Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第13部分

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“General；　if　I　stole　it；　you’re　up　shit　creek　without　a　paddle。”
Groves’　silence　was　agreement。　He　sighed。　“I　told　the　Navy　you’re　in　charge　of　the　investigation；
with　powers　second　only　to　God　and　the　President。　I　told　the　FBI；　too。　They　didn’t　like　it　either。
Their　local　agent　in　charge　is　named　William　Coughlan。　Hoover　has　assured　me　Coughlan　will
cooperate。”
“If　Coughlan　doesn’t　cooperate；　I’ll　hammer　him　flat；”　said　Finn。
“Do　what　you　have　to。　The　President　only　gave　us　two　days。”
“What？　But　the　bombs　won’t　be　dropped　for　weeks！”
“He　doesn’t　have　any　choice。　If　we’re　going　to　invade；　he　has　to　set　the　machinery　in　motion。
There’s　more　to　an　invasion　than　guns　and　soldiers　–　once　you’ve　gotten　the　ball　rolling；　you
can’t　stop　it　short　of　Japan。　You　have　until　0530；　July　18th。　That’s　Mountain　War　Time。”
“Two　days；”　said　Finn　bitterly。　“Even　God　needed　six。”
“God　wasn’t　fighting　the　Japanese。”
Hunters　Point；　California
2　Hours　50　Minutes　After　Trinity
The　Shore　Patrol　guard　wore　dress　blues；　white　gaiters；　and　a　pistol　belt。　He　saluted　the　Office
Page　63
of　Naval　Intelligence　license　tags　on　Finn’s　Ford　coupe。　Finn　flipped　open　his　new　credentials
and　handed　them　out　the　window。
“We　were　told　to　expect　you；”　said　the　guard；　returning　the　credentials　with　another　salute。
Finn　silently　wished　that　nothing　had　been　said　about　his　arrival。　Now；　everyone　would　be
covering　his　ass　as　fast　as　possible。　He　glanced　at　the　other　Navy　ratings　in　the　guard　booth。
Their　pistols　were　clean；　their　faces　alert；　and　the　gate　lowered　to　prevent　anyone　leaving　the
base。　But　Finn　knew　without　asking　that　the　guards’　attentiveness　was　a　case　of　spit　and　polish　an
hour　after　inspection。
“Good　morning　to　be　alive；　right；　sailor？”　asked　Finn。
“You　bet；　sir；”　said　the　sailor。　The　other　men　laughed。　Their　pleasure　was　as　clear　as　their　young
smiles。　Finn　recognized　the　source　of　their　smiles；　it　was　the　relief　of　survivors；　of　the　ones　who
had　not　died　on　the　floor　of　a　Navy　warehouse。　He　recognized　their　near…shame　and　sweet
elation　because　he　had　felt　it　himself。
Finn　engaged　the　clutch　and　accelerated　away　from　the　gate。　He　drove　quickly　through　the　base；
not　slowing　until　he　turned　the　car　down　a　narrow　passage　between　two　warehouses。　He　had　to
brake　hard　to　avoid　a　Shore　Patrol　Jeep　that　was　parked　across　the　alleyway；　blocking　it
completely。
“Restricted　Area；”　said　a　sailor　as　Finn　rolled　down　the　window。　“Back　up　and　turn　around　on
the　doub　–　“
Finn　held　his　new　leather　folder　out　the　car　window。　The　badge　shone　impressively；　but　it　was
the　facing　security　clearance　which　stopped　the　sentry’s　voice。　The　man　saluted　crisply。
“Delta　warehouse；　sir？”
“Yes。”
“Straight　ahead；　sir。”　The　sailor　turned　and　yelled　over　his　shoulder。　“Move　the　Jeep！”　Then；　to
Finn；　“You　can’t　miss　it；　sir。　Fuel　barrels　piled　high　as　a　battleship。”
Finn　squeezed　past　the　Jeep；　then　picked　up　speed　between　rows　of　war　materials　stacked　in
static　review。　He　was　stopped　twice　more；　the　last　time　by　a　civilian　who　took　time　to　inspect
Finn’s　credentials。
After　Finn　parked　near　the　ent；　staring　at　rectangular
