　the　Germans。”
“Only　after　one　million　Russians　died　at　Stalingrad。　Only　then　did　the　pig　shit　Americans　think　it
was　safe　to　open　the　Second　Front。　Do　they　think　that　Russians　died　so　that　Americans　could
rule　the　world？”　Vanessa’s　laugh　was　humorless。　“Tokyo　will　be　the　Americans’　Stalingrad。
Stealing　the　Bronx　shipment　will　be　the　same　as　killing　one　million　American　soldiers！”
Across　the　room；　Refugio　and　two　of　his　men　began　talking　in　Spanish。　Masarek　watched　them
for　a　moment　before　he　turned　back　to　Vanessa。
“When　do　you　want　me　to　kill　Refugio？”
“He’ll　try　to　kill　us　in　the　tunnel；”　said　Vanessa；　“or　at　least　to　hold　us　up　for　more　money。”
“Of　course。　So　when　do　you　want　him　dead？　I　could　kill　him　now；　I　suppose；　since　there　is　only
one　guard。”
“No。　Later。　After　we　steal　the　uranium。”
Masarek　nodded。　“The　transfer　point　would　be　best；”　he　said。　“I’ll　kill　the　Mexicans　when　we
change　vehicles　in　Oakland。　Then　we’ll　drive　to　the　tunnel；　cross　back　into　Mexico　and　have　the
uranium　on　the　first　ship　to　Russia。　Very　simple。”
“Refugio　is　not　as　simple　as　he　looks。”
Masarek　dropped　his　cigaret　onto　the　rug；　then　ground　out　the　ember　with　a　casual　twist　of　his
heel。
“I’ve　killed　many　like　him。　Cunning；　but　they　die　just　the　same。”　He　saw　Vanessa’s　sideways　look
at　Refugio。　The　Mexican　saw　it　also；　his　smile　was　as　insulting　as　a　hand　beneath　her　skirt。　“You
would　like　to　kill　him　yourself？”　suggested　Masarek。
“I　would　like；”　said　Vanessa；　“to　put　a　bullet　through　his　thick　black　peasant　hair　into　the　base
of　his　skull。”
Masarek　smiled　slightly。　“I　give　him　to　you。”
“What　about　his　men？”
Masarek　yawned。　“They’ll　be　dead　before　you　pull　the　trigger。”
Vanessa　smiled　and　put　her　hand　on　Masarek’s　cheek　where　the　curve　of　his　jaw　met　his　hairline。
“Be　sure　it’s　Refugio　who　opens　the　car　door　in　Oakland。　I’d　hate　to　kill　you　by　mistake。”
West　of　Trinity
4　Hours　40　Minutes　Before　Trinity
Lightning　raked　the　cloud　tops　and　the　desert　below。　Thunder　belled　so　close　that　it
overpowered　the　sound　made　by　the　C…46’s　laboring　engines。　Rain　fell　as　though　to　make　up　for
a　thousand　years　of　drought；　the　drops　made　a　continuous　drumming　sound。　The　plane　bucked
and　sideslipped　in　a　pocket　of　treacherous　air。
Finn　braced　himself　in　the　fold…down　seat　behind　the　copilot。　The　pilot　swore　in　a　monotone
and　fought　to　keep　the　plane　under　control。　Lightning　burst　in　a　sheet　of　incandescence　that
arched　from　horizon　to　horizon。　In　the　instant　before　Finn’s　eyes　reflexively　closed；　he　saw
separate　drops　of　sweat　stand　out　on　the　copilot’s　forehead。　Thunder　exploded　around　the
plane；　shaking　them　like　dice　in　a　cup。
“　–　of　a　bitch！”　The　copilot’s　yell　emerged　from　the　fading　thunder。　“You　won’t　be　able　to　see
anything　in　this　shit！”
The　radio　crackled　loudly。　Earlier；　the　copilot　had　turned　the　volume　on　full；　it　was　the　only　way
of　hearing　an　incoming　message。　Each　time　lightning　split　the　night；　the　radio　went　wild　with　a
blast　of　sound　that　reminded　Finn　of　the　radiation　counter　stowed　beneath　his　feet。
“…　me？　Over。”　The　radio’s　voice　was　thin；　as　though　it　had　been　pounded　flat　by　thunder。
The　copilot　switched　the　radio　to　transmit。　“This　is　Blue　One；”　he　shouted　into　the　mike。
“Repeat　last　message。　Repeat　last　message。　Over。”
“…　is　de…　ceed…　second…　target…　im…med…　you…　me？…”
The　pilot　and　copilot　looked　at　one　another。　The　pilot　shook　his　head。　“One　more　time。”
Page　48
The　copilot　leaned　over　the　mike　and　yelled；　“Blue　One　to　Blue　Three。　Repeat。　Repeat。　Repeat。
