Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第11部分

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been　carried　into　battle　against　gringo　invaders　by　a　Mexican　Creole　general　who　had　died　at　the
hands　of　Finn’s　great…grandfather。　The　sword’s　handle　was　bound　in　gilt…braided　cord　after　the
manner　of　its　time。
Pride　and　violence；　the　twin　obsessions　of　the　cultures　that　had　forged　the　swords。　And　now　a
new　culture；　a　new　weapon；　a　weapon　that　was　made　not　of　steel　but　of　an　unbelievably　rare
element；　a　metal　that　could　end　a　war　and　begin　a　world。
Finn　stood　just　inside　the　door；　letting　the　coolness　of　the　house　wash　over　him。　Before　he　could
close　the　door；　the　telephone　rang　imperiously　and　Ghost；　his　cat；　streaked　into　the　room。　He
shut　the　door　and　answered　the　phone　with　a　quickness　that　echoed　the　cat’s。
“Bueno；”　he　said。
Finn　recognized　the　voice　at　the　other　end　of　the　line；　a　woman’s　voice；　cool　and　precise；
professionally　remote。　Sarah　Campos　was　the　chief　operator　at　the　phone　exchange　in　El　Paso。
All　calls　from　Juarez　to　the　United　States；　and　vice　versa；　went　through　her　switchboard。　She；
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like　Finn；　was　paid　by　the　American　government。
“You　will　want　to　know　about　new　voices？”　she　asked。
“Yes。”
Finn　waited；　so　focused　on　Sarah’s　call　that　he　barely　noticed　the　cat　stropping　itself　on　his
boots。
“There　were　two。　Yesterday。　Both　British。　One　was　the　man　I　told　you　about　before；　the　one
who　calls　from　that　little　town　close　to　the　cottonwoods。”
“Yes。”　Socorro　was　the　town　closest　to　Los　Alamos。　Finn　had　mentioned　the　anonymous　caller
to　Groves；　suspecting　that　the　man　might　be　one　of　the　British　scientists　working　in　Los　Alamos。
“Did　you　recognize　the　second　man？”
“It　was　a　woman。　She　was　calling　from　the　Mexican　side；　a　public　phone　booth。”
“What　did　they　say？”
“Not　much　that　I　could　understand。　They　spoke　English　at　first；　then　they　switched　to　another
language；　very　hard　and　deep　in　their　throats。　I　think　it　was　German。　It　sure　wasn’t　Chinese　or
Japanese。　The　woman　spoke　the　language　very　well。　The　man　had　problems。　He　used　English；
too。　It　sounded　like　they　were　planning　a　trip　to　New　York。”
“Oh？”
“They　kept　talking　about　Manhattan　and　the　Bronx；　and　something　about　not　being　able　to　ship
stuff　directly　to　the　Bronx。　He　finally　said　in　English；　‘Look；　it　can’t　be　done　from　here！’　He　was
angry。”
For　a　moment　Finn　forgot　to　breathe。　Then　he　drew　in　air　silently　and　said；　“Anything　else？”
“No。　They　didn’t　talk　very　long。”
“If　you　hear　any　more　from　them；　let　me　know　right　away。”
Finn　replaced　the　receiver　very　slowly；　but　his　mind　was　racing　and　his　skin　was　hot　with　more
than　desert　heat。　Russian　sounded　enough　like　German　to　confuse　an　untutored　ear。　Masarek
was　in　Juarez　with　a　woman　who　had　a　British　accent。　Two　priceless　pieces　of　silver…white　metal
were　on　their　way　to　San　Francisco。
General　Groves　had　been　very　wise　to　keep　the　route　of　the　Bronx　shipment　secret；　otherwise　it
seemed　that　the　Russians　were　set　to　intercept　the　shipment。　Without　the　uranium；　the　war
would　not　end　short　of　a　grueling　invasion　of　Japan；　an　invasion　that　would　culminate　in　2
million　casualties　and　a　Russian　world。
Ghost　yeowed　bleakly；　as　though　she　shared　Finn’s　thoughts。　Her　front　paw　touched　the　toe　of
his　boot　and　the　tip　of　her　tail　flicked　across　his　knee。
“Hello；　Ghost。”
The　cat　sat　on　her　haunches；　inspecting　the　room　as　though　seeking　mice　in　its　corners　or　lizards
on　its　clay　et　Finn’s　and　she　yeowed　again。　She　was　poised；
healthy　and　obviously　a　recent　mother。
“Hungry？”
Ghost　looked　away　disdainfully。　She　could　survive　without　Finn；　which　was　the　only　reason　he
had　allowed　her　into　his　life。　Since　Burma；　he　had　permitted　no　living　thing　to　depend　on　him。