buildings；　square　stacks　of　stenciled　crates；　the　angular　bulk　of　weapons…　a　cubist　painting　done
in　shades　of　black　and　darkest　gray。
That　was　what　the　thieves　would　have　seen；　but　now　there　were　people　everywhere；　blurring　the
clean　lines；　uniformed　men　with　carbines　at　port　arms　and　holster　flaps　unsnapped。　They
prowled　and　snarled；　barking　orders　at　one　another　as　though　it　still　mattered。　Every　measured
stride　and　cold　glance　tried　to　prove　that　the　theft　had　been　a　bizarre　accident；　the　wildest　fluke；
a　miracle　made　in　hell。
The　only　people　who　did　not　seem　defensive　were　the　men　in　street　clothes　who　wove　among
the　bristling　guards。　The　civilians　wore　relaxed　confidence　that　bordered　on　smugness；　they　had
not　made　the　mess；　but　by　God　they　were　going　to　clean　it　up。　Their　conservative　suits；　white
shirts；　dark　ties；　gray　snap…brim　hats；　wing…tip　shoes　and　cold　eyes　were　as　distinctive　as　any
uniform。　Finn　could　almost　see　their　FBI　credentials　inside　the　breast　pockets　of　their　suit　coats。
He　could　count　fifteen　agents　without　turning　his　head。　There　were　more　inside；　and　still　other
reinforcements　at　the　gates。
The　federal　agents　were　good　enough　in　their　way；　but　they　were　little　more　than　soldiers
without　uniforms；　men　trained　away　from　originality；　men　who　had　so　little　leeway　within　their
regulations　that　they　guarded　their　few　perquisites　as　jealously　as　a　hen　guarded　its　chicks。
He　needed　roosters；　not　hens。　He　needed　men　as　quiet　and　smart　and　deadly　as　Masarek；　who
had　infiltrated　an　enemy　base　and　stolen　2　million　lives。
Two　days。　My　God。　Just　Two！
Finn　felt　as　he　had　in　Okinawa；　the　jungle　behind　him　and　the　cliff　in　front；　riding　a　seesaw　of
fury　and　helplessness；　watching　children　fall。
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Two　days。　Two　million　lives。
With　a　savage　motion；　he　banged　open　the　glove　compartment　and　removed　his　。45　caliber
automatic　pistol。　The　gun’s　size　was　a　drawback　that　he　tolerated　because　it　had　better　stopping
power。　The　。45　had　been　designed　as　a　man…killer；　and　had　never　been　excelled。　The　smaller　。38s
worn　by　the　gentlemen　of　the　FBI　did　not　wrinkle　their　suits；　but　Finn　was　not　a　gentleman；　and
their　sartorial　regulations　were　not　his。
Finn　checked　the　gun’s　clip　and　worked　the　slide　to　chamber　a　cartridge。　He　cocked　the　pistol
and　set　its　lever　safety。　The　movements　atic。　He　used　his　senses　of
touch　and　hearing　almost　as　much　as　his　eyes。　Satisfied　with　the　gun’s　readiness；　he　tucked　the
。45　into　a　belt　clip　at　the　small　of　his　back。　Then　he　slid　out　of　the　car；　pulled　his　jacket　down
over　the　gun　and　headed　for　the　warehouse　that　was　the　focus　of　all　the　anxiety。　He　walked　with
obvious　purpose；　a　tall；　lean　man　whom　other　men　automatically　gave　way　to。
In　the　warehouse；　thin　gray　illumination　seeped　through　a　row　of　dirty　skylights；　but　did　little　to
soften　the　utilitarian　interior。　It　was　cold　and　dank　and　ugly。
A　sudden　flash　of　light　drew　Finn’s　pale　eyes。　He　glanced　down　a　short　aisle　between　stacked
crates　and　saw　a　FBI　technician　with　a　Speed　Graphic　camera　and　flashgun　lining　up　another
shot　in　the　doorway　of　a　small　storeroom。
Noiselessly；　Finn　moved　down　the　aisle　and　into　a　loose　knot　of　a　half…dozen　men；　FBI　agents
