Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第16部分

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like　CPO　Diver。　Their　major　battles　were　fought　against　fellow　soldiers。
Finn’s　eyes　lingered　on　Diver。　He　looked　smart；　he　would　never　take　a　bet　he　could　not　lay　off；
just　as　he　never　would　trade　punches　with　the　local　leg　breaker。　All　that　remained　for　Finn　was
to　convince　Diver　that　all　bets　were　off；　and　Finn　was　the　local　leg　breaker。　He　walked　up　to　the
table；　put　on　a　genial　smile；　stopped　behind　the　CPO’s　chair。
“Morning。　I　was　told　you　were　on　duty　at　the　gate　last　night。　The　front　gate。”
“So　what？”　said　Diver；　without　looking　up。
“So　I　want　some　information；”　said　Finn；　still　smiling　despite　the　anger　building　in　him。　“What
moved　on　and　then　off　base　between　midnight　and　0600　that　you　didn’t　inspect？”
“Nothing；”　said　Diver；　before　any　of　the　other　men　could　speak。　He　crushed　out　his　cigaret　and
lit　another　before　he　half…turned　to　Finn。　“Not　a　damn　thing。”
Finn’s　smile　widened。　“Bitch　of　a　night；　wasn’t　it？　Rainr　and　wind　and　all。　Nights　like　that；　a
Page　78
guardhouse　gets　to　looking　homey。　Hate　to　leave　it　just　to　look　at　a　few　–　“
“We　inspected　all　thirty…seven　vehicles；”　Diver　said。
“Neither　rain　nor　sleet；　right？”
“Yeah；”　said　Diver　indifferently。　“We’re　regular　mailmen。”
Diver　turned　back　to　the　table；　dismissing　Finn。　Finn’s　arm　hooked　around　Diver’s　throat。　In　a
single　motion　Finn　heaved　Diver　out　of　his　chair　and　laid　him　out　on　the　table　like　a　side　of　beef。
Diver　lunged　forward；　gagged　and　lay　back　again。　Before　the　three　other　guards　could　collect
themselves；　Finn　flipped　his　credentials　between　the　coffee　cups　and　ashtrays。　“Read　those　and
shut　up。”
Finn’s　right　forearm　lay　against　Diver’s　slamming　pulse　and　his　resilient；　elusive　windpipe。　Finn
leaned　down　until　blackness　filled　Diver’s　world。
“Let’s　try　it　again；　minus　the　horseshit。　How　many　vehicles　did　you　inspect？”
“About…　half。”
“Which　ones　didn’t　you　inspect？”　Finn’s　rage　showed　in　his　voice　and　his　eyes；　but　most　of　all　in
his　arm　choking　the　man　whose　greed　could　cost　millions　of　lives。
“Stop！”　gasped　Diver。
Finn　lifted　his　arm　a　few　inches；　then　slammed　Diver　back　onto　the　table。　“You’re　shit；　Diver。　If
you’d　done　your　job；　that　kid　wouldn’t　be　dead。”　That　kid　and　all　the　other　children；　a　world
lost。　“Which　vehicles　didn’t　you　inspect？”
“The　staff　cars；”　said　Diver。　As　he　swallowed；　his　Adam’s　apple　strained　against　Finn’s　forearm。
“If　we　knew　the　officers；　we　didn’t　look　in　the　trunk。　Chrissake；　no　one　expects　us　to！　It’s　a
dumb　–　“
“What　else？”
“Nothing。　We　–　“
Diver　gagged。
“You’re　wasting　my　time；”　snarled　Finn。　“What　about　the　civilian　stuff？”
Diver’s　face　was　deep　red。　Finn　lifted　the　pressure　very　slightly。
“Nothing；”　gasped　Diver。
“What　does　that　mean？”
Diver　swallowed　convulsively。　“I　can’t　–　talk。”
“Sure　you　can；”　Finn　said。　“You　just　have　to　try　a　little　harder。”
“A　liquor　truck　–　for　Officers’　Club；”　gasped　Diver。　“Never　inspect　that。　Sealed。”
Finn　waited；　poised　for　the　least　flicker　of　evasion　in　Diver’s　blue　eyes。
“Mail　truck；”　continued　Diver。　“Load　of　steel　rods。　Lumber。　Hardware。　That’s　all。　No　place　for
men　to　hide。”
