Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第43部分

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Coughlan　hesitated；　reluctant　to　leave　Riley。　Finally　he　ran　toward　his　car。　The　agent　left　in　the
grave　slowly　climbed　out　and　walked　up　the　hill　toward　the　man　sprawled　at　the　foot　of　the
blind　gray　angel。
Riley’s　head　moved　as　his　eyes　fluttered　open。
“Finn…”
“Don’t　talk。”
“Gotta　know；”　whispered　Riley。
“You’re　going　to　be　fine。”
“Not　that；”　Riley　said；　his　voice　weak；　his　eyes　trying　to　focus　on　Finn。　“That　Mexican…　in　the
winery。　You　didn’t　really…　cut　off　his…”
Riley　went　limp。　Only　the　slow；　bright　welling　of　blood　from　the　wound　in　his　thigh　told　Finn
that　the　agent　was　still　alive。
In　the　distance　came　the　first　thin　wailings　of　sirens　closing　in　on　the　graveyard’s　green　hills。
Northern　California
31　Hours　3　Minutes　After　Trinity
Even　in　mid…July；　Tioga　Pass　was　a　frigid　spectacle　of　ice　fields　and　granite　peaks。　The　road　was
a　narrow　gravel　ribbon　twisting　across　steep　rocky　ridges。　Where　avalanches　or　rockslidcs　had
occurred；　the　road　diminished　to　a　rutted　trail　gouged　out　by　road　crews。　The　road　had　been　all
but　destroyed　by　winter。　Potholes　big　enough　to　snap　an　axle　were　common。
Kestrel　drove　with　singular　concentration；　sparing　only　a　glance　at　the　slate…gray　turbulence　of
clouds　building　around　the　nearby　peaks。　July　blizzards　were　not　unknown　in　the　high　Sierras；
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the　wind　was　tipped　with　ice。
The　black　Chevrolet　lunged　from　curve　to　curve；　laboring　under　the　demands　of　the　road　and
the　altitude。　Sudden　lightning　stalked　the　heights　and　thunder　belled　deafeningly。　Hail　came　in　a
brutal　fall　that　drowned　out　even　the　thunder。
Ana　stared　at　the　unforgiving　landscape　as　it　turned　pale　beneath　the　onslaught　of　ice。　The　car
slid　sickeningly；　scraped　along　a　cliff　wall　and　lurched　back　to　the　center　of　the　narrow　road。　A
rear　wheel　thumped　into　a　pothole。
The　car　bounced　wildly；　slamming　Ana　first　toward　the　windshield　and　then　against　the　door。
Only　Kestrel’s　grip　on　the　steering　wheel　kept　him　in　his　seat。　The　undercarriage　banged　and
squealed　against　rocks　concealed　by　hail。
In　the　trunk；　uranium　danced。
Tuolumne　Meadow　was　all　but　hidden　by　clouds　and　falling　ice。　Only　the　flattening　of　the　road
told　Kestrel　that　he　had　reached　the　upper　limits　of　the　pass。　He　peered　out　at　the　alpine
meadow。　His　shoulders　and　the　long　flat　muscles　of　his　upper　back　were　knotted　from　wrestling
with　the　wheel。　He　had　chosen　this　mountain　road　to　avoid　the　possibility　of　a　roadblock　on　the
heavily　traveled　Donner　Pass。　His　greatest　danger　was　being　discovered　before　he　could　slide
into　the　anonymity　of　the　Japanese　faces　in　Manzanar。　He　would　stay　there　until　the　first　frantic
rush　of　American　security　slackened　into　acceptance　that　the　uranium　was　gone。　Only　then
would　he　risk　crossing　into　Mexico；　and　even　then；　he　would　avoid　Refugio’s　tunnel。　If　the
Americans　did　not　discover　it　and　set　a　trap　there；　Masarek’s　woman　would。
The　hail　stopped　abruptly。　Tuolumne　Meadow　was　behind　them。　Before　them；　the　road
dropped　thousands　of　feet　to　the　desert　floor　in　a　series　of　violent　corkscrews。　Trees　vanished；
replaced　by　rocks　in　tones　of　gray　and　ocher　and　rust。　The　land　was　dry　and　unyielding。
Neither　Ana　nor　Kestrel　spoke　as　he　drove　the　road；　cliffs　on　one　side　and　a　void　on　the　other。
The　road　was　so　narrow　that　a　minor　miscalculation　would　send　the　car　end　over　end　to　smash
on　the　land　a　mile　below。
Finally　the　mountains　yielded　to　the　high　desert。　With　a　feeling　of　relief；　Kestrel　headed　for　the
two…lane　blacktop　road　that　undulated　along　the　dry　side　of　the　Sierras。　Half　a　mile　short　of　the
new　road；　he　pulled　over　and　shut　off　the　engine。
“What’s　wrong？”　asked　Ana。