Finn　straightened　swiftly；　found　a　small　can　of　evaporated　milk　in　the　kitchen　and　punched　two
holes　in　the　can　with　his　pocket　knife。　He　poured　the　viscous　fluid　into　a　saucer　and　stepped
aside。
Ghost’s　nose　moved　and　her　whiskers　twitched　as　the　thick　scent　of　milk　washed　over　her。　She
walked　slowly　to　the　dish；　her　every　movement　telling　Finn　that　she　could　live　very　well　without
him。　The　milk　was　like　Finn；　nice；　but　not　necessary　to　her　survival。
“That’s　right；　cat；”　he　said　softly。　“No　guarantees。”
Jacame
50　Hours　Before　Trinity
Refugio　drove　without　lights　through　the　dry　desert　night　as　though　it　were　noon。　Drops　of
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sweat　gathered　in　his　enormous　black　eyebrows　like　rain　in　a　raven’s　wings。　That　was　the　only
outward　sign　of　the　strength　and　concentration　required　to　hold　the　rocketing　Cadillac　on　the
narrow　dirt　road。　Refugio　dominated　the　car　with　a　combination　of　drama　and　ruthlessness　that
exican。
Vanessa　Lyons　braced　herself　in　the　back　seat；　trying　not　to　be　shaken　loose　by　each　bump；　each
rut；　each　lunge　and　swoop　of　the　heavy　car。　She　assumed　that　Refugio　was　indulging　in　the
strutting　maleness　she　detested　in　all　Latin　cultures。　She　glanced　at　Masarek；　silent　in　the　front
seat。　He　balanced　against　the　careening　car　with　the　cold　self…control　that　was　his　trademark。
Vanessa　started　to　speak；　then　decided　not　to。　Her　orders　had　been　clear。　All　speed。　Although
her　orders　were　now　nothing　more　than　ashes　flushed　into　the　sewer；　their　urgency　remained。
They　had　flown　from　Juarez　to　Mexicali　and　now　were　rushing　toward　the　place　where　they
could　safely　cross　into　the　United　States。
Refugio　glanced　in　the　rearview　mirror；　attracted　by　the　movement　of　Vanessa’s　head。
Moonlight　made　her　gold　hair　shimmer　as　though　it　were　burning。　Her　eyes　were　the　dense　blue
of　expensive　English　china。
And　she　was　watching　him。
Refugio’s　black　eyes　shifted　to　the　passenger　in　the　front　seat；　the　man　called　Masarek。
Contained；　quiet；　Masarek　would　have　made　a　good　smuggler　or　soldier　or　assassin。　Refugio
suspected　that　Masarek　had　been　all　three。　Though　his　hairline　had　retreated　into　gray　and　his
face　showed　the　first　inroads　of　age；　Masarek　moved　with　the　ease　of　men　half　his　years。
The　car’s　metal　joints　rattled　and　groaned　over　a　straight　segment　of　road　that　had　attained　the
washboard　surface　common　to　unpaved　desert　tracks。　Gradually　the　car　slowed　until　its
roostertail　of　dust　no　longer　leaped　toward　the　white　moon。
“Is　something　wrong？”　asked　Vanessa；　using　the　breathy　voice　she　affected　when　she　wanted
men　to　underestimate　her。
“Do　not　worry；　chica；”　said　Refugio；　smiling　and　turning　toward　her　to　show　teeth　that　were
hard　and　white。　When　he　spoke　English；　his　light　accent　gave　his　words　a　deceptively　gentle
edge。　“I　drive　slow　now　for　the　same　reason　I　drove　without　lights。　We　are　close　to　Jacame。　The
American　border　patrol　knows　that　Jacame　is　a　poor　place。　Only　smugglers　have　money　for
cars。　Bueno。　We　do　not　show　our　lights。”
Vanessa　looked　out　the　window；　but　saw　nothing。　Then　she　noticed　the　tiny　brillance　of　lights
scattered　in　the　distance　like　fallen　stars。
“Is　that　it？”　she　asked。
Refugio　chuckled。　“No；　chica。　That　is　Jacumba；　on　the　gringo　side。　The　Mexicans　in　Jacame　have
no　electricity。　What　do　smugglers　need　with　light？”
“Are　you　sure　the　Americans　don’t　know　about　your　route？”　asked　Vanessa；　skepticism　clear　in
spite　of　her　husky　voice。
Refugio　shrugged。　“If　they　knew　my　route；　they　would　put　me　in　one　of　their　grand　calabozos
with　hot　and　cold　water　and　never　let　me　out。　They　want　me　very　much。”
“Then　why　don’t　they　shoot　you？”　asked　Masarek　in　a　colorless　voice。
Refugio　glanced　at　the　other　man。　“That’s　what　you　would　do；　no？”　He　laughed。　“That’s　what　I
