Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第22部分

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uranium　was　there；　along　with　another　swath　of　lead　foil。　Refugio　wove　unsteadily　as　the　gurney
bumped　into　the　table’s　porcelain　rim。　“Let　me…　lie　down。”
“We’re　almost　done；”　Kestrel　answered。　“Quickly；　now！”
Refugio　leaned　toward　the　table；　confused　by　the　presence　of　another　piece　of　uranium　and
more　foil。　Had　he　not　just　done　this？　His　hand　slid　off　the　gray…white　lump。　He　overbalanced；
tried　weakly　to　save　himself；　and　would　have　fallen　face　down　on　the　embalming　table　if　Kestrel
had　not　caught　him。
“Try　again；”　Kestrel　urged。
With　a　great　effort；　Refugio　herded　the　lopsided　sphere　onto　the　two…colored　foil。　The　foil　tore
beneath　his　clumsy　fingers。　Uranium　showed　through　the　tear　like　a　gray…white　tooth。　Refugio
tried　to　cover　it　with　more　foil；　but　his　hands　would　not　respond。　Retching　convulsed　him。　He
was　relieved　when　the　black　well　leaped　up；　surrounding　him　once　more。
Gently；　Kestrel　straightened　Refugio’s　unconscious　body　on　the　gurney。　As　he　did；　he　sensed
someone　coming　through　the　doorway　to　help　him。　Ana。　She　reached　for　the　half…covered　metal
sphere；　then　cried　out　when　Kestrel　slapped　away　her　hands。
“I　told　you　to　stay　out　of　here！”
Tears　grew　in　Ana’s　eyes。　“But　you　needed　help；”　she　said；　her　voice　breaking　between　reason
and　emotion。　“I　saw　Refugio　–　“
“Go　back　to　the　flower　shop。　Stay　there。　I’ll　be　through　in　a　few　minutes。”
Tears　gathered　in　her　lashes　and　slid　down　her　cheeks。
“Please；”　said　Kestrel；　kissing　her　eyelids。　“It　is　best　this　way。”　Reassured　by　Kestrel’s
gentleness。　Ana　left。　She　stopped　just　beyond　the　doorway。　Kestrel　did　not　notice。　He　had
already　turned　back　to　the　embalming　table。　Beneath　his　strong　hands；　uranium　and　foil　grew
into　an　ungainly　scarlet　jewel。
San　Francisco
27　Hours　15　Minutes　After　Trinity
A　knock　sounded　on　the　door。
“Who　is　it？”　called　Vanessa；　reaching　for　the　pistol　concealed　in　her　purse。
“A　student　of　history；”　answered　a　deep　voice。
“I；　too；　am　a　student　of　history。　Come　in。”
The　man　was　so　thick　and　muscular　that　he　almost　had　to　turn　sideways　to　enter　the　room。　He
was　young；　nearly　six　feet　tall。　His　head　seemed　to　be　joined　directly　to　his　huge　shoulders。　He
wore　a　merchant　seaman’s　rough　clothing　and　a　single　small　gold　loop　in　his　left　ear。
He　walked　by　Vanessa　without　speaking。　She　closed　the　door　but　did　not　look　away　from　him。
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He　saw　her　pistol；　but　acted　as　though　it　were　no　more　unusual　than　a　wedding　ring。
“Good　morning；　comrade；”　he　said；　smiling。
His　voice　was　surprisingly　gentle　and　unaccented；　despite　his　olive　skin　and　Mediterranean
appearance。
Vanessa　returned　the　smile　in　spite　of　herself。　After　Hecht’s　easily　shocked　innocence；　this　man
with　the　earring　was　reassuring。　Certainly　the　sight　of　a　gun　did　not　make　him　blanch。　A　young
Masarek；　perhaps。　She　lowered　her　gun。
“Welcome；　comrade。　What　shall　we　call　you　today？”
“Slaven？”　said　the　big　man。　He　laughed　and　swept　the　watch　cap　off　his　shaved　head。　“Yes；
Slaven　–　a　poor　working　man　who　helps　the　cause　any　way　he　can。”