“I　want　to　check　the　trunk。”
Kestrel　got　out　and　stretched。　Above　him　the　sun　was　high　and　hot；　the　hailstorm　no　more　than
an　improbable　memory。　The　air　here　reminded　him　of　New　Mexico；　clear　and　pungent　and　dry。
He　walked　back　to　the　trunk。　In　the　instant　that　the　dusty　lid　popped　up；　he　saw　that　the　two
pieces　of　uranium　were　touching。
Reflexively；　Kestrel　slammed　shut　the　trunk；　then　realized　that　did　little　good。　The　car’s　steel
body　could　not　shield　flesh　against　a　critical　mass　of　U…235。　The　only　protection　was　to　separate
the　lumps　of　uranium。
Even　knowing　that；　it　took　all　of　his　discipline　to　open　the　trunk　again。　The　uranium　was　at　the
back　of　the　trunk；　jammed　into　a　corner。　A　pale　wash　of　blue　showed　even　in　the　full　outpouring
of　desert　noon。
Except　for　the　suitcases；　the　pails　and　the　uranium；　the　trunk　was　empty；　not　even　a　jack　or　a　tire
iron　to　knock　apart　the　nestled　pieces。　And　while　he　hesitated；　radiation　grew。　He　would　have　to
separate　the　uranium　as　Refugio　had；　flesh　against　isotope；　almost　certain　death。
But　death　was　always　certain；　the　sole　door　to　new　life。
“What’s　the　odd　light？”　asked　Ana。　She　had　come　around　the　trunk　to　stand　near　Kestrel。
Kestrel　did　not　answer。　He　leaned　into　the　trunk　and　grabbed　the　smaller　ruby　parcel。　It　was
warm。　In　the　instant　he　held　it；　he　sensed；　or　perhaps　only　imagined；　a　subliminal　current　of
energy　pouring　through　his　hand。　Immediately　he　tossed　the　uranium　into　a　pail。　The　pail
wobbled；　then　was　still。　He　put　it　along　the　right　side　of　the　trunk。
The　pale　blue　glow　flickered　and　died　as　silently　as　it　had　been　born。
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Kestrel　dumped　the　larger　piece　into　the　second　pail；　moved　it　away　from　the　first；　and　wedged
both　pails　as　securely　as　he　could。　As　he　worked；　he　noticed　that　the　rough　ride　had　abraded　and
torn　the　foil　on　both　pieces　of　uranium；　revealing　the　shine　of　naked　metal　beneath。
Nausea　coiled　inside　Kestrel。　He　controlled　it　swiftly；　knowing　it　originated　in　his　mind　rather
than　his　body。　Refugio；　with　far　greater　exposure；　had　not　become　incapacitated　until　several
hours　after　he　was　exposed。
For　an　instant　Kestrel　considered　trying　to　flee　to　Mexico　while　he　was　well　enough　to　travel。
Then　he　put　aside　the　temptation。　The　tunnel　was　known　to　Vanessa；　more　ordinary　routes
across　the　border　were　controlled　by　the　Americans。
If　Japan　were　to　use　stolen　uranium　to　bargain　for　an　honorable　peace；　it　would　have　to　do　so
from　an　enemy　prison　camp　called　Manzanar。
San　Francisco
36　Hours　After　Trinity
Exhaustion　gnawed　at　Finn。　The　clock　that　had　ticked　in　his　mind　since　Hunters　Point　seemed　to
accelerate　as　it　approached　Truman’s　deadline。　Twelve　hours　from　now；　just　before　dawn；　time
would　run　out　for　him　and　for　2　million　men。　He　wondered　whether　Groves　at　his　desk　in　New
Mexico　was　feeling　the　first　cold　touch　of　despair。　No　time。　Not　enough　time。　But　always　plenty
of　blood　staining　the　green　land。
Finn　shook　his　head；　banishing　his　bleak　thoughts。　He　climbed　the　stairs　two　at　a　time；　going　to
the　apartment　above　Velasquez’s　grocery　store。　He　had　exhausted　the　leads　and　false　trails　from
the　funeral　home　and　flower　shop。　Now　there　was　only　the　trail　left　by　a　blond　woman　with　a
British　accent。
The　door　to　the　apartment　was　guarded　by　a　young　FBI　agent　who　reminded　Finn　of　Riley；
whose　blood　had　dried　beneath　Finn’s　fingernails；　Riley；　who　was　still　unconscious　after　surgery
to　repair　his　femoral　artery。
“Has　anybody　been　inside？”　asked　Finn。
“No。　We　were　told　to　wait　for　you。”
Finn　shifted　the　radiation　counter　to　his　left　hand　and　tried　the　door。　Locked。　He　lifted　his　foot
and　kicked　the　latch　out　of　the　jamb　with　one　powerful　blow。
The　sitting　room　was　empty；　but　the　air　had　the　coppery　scent　of　blood。　There　were　dark　pools