“That’s　shit；　Diver。”
“No！　No！　That’s　all；　honest！”
Finn’s　fingers　closed　down。　Diver’s　face　went　from　red　to　purple。
“When　you　remember　something　‘honest；’”　said　Finn；　“wiggle　your　ears。”
After　a　few　moments；　Diver’s　frantic　efforts　to　speak　were　rewarded　with　a　quarter　inch　of
breathing　space。
“Laundry　–　truck！　Officers’　–　laundry！”
Finn　thought　quickly　but　could　not　remember　seeing　a　laundry　truck　on　the　list　ONI　had　given
to　him。
“Did　you　log　in　the　truck？”
“No。”
“Why　not？　Whores？　Drugs？　Betting　slips？”
“Betting；”　gasped　Diver。　“Goddamn　you　–　betting！”
“Describe　the　truck；”　Finn　said；　easing　the　pressure　on　Diver’s　neck。
“White。　Chicken　tracks　–　on　the　door。　A　Chink　job。”
“License　plate　number。”
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“How　the　hell　–　aggh。”
Finn　leaned　down。　“Then　how　did　you　know　it　was　the　right　truck？”
“Number　7　–　on　the　door！”
Finn　released　Diver　so　suddenly　that　the　CPO　did　not　realize　he　was　free。　Betting　slips。　For　the
sake　of　a　few　gamblers；　2　million　people　might　die。
“The　Chink　has　a　legit　business；”　said　Diver。　“Ho’s　Good　Luck　Laundry。　Does　dress　whites
better　than　anyone　in　Frisco。”
“Did　he　leave　out　anything？”　Finn　demanded　of　the　other　three　guards。
One　of　them；　a　Mexican…American　with　a　burr　haircut　that　emphasized　his　broad　Indio　features；
met　Finn’s　eyes。
“Dunno。　He　never　told　us　a　damn　thing　about　laundry　trucks。　And　since　he　kept　the　log…”　The
man　shrugged。
Finn’s　glance　shifted　back　to　Diver。　“What　did　the　bookies　pay　you　to　let　that　truck　onto　the
base？”
Diver　licked　his　lips　with　a　thick　tongue。　“Not　much。”
“And　you　kept　it　all；　didn’t　you？　None　of　that　share　…and…share…alike　crap；　right？”
Diver　glanced　nervously　at　his　three　colleagues。
“How　much？”　repeated　Finn。　His　hand　went　to　Diver’s　throat　so　quickly　that　the　CPO　had　no
time　to　flinch。
“A　hundred　bucks！”
One　hundred　dollars。　Two　million　people。　A　penny　for　every　200　dead　or　maimed。
Finn　reached　for　Diver’s　throat；　wanting　to　kill　the　man　who　had　sold　his　country　so　cheaply。　At
the　last　instant；　he　stepped　back；　his　hands　shaking。　He　stared　at　Diver。　Behind　the　men；　the
mess　door　opened。
“Coughlan’s　drying　off；”　said　Riley　as　he　approached　Finn。　Then；　seeing　Diver　stretched　out
upon　the　table。　“Still　a　war；　cowboy？”
Finn　looked　at　the　agent　for　a　long　moment。　Then　he　turned　away　and　spoke　to　the　three
apprehensive　guards。
“You　three　are　supposed　to　be　MPs。　Take　this　cheap　son　of　a　bitch　to　the　brig　and　lose　him。”
The　three　men　hustled　Diver　out　of　the　room。
“Was　that　all　necessary？”　asked　Riley　abruptly；　gesturing　toward　the　table。
“Anything　new　on　the　vehicles？”
“All　present　and　accounted　for。　We’re　running　the　list　again；　of　course。”　Then；　“Was　it
necessary？”
Finn　sighed。　“I　told　you　hard　or　easy　and　you　told　me　whatever　works。　Remember？”
“Yes；　but　–　“
Finn　picked　up　his　credentials　from　the　table。
Riley　looked　at　his　feet；　then　back　at　Finn。　“Did　it　work？”
“You’ve　got　coffee　stains　on　your　shirt；”　said　Finn；　taking　Riley’s　arm　and　pulling　him　toward
the　door。　“I　know　a　helluva　good　Chinese　laundry。”
Riley　tried　to　pull　free；　but　Finn’s　grip　was　too　hard；　“Don’t　worry；”　Finn　said；　opening　the
door　without　letting　go。　“CPO　Diver　assured　me　that　Ho’s　Good　Luck　Laundry　is　so　popular