and　Navy　officers；　all　staring　at　the　young　sentry　whose　dead　eyes　stared　through　them　into
nothing　at　all。　The　sentry’s　cap　was　a　dark　blot　five　feet　away；　flung　there　by　the　officer　who　had
yanked　it　off　a　dozing　sailor　and　discovered　a　corpse。
One　or　two　of　the　officers　glanced　at　Finn；　then　returned　their　attention　to　the　body　held　upright
by　a　pea…coat　pulled　over　the　back　of　a　chair。　There　was　little　talk。
Finn　eased　around　the　fringe　of　the　group　to　get　a　closer　look　at　the　upright　corpse。　The　face
was　young。　A　velvet…cheeked　boy　who　had　never　seen　death　and　so　could　not　recognize　its
smiling；　two…footed　approach。
The　sentry’s　carbine　lay　on　the　floor　near　his　right　hand。　The　fingers　of　that　hand　were　open；　as
though　in　death　the　boy　was　reaching　to　recover　his　weapon。　The　other　hand　was　knotted　into　a
fist　by　pain　or　rage　or　surprise。　Or　was　it　something　else；　somethine　more　tangible　than
emotion？
Finn　waited　until　the　photographer　withdrew。　Then；　before　anyone　else　could　step　forward；　he
crouched　on　his　heels　beside　the　body。　The　forehead　wound　was　small；　neat；　and　had　been
inflicted　at　close　but　not　point…blank　range。　The　blood　around　the　hole　was　minimal。　The　heart
had　stopped　a　beat　or　two　after　the　bullet　penetrated　the　skull。
The　men　around　the　body　began　to　talk　among　themselves；　speculating　and　arguing。　Finn
glanced　up　quickly。　Satisfied　that　no　one　was　interested　in　him；　he　inspected　the　sentry’s　clenched
left　hand。　There　was　definitely　something　inside　the　cold　fingers；　paper　or　plastic；　something
thin。　It　could　be　nothing　more　than　a　candy　wrapper。
“You　through　taking　pictures？”　said　Finn；　looking　up　at　the　photographer。
“Yeah。　The　lab　boys　are　next。”
Finn　began　to　pry　gently　at　the　left　hand。　The　fingers　were　locked　in　a　spasm　that　death　had
hardened　into　stone。
“Who　the　hell　do　you　think　you　are？”　asked　a　harsh　voice。
“Finn；”　he　said；　without　looking　up。　“Who　the　hell　are　you？”
“Everybody　here　knows　me。　William　Coughlan；　FBI。　Anybody　know　you？”
Finn　stood　up　slowly；　abandoning　for　the　moment　the　cold　left　hand　locked　around　a　secret。　He
turned　to　face　the　voice　and　found　an　FBI　agent　wearing　a　dark…gray　hat　and　a　matching　gray
wool　suit。　He　was　of　average　height　and　above　average　weight。　Otherwise；　his　appearance　was
conventional。　Emotion　was　written　on　his　skin　in　shades　of　red。　The　agent　had　the　face　of　an
Irish　drinker　and　bulldog　jaws　set　to　bite。
“Give　me　a　reason　I　shouldn’t　throw　you　out　on　your　smart　ass；”　said　Coughlan；　eyeing　Finn’s
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clothes　with　disparagement。
The　same　cold　blue　Irish　eyes　watched　as　Finn　reached　into　his　back　pocket　and　pulled　out　the
new　leather　badge　case。　Holding　it　at　eye　level；　Finn　let　it　drop　open。　Coughlan’s　square　left
hand　swallowed　up　the　leather　folder。
Coughlan　turned　away　slightly；　as　though　to　look　at　the　credentials　with　the　indifferent　aid　of　the
skylight。　The　movement　concealed　his　right　hand。　The　hand　reappeared　suddenly；　wrapped
around　a　。38。
Neither　Finn’s　face　nor　his　body　moved。　Coughlan’s　eyes　told　Finn　the　FBI　man　meant　business。
Coughlan　measured　Finn’s　sudden　stillness　with　a　smile。　“You　come　marching　in　like　you　own