Slaven’s　formality　had　a　mocking　quality；　but　it　was　himself　he　laughed　at；　not　her。
“Tell　me；　Slaven；”　murmured　Vanessa；　“can　you　shoot？”
“Yes。”
“Good。　What　work　do　you　do？”
“I’m　a　longshoreman；”　he　said。　“Sometimes。”
“A　trade　unionist？”
“Sometimes。”
“And　what　do　you　do　now？”
A　sound　came　from　the　hallway；　footsteps　approaching。　As　Slaven　moved　toward　the　door；　a
gun　appeared　in　his　huge　fist。　The　footsteps　passed　without　pausing。　Slaven　waited　until　they
could　be　heard　no　more。　Then；　before　he　replaced　his　gun；　he　flicked　open　its　cylinder；
inspected　the　cartridges　and　then　the　barrel。　He　handled　the　pistol　the　way　a　cook　would　handle
a　skillet　–　with　utter　familiarity。　“Sometimes　I’m　a　metal　worker。”
“Metal？　Steel　and　lead；　no　doubt。”
Slaven’s　only　answer　was　another　smile。
San　Francisco
27　Hours　21　Minutes　After　Trinity
“I　followed　the　gringo　down　the　street；　to　an　apartment　above　Velasquez’s　grocery　store；”　said
Julio　Rincón。
“Were　you　able　to　learn　anything　more？”　asked　Kestrel。　His　eyes　were　patient；　impenetrable。
Marco　smiled。　“I　talked　to　Velasquez。　He　told　me　that　he　rented　the　apartment　just　yesterday
afternoon　to　a　blond　woman　with　a　foreign　accent。”
Kestrel　glanced　at　Ana；　who　stood　watching；　concern　growing　on　her　face。
“Masarek’s　woman；”　said　Ana。　“It　must　be。”
Kestrel　nodded　absently；　his　mind　examining　the　dimensions　of　the　problem。　The　flower　shop
had　become　a　trap。　He　must　escape　it　before　the　woman　could　recruit　enough　help　to　take　back
the　uranium。　Refugio　was　no　help　to　him　now。　He　was　dying。　Once　dead；　the　Rincón　brothers
would　want　to　strike　a　new　deal　with　Kestrel；　and　the　Rincón　brothers　were　more　American　than
Mexican。　He　could　not　trust　them。
“Where　is　the　woman　now？”　asked　Kestrel。
“Velasquez　thinks　she　is　still　in　the　apartment。　I　have　one　of　the　children　watching　to　see　who
comes　and　goes。”
“Children？　This　isn’t　a　game　for　children！”
Julio　shrugged。　“He’s　only　watching。　I　told　him　to　stay　out　of　sight。”
“Did　he　see　anything？　Is　she　alone？”
“The　man　who　bought　the　flowers　stayed　there。　Another　man　came；　too。　He　is　very　big；　very
strong。　A　mean　one；　se？or。”
Kestrel　dismissed　Julio　with　a　quick　nod　and　turned　away。　The　mourning　room　in　which　he
stood　was　small；　draped　ceiling　to　floor　with　dark　velvet。　The　heavy　folds　of　cloth　absorbed
sound　and　light；　leaving　nothing。　On　one　wall　was　a　massively　framed　portrait　of　a　languid
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Cristo；　a　pale　effeminate　face　on　a　black　velvet　background。
Kestrel　looked　away　from　the　picture；　repelled　by　its　shallowness。　Even　the　dusty　god’s　eye　in
the　Mexicali　whorehouse　was　more　meaningful　than　this　icon。　He　would　be　glad　to　be　free　of　a
culture　that　pickled　their　dead　in　the　name　of　a　bland；　androgynous　god。
Frowning；　Kestrel　looked　around　the　room；　measuring　choices　he　no　longer　had。
Refugio　was　dying；　his　useful　family　network　would　die　with　him。
Ana　was　nervous；　frightened；　fragile。
The　Russian　spy　with　the　British　accent　had　somehow　traced　the　uranium　to　this　place。
It　was　doubtful　that　he　could　convince　Refugio’s　cousins　to　kill　the　Englishwoman　and　her
friends。　It　was　even　more　doubtful　that　the　deaths　would　be　kept　secret。　Attention　would　be