around　Hunters　Point　that　no　one　even　bothers　to　log　the　laundry　truck　in　or　out。”
“Are　you　nuts？”　Then；　“Oh…”
“Yeah。　Oh。”　Finn　let　go。
“Are　you　sure？”
“Nothing’s　sure。　Tell　the　cops　to　put　out　an　APB　on　Ho’s　Good　Luck　Laundry　truck　number　7。
If　they　find　it；　call　us　and　stay　the　hell　away　from　the　truck。　Then　notify　all　police　departments
from　San　Diego　to　Seattle　to　watch　for　male　corpses　that　have　no　visible　marks　of　violence。
Special　attention　to　men　between　sixteen　and　forty。”
Riley　looked　up　in　silent　query。
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“After　thirty；　the　reflexes　begin　to　go。　By　forty　a　man　either　gets　out　or　gets　killed。”
“Sixteen　to　forty。　No　marks。　Anything　else？”
Finn　hesitated；　then　shrugged。　If　people　started　getting　sick　mysteriously；　questions　would　be
asked　anyway。　“If　anyone　goes　to　a　hospital　for　burns；　I　want　a　Fed　to　investigate。　If　the　person’s
story　isn’t　good；　or　if　the　doctor　thinks　there　is　anything　unusual　about　the　burns；　I　want　to　know
immediately。”
“If　I　asked　why；　would　you　tell　me？”
“I　wouldn’t　even　tell　myself　without　running　a　security　check。”
In　silence；　Riley　followed　Finn　to　the　car。
San　Francisco
4　Hours　11　Minutes　After　Trinity
Vanessa　stood　on　the　street　before　the　newspaper　building　and　looked　around　carefully。　She　had
circled　the　block　once　already；　inspecting　each　of　the　parked　cars；　looking　for　agents　who　were
looking　for　her。　She　did　not　find　any；　nor　did　she　expect　to。　There　had　not　been　enough　time　for
the　local　police　to　identify　Masarek；　much　less　put　a　watch　on　anyone　in　the　Bay　Area　who　might
be　associated　with　him。
As　she　passed　the　newspaper　office　once　more；　she　glanced　past　the　gold…leaf　lettering　to　the
open　room　beyond。　Young　men　and　middle…aged　women　sat　typing　or　talking　on　telephones。
None　of　the　people　impressed　her。　She　did　not　want　to　count　on　anyone　in　that　room；　but　had
little　choice。　Masarek　had　not　used　the　emergency　message　drop。　She　must　assume　that　he　was
dead　or　captured。　She　could　not　go　to　any　of　the　professional　agents　she　knew　in　San　Francisco；
if　they　were　not　already　under　surveillance；　they　would　be　shortly。　The　whole　city　would　be　shut
down　while　the　Americans　searched　for　the　uranium。　She　needed　an　inactive　agent；　someone
who　had　never　really　overtly　worked　for　Russia　and　thus　would　not　be　under　surveillance。
In　the　reflection　of　the　window；　Vanessa　once　more　checked　her　makeup。　The　scratches　were
nearly　invisible　now；　and　her　expression　was　calm；　remote。　Satisfied；　she　entered　the　office。　A
teenager　approached　her。　She　dazzled　him　with　a　smile。
“I’m　looking　for　a　reporter　named　Peter　Hecht；”　she　said。
The　teenager　stared　for　a　moment　before　she　turned　and　shouted　Hecht’s　name　across　the
office。　A　reporter　who　was　hunched　over　a　phone　waved　without　looking　up。　He　wore　dark
pants；　a　badly　fitted　sportcoat　and　a　dirty　shirt。　He　scribbled　notes　as　he　spoke　on　the　phone。
Vanessa　waited；　letting　the　rest　of　the　people　resume　their　normal　activities。　Then　she　stepped
uninvited　past　the　wooden　railing　and　walked　across　the　room　to　Hecht’s　desk。　He　glanced　up；