Over。”
The　radio　crackled　explosively；　echoing　nearby　lightning。
“…　test　is　delayed。　Proceed　to…　immediately…　read　me？　Over。”
The　copilot　yelled　to　Finn；　“Did　you　get　that？　The　test　is　delayed。　We’re　supposed　to　go　on　to
California。”
Finn　looked　at　his　watch。　Almost　one…thirty。　The　test　had　been　delayed　twice　already；　he　would
be　lucky　to　make　it　to　Hunters　Point　on　time。
“Let’s　go！”　yelled　Finn；　giving　a　thumb’s　up　gesture　just　as　lightning　turned　the　cockpit　white。
The　pilot　banked　steeply　away　from　the　test　site；　climbing　for　the　relative　calm　between　the
squall　lines　that　had　been　sweeping　across　the　desert　from　the　Gulf。　As　the　copilot　yelled　his
understanding　of　the　new　orders　into　the　radio；　Finn　checked　the　black　radiation　counter
between　his　feet。　It　was　intact。
Thunder　rattled　the　plane；　making　his　teeth　ache。　He　settled　himself　in　for　a　long；　unpleasant
flight。
San　Francisco；　California
1　Hour　12　Minutes　Before　Trinity
Chill　and　wild；　the　wind　off　San　Francisco　Bay　gusted　down　streets　darkened　by　wartime；
rattling　windows　where　shards　of　light　glinted　between　blackout　curtains。　Some　windows　had
not　been　covered　at　all；　showing　light　like　great　blind　eyes。　The　seamless　coastal　midnight　of
1941　had　given　way　to　complacency　as　people　shed　the　inconveniences　of　a　war　they　believed
they　had　already　won。
Unnoticed　by　anyone；　San　Francisco　had　gradually　returned　to　being　a　civilian　city。　Bakery
trucks；　laundry　trucks；　cabs；　meat　trucks；　garbage　trucks；　buses；　pimps；　whores；　cops　and　thieves
competed　for　space　on　the　city　streets。
Among　the　delivery　vehicles　moving　over　streets　glistening　with　a　condensed　fog　was　a　pale
laundry　truck　with　Chinese　ideographs　and　a　small　number　7　on　the　door。　The　truck　pulled　up　in
the　alley　behind　a　Cantonese　restaurant。　The　driver　stretched　and　slowly　got　out　to　make　the　last
civilian　stop　on　his　route；　dropping　off　clean　linen　and　picking　up　napkins　smelling　of　ginger　and
soy　sauce。
Masarek　moved　his　head　just　enough　to　watch　the　back　of　the　restaurant。　He　was　so　close　to　the
parked　truck　that　he　could　smell　oil　oozing　out　of　a　leak　in　the　crankcase。
The　driver’s　heels　grated　on　the　broken　surface　of　the　alley。　A　rectangle　of　light　bloomed　at　the
back　of　the　restaurant。
Other　than　narrowing　his　eyes；　Masarek　did　not　move　to　evade　the　light。　He　had　chosen　his
clothes　and　his　cover　well；　light　did　not　separate　him　from　the　surrounding　darkness。
The　driver　and　dishwasher　exchanged　a　few　desultory　Cantonese　obscenities　as　clean　laundry
was　traded　for　dirty。　Masarek　waited；　poised　for　the　moment　when　the　restaurant　door　would
close　and　the　sound　of　deadbolts　slamming　home　would　be　loud　in　the　alley’s　silence。
The　rectangle　of　yellow　light　vanished。　Deadbolts　thumped　into　place。　The　driver　began　closing
the　van’s　rear　doors。
Masarek　flowed　out　of　hiding　with　no　more　sound　than　the　fog。　His　right　hand　covered　the
driver’s　mouth　at　the　exact　instant　that　his　stiletto　slid　between　the　man’s　ribs　and　pierced　his
heart。
Death　was　immediate。　There　was　no　time　for　fear　or　surprise；　escape　or　error。　Masarek　heaved
the　body　on　top　of　tea…stained　tablecloths；　slammed　the　van’s　doors；　and　climbed　into　the
driver’s　seat。　The　laundryman’s　death　had　taken　less　than　three　seconds。
Refugio　was　hidden　where　the　alley　met　the　street。　At　the　sound　of　the　driver’s　door　closing；　he
gathered　himself　for　a　rush　at　the　truck；　certain　that　Masarek　had　somehow　missed　his　quarry。
