Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第36部分

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people　who　gave　her　coded　warnings　instead　of　recognition　signals。　A　third　call；　to　a　safe　house
in　Los　Angeles；　had　been　properly　answered。　She　was　told　that　the　FBI　was　openly　watching
every　known　or　suspected　agent　in　the　Bay　Area。
One　of　the　Los　Angeles　agents　was　on　his　way　to　San　Francisco　to　help　her；　but　until　he　arrived；
Hecht　was　all　she　had。　The　thought　both　angered　and　depressed　her。
A　light　knock　on　the　door　brought　her　out　of　the　chair。　With　her　silenced　pistol　in　one　hand；　she
opened　the　door　a　crack；　then　admitted　Hecht。
“Are　you　armed？”　said　Vanessa　before　he　could　speak。
“Armed？”　asked　Hecht；　his　voice　rising。　“You　mean　a　gun？”　He　looked　confused　and　tired；　as
though　he　had　not　slept　well。
“This　is　an　armed　struggle；　comrade；”　said　Vanessa。　“Surely　even　you　understand　that　much。
You’re　a　communist；　aren’t　you？”
“Of　course；”　replied　Hecht。　“I’ve　read　all　of　Marx　and　Lenin　and　Stalin。”　The　litany　of　names
seemed　to　comfort　him。　His　voice　became　more　calm。　“It’s　just　that　we’re　not　used　to　the　armed
struggle　here　in　the　United　States。　We’re　not　as　advanced　morally　as　our　Soviet　comrades。”
There　was　no　derision　in　his　voice；　only　self…pity。
“Pistols　don’t　recognize　advancement　in　revolution　or　morality。　Are　you　armed？”
Hecht　shook　his　head。　“I　don’t　even　know　how　to　use　a　gun。”
For　an　instant；　Vanessa　pitied　Hecht　almost　as　much　as　she　despised　him。　There　were　many
American　communists　like　him；　naive　idealists　playing　at　revolution。　They　hated；　but　only
weakly。　Few　of　them　had　the　toughness　of　mind　or　body　to　bring　down　a　government。
But　Hecht　was　all　she　had　to　work　with　right　now。　She　would　use　him　until　a　real　agent　arrived；
and　then　she　would　kill　him。
“ple；”　she　said。　“You　will　go　buy　a　wreath　for　your　father’s
funeral。”
Sonoma　County
26　Hours　59　Minutes　After　Trinity
The　Sonoma　County　sheriffs　office　was　nearly　as　old　as　the　middle…aged　deputy　who　was　typing
up　a　burglary　report。　The　typewriter　he　used　stuck　with　monotonous　regularity；　impeding　a
process　already　slowed　by　the　deputy’s　lack　of　skill　and　interest。
“Damn；”　sighed　Deputy　Anthony　Branscomb；　reaching　yet　again　to　untangle　keys。
The　telephone　rang。　Branscomb　grabbed　it；　relieved　to　set　aside　the　report。
“Sheriffs　office。　Branscomb；”　he　answered。
“Riley。　FBI；”　said　a　hoarse　voice。　“You　had　any　wineries　robbed　in　the　last　twenty…four　hours？”
“FBI？　How　the　hell　did　you　find　out　so　fast？　I　haven’t　even　typed　up　the　report　yet！”
“How　much　lead　foil　was　taken？”
“How　did　you　know　–　“　Branscomb　realized　he　was　repeating　himself。　“Hey；　is　this　some　kind
Page　107
of　gag？”
“Less　than　twenty　pounds。　They’d　been　bottling　a　vat　of　red　and　–　“
“Give　me　directions　to　the　winery　from　San　Francisco。”
“What’s　so　damned　important　about　a　few　pounds　of　foil？”
“We’re　at　war；　remember？”
Branscomb　sighed　and　gave　directions　with　a　county　sheriffs　intimate　knowledge　of　short　cuts。
“Right；”　said　Riley。　“Meet　us　there　in　an　hour。”
“Weren’t　you　listening？”　said　Branscomb。　“That’s　at　least　eighty　miles　–　eight　zero　–　and　it’s
rush　hour　down　where　you　are。”
“One　hour；　deputy。　And　tell　the　local　speed　traps　to　stay　clear　of　a　black　Ford　coupe　driven　by
a　wild　man　in　a　cowboy　hat。”
San　Francisco
27　Hours　4　Minutes　After　Trinity
Hecht　stood　irresolutely　in　front　of　the　Fragrant　Petal。　The　card　in　the　window　said　OPEN；　but
no　one　was　working　at　the　counter　where　flowers　were　piled；　waiting　to　be　made　into　bouquets。
He　took　a　fast　drag　on　his　cigaret；　threw　it　into　the　gutter　and　pushed　tentatively　on　the　shop
door。
The　door　opened　without　the　sound　of　the　customary　shopkeeper’s　bell。　Hecht　looked　around