showing　alert　eyes　in　an　impatient　face。　Vanessa　smiled。　He　waved　at　a　chair　beside　his　desk　and
continued　talking　into　the　phone。
“What’s　that　address　again？”　said　Hecht。　“Yeah；　yeah。　Got　it。　You　sure　there　were　four　bodies？
God；　that　Oakland　waterfront　gets　worse　every　day。”　He　glanced　toward　the　wall　clock。　“Shit；　I
just　blew　a　deadline。　Oh　well；　that　gives　me　ninety　minutes　to　get　this　story　together。　Okay。
That’s　one　I　owe　you。”　He　hung　up　and　turned　toward　Vanessa。　“Did　you　want　to　see　me？”
“Are　you　Peter　Hecht？”　said　Vanessa；　smiling　warmly　again　despite　the　shock　his　words　had
given　her。　Four　bodies　on　the　Oakland　waterfront。　Refugio　had　escaped；　but　Masarek　had　not。
“Yeah；　I’m　Hecht；　but　I’m　in　the　middle　of　a　big　story。”
“Then　I　won’t　waste　time。　I’m　a　student　of　history。”
For　a　moment　it　was　clear　that　Hecht　did　not　recognize　the　signal。　“Well；　that’s　very…”　His
voice　faded　and　his　complexion　paled　as　he　stared　at　the　beautiful　woman　who　was　smiling　at
him。　“Jesus；”　he　whispered。　“I　never　thought　I’d　be　called。”
Vanessa　leaned　toward　him；　still　smiling。　“Comrade　Hecht；”　she　murmured；　“the　response。”
Hecht　took　a　deep　breath　and　said；　“I；　too；　am　fascinated　by　historical　processes…”He　looked
around；　afraid　one　of　his　colleagues　would　overhear。
“Listen　carefully；”　said　Vanessa；　“and　smile。　We’re　just　old　friends　talking　together。　“
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He　nodded　and　smiled　unconvincingly。
“That’s　better。　The　Party　has　need　of　your　services。”
“Now？　I　just　got　a　tip　on　a　big　story。　That　was　the　police　dispatcher。　Pretty　soon　every
newspaper　in　town　is　going　to　know　about　it。”
“You　have　police　contacts？”
“Shit　yes。　A　reporter　can’t　live　without　them。”
“Can　you　trace　a　license　plate　for　me？”　demanded　Vanessa。　“I　need　it　quickly。”
“Is　that　all？”　said　Hecht；　relief　obvious　in　his　voice。　“Easy。　I　know　an　Irishman　on　the　auto　theft
squad。”
“He　doesn’t　know　about　your　ties　to　the　Party？”
“No！　No　one　does。　And　it　has　to　stay　that　way。　My　city　editor　hates　communists。”
Vanessa　took　a　piece　of　paper　from　his　desk　and　wrote　quickly。　“This　is　the　number。　I　need　to
know　the　name　and　address　of　the　owner；　and　whether　the　truck　is　listed　as　stolen。　I’ll　call　you　in
an　hour。”
She　stood　up。　Hecht　came　awkwardly　to　his　feet；　favoring　his　right　leg。　He　took　the　paper　and
glanced　at　it。　He　paused　before　putting　the　paper　into　his　pocket。
“This　isn’t　going　to　get　me　into　any　trouble；　is　it？　I　mean；　I　want　to　help　the　Party；　but　I　have　to
maintain　my　cover；　too。　I　have　to　get　that　story　first。”
Vanessa　studied　him　for　a　long　moment。　“One　of　the　four　bodies　in　Oakland　belongs　to　a
comrade。　So　hurry　there。　Ask　questions。　Be　sure　to　ask　if　anything　is　missing　from　the　truck。　But
be　very　discreet　or　the　police　will　be　asking　you　questions。”
San　Francisco
4　Hours　16　Minutes　After　Trinity
Ana　backed　the　flower　truck　into　a　small；　ramshackle　structure　that　served　both　as　garage　and
warehouse　to　the　Fragrant　Petal　flower　shop。　As　always；　she　winced　at　the　crude　translation　of
the　shop’s　name。　English　conveyed　none　of　the　subtle　and　complex　resonances　of　transience；
death　and　rebirth　that　were　implicit　in　the　ideograph　it　purported　to　represent。