The　truck　stopped　at　the　head　of　the　alley。　The　door　on　the　right　opened　soundlessly。
Page　49
“Get　in！”
Masarek’s　hissed　command　galvanized　Refugio　and　the　two　men　waiting　with　him。
“In　the　back！”
One　of　Refugio’s　men　tripped　over　the　driver’s　body。
“Madre　de　Dios！　Salvador；”　hissed　Refugio。　“You　are　as　clumsy　as　a　boy　with　his　first　woman！”
Salvador　rolled　off　the　body　with　a　curse；　checking　his　clothes　for　bloodstains。　There　were　none。
The　man　had　died　before　his　heart　could　pump　blood　out　of　the　single　wound　the　stiletto　had
made。
Refugio　and　Salvador　helped　the　third　Mexican；　a　man　named　Lopez；　to　strip　the　corpse　of　its
uniform　shirt。　The　truck　swayed　as　it　turned　onto　the　main　street；　making　the　men’s　work　more
difficult。
“You；”　said　Refugio；　handing　the　shirt　to　Lopez；　the　smallest　of　the　three　men。
Lopez　looked　over　the　shirt。　There　was　a　tiny　stain　on　the　back　where　capillaries　had　oozed　in
the　instant　before　the　driver’s　blood　pressure　had　dropped　to　nothing。　Lopez　looked　from　the
stain　to　the　man　who　had　killed　with　such　precision。
Refugio　followed　the　glance。　He　knew　what　Lopez　was　thinking；　but　Salvador　was　also　quick；
silent　and　deadly。　And　there　would　be　three　to　Masarek’s　one。
“Put　it　on；”　said　Masarek。　“You’ll　drive。”
Lopez　pulled　on　the　shirt。　It　still　carried　the　dead　driver’s　warmth。　Lopez　traded　places　with
Masarek；　who　went　to　the　back　of　the　truck　and　crouched；　gun　in　hand；　watching　everyone。
“Go！”　said　Masarek。　“Quickly！”
Hunters　Points；　California
29　Minutes　Before　Trinity
Evans　Avenue　pointed　like　an　arrow　toward　the　gate　at　Hunters　Point。　Inside　the　mammoth
naval　shipyard；　most　streetlights　and　buildings　were　properly　hooded。　Even　so；　there　were
occasional　islands　of　illumination。　Churned　by　the　wind；　rain　made　ragged　patterns　in　the　light。
At　the　front　gate；　Shore　Patrol　sentries　hunched　inside　their　peacoats　and　cursed　the　wind；　the
military　and　the　bad　luck　that　had　given　them　duty　on　such　a　filthy　night。　They　hardly　interrupted
their　cursing　to　wave　through　routine　traffic　–　food　and　fuel　and　laundry。　The　vehicles　shuttled
back　and　forth；　weaving　Hunters　Point　into　the　fabric　of　civilian　San　Francisco。
The　cream…colored　van　with　Chinese　ideographs　on　the　door　was　just　one　of　many　vehicles　the
sentries　had　seen。　Laundry　trucks　at　Hunters　Point　were　as　common　as　Spam　in　field　rations。
“You　sure　this　is　the　right　truck？”　asked　Lopez　as　he　began　to　slow　for　the　gate。
“It’s　number　seven；”　said　Refugio　in　a　low　voice。　“Now　be　quiet；　fool！”
Lopez　puffed　on　his　cigaret　and　tried　to　ease　the　strain　of　the　too…small　uniform　across　his
shoulders。　His　dark　face　was　lit　by　the　cigaret　glued　to　his　lower　lip。　There　were　premature　lines
at　the　corners　of　his　eyes　from　squinting　against　the　perpetual　upward　curl　of　smoke。　His
nervousness　showed　in　the　deep　red　glow　as　he　sucked　hard　on　the　cigaret。
Masarek　crouched　in　the　back　of　the　truck；　watching。　He　did　not　expect　to　be　challenged　by　the
guards　–　it　was　the　right　truck；　the　right　guards；　and　the　right　night。　No　enlisted　man　would
search　the　truck　that　carried　the　punch…boards　and　betting　slips　for　all　the　illegal　gamblers　in
Hunters　Point。　But　there　was　always　the　chance　of　a　mistake；　a　new　guard　or　a　greedy　guard；　or
an　officer　who　had　decided　to　inspect　the　gate…。
The　Shore　Patrol　waved　through　the　laundry　truck　after　a　single　look　at　the　number　7。　Masarek
relaxed　slightly　as　the　truck　picked　up　speed。　He　would　have　had　a　difficult　time　explaining　the