nervously；　expecting　someone　to　challenge　his　presence。　No　one　did。
With　increasing　confidence；　Hecht　walked　past　the　counter　and　into　the　rear　of　the　shop。　There
were　more　flowers　bunched　in　tin　pails；　mounds　of　greenery　under　wet　towels；　pottery　frogs　of
all　sizes；　florist’s　shears；　tape；　pins；　soft　clay；　everything　but　the　human　hands　needed　to
transform　chaos　into　an　aesthetic　whole。
Hecht　hesitated；　knowing　he　would　be　questioned　carefully　by　the　woman　whose　name　he　did
not　even　know。　His　footsteps　sounded　loud　as　he　walked　toward　the　door　leading　into　the
garage。　He　had　been　told　to　be　particularly　interested　in　the　garage。　He　reached　for　the　door；
then　froze。　He　could　hear　voices；　a　man　and　a　woman　speaking　a　language　he　did　not　recognize。
Slowly；　Hecht　retreated。　As　he　did；　he　saw　another　door；　this　one　appearing　to　lead　from　the
back　room　of　the　flower　shop　to　the　funeral　home　next　door。　The　connection　between　the　two
businesses　was　not　apparent　from　the　street。　He　tiptoed　toward　the　door。
The　embalming　room　was　harshly　lit。　It　smelled　of　formaldehyde　and　death。　At　either　end　of　the
room　was　a　porcelain　table　with　an　inset　drain　to　carry　off　body　fluids。　Near　the　table　next　to　the
door　was　a　sheet…covered　corpse　on　a　gurney。　On　the　porcelain　table　was　a　gray…white　mass　that
Hecht　immediately　assumed　was　a　human　brain。
He　closed　his　eyes；　afraid　if　he　saw　any　more　he　would　be　sick。　Then　the　corpse　stirred　and　tried
to　sit　up；　but　could　not。　There　was　a　large　red　stain　on　the　sheet。　Hecht　froze；　paralyzed。
“Ana？”　asked　Refugio；　seeing　only　Hecht*s　dark　shape　in　the　doorway。
Hecht　forced　himself　to　walk　a　few　steps　into　the　room。
“Ana？”　asked　Refugio　again；　as　much　a　groan　as　a　name。　“Water…”
Hecht　looked　at　the　man’s　slack　face；　closed　eyes；　thick　sweep　of　eyebrows。　The　corpse　was
alive。　He　glanced　around；　wondering　what　else　was　not　as　it　seemed。　The　gray…white　mass：　it　was
not　a　brain。
Voices　came　from　the　flower　shop。
“What　are　you　doing　in　here？”
Hecht　turned　toward　the　voice　and　was　confronted　by　a　Japanese　wearing　the　uniform　of　an
American　Army　officer。
“What　do　you　want？”
“I’m　–　uh　–　flowers；”　said　Hecht；　finally　remembering　the　lie　he　was　supposed　to　tell　if　he　was
caught。　“It’s　–　uh　–　it’s　my　mother’s　birthday。”
“Julio！”
Page　108
Julio　Rincón　carne　in　from　the　flower　shop。
“Sell　this　man　some　yellow　roses；”　the　Japanese　said。　“It’s　his　mother’s　birthday；　so　make　sure　he
doesn’t　get　lost。”　He　looked　back　at　Hecht。　“Go　with　Julio。”
Hecht　followed　Julio；　paid　for　the　roses　and　then　nearly　forgot　them　in　his　rush　to　get　out　of　the
shop。　He　did　not　look　back；　so　he　did　not　see　Julio　step　out　of　the　store　and　follow　him。
Vanessa　saw　the　man　following　Hecht。　She　watched　from　her　window；　but　the　Mexican　kept
walking　down　the　street　when　Hecht　turned　into　the　apartment　building。　Frowning；　still
suspicious；　Vanessa　released　the　curtain。　She　opened　the　door　before　Hecht　could　knock。
“Well？”　she　said；　shutting　the　door。
Hecht　dumped　the　yellow　roses　on　a　chest。
“There　wasn’t　anyone　in　the　front　of　the　shop；”　he　said。　“The　door　was　open。　I　walked　toward
the　back。　The　garage；　like　you　told　me。”　He　talked　very　fast。　He　wanted　to　complete　his　mission；
to　be　free　of　this　preposterous　experience　and　of　the　blond　woman　whose　eyes　reminded　him　of
crushed　blue　marbles。　“Before　I　got　to　the　back　door；　I　heard　voices。　A　man　and　a　woman。　I
couldn’t　hear　words。　I　backed　up　and　saw　another　door。　It　led　into　the　funeral　home。”
Hecht　paused；　trying　to　decide　how　to　go　on　without　appearing　a　total　fool。
“It　was　the　embalming　room。　There　was　a　corpse　under　a　sheet　and　a　brain　on　the　table；　at　least