the　place　and　then　lay　credentials　on　me　that　smell　like　wet　ink。　You　can　understand；　cowboy；
how　I　might　be　a　little　suspicious。”
“Put　the　gun　away；　Coughlan。　I’m　your　new　boss　and　you’re　wasting　my　time。”
“My　orders　come　from　Washington。”
“Call　Operator　34。　Ask　for　778　in　Washington；　D。C。　They’ll　tell　you　the　same　thing。　I’m　your
boss。”　He　turned　back　to　the　dead　sentry。
“Hold　it！”　There　was　no　compromise　in　Coughlan’s　voice。
Finn　straightened　and　turned　around　like　the　jungle　fighter　he　was。
“Riley！”　said　Coughlan；　backing　up。　“Check　him　for　weapons。”
A　young　man　stepped　forward　smartly。　His　gray　hat　and　suit　were　almost　identical　to
Coughlan’s　clothes。　Only　the　tie　was　different；　Riley’s　had　a　subtle　pattern；　while　Coughlan’s　was
plain。
Riley　ran　his　hands　quickly　over　Finn；　impersonally　exploring　armpits；　crotch　and　insides　of
boots。　Coughlan’s　eyes　lingered　on　the　slim；　deadly　boot　knife　that　Riley　found；　but　neither　man
spoke。
Riley　nearly　missed　the　。45　beneath　Finn’s　jacket　in　the　small　of　his　back。　Almost　as　an
afterthought；　the　FBI　agent　patted　around　Finn’s　belt；　looking　for　more　knives。　When　Riley’s
fingers　touched　the　outline　of　a　gun；　his　eyes　showed　a　flicker　of　shock。　He　jerked　out　the　gun
and　showed　it　to　Coughlan。
“An　elephant　gun；”　said　Coughlan。　“You　expecting　elephants？”
“Yeah；　but　all　I　find　are　jackasses。　Call　the　number。”
“Cover　him；”　said　Coughlan。　“Use　the　gun。　If　it　goes　off；　it’ll　be　a　clear　case　of　justifiable
suicide。　The　rest　of　you　men　beat　it　until　I　come　back。”
Everyone　left　but　Finn　and　Riley。　Finn　wished　that　it　had　been　Coughlan　who　stayed。　He　was　an
overweight；　overweening　son　of　a　bitch；　but　he　knew　what　he　was　doing。　Riley　was　an　amateur
by　comparison；　and　amateurs　made　stupid　mistakes。
“Okay；”　said　Riley；　“we’ll　just　stand　here　quietly　while　Coughlan　checks　you　out。”　Riley　smiled
almost　in　spite　of　himself。　“I　don’t　know　whose　shit　hit　the　fan；　but　it　sure　spread　far　and　wide。
So　don’t　push　Coughlan　too　hard；　cowboy。　He’s　had　all　the　crap　he　can　take。”
Finn　shook　his　head。　“It’s　just　begun；”　he　said。　“It’s　just　begun。”
Oakland
2　Hours　58　Minutes　After　Trinity
Refugio　drove　through　a　steel…gray　world　punctuated　by　the　bloom　of　taillights。　Fog　billowed
around　the　van；　concealing　and　then　revealing　the　vehicles　sharing　the　gloomy　early　morning
with　the　laundry　truck。
“This　time　we　take　the　bridge；　yes？”　said　Refugio。
Masarek　studied　both　sideview　mirrors　before　answering。　There　was　nothing　suspicious
following　them。　The　cars　were　full　of　yawning　shopgirls　and　waitresses；　shoe　clerks　and
accountants。　Taxis　carried　stockbrokers　and　lawyers。　Police　cars　came　and　went　without　a　single
glance　at　the　off…white　van。
“All　right。　This　time　cross　the　bridge。”
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“Bueno；”　yawned　Refugio；　his　tiredness　only　partially　feigned。
Except　for　a　single　stop　to　add　a　piece　of　black　electricians　tape　that　changed　the　truck’s　number
7　into　a　17；　Masarek　had　kept　Refugio　driving　throughout　the　dark　hours；　twisting　and　turning
and　doubling　while　Masarek　watched　the　mirrors　for　headlights　which　appeared　too　often　or
followed　too　long。
As　the　van　approached　the　bridge；　Refugio’s　hands　tightened　imperceptibly　on　the　wheel。　The
