Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第17部分

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o’clock。
She　knew　she　should　call　Takagura　Omi；　but　could　not　face　it　yet。　She　was　afraid　that　he　would
tell　her　Kestrel　could　not　come。　Then　she　would　have　to　drive　the　length　of　California　alone　–　a
fugitive　Japanese　girl　with　a　wounded　Mexican　murderer　and　two　canvas　sacks　whose　contents
had　already　cost　several　lives。
Ana　looked　again　at　her　watch；　knowing　she　must　call　soon。
“What　will　you　do　if　he　does　not　come？”　said　Refugio；　his　dark　eyes　shrewd　in　spite　of　his　pain。
He　knew　Kestrel　did　not　trust　him。　He　did　not　resent　it。　He　respected　the　Japanese　spy’s
pragmatism。　“Did　he　leave　the　money　with　you？”
“No。”
Refugio　smiled。　“Don’t　feel　bad。　He　didn’t　trust　me；　either。　But　that　doesn’t　answer　my　first
question。　What　do　we　do　if　he　doesn’t　come？”
“We　get　back　in　the　truck　and　drive　to　the　tunnel；”　said　Ana。　“Kestrel　left　sealed　instructions
with　Takagura　Omi。　Don’t　worry　–　you’ll　get　paid。”
Ana　emphasized　Takagura’s　name；　reminding　Refugio　that　should　he　cross　Kestrel；　Takagura
could　make　Refugio’s　life　a　preview　of　hell。　Takagura’s　wealth　and　power　extended　far　beyond
Barrio　Chino。
“It’s　you　who　should　not　worry；”　said　Refugio；　smiling　invitingly。　“If　Kestrel　does　not　come；　I
will　take　care　of　you。”
“He’ll　come；”　said　Ana　fiercely。
San　Francisco
4　Hours　31　Minutes　After　Trinity
Finn　and　Riley　were　parked　on　a　hill　overlooking　San　Francisco。　The　view　was　interrupted　by
streamers　of　fog　stirred　by　a　fitful　wind。　Toward　Oakland　the　fog　was　dense；　white　and　opaque。
On　the　Berkeley　hilltops　it　was　as　fine　as　gossamer；　brilliantly　backlighted　by　the　hidden　sun。
Although　Finn　had　driven　to　the　hilltop　for　the　radio　reception　rather　than　the　view；　he
appreciated　the　elegance　of　the　white　city　swathed　in　mist；　and　at　the　same　time　could　not　help
wondering　where　in　all　those　teeming　streets　was　Good　Luck　laundry　truck　number　7。　The　two
men　listened　to　reports　emanating　from　across　the　city；　including；　finally；　a　report　from
Coughlan。　His　voice　was　harsh　with　static　and　exasperation。
“Trucks　1；　3；　4；　8　and　9　accounted　for。　They　smell　like　dirty　shorts　and　they　don’t　register　on　this
voodoo　box。　Nothing　in　the　building。　Trucks　2；　5　and　6　are　picking　up　laundry。　The　cops　have
searched　them。　Nothing。”
“Satisfied；　Finn？　Or　do　you　want　me　to　go　over　anything　again？”
Finn　punched　the　transmit　button。　“Negative。”　He　replaced　the　microphone　and　resumed
staring　out　at　the　city。
“You　didn’t　expect　to　find　anything　in　those　other　trucks；　did　you？”　said　Riley。
“Whoever　pulled　off　this　job　is　a　pro。　He　has　no　connection　with　the　laundry。　Probably　bought
the　driver；　or　killed　him　and　took　the　truck。”　Finn　flexed　his　shoulders；　releasing　the　tension　of
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inactivity。　“He’ll　dump　the　truck；　switch　to　another　vehicle　and　either　go　to　ground　or　run。”
“Then　why　the　fuss　over　the　damned　trucks？”
“You　have　a　better　idea　of　a　good　place　to　start？”
“Since　I　don’t　know　damn　all　about　what　was　stolen；　I　wouldn’t　know　whether　to　start　shaking
the　local　fences　or　to　drag　the　local　waters　for　stiffs　in　cement　overcoats。”