three　men　hidden　in　the　back　of　the　van；　and　the　dead　man　who　did　not　quite　fit　into　a　laundry
bag。
Once　inside　the　base；　Lopez　killed　the　headlights　and　slid　unobstrusively　into　the　random
movements　of　trucks；　staff　cars　and　occasional　Shore　Patrol　Jeeps。　The　van　rolled　unchallenged
through　the　darkness；　its　tires　sucking　moistly　on　the　wet　roadways。
Page　50
“Second　right；”　said　Masarek　from　the　rear　of　the　van。
Refugio　translated　quickly；　not　wanting　Masarek　to　know　that　Lopez　understood　English。　The
three　men　in　the　back　braced　themselves　as　the　van　turned。　Other　than　clipped　directions　and
translations；　no　one　spoke。　The　only　sound　was　Salvador’s　fingernail　slowly　marking　time　on　the
stock　of　a　sawed…off；　twin…barreled　escopeta　that　lay　across　his　knee。　The　shotgun　looked　small
in　his　thick　hands。　When　he　turned　to　look　at　Refugio；　random　light　picked　out　the　claw…shaped
scar　on　Salvador’s　temple。
“Left。”
Refugio’s　fingertips　traced　and　retraced　the　lines　of　a　silver…plated　。45　caliber　Army　pistol　that
rested　on　his　knee。
“Right。”
Masarek’s　voice　was　thin；　soft　and　precise。　His　head　was　never　still。
“Left。”　Masarek’s　head　turned；　listening。
The　van　swayed；　then　evened　out　as　it　negotiated　the　hard　left　turn。　Now　the　vehicle　was
threading　its　way　through　narrow　alleys　behind　warehouses　and　armories；　alleys　piled　high　with
equipment。　The　supply　line　that　had　been　created　for　the　invasion　of　Japan　had　been　filled
beyond　its　capacity。　Hundreds　of　tons　of　clothing　and　food；　vehicles　and　fuel　drums　spilled　out
of　warehouses。　Field　artillery　pieces；　self…propelled　howitzers　and　other　instruments　of　war
towered　over　the　van。　Like　millions　of　men；　the　supplies　waited　for　a　Presidential　decision。
“Slow　down。”
Refugio’s　translation　was　like　a　garbled　echo。　Lopez　eased　off　the　accelerator；　guiding　the　van
along　ever　more　cluttered　roadways。
“Park　on　the　right。”
Lopez　backed　into　a　spot　behind　a　ten…foot…high　pile　of　crated　gasoline　barrels。　It　was　unlikely
that　the　van　would　be　spotted　there。　Lopez　shut　off　the　engine　and　turned　to　speak　to　Refugio。
“Silence。”
Masarek’s　command　needed　no　translation。　No　one　moved　or　spoke　while　Masarek　listened。　He
heard　nothing　but　the　random　pops　and　pings　of　metal　cooling　in　the　van’s　engine。　He　turned
his　head　several　times；　listening；　but　he　heard　neither　the　soft　scuff　of　his　private　fears　nor　the
tramp　of　military　feet；　nothing　but　the　engine　cooling。
Masarek　waited。　He　had　survived　forty　years　of　Russian　politics　by　being　patient。　He　listened
again；　barely　able　to　credit　the　information　that　a　single　guard　had　been　assigned　to　the　canister
of　7…235。　One　man　tonight；　two　men　tomorrow　to　load　the　canister　aboard　the　Indianapolis；　and
no　one　on　base　knew　what　was　inside　the　unimpressive　container。
No　one　except　Masarek。
Masarek’s　mouth　curved　slightly　beneath　his　long　nose。　Using　just　one　guard　was　clever。　Who
would　believe　the　canister　was　valuable；　when　chocolate　bars　were　better　guarded？　Yet　he　could
not　help　wondering　if　the　shipment　was　not　a　trap　for　men　such　as　himself。
Deftly；　Masarek　screwed　a　silencer　onto　his　pistol　and　pushed　the　gun　into　the　waistband　of　his
dark　pants。　His　American　sportscoat　covered　the　gun；　and　a　white　shirt　now　concealed　the　thin
black　sweater　that　had　made　him　invisible　in　the　alley’s　dank　night。　Clipped　to　the　shirt　pocket
was　a　Lawrence　Radiation　Laboratory　ID　badge。
Masarek　stood；　crouching　slightly　to　avoid　the　roof　of　the　van。　He　did　not　move　as　quickly　or　as