moment　was　coming　when　Masarek　must　die；　and　nothing　was　going　as　Refugio　had　planned。
Masarek　had　put　him　behind　the　wheel；　neutralizing　him。　As　soon　as　the　van　had　passed　through
the　gates　at　Hunters　Point；　Masarek　had　taken　Salvador’s　shotgun；　as　well　as　Lopez’s　and
Refugio’s　。45s。　There　had　been　no　time　to　protest。　Masarek　had　moved　quickly；　unexpectedly；
just　at　the　moment　of　victory。
Even　worse；　Masarek　had　found　the　knives　inside　their　sleeves。　He　had　even　found　the　little
chrome…plated　Beretta　in　Refugio’s　boot。　Masarek　had　not；　however；　found　Salvador’s　thin
razor　wire　with　the　little　hinged　bar　on　each　end。　It　looked　like　a　belt　buckle；　but　was　really　a
very　efficient　garrot。
Masarek’s　eyes　moved　restlessly；　his　head　tilted；　listening；　always　listening　for　the　scuff　of　death’s
footsteps　beneath　the　hiss　of　passing　traffic。　He　suspected　nothing　in　particular　and　everything　as
a　matter　of　principle。　Civilian　traffic　streamed　around　them。　Nowhere　were　there　signs　that　the
United　States　was　a　country　at　war；　and　that　San　Francisco　was　a　vulnerable　target。
“Children；”　said　Masarek。　“They’re　all　children。　They　think　that　war　is　temporary　and　their　lives
are　forever。　They　haven’t　learned　that　war　is　forever　and　life　only　a　flicker。　That’s　why　they’ll
lose；　and　then　they’ll　whine　and　wonder　why　we　broke　their　toys。”
The　Bay　Bridge　loomed　out　of　the　fog　ahead。　Cars　flowed　on　and　off　freely；　for　traffic　was　not
yet　at　its　morning　peak。　No　troops　guarded　the　approach　or　the　spans　rising　out　of　the　mercury
Bay。
Masarek　measured　the　Bay　Bridge　with　the　eye　of　an　engineer；　looking　for　vulnerable　spots　and
calculating　the　amount　of　explosives　needed　to　bring　it　down。　“They　make　it　easy　for　their
enemies；”　he　murmured。
“Maybe　they’re　just　playing　with　us；”　said　Refugio。　“Maybe　all　this　is　like　the　fat　worm　hiding　the
steel　hook。”
Masarek　smiled。　“Their　grandchildren　will　speak　Russian。”
Refugio　yawned　again；　then　removed　one　hand　from　the　wheel　to　rub　his　eyes。　Masarek　watched
the　hand；　but　his　gun　no　longer　moved　to　follow　Refugio’s　every　twitch。　Once　Masarek　had　put
their　weapons　under　his　feet；　he　had　relaxed　slightly。
Both　Salvador　and　Lopez　knew　that　any　move　toward　Masarek　would　result　in　Refugio’s　death。
As　Refugio　was　their　patron；　their　cousin；　their　half…sister’s　brother…in…law；　and　their　brains；　they
waited　for　his　signal。　When　it　came；　they　would　do　their　best　to　kill　Masarek　before　he　could　kill
Refugio。
Until　then；　they　sat　in　the　back　of　the　van　on　a　cold　floor　with　a　dead　man　and　two　odd　chunks
of　metal；　each　wrapped　in　separate　laundry　bags。　The　dead　man　stank　of　feces；　and　the　metal
slithered　about　with　every　movement　of　the　swaying　van。
“I’ll　have　to　change　lanes　soon；”　said　Refugio；　“unless　you　want　me　to　drive　past　the　waterfront
and　then　come　back。”
Masarek　leaned　over　to　check　Refugio’s　side　mirror。　At　first　Refugio　had　thought　that　such　a
move　would　give　him　a　chance　to　kill　Masarek；　but　every　time　Masarek　leaned；　the　pistol’s
bulbous　silencer　dug　intimately　into　Refugio’s　groin。　He　was　not　going　to　risk　his　manhood　for　a
chop　at　Masarek’s　neck。
Three　against　one　with　a　gun。　A　Mexican　stand…off　of　sorts。　Refugio　smiled　wryly。　In　all　such
