Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第22部分

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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