“It　wasn’t　local　talent；”　said　Finn。　“Odds　are　it　wasn’t　even　American　talent。”
Riley　digested　the　implications　of　what　Finn　said。　“That　rather　widens　the　search　area。”
Finn　said　nothing；　just　stared　through　the　windshield　at　the　city；　watching　the　fog　and　waiting
because　there　was　nothing　else　he　could　do。　He　had　discovered　and　described　the　quarry’s
spoor；　and　he　had　sent　his　beaters　out　through　the　foggy　jungle。　Now　he　could　only　wait　for　the
quarry　to　be　flushed。
And　try　not　to　count　the　seconds　clicking　by。　Try　not　to　wonder　if　laundry　truck　number　7　was
here　or　there　or　anywhere　at　all。
Suddenly　both　men　sat　up　and　lunged　for　the　volume　control。
“　–　in　the　600　block　along　the　waterfront。　Repeat。　Oakland　police　responded　to　a　disturbance
involving　Ho’s　laundry　truck　number　17。”
Finn　started　the　Ford　and　surged　into　traffic　while　Riley　wrote　in　his　notebook。　When　the　voice
said　“17；”　Riley　swore。　He　glanced　at　the　speedometer。　“What’s　the　rush？　We’re　looking　for
number　7；　not　17。”
“Ho　only　has　nine　trucks。”
Finn　slid　into　a　bicycle…sized　opening　between　two　trucks；　then　braked　hard　for　a　right　turn。
“Ask　when　the　truck　was　found；”　he　said。　“And　tell　Coughlan　to　keep　the　locals　the　hell　away
from　it。　There’s　always　some　hero　who　can’t　leave　well　enough　alone。”
Riley　spoke　rapidly；　his　words　lost　to　Finn　beneath　the　sound　of　the　Ford　whining　up　to　peak
acceleration。
“They　found　it　an　hour　ago。”
“For　the　love　of　Christ；”　snarled　Finn；　weaving　around　a　startled　motorist；　“why　weren’t　we
notified！”
Riley　braced　himself　on　the　dashboard。　“The　APB　was　for　truck　number　7。”
“Shit！”　said　Finn；　his　voice　furious；　“nobody’s　that　dumb！”
“The　locals　hate　our　guts；”　said　Riley。　“The　only　reason　they　let　us　in　on　anything　is　because
they’re　forced　to。　If　you　go　out　there　screaming　like　Coughlan；　Oakland’s　finest　will　do
everything　they　can　to　hamstring　your　investigation。”
Finn　answered　by　throwing　the　car　into　a　controlled　skid。　He　straightened　the　wheel　and　aimed
for　the　Bay　Bridge　rising　out　of　the　gloom。　The　radio　mumbled　again。
“Three　bodies　were　aboard　and　a　fourth　down　in　the　street。　Coroner　has　them　now。”
“Tell　everyone　to　stay　away　from　the　truck；”　said　Finn。　He　thought　about　those　eager；
half…bright　Oakland　cops；　all　of　them　wondering　what　had　the　FBI　so　stirred　up；　crawling　over
the　truck　and　soaking　up　radiation。
The　car　raced　onto　the　Bay　Bridge　as　Riley　replaced　the　microphone。
“Where’s　the　600　block？”　asked　Finn。
“Bear　to　the　right　coming　off　the　bridge；　then　make　a　hard　right　at　the　first　cross　street。　It’s　on
the　waterfront。”
“What　about　the　Lawrence　Radiation　men？”
“They　cleared　Coughlan。　They’re　finishing　up　at　Hunters　Point。　Should　be　here　in　about
forty…five　minutes。”
Using　first　brake；　then　accelerator；　Finn　slid　through　a　right　turn　and　onto　a　rough　waterfront
street。　A　roadblock　of　police　cars　appeared　a　few　blocks　away。　The　cop　on　the　roadblock　was
big　and　hard…bellied。　He　let　them　pass　grudgingly。
Finn　parked　the　car；　grabbed　the　radiation　counter　and　walked　quickly　to　the　knot　of　men
around　the　laundry　truck。　He　adjusted　dials　as　he　went。　Riley　followed　at　a　trot；　the　only　way　he