But　then；　perhaps　the　translation　was　more　truthful　because　of　its　limitations。　Death　no　longer
seemed　either　subtle　or　complex；　merely　brutal　and　revolting。
Ana　hurried　from　the　truck　to　the　garage　doors。　The　alley　had　been　empty　when　she　entered　it。　It
was　still　empty　when　she　dragged　shut　the　canted　wooden　doors　of　the　garage。　The　gloom　inside
was　both　tangible　and　oddly　reassuring。　Darkness　would　blur　the　reality　in　the　back　of　the　van；
making　easier　what　she　must　do。
Ana　opened　the　back　of　the　van。　“Refugio？”
The　answer　was　more　groan　than　word。　Ana　hesitated；　trembling　suddenly。　The　strength　that
fear　had　given　her　was　gone；　but　Refugio　was　still　there；　wounded。　With　a　shaking　hand；　she
switched　on　the　garage’s　interior　light。
She　saw　Refugio　lying　in　the　back　of　the　truck；　his　body　bisected　by　a　wedge　of　light。　The　pure
crimson　covering　his　leg　would　have　been　beautiful　had　it　been　anything　but　blood。　Beyond　the
light　was　his　face；　invisible。
Ana　swayed；　her　knuckles　white　against　her　lips。
“Easy；　chica；”　said　Refugio。　“It　is　much　better　than　it　looks。”　He　tried　to　smile　and　nearly
succeeded。　“It　is　not　my　first　wound；　or　my　worst。”　His　abrupt　laugh　startled　her。　“Or　my　last；
please　God。”
Painfully；　Refugio　eased　himself　around　until　he　was　in　a　sitting　position　with　his　legs　dangling
over　the　truck。　“Okay；　chica。　Help　me　inside。”
He　held　himself　erect；　breathing　rapidly；　his　face　pale　with　nausea；　more　nausea　than　he　had
anticipated。　For　an　instant　he　wondered　if　Masarek　had　used　poison　on　his　bullets。
Ana　waited；　color　slowly　returning　to　her　face。　She　knew　she　must　help　Refugio。　If　he　died；
leaving　her　alone　in　the　fragrant　shambles　of　her　childhood；　all　this　would　be　for　nothing。
Page　82
“Wait。”
Ana　ran　to　the　shop　door　that　led　from　the　garage　to　the　living　quarters　in　back　of　the　store。　The
smell　of　bruised　petals　and　crushed　stems　was　everywhere；　heightened　by　the　damp　air。　Ana
shuddered；　hating　the　odor　and　the　childhood　it　recalled。
The　door　was　unlocked　and　painted　a　bright　pink　that　clashed　with　her　memories。　Her　father
would　never　have　permitted　such　a　garish　color　to　intrude　upon　the　serenity　of　his　household。
But　her　father　was　in　a　prison　camp　called　Manzanar；　and　the　shop　had　been　sold　to　Refugio’s
cousins　for　a　fraction　of　its　worth。
There　were　other　changes　inside。　Colors　that　offended　her；　floors　that　were　crusted　with　the
sediment　of　a　different　culture；　startling　pictures　of　improbable　bulls　and　glittering　bullfighters
painted　on　black　velvet。　There　were　religious　paintings　of　an　impaled　Christ　and　a　smiling
Madonna。
One　bed　remained。　It　was　used　as　an　informal　couch；　covered　by　a　rainbow　serape。　Ana　yanked
off　the　blanket　and　threw　it　on　the　floor。
She　turned　and　ran　back　to　the　truck。　Refugio　was　standing；　holding　on　to　one　of　the　van　doors
and　swearing　with　a　fervency　that　most　men　reserved　for　prayer。　Ana　pulled　his　arm　over　her
shoulder；　substituting　her　support　for　that　of　the　door。
After　a　few　awkward　attempts；　Ana　and　Refugio　learned　to　gauge　the　other’s　weakness　and
strength。　A　moment　later；　Refugio　was　stretched　out　on　the　bed；　groaning　with　relief。　He　felt
feverish；　which　he　expected。　The　intensity　of　his　nausea；　however；　worried　him。　Sweating