drawn　to　the　neighborhood　and　to　him　–　official　attention；　the　one　thing　he　could　not　tolerate。
He　had　a　chance　to　secure　Japan’s　future　so　long　as　he　and　his　trail　were　invisible。　But　one
misstep；　one　clear　footprint　revealing　his　presence；　and　his　pursuers　would　fall　upon　him　and
tear　him　apart。
“I　must　hide；”　murmured　Kestrel。　“But　where？”
Ana　was　watching　him；　sorrow　in　her　eyes。　He　had　never　seen　her　so　vulnerable。
“You’re　going。”　Ana’s　voice　was　as　empty　as　her　eyes。
“We’re　going；”　corrected　Kestrel。
“You’re　going；”　continued　Ana　as　though　he　had　not　spoken。　“You’re　going　and　I　am　not。”
Kestrel　was　momentarily　disoriented；　as　though　they　were　speaking　separate　languages　based　on
separate　assumptions。　Then　he　understood　what　she　did　not　want　to　put　into　words：　he　must　flee
or　die。　Either　way；　she　would　be　left　alone　in　a　hostile　land。　Even　if　he　took　her　with　him；　he
would　return　eventually　to　Japan；　then　she　would　be　alone。
“I　won’t　leave　you；　Ana；”　Kestrel　said；　lying　as　he　spoke；　knowing　he　lied；　and　why。　“How　could
I？　I　don’t　even　know　where　to　go。　The　submarine　won’t　be　off　the　coast　for　five　days。”
“Then　we’ll　go　back　to　Mexicali　and　wait。　Refugio　and　Takagura　will　protect　us。”
Kestrel　hesitated；　deciding　how　much　of　the　truth　Ana　could　bear。　“Refugio　is　dying。　When　his
men　realize　that；　we　will　be　at　their　mercy。　We　must　have　a　place　to　go　where　we’ll　be　safe　until
Takagura　can　make　new　arrangements　to　smuggle　us　south。　And　we　must　go　very　soon。”
“Dying？　Refugio？”　whispered　Ana。　Her　eyes　searched　his　face；　and　then　she　asked　no　more
questions。　“A　place　where　Japanese　are　safe　in　America！”　Her　lips　hardened　into　a　bitter　smile。
“The　prison　camps　are　the　only　place　in　America　where　Japanese　aren’t　noticed。”
Kestrel　was　startled　by　Ana’s　insight；　and　appalled。　“What　about　the　guards？”
“They　are　nothing。　The　fences　keep　them　out　rather　than　keeping　us　in。　At　least；　my　father　said
it’s　like　that　at　Manzanar。　And　Masataka　Oshiga　is　there。　He　is　my　father’s　uncle　and　Takagura’s
friend。”
“Is　he　a　loyal　Japanese？”
Ana　hesitated。　“He　believes　in　the　Japanese　people；　no　matter　what　country　they　live　in。　He
helped　me　when　I　refused　to　go　to　Manzanar；　but　he　also　helped　my　brother　go　to　war　in　Italy。
He’s　very　powerful　because　he　hasn’t　taken　sides。”
“Does　he　know　Takagura　is　America’s　enemy？”
“Yes。　But　Takagura　still　trusts　him。”
Kestrel　frowned。　“Do　you　know　how　to　get　to　Manzanar？”
Ana　began　to　laugh；　but　the　sound　disturbed　her　so　much　she　stopped。　“Yes。　It’s　so　easy。　The
camp　is　on　the　dry　side　of　the　Sierras。　A　desert　where　only　the　wind　is　free。”
Kestrel　waited　for　a　moment；　weighing　all　that　she　had　said　and　implied。　He　was　as　still　as　a
stone　at　the　bottom　of　a　midnight　pond。　Then；　“Bring　Julio　to　me。　I　have　orders　for　him　from
Refugio。”
“You　said　Refugio　was　dying。”
“Yes；　but　his　cousins　won’t　obey　me。　Whatever　I　say　must　seem　to　come　from　Refugio。”
Ana　returned　almost　immediately　with　Julio　Rincón。　The　Mexican　walked　into　the　room；　then
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stopped。　Kestrel　was　standing　beneath　the　Cristo　with　a　handful　of　American　money。
“Refugio　is　resting；”　said　Kestrel。　“He　asked　me　to　give　you　the　details。”
“Details？”