contests；　the　victory　went　to　the　wary。
Masarek　leaned　back。　The　motion　removed　the　gun；　but　did　not　change　its　target。　“Get　off　the
bridge。　Go　directly　to　the　waterfront。　I’ll　tell　you　where　to　stop。　Remember。　No　sudden　stops
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or　turns。”
“I’ll　remember；”　said　Refugio；　feeling　the　sweat　that　came　to　his　face　each　time　the　gun　poked　at
his　crotch。　“But　what　if　one　of　these　tired　little　shopgirls　crashes　into　a　third　little　clerk　and　I
have　to　stand　hard　on　the　brakes？”
“Then　you’re　dead。”
“You’re　an　unreasonable　man；”　said　Refugio；　but　he　said　it　in　Spanish。　Kestrel　had　warned　him
not　to　underestimate　Masarek　merely　because　the　Russian　took　orders　from　a　woman。　Refugio
wished　he　had　given　more　thought　to　Kestrel’s　words。
Refugio　waited　for　an　opening　before　changing　lanes　slowly；　cautiously。　It　galled　him　to　drive
like　a　timid　girl；　treating　red　lights　and　speed　zones　as　though　they　were　serious　matters　instead
of　markers　in　a　game　of　skill　and　nerve。　Nonetheless；　he　drove　like　an　American；　for　Masarek’s
gun　was　never　far　away。
The　fog　was　lighter　in　color　new；　more　dove　than　steel；　but　still　a　dense　exhalation　concealing
the　morning。　Cars　parked　a　half…block　away　were　invisible。　Nearby　cars　were　studded　with
moisture　that　gathered　and　ran　in　eccentric　streaks。
“Left；”　said　Masarek。　Then；　as　the　van　completed　the　turn；　“Right　at　the　next　corner。”
Refugio　drove　the　van　through　two　turns；　both　times　a　bit　fast；　testing　Masarek。　The　Russian
said　nothing。　He　was　intent　on　the　side　mirrors　and　the　cars　parked　along　the　street。
“Right　again。”
The　van　bumped　over　rough；　foggy　streets　which　paralleled　the　factories；　warehouses　and
storage　yards　of　the　waterfront。
“Almost　there？”　asked　Refugio；　stressing　the　word　“almost。”　He　wanted　to　look　over　his
shoulder　at　Salvador　but　did　not　dare。
Salvador　picked　up　the　verbal　cue。　He　grumbled　about　the　rough　ride　and　shifted　to　a　kneeling
position　as　though　to　ease　his　cramped　legs。　Masarek　glanced　back　at　him；　but　said　nothing。　The
movement　seemed　natural　enough。
Suddenly　the　van　swayed　as　Refugio　swerved　around　a　pothole　and　then　braked　sharply。
Salvador　sprawled　forward；　swearing　bitterly　in　Spanish。　The　canvas　bags　containing　the
uranium　skidded　toward　the　front　of　the　van；　touching　and　rebounding　off　one　another　in　an
invisible　flowering　of　energy。　Masarek’s　gun　wavered；　then　returned　to　Refugio’s　groin　with
enough　force　to　make　the　Mexican　wince。
“Be　careful！”
Salvador　pulled　himself　upright。　The　long…armed　Mexican　was　closer　to　the　front　of　the　truck
now；　kneeling　rather　than　sitting；　a　killer　in　blue　jeans　whose　fingers　ached　to　feel　the　slim　cold
bars　of　the　garrot　as　it　sliced　through　flesh。
Slowly；　casually；　his　thumb　hooked　into　his　belt　buckle；　ready　to　grab　and　twist；　freeing　the　razor
wire　in　a　single　ripping　motion。
Wanting　to　look　back；　knowing　he　must　not；　Refugio　drove　along　the　uneven　street。　The
moment　to　consummate　Kestrel’s　plan　was　drawing　closer　with　each　turn　of　the　tires；　but　he　did
not　know　which　car　concealed　Vanessa’s　polished　blond　hair。　Was　it　the　black　one　with　the
broken　window　or　the　faded　red　one　with　a　crumpled　fender？　Or　was　she　even　here？
Refugio