Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第26部分

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him？　Was　she　more　than　his　mistress？　Was　it　she　who　had　planned　the　theft？
“Sir。　The　phone；”　said　the　sailor；　holding　out　the　receiver。　He　looked　nervously　at　Finn；　then
backed　away　so　that　he　could　not　overhear　what　was　said。
Finn　took　the　phone。　He　dialed　the　number　on　the　slip　of　paper。　He　identified　himself　and
listened　to　random　clicks　as　contacts　closed　and　relays　opened。　He　guessed　who　he　would　be
talking　to　even　before　he　heard　Groves’　voice。
“What　the　hell　happened？”　said　Finn。　“Do　you　know　anything　beyond　what　was　in　the
message？”
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“Empty　canister　in　the　Delta　warehouse；”　said　Groves。　“One　dead　sailor　on　the　floor　beside　the
can。”
“Just　one？　How　many　guards　were　there？”
“One！”　exploded　Groves。　“Hunter’s　Point　is　a　fucking　military　Base！　Why　the　hell　should　I
assign　a　platoon　of　guards　on　a　military　base！　All　that　would　do　is　call　attention　to　what　should
have　been　the　biggest　fucking　secret　since　the　date　of　the　Second　Coming！”
Finn　understood　Groves’　logic　–　and　its　flaw：　setting　the　canister　in　the　middle　of　a　bunch　of
soldiers　was　not　the　same　as　having　the　can　guarded　by　a　bunch　of　soldiers。　The　average　soldier
could　not　be　presumed　to　guard　his　own　ass　unless　he　was　given　a　direct　order。　A　gun　soldier
knew　that。　A　desk　soldier　did　not。　But　pointing　out　that　fact　to　Groves　would　not　put　the
uranium　back　in　the　can。　Or　end　the　war。　Two　million　dead　children　falling。
“Any　other　details？”　said　Finn；　his　voice　hoarse。
“That’s　all　that　goddamn　Admiral　Purnell　could　tell　me。”
“That’s　a　lot。”
“I　don’t　need　sarcasm　from　an　insubordinate　gun　soldier！”
“Not　sarcasm；”　said　Finn。　“If　they　got　in　and　out　and　only　killed　one　man；　then　it　stinks　of　an
inside　job。　Somebody　knew　where　to　find　the　can；　and　how　to　get　on　and　off　base　without　being
noticed。”
“But　the　Navy　didn’t　know　what　was　in　the　can！”
“Other　than　you　and　the　guards　who　accompanied　the　shipment；　who　knew　when　the　uranium
would　arrive；　where　it　would　be　stored　and　how　it　was　guarded？”
“No　one；”　began　Groves；　then　stopped。　“The　Lawrence　Radiation　Lab。　They　checked　the　can　at
midnight；　but　they　were　briefed　about　it　earlier。　Scientists；”　said　Groves　in　a　choked　voice。
“God　save　us　all　from　sob…sister　scientists！”
“I　doubt　that　they　stole　the　uranium。”
“Why？”
“Crying　about　war　and　loving　your　fellow　man　is　one　thing。　Murder　is　another。　None　of　your
scientists　is　naive　enough　to　mistake　treason　for　legitimate　protest。”
“Then　who　did　it？　The　Japs？　Did　we　tell　Kestrel　too　much？”
“I’m　betting　on　the　Russians。　Have　your　men　check　all　the　phone　calls　they　can　from　New
Mexico　to　San　Francisco　in　the　last　forty…eight　hours。　It　may　give　them　a　lead。　Rerun　all　the
security　checks　in　Los　Alamos　and　at　the　Lawrence　lab。　Put　somebody　to　work　on　a　list　of
people　who　knew　about　the　shipment。　I　hope　it　isn’t　a　long　one。”
“You’re　at　the　top　of　it。　Who　gets　the　job　of　checking　you　out？”
“General；　if　I　stole　it；　you’re　up　shit　creek　without　a　paddle。”