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could　match　Finn’s　long…legged　stride。
A　dozen　men　stood　by　the　truck；　six　in　police　uniform；　four　in　suits　and　two　in　the　uniforms　of。
factory　security　guards。　Finn　ignored　all　of　them。　He　swept　the　counter’s　wand　back　and　forth。
Conversation　stopped；　everyone　stared　at　Finn。　He　moved　the　wand；　testing　the　outside　of　the
vehicle。　In　the　silence；　the　click　of　the　counter　was　clear。　Finn　moved　the　dial　up　again　before
opening　the　truck’s　front　door　and　sticking　the　probe　inside。
The　clicking　increased。　Finn　reset　the　dial。　The　clicking　slowed。　He　checked　the　front　seat；
looking　carefully　at　every　place　where　the　uranium　might　have　been　hidden。　The　seat　was　intact；
the　glove　compartment　empty；　the　wall　panels　untouched。
Finn　turned　his　attention　to　the　back　of　the　truck。　As　he　moved　toward　the　rear　doors；　the
counter　shrieked。　Finn　retreated；　there　was　no　reason　to　stay。　The　spots　that　set　off　the　counter
were　patently　bare　patches　of　floor。　The　isotope　that　had　irradiated　the　floor　was　gone。
Slamming　the　door；　Finn　examined　the　number　of　the　truck。　The　electricians　tape　that　had　made
7　into　17　was　half…peeled　off；　curling　back　on　itself　like　a　dying　leaf。
The　chief　of　detectives　wandered　over　to　Finn。　“Just　discovered　that　little　bit　of　tape　a　few
minutes　ago。　If　we’d　seen　it　sooner；”　he　smiled　insincerely；　“we’d　have　called　you　Feds　right
away；　just　like　our　orders　said　to　do。”
The　man　waited；　but　Finn　had　nothing　to　say。
“But　don’t　worry；”　continued　the　detective。　“Our　Crime　boys　took　care　of　everything。　You
should　have　the　report　sometime　next　week。”
“There　were　two　chunks　of　metal；　one　fist　sized；　one　about　three　times　as　large。　Where　are
they？”
The　cop　shrugged。　“I　tagged　the　evidence　myself。　Only　thing　we　took　out　of　that　truck　was
bodies；　laundry　and　weapons。”
“For　your　sake；　I　hope　that’s　true。　What’s　your　security　clearance？”
“I’m　Abel　Jones；　chief　of　detectives；”　snapped　the　gray…haired　cop。　“That’s　all　the　clearance　I
need。”
“This　truck；　this　block　and　everything　that　happened　is　classified。　Top　Secret。　Therefore　you　and
your　men　are　in　violation　of　wartime　security　regulations。　You’re　under　arrest。”
“What？　Now　you　listen　here；　you　smart…mouthed　son…ofabitch　–　“
“Can　it。”
Finn’s　voice　was　not　loud；　but　it　easily　cut　across　the　cop’s　words。　“I’m　not　the　kind　of　Fed
you’re　used　to。”　He　smiled。　“I’m　a　lot　nicer。”
Riley　looked　uneasily　at　Finn；　but　said　nothing。
“If　you　cooperate；”　continued　Finn；　“you’ll　get　a　star　on　our　fitness　report　the　next　time　around。
If　you　don’t　cooperate；　you　won’t　be　around　long　enough　to　get　another　report。　You’ll　be
Private　Abel　Jones。　Don’t　take　my　word　for　it。　Please　don’t。　Uncle　Sam　needs　all　the　cannon
fodder　he　can　get。”
Finn　waited。　Chief　of　Detectives　Abel　Jones　said　nothing。　He　turned　to　Riley；　recognizing　him。
“Does　this　guy　have　more　than　a　mouth？”
“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
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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
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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　ple　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
t