“Of　his　plan；”　said　Kestrel；　as　though　Julio　must　surely　know　what　plan　was　meant。
“What　plan？”
“Didn’t　Refugio　tell　you？　He　thought　he　had。　The　fever　makes　his　dreams　very　real。”
Julio　moved　impatiently。　As　Kestrel　had　hoped；　Julio’s　attention　was　more　on　Kestrel’s　money
than　his　words。
“How　many　cars　and　trucks　do　you　have？”　asked　Kestrel；　“including　the　ones　owned　by　the
flower　shop；　the　funeral　home　and　all　of　your　family？”
Julio　squinted；　thinking。　“We　have　two　hearses；　four　black　cars　for　the　chief　mourners；　three
flower　trucks　and　seven　or　eight　family　cars。”　He　shrugged。　“They　don’t　all　run　all　of　the　time。”
“So　many？”
“We’re　a　large　family。　I　myself　have　four　brothers　and　three　sisters；　and　our　wives　also　have
brothers　and　sisters；　and　they；　too；　are　married。”
Kestrel　smiled。　“Refugio　is　a　more　generous　man　than　I　thought。”
Julio　looked　skeptical。
“He　wanted　to　give　you　all　a　present；”　said　Kestrel。　“A　vacation。　He　has　even　picked　out　the
cities。　Everywhere　from　here　to　Mexicali。”
“But　our　work　–！”
Kestrel　looked　from　the　money　in　his　hand　to　Julio。　“He　gave　me　10；000。　Surely　that’s　enough
for　even　such　a　large　family　as　yours　for　three　days。”
Julio　opened　and　closed　his　mouth。　Then；　“Just　what　is　it　that　my　cousin　wants　done？”
“A　vacation。　Leave　now。　Take　every　vehicle　but　one　car。　And；　if　for　some　reason　you　attract　the
attention　of　any　police；　a　few　days　of　silence　will　give　Refugio　a　chance　to　get　well　before　he　goes
back　to　Mexico。”
“That’s　all？　Take　every　car　but　one；　be　gone　for　three　days　and　say　nothing？”
“That’s　all。”
“Good。　It　is　done。”
San　Francisco
27　Hours　31　Minutes　After　Trinity
The　door　to　the　embalming　room　closed　softly　behind　Kestrel。　Even　so；　Refugio　was　startled。
His　fever　magnified　and　distorted　sounds。　He　wanted　desperately　to　sleep；　but　the　conflicting
agonies　in　his　guts　and　thigh　made　sleep　impossible。
“Refugio。”
Kestrel’s　voice　was　close；　calm；　cool；　like　water。
“Yes。”
Kestrel　wrung　out　a　rag　and　placed　it　on　Refugio’s　forehead。　“The　pain　is　very　bad　for　you？”
Refugio　did　not　answer　for　a　moment；　then　sighed。　“If　it　were　not　a　sin　to　wish　for　death；　I
would。”
“To　me；”　said　Kestrel；　“death　is　an　interruption　between　lives；　not　a　sin。”
Refugio　would　have　smiled　had　the　pain　not　been　so　cruel。　“If　I　had　to　feel　like　this　again；　I
would　spit　on　another　life。”
His　hot　hand　closed　around　Kestrel’s　wrist　as　the　Japanese　moved　the　damp　cloth　from
forehead　to　basin　and　back　again。
“But　what　is　worse　than　the　pain　is　the　time　when　I’m　falling　and　there’s　nothing　but　hot　black
sand　around　me；　filling　my　mouth　and　nose；　going　down　my　throat　and　I’m　choking；　dying　–　“
Slowly；　the　Mexican’s　fingers　loosened。　His　head　fell　slackly　onto　the　pillow。　Kestrel　dipped　the
rag　in　water　again；　wrung　it　out　and　wiped　Refugio’s　face。　Clumps　of　hair　fell　away　as　Kestrel
worked。　Refugio　began　retching　helplessly；　too　weak　even　to　move　his　head。　Blood　gathered　on
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his　lips　and　he　choked。　Kestrel　turned　Refugio　quickly；　holding　his　head　so　that　he　would　not
gag　on　his　own　blood。
“Madre　de　Dios；”　moaned　Refugio；　twisting　in　agony。　“That　pigfucker　poisoned　his　bullets。　I
will　die。”