suddenly；　he　fought　the　urge　to　vomit。
Ana　saw　Refugio’s　convulsive　swallowing　and　guessed　its　cause。　She　grabbed　an　empty　flower
pail　and　shoved　it　under　his　nose。　When　he　was　finished；　she　went　to　the　bathroom；　emptied　the
pail；　then　set　it　by　the　bed。
“Thanks；”　said　Refugio；　wiping　his　face　on　the　wet　cloth　she　had　given　him。　“It　is　only　a　little
wound。The　pain　is　not　so　bad；　now。”
“Good；”　said　Ana；　her　jaw　set；　“because　we　have　to　clean　your　leg。”
“Yes；”　sighed　Refugio；　letting　his　head　drop　back　onto　the　thin　mattress。　He　took　his　knife　out
of　its　belt　sheath。　“Can　you　do　it　or　do　you　want　me　to？”
Secretly；　Ana　had　been　hoping　that　he　would　refuse　her　help。　Without　a　word；　she　took　the　knife
from　Refugio’s　cold　fingers；　sliced　through　his　pant　leg；　and　peeled　away　the　bloody　cloth。
The　wound　was　a　scarlet　furrow　gouged　across　the　meaty　top　of　Refugio’s　thigh。　Though　bloody
and　undoubtedly　painful；　the　wound　was　obviously　not　a　serious　one。
Refugio　saw　the　relief　in　Ana’s　face。　“It’s　as　I　told　you。　A　small　thing；　not　to　be　worried　about。”
Ana’s　smile　was　so　brief　that　Refugio　missed　it。　He　closed　his　eyes　and　lay　passively　beneath　her
hands。　She　was　surprisingly　deft。　Within　a　very　few　minutes；　Refugio’s　leg　was　clean　and　the
wound　gently　bathed。
Even　so；　the　pain　made　Refugio　sweat。
“All　I　could　find　to　disinfect　the　wound　is　alcohol；”　said　Ana。
“Good；”　Refugio　said；　clenching　his　teeth。　“Do　it。”
When　the　alcohol　washed　over　raw　flesh；　Refugio　convulsed　with　pain。　Ana　forced　herself　to
finish；　then　went　into　the　bathroom　and　vomited　until　she　had　nothing　left　in　her　but　a　numb
desire　to　wake　from　the　nightmare　of　the　last　hour。
There　was　no　awakening。　When　she　went　back　to　the　room；　Refugio　was　still　there；　throwing　up
into　the　tin　pail。　When　he　was　finished；　she　bound　his　leg　in　strips　of　the　only　clean　sheet　she
could　find。　Then　she　went　back　to　the　bathroom。　She　was　gone　a　long　time。
Refugio　did　not　open　his　eyes　when　Ana　returned。
“The　worst　is　over；　chica。　The　wound　will　scab　and　the　leg　will　be　stiff；　and　I　will　limp　around
for　a　few　days　like　Ridgewalker。”
“When　will　your　cousin　be　here　to　open　the　shop？”
“Before　noon。”
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Refugio　squinted　up　at　Ana；　realizing　that　there　was　something　different　about　her。　Then　he　saw
that　now　she　wore　her　hair　ratted　and　tousled　around　her　face。　She　had　put　on　dark　makeup
instead　of　her　customary　rice　powder。　Wedges　of　black　at　the　outer　corners　of　each　eye
disguised　their　Oriental　slant；　and　a　stripe　of　blue　subdued　their　epicanthic　fold。　Bright　lipstick
thickened　the　line　of　her　lips。　The　total　effect　was　more　Mexican　than　Japanese；　although　a　close
inspection　revealed　the　delicate　bones　of　her　face。
“Good；”　said　Refugio　approvingly。　“Even　your　own　father　would　have　to　look　again　to　be　sure
that　he　saw　you。”　His　eyes　traveled　over　her　again。　“Very　pretty。　Why　do　you　not　do　this　in
Mexico？”
Ana　thought　she　looked　like　a　two…peso　whore；　but　did　not　say　so。　At　least　she　would　not　be
recognized　by　any　of　her　former　San　Francisco　neighbors。　She　looked　at　her　watch。　Not　yet　nine
o’clock。
She　knew　she　should　call　Takagura　Omi；　but　could　not　face