that’s　what　I　thought　until　he　–　“
“He？”　interrupted　Vanessa　sharply。
“The　corpse。　Only　he　wasn’t。　He　said　something　–　“
“What？”
“A　name。　Ann　or　Ana　or　something　like　that；　and　then　he　asked　for　water。”
“Describe　the　man。”
“Uh；　he　was　sick。　Real　sick。”
“Hair　color？　Eyes？　Skin？　Height？”　snapped　Vanessa；　her　voice　like　a　lash。
“Dark；”　said　Hecht；　trying　to　recall　things　he　had　not　really　noticed　at　the　time。　“Black　hair　and
big　thick　eyebrows。　Yellow　skin；　but　that’s　because　he　was　sick；　I　think。　He　looked　Mexican。”
Vanessa　felt　the　first　stirrings　of　victory；　a　sensual　excitement。
“Sick？”　Vanessa　asked；　thinking　of　Refugio’s　furry　eyebrows。　Had　she　managed　to　shoot　the
Mexican　after　all？　“How　sick？”
“Bad；”　said　Hecht；　trying　not　to　stare　at　Vanessa’s　moist　smile。　“There　was　blood　on　the　sheet
and　he　looked　feverish。”
“Good。”
Hecht　moved　nervously；　like　an　animal　on　a　leash。
“Did　you　see　anything　that　looked　like　a　milk　can？”　asked　Vanessa。　“Metal；　about　two　feet
high？”
“Uh；　no。　Just　flower　pails。”
“Anything　unusual？　Anything　metallic？”
“The　brain；”　blurted　Hecht。　“That　is；　the　gray…white　stuff　that　I　thought　was　a　brain。　It　was　on
the　embalming　table　and　it　was　kind　of　shaped　like　a　brain。”
“Go　on。”
“It　wasn’t　a　brain。”
“What　was　it？”
“I　don’t　know。　A　gray…white　chunk　of　something　or　other。　Metal。　Smooth。”
Vanessa　smiled；　then　laughed　aloud。　“It’s　there！”　Her　voice；　like　her　laugh；　was　elated。　The
incredible　power　of　the　atomic　bomb　was　within　her　grasp。　“Did　you　see　anything　else？”　she
demanded。　“How　many　people　were　there？”　She　waited；　daring　to　hope　that　it　would　be
possible　for　her　alone　to　recover　the　uranium。
“Two　men　stopped　me　before　I　could　look　around　anymore。　And　I　heard　at　least　two　other
people　talking。　One　of　the　men　who　stopped　me　was　Oriental；　but　he　was　wearing　an　American
uniform。　He　seemed　to　be　in　charge。　The　Mexican　took　orders　from　him。”
Page　109
“Oriental？　Be　more　precise。　Half　the　world　is　Oriental。”　Vanessa’s　voice　was　flat　again；　from
what　he　had　told　her；　there　were　too　many　men　in　the　shop　for　her　to　go　in　alone。
“Uh；　I　think　the　guy　was　Nisei。　You　know；　a　first…generation　Japanese…American。　His　English　was
as　good　as　mine。　No　accent。”
“Mexican　and　Japanese；”　Vanessa　said。　“So　that’s　how　the　bastard　did　it！”　In　Mexico；　Refugio
had　an　Oriental　partner。　Apparently　he　had　sold　the　uranium　to　Japan。　The　Nisei　must　be　here　to
pick　it　up。　But　he　would　have　the　same　problem　she　did　–　how　to　move　the　radioactive　metal
without　being　poisoned　by　it。　She　smiled；　hoping　that　the　Japanese　knew　as　little　about
radioactivity　as　Masarek　had。　If　the　Jap　was　ignorant；　it　would　be　easy　to　take　the　uranium　from
his　dead　hands。
“You’ll　have　to　be　armed；”　Vanessa　said。
“What？”
“Guns；　comrade。　Do　you　understand　me？”
Hecht　looked　away　from　her　hard　blue　eyes。
“Two　。38　caliber　pistols　–　revolvers　–　and　one　hundred　rounds　of　ammunition；”　continued
Vanessa；　her　voice　as　relentless　as　her　eyes。　“Have　the　clerk　show　you　how　to　use　them。　You’ll
need　to　know。”
San　Francisco
27　Hours　11　Minutes　After　Trinity
Refugio　dreamed　that　he　was　sinking　in　hot　black　sand。　The　dream　was　so　alarming　that　he
awoke；　moaning。　After　a　moment　of　disorientation；　he　remembered　he　was　on　a　gurney　in　an
embalming　room。
He　was　thirsty；　all　but　smothered　by　fever　and　the　odor　of　death。　He　must　get　out　of　here；
breathe　clean　air　again。　No　wonder　he　felt　weak；　lying　on　a　wheeled　table　surrounded　by　the
tools　of　death。
Was　it　only　yesterday　he　had　stolen　something　unknown　and　been　shot？　A　shallow　wound；　but
potent。　He　felt　as　though　he　had　spent　the　last　day　falling　down　a　deep　dry　well。　Above　him　was
diffuse　blue　light。　Below　him　was　seamless　dry　midnight。
Suddenly　hi