“Yes；”　Kestrel　said；　“you　will　die。”
Kestrel　moved　the　rag　again　over　Refugio’s　face；　blurring　the　distinction　between　sweat　and
tears；　then　he　lifted　Refugio　upright　so　that　he　could　breathe　without　choking。
“How　–　long？”　gasped　Refugio。
“Two　days。　A　week。　Or　now；　Refugio。　Would　you　prefer　to　die　now？”
Refugio　tried　not　to　moan。　Then；　realizing　what　Kestrel　had　said；　he　stared　into　the　slanted　black
eyes　so　close　to　his　own。
“Suicide　is　a　mortal　sin；”　said　Refugio；　his　voice　shallow　and　hoarse。
“I’m　not　a　Catholic；”　said　Kestrel；　“and　I’m　not　speaking　of　suicide。”
In　the　silence；　Kestrel　could　hear　Refugio’s　fast；　shallow　breathing。
“Please　understand　me；”　said　Refugio；　his　tongue　thick　with　pain。　“I’m　Catholic。　I　can’t　ask　for
death。　Please　–　you　must　–　understand。　I　can’t　–　ask。”
Kestrel　nodded。　As　he　lowered　Refugio　back　onto　the　gurney；　his　head　lolled　back　over
Kestrel’s　arm。　Kestrel’s　right　hand　moved　in　a　blur　of　speed　and　power。　With　a　single　clean
crack；　its　calloused　edge　broke　Refugio’s　neck。
There　was　silence；　then　came　Ana’s　thin；　strangled　cry。
Kestrel　spun　toward　the　door　that　opened　into　the　flower　shop。　He　saw　Ana’s　startlingly　pale
face；　her　wide　black　eyes　ringed　by　the　hated　blue　makeup；　her　white　teeth　bruising　her　lower　lip。
“Ana；　Ana；”　murmured　Kestrel。　“When　will　you　learn　not　to　open　doors？”
Ana　looked　at　him　wildly。　She　started　to　speak；　but　could　not。　She　wanted　to　be　comforted；　but
the　only　man　who　could　comfort　her　was　the　very　man　who　had　frightened　her。
“Murderer。”
“You’re　very　American；　Ana　Oshiga；　American　and　Christian。　You　would　have　left　Refugio　in
agony　and　called　it　the　will　of　God。”　Kestrel　went　to　a　long　counter　and　began　opening　drawers。
He　moved　quickly；　collecting　the　items　he　needed。　“Bring　my　uniform；”　he　said　without　turning
around。　“Quickly。　And　get　two　pails　from　the　flower　shop。”
Ana　watched　Kestrel；　carrying　a　handful　of　makeup；　approach　the　corpse。
She　fled　back　into　the　flower　shop。
When　she　returned　with　the　two　buckets　and　uniform；　Refugio’s　corpse　was　naked　on　the
embalming　table。
“Bolt　the　door。”
Ana　turned　and　fumbled　with　the　bolt。
“They’re　leaving；”　she　said　hesitantly。　“The　Rincons。　They’ve　taken　the　flower　trucks　and　the
hearses　and　all　but　one　car。”
“Good。”
Kestrel　dressed　the　corpse。　The　uniform　was　too　small。　He　opened　up　the　back　of　the　clothes
with　a　scalpel。　When　he　tucked　the　split　cloth　beneath　the　body；　the　rents　in　the　back　were
invisible。
The　corpse　now　wore　the　clothes　of　a　Nisei　and　the　face　of　an　Indio。　Kestrel　sewed　shut　the
mouth　and　powdered　and　rouged　the　dead　skin。　He　had　a　certain　skill　with　cosmetics；　but　the
eyes　defeated　him。　Short　of　surgery；　Kestrel　knew　of　no　way　to　fake　an　epicanthic　fold。
“Like　this；”　said　Ana。
She　took　the　dark　pencil　with　hands　that　trembled。　A　few　deft　strokes　increased　the　slant　of　each
eye　and　suggested　a　fold　on　each　eyelid。　Like　the　uniform；　the　eyes　would　now　pass　a　cursory
inspection。
“Good；”　said　Kestrel。　Then；　hearing　the　harshness　of　his　own　voice　he　added；　“Thank　you。”
Ana　looked　at　Kestrel’s　eyes；　then　looked　away　quickly。　“I　was　wrong；”　she　whispered。　“I’m　a
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coward。　I’m　glad　he’s　dead　and　I　don’t　have　to　hear　him　moan　and　see　him　–　but　I　wouldn’t　have