freely　as　he　once　had；　but　the　difference　was　apparent　only　to　him。　He　pulled　off　the　back　watch
cap　he　wore；　revealing　the　fleshy　shine　of　a　receding　hairline。　Quietly；　he　eased　open　the　van
door。
The　narrow　aisles　betpty　of　all　but　the　rain…wet　wind。　In　the
distance；　light　from　an　unhooded　lamp　made　a　fuzzy　sphere　of　illumination。　Masarek　set　himself
against　the　wind　and　stepped　onto　the　pavement。　After　a　final；　long　moment　of　listening
between　gusts　of　wind；　he　walked　toward　a　solid　black　rectangle　squatting　across　the　night。
Several　thin　strips　of　light　revealed　the　presence　of　ill…fitting　doors。
Page　51
As　soon　as　Masarek　stepped　down；　Refugio　began　counting。
Masarek　walked　away　from　the　truck　without　a　backward　look。　In　his　hand　was　a　voltmeter　and
an　empty　battery　pack。　Both　pieces　of　equipment　were　useless；　but　the　guard　would　not　know
that　until　it　was　too　late。
The　front　door　of　the　warehouse　swung　open　with　a　sound　of　tin　scraping　over　cement。　Masarek
disappeared。
Refugio　counted　to　fifty；　then　signaled　to　Salvador。　He　left　the　van　in　a　rush　and　stole　along　the
warehouse　to　a　padlocked　rear　door。　Heavy　wirecutters　gleamed　like　mercury　in　his　big　hands。
He　waited　for　a　gust　of　wind　to　rattle　the　warehouse；　then　lifted　the　cutters。　Steel　parted　with　a
clicking　sound。　Salvador　held　his　breath　and　sweated。
Nothing　moved　but　the　wind。
Five　seconds　after　Salvador　vanished　inside；　Refugio　slid　through　the　open　door　of　the
warehouse。　Lopez　followed。　The　door　shut　behind　him　with　a　slight　snick。
The　unshielded　light　at　the　far　end　of　the　warehouse　pushed　long；　irregular　shadows　out　of　the
heaped…up　machinery　and　cartons。　Refugio　and　his　men　merged　with　the　shadows　filling　one　side
of　the　warehouse。　Whatever　noise　the　men　made　was　covered　by　the　wind　prowling　outside。
At　the　far　end　of　the　warehouse　was　a　small　storeroom　created　by　partitioning　off　a　corner　of
the　building。　A　sentry　in　green　fatigues　sat　on　a　chair　beside　the　padlocked　door　of　the
storeroom。　An　M…l　carbine　lay　across　his　lap。　Deliberately；　Masarek　let　his　feet　scrape　on　the
concrete　floor。　The　sentry’s　head　snapped　up。
“Filthy　night；　isn’t　it？”　said　Masarek　above　the　sudden　drumroll　of　rain　on　the　tin　roof。
“What　the　hell　are　you　doing　here？”　said　the　sentry；　more　surprised　than　alarmed。
“I’m　Grummin；　from　the　lab。　Didn’t　they　tell　you？”　he　held　up　the　voltmeter。　“I’m　supposed　to
check　the　can　again。　You　want　to　sec　some　ID？”
Masarek　approached　the　sentry　with　a　sure；　soundless　stride。　With　one　hand；　he　undipped　the
badge　on　his　shirt　pocket。　The　sentry　held　out　his　hand　for　the　ID。　The　badge　was　cool　in　his
palm；　shining　with　reflected　light。　The　sentry　compared　Masarek’s　face　to　the　picture　on　the
badge。
At　the　last　instant；　the　sentry　sensed　something　was　wrong。　He　started　to　raise　his　gun。　There　was
a　blur　of　movement　as　the　edge　of　Masarek’s　hand　slashed　across　the　sentry’s　throat。　The　blow
was　deflected　by　the　man’s　desperate　twist；　so　that　he　was　stunned　rather　than　killed　outright。　He
retched　convulsively；　trying　to　breathe　through　a　crushed　throat。
Masarek’s　gun　extended　from　his　hand　like　a　silver　finger。　The　report　was　shockingly　soft；
almost　inaudible　beneath　the　sound　of　rain。　The　bullet　exploded　in　the　sentry’s　brain；　killing　him
before　he　could　blink。
“Quickly！”　said　Masarek；　his　voice　quiet　yet　urgent；　signaling　Refugio　forward　with　a　curt
motion　of　the　gun。
Refugio　and　his　men　stepped　out　of　the　shadows。　For　the　next　few　minutes　t