Groves’　silence　was　agreement。　He　sighed。　“I　told　the　Navy　you’re　in　charge　of　the　investigation；
with　powers　second　only　to　God　and　the　President。　I　told　the　FBI；　too。　They　didn’t　like　it　either。
Their　local　agent　in　charge　is　named　William　Coughlan。　Hoover　has　assured　me　Coughlan　will
cooperate。”
“If　Coughlan　doesn’t　cooperate；　I’ll　hammer　him　flat；”　said　Finn。
“Do　what　you　have　to。　The　President　only　gave　us　two　days。”
“What？　But　the　bombs　won’t　be　dropped　for　weeks！”
“He　doesn’t　have　any　choice。　If　we’re　going　to　invade；　he　has　to　set　the　machinery　in　motion。
There’s　more　to　an　invasion　than　guns　and　soldiers　–　once　you’ve　gotten　the　ball　rolling；　you
can’t　stop　it　short　of　Japan。　You　have　until　0530；　July　18th。　That’s　Mountain　War　Time。”
“Two　days；”　said　Finn　bitterly。　“Even　God　needed　six。”
“God　wasn’t　fighting　the　Japanese。”
Hunters　Point；　California
2　Hours　50　Minutes　After　Trinity
The　Shore　Patrol　guard　wore　dress　blues；　white　gaiters；　and　a　pistol　belt。　He　saluted　the　Office
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of　Naval　Intelligence　license　tags　on　Finn’s　Ford　coupe。　Finn　flipped　open　his　new　credentials
and　handed　them　out　the　window。
“We　were　told　to　expect　you；”　said　the　guard；　returning　the　credentials　with　another　salute。
Finn　silently　wished　that　nothing　had　been　said　about　his　arrival。　Now；　everyone　would　be
covering　his　ass　as　fast　as　possible。　He　glanced　at　the　other　Navy　ratings　in　the　guard　booth。
Their　pistols　were　clean；　their　faces　alert；　and　the　gate　lowered　to　prevent　anyone　leaving　the
base。　But　Finn　knew　without　asking　that　the　guards’　attentiveness　was　a　case　of　spit　and　polish　an
hour　after　inspection。
“Good　morning　to　be　alive；　right；　sailor？”　asked　Finn。
“You　bet；　sir；”　said　the　sailor。　The　other　men　laughed。　Their　pleasure　was　as　clear　as　their　young
smiles。　Finn　recognized　the　source　of　their　smiles；　it　was　the　relief　of　survivors；　of　the　ones　who
had　not　died　on　the　floor　of　a　Navy　warehouse。　He　recognized　their　near…shame　and　sweet
elation　because　he　had　felt　it　himself。
Finn　engaged　the　clutch　and　accelerated　away　from　the　gate。　He　drove　quickly　through　the　base；
not　slowing　until　he　turned　the　car　down　a　narrow　passage　between　two　warehouses。　He　had　to
brake　hard　to　avoid　a　Shore　Patrol　Jeep　that　was　parked　across　the　alleyway；　blocking　it
completely。
“Restricted　Area；”　said　a　sailor　as　Finn　rolled　down　the　window。　“Back　up　and　turn　around　on
the　doub　–　“
Finn　held　his　new　leather　folder　out　the　car　window。　The　badge　shone　impressively；　but　it　was
the　facing　security　clearance　which　stopped　the　sentry’s　voice。　The　man　saluted　crisply。
“Delta　warehouse；　sir？”
“Yes。”
“Straight　ahead；　sir。”　The　sailor　turned　and　yelled　over　his　shoulder。　“Move　the　Jeep！”　Then；　to
Finn；　“You　can’t　miss　it；　sir。　Fuel　barrels　piled　high　as　a　battleship。”
Finn　squeezed　past　the　Jeep；　then　picked　up　speed　between　rows　of　war　materials　stacked　in
static　review。　He　was　stopped　twice　more；　the　last　time　by　a　civilian　who　took　time　to　inspect
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