of　blood　dried　on　the　carpet。　Finn　looked　around　quickly　and　turned　on　the　counter。
“Stay　behind　me；”　he　said。
He　went　into　the　small　bedroom。　It　was　empty。　The　counter　remained　quiet。　He　opened　the
small　bedroom　closet。　The　body　of　a　man　and　a　child　tumbled　slowly　into　the　room。　He　bent
over　the　man’s　body；　recognizing　Hecht。　He　had　died　of　two　bullet　wounds；　one　in　the　heart。
The　child　was　Mexican；　with　thick　eyebrows　that　reminded　him　of　Refugio。　The　boy　had　been
executed　by　a　single　shot　behind　his　ear。　His　right　index　finger　had　been　broken　before　he　died。
The　finger　was　bruised　and　swollen。　Torture；　then　execution。　He　wondered　what　the　blond
woman　had　found　out　by　torturing　a　child。　For　an　instant　he　thought　about　the　boy　who　fed　his
cat；　and　the　thirteen…year…old　Japanese　in　Okinawa。　Children　should　not　die　that　way。
Coughlan　walked　into　the　room　with　another　man　who　had　the　wary　eyes　of　a　street　cop。
“Finn；　this　is　Detective　Mullen　from　the　San　Francisco　Police　Department。”　Then；　to　Mullen；
“Tell　him。”
Mullen　looked　ill　at　ease　as　he　shook　hands　with　Finn。　“I　don’t　really　–　Jesus！　What　happened？”
he　said；　noticing　the　bodies　sprawled　behind　Finn。　“Hecht！　My　God！　I　ran　a　truck　registration
for　him　yesterday；”　he　said；　pointing　to　Hecht’s　body。　“I　didn’t　think　too　much　about　it　until
today；　when　the　FBI　got　interested　in　the　place　the　truck　was　registered　to　–　the　flower　shop
down　the　street。”
“Yesterday？”　said　Finn。　Yesterday！　That　meant　that　the　woman　had　a　long　lead　on　him；　and　he
had　little　time　left　to　overtake　her。　He　turned　to　Coughlan。　“Does　your　Red　Squad　have
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anything　on　Hecht？”
Coughlan　looked　surprised；　then　thoughtful。　“Doesn’t　ring　any　bells；　but　I’ll　check　the　name
anyway。”
“Doubt　if　you　find　anything；”　said　Mullen。　“I’ve　been　swapping　favors　with　Hecht　for　three
years；　and　he’s　never　said　anything　radical　in　my　hearing。”
Finn’s　mind　raced　ahead　of　the　conversation。　He　had　been　following　two　sets　of　tracks　–
Russian　and　Japanese　–　and　finally　they　were　beginning　to　converge。　But　he　did　not　have　enough
time　to　wait　for　the　trails　to　touch　and　become　one。　He　had　to　guess；　and　guess　accurately；
where　the　trails　would　meet。　He　looked　around　the　room；　certain　that　he　was　close　to　the
answer。
His　glance　was　held　by　pale　roses　lying　on　a　chest　inded　him　of
Kestrel’s　impenetrable　eyes；　and　Refugio；　dead；　wearing　the　uniform　of　a　Nisei　captain。　Hecht
dead；　and　the　Mexican　boy。　All　of　them　connected　somehow。　All　had　more　in　common　than
violent　death。　He　must　find　the　connection；　quickly；　before　all　the　time　in　the　world　was　only　a
handful　of　seconds。
Hecht。　Hecht　had　asked　Mullen　to　run　a　license　plate。　Hecht　was　dead；　probably　murdered　by
the　same　woman　who　had　asked　him　to　trace　the　license。
“That　license　plate　–　did　it　lead　back　to　the　Rincón　brothers？”　asked　Finn。
“No；”　said　Mullen。　He　pulled　a　piece　of　paper　out　of　his　pocket。　“It’s　a　commercial　vehicle
owned　by　the　Fragrant　Petal。　The　purchaser　is　listed　as　Takeo　Oshiga。　The　Rincons　just　rented
it。”
Finn’s　exhaustion　gave　way　to　adrenaline。　Takeo　Oshiga；　father　of　Ana　Oshiga。　Ana；　secretary
and　confidante　to　Takagura　Omi。　Takagura；　who　was　Refugio’s　partner。
Suddenly　the　tracks　Finn　had　seen　along　the　Oakland　waterfront　made　sense。　A　man　and　two
women　–　Refugio；　helped　by　Ana　and　pursued　by　Masarek’s　blonde。　Refugio；　hired　by　the
Russians　to　steal　or　smuggle　the　uranium　out　of　the　United　States。　Refugio；　selling　the　Russians
and　the　uranium　to　Japan。　To　Kestrel。
But　something　must　have　gone　wrong　on　the　waterfront。　Instead　of　killing　the　Russians　and
fleeing　to　Mexico　with　the　uranium；　Refugio　had　lost　two　men；　been　wounded　himself　and
allowed　Masarek’s　woman　to　e