would　do；　too。　But　the　gringos　won’t　shoot　me　because　that　would　be　against　their　rules。”　He
looked　at　Vanessa　in　the　rearview　mirror。　“It　is　a　foolish　idea　they　took　from　your　country；　no？”
Vanessa　agreed；　but　did　not　answer；　irritated　to　find　that　she　agreed　with　Refugio　about
anything　that　smacked　of　politics。　One　of　the　things　that　had　driven　her　first　to　Fabian　socialism；
then　to　Marxism　and　finally　to　radical　communism；　was　the　British　male’s　insistence　on　living　–
and　often　losing　–　by　arcane　rules　of　chivalry。
Refugio　laughed　again；　the　full…bellied　laugh　of　real　amusement。　“So　the　Americans　have　nice
rules　and　I　have　nice　pleasure　breaking　them。　They　will　never　catch　me　because　I　am　a　man；　not　a
gentleman。”
Vanessa　stared　out　the　window；　ignoring　Refugio。　“How　far　are　we　from　the　border？”
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“That　way；”　said　Refugio；　gesturing　widely　to　her　right；　“Perhaps　a　kilometer。　But　from　my
house；　much　less。”
The　car　bounced　off　the　dirt　road　onto　something　that　was　little　better　than　a　goat　path。　Ahead
of　the　straining　car；　an　amorphous　black　blot　resolved　into　a　cluster　of　small；　worn　houses。
Whether　through　neglect　or　design；　the　windows　of　the　houses　were　so　dirty　as　to　almost
obscure　the　lantern　light　burning　within。
A　pack　of　rough…coated　dogs　burst　from　the　direction　of　the　houses。　Lean；　half…starved；　the
dogs　raced　toward　the　Cadillac　as　though　it　were　their　natural　prey。
Refugio　neither　slowed　nor　turned　aside。　He　aimed　the　car　into　the　center　of　the　pack。　At　the
last　second　the　dogs　scattered　to　either　side；　snapping　at　tires　before　giving　up　and　trotting　back
toward　the　houses。
The　buildings　were　scattered　in　a　random　arrangement　dictated　by　the　rumpled　nature　of　the
land。　What　once　might　have　been　a　town　square　was　now　the　final　refuge　for　a　canted；
three…wheeled　wagon　and　the　rusty　remains　of　cars　that　had　no　wheels　at　all。　Dirt　and　sand　crept
up　the　sides　of　the　vehicles；　engulfing　them　silently；　blurring　the　boundary　between　artifact　and
desert；　past　and　present。　Just　beyond；　almost　hidden　by　the　wreckage；　was　the　communal　well。　It
was　circled　by　a　low　stone　wall　and　roofed　by　a　ragged　wooden　structure。　When　the　car　bounced
by；　doves　fled　into　the　night；　cooing　their　distress　in　liquid　tones。
The　car　skidded　to　a　stop　in　a　turbulent　cloud　of　grit　that　was　swirled　away　by　the　pre…dawn
wind。　Refugio　got　out；　stretched；　and　walked　to　meet　the　two　men　who　were　approaching　from
separate　directions。　Like　those　men；　Refugio　was　just　over　medium　height；　black…haired；　with
brown　skin　and　ebony　eyes。　Unlike　him；　the　men　were　bent　by　poverty。
“Buenas　noches；　don　Refugio；”　said　the　first　man。　Then　like　an　echo；　the　second　man　said
exactly　the　same　words。　“Buenas　noches；　don　Refugio。”
Both　men　moved　toward　Refugio　with　the　subtle　stiffness　that　came　from　a　combination　of
grinding　labor；　indifferent　health　and　growing　age。　They　wore　the　loose　white　cotton　pants　and
camisa　of　the　Mexican　peon；　and　greeted　Refugio　with　the　deference　of　vassal　to　lord。
“Buenas　noches；　Jorge。　Cómo　estas？”　said　Refugio。　“Juanito；”　he　said；　recognizing　the　other
man。　“Cómo　estas？”
In　low；　rapid　Spanish；　Refugio　gave　orders。　Then　he　turned　his　shoulders　against　a　gust　of　dry；
dirty　wind　and　walked　back　to　the　car。　He　noticed　Vanessa’s　window　had　been　rolled　down　and
knew　she　had　been　listening。　He　wondered　how　much　she　had　heard；　and　how　much　she　had
understood。　Earlier　that　night　he　had　spoken　Spanish　within　her　hearing；　describing　in　moist
detail　his　seduction　of　a　young　girl。　Not　once　had　Vanessa’s　expression　revealed　that　she
understood　the　language。
“Come；　Se？or　Masarek；”　Refugio　said。　“You　will　see　that　my　house　is　as　I　told　you。”
Even　before　Masarek　was　out　of