killed　–　I　couldn’t　–　I　–　“　She　began　sobbing。
“Hush。　It’s　almost　over。”
Kestrel　touched　the　tears　at　the　corner　of　her　eyes；　then　turned　back　to　what　must　be　done。　He
went　to　the　coffin　room；　selected　the　lightest　coffin　he　could　find　and　dragged　it　into　the
embalming　room。
He　pulled　the　coffin　onto　a　gurney；　then　heaved　Refugio’s　corpse　into　it；　arranged　the　body；　and
wheeled　the　coffin　back　into　the　storage　room。　He　nailed　the　lid　down。
“Bring　some　makeup　for　me；”　Kestrel　called　over　his　shoulder。　He　put　one　piece　of
foil…wrapped　U…235　in　each　bucket。　“I’ll　have　to　be　an　Indio　until　we　get　to　Manzanar。”
The　garage　was　dark　and　damp；　as　though　the　sun　never　penetrated　the　interior。　In　the　midst　of
the　gloom　was　a　black　Chevrolet　sedan。　Kestrel　opened　its　trunk　and　placed　a　bucket　along　one
side。
He　brought　the　second　pail　and　wedged　it　as　far　away　from　the　first　as　the　trunk　allowed。　He
waited；　squinting　into　the　dark　hole　of　the　truck。　No　blue　haze　shimmered　into　life。　It　was　a
crude　gauge　of　safety；　but　it　was　the　only　one　he　had。
The　heavy　trunk　lid　slammed　shut　with　a　thick；　final　sound。　Kestrel　went　to　the　door　that　opened
into　the　alley　and　peered　out。　No　one　was　in　sight。　If　there　were　any　watchers；　they　had　been
drawn　off　by　the　Rincón　exodus。
As　Kestrel　opened　the　garage’s　big　double　doors；　Ana　ran　in　from　the　front　of　the　funeral
home；　carrying　two　suitcases。　She　sat　on　the　right　side　of　the　car；　waiting　for　Kestrel。　He　slid
into　the　driver’s　side　and　started　the　engine。
In　the　sunlight　flooding　through　the　open　garage　door；　Ana　looked　pale；　thin…lipped；　distraught。
“Cry　now；　Ana。　It　will　help。”
Ana　gave　Kestrel　a　look　that　he　could　not　read。
“And　you；　Kestrel。　When　will　you　cry？”
Kestrel　drove　the　car　out　of　the　garage　without　answering。　Ana　did　not　ask　the　question　again。
Nor　did　she　cry。
San　Francisco
27　Hours　38　Minutes　After　Trinity
Vanessa　paced　the　room；　her　body　tense；　her　eyes　brilliant　with　suppressed　emotion。　Hecht　sat
very　quietly；　his　hands　clenched　around　the　cold　weight　of　the　gun　and　ammunition　he　had
purchased。　He　watched　Vanessa’s　luminous　beauty　with　more　fear　than　admiration。
“Comrade；”　said　Hecht　hesitantly；　again　holding　out　the　brown　paper　bag；　“the　gun。”
Vanessa　gave　Hecht　a　single；　savage　glance。　She　had　watched　flower　trucks　and　funeral　cars　leave
their　respective　shops。　She　had　watched；　and　been　helpless。　She　needed　fifteen　men。　All　she　had
was　Slaven　and　a　nitwit　with　pretensions　to　international　communism。
At　the　moment；　Slaven　was　chasing　one　of　four　dusty　black　funeral　cars。　The　flower　store　and
funeral　home　might　or　might　not　be　a　trap；　might　or　might　not　be　baited　with　something
significant。　She　must　know；　and　she　must　depend　on　Hecht　to　find　out。
Vanessa　made　a　sound　of　disgust。
“Have　I　done　something　wrong？”　asked　Hecht；　looking　away　from　Vanessa’s　fierce　blue　eyes。
“You　were　born；”　said　Vanessa；　but　she　said　it　in　Russian　because　she　still　had　a　use　for　Hecht。
She　took　the　paper　bag　from　him　and　examined　its　contents。　At　least　he　had　managed　to　buy　the
right　size　ammunition。　The　gun　itself　was　used；　dirty；　and　still　had　a　pawnshop　number　dan