Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第35部分

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Coughlan。　His　voice　was　harsh　with　static　and　exasperation。
“Trucks　1；　3；　4；　8　and　9　accounted　for。　They　smell　like　dirty　shorts　and　they　don’t　register　on　this
voodoo　box。　Nothing　in　the　building。　Trucks　2；　5　and　6　are　picking　up　laundry。　The　cops　have
searched　them。　Nothing。”
“Satisfied；　Finn？　Or　do　you　want　me　to　go　over　anything　again？”
Finn　punched　the　transmit　button。　“Negative。”　He　replaced　the　microphone　and　resumed
staring　out　at　the　city。
“You　didn’t　expect　to　find　anything　in　those　other　trucks；　did　you？”　said　Riley。
“Whoever　pulled　off　this　job　is　a　pro。　He　has　no　connection　with　the　laundry。　Probably　bought
the　driver；　or　killed　him　and　took　the　truck。”　Finn　flexed　his　shoulders；　releasing　the　tension　of
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inactivity。　“He’ll　dump　the　truck；　switch　to　another　vehicle　and　either　go　to　ground　or　run。”
“Then　why　the　fuss　over　the　damned　trucks？”
“You　have　a　better　idea　of　a　good　place　to　start？”
“Since　I　don’t　know　damn　all　about　what　was　stolen；　I　wouldn’t　know　whether　to　start　shaking
the　local　fences　or　to　drag　the　local　waters　for　stiffs　in　cement　overcoats。”
“It　wasn’t　local　talent；”　said　Finn。　“Odds　are　it　wasn’t　even　American　talent。”
Riley　digested　the　implications　of　what　Finn　said。　“That　rather　widens　the　search　area。”
Finn　said　nothing；　just　stared　through　the　windshield　at　the　city；　watching　the　fog　and　waiting
because　there　was　nothing　else　he　could　do。　He　had　discovered　and　described　the　quarry’s
spoor；　and　he　had　sent　his　beaters　out　through　the　foggy　jungle。　Now　he　could　only　wait　for　the
quarry　to　be　flushed。
And　try　not　to　count　the　seconds　clicking　by。　Try　not　to　wonder　if　laundry　truck　number　7　was
here　or　there　or　anywhere　at　all。
Suddenly　both　men　sat　up　and　lunged　for　the　volume　control。
“　–　in　the　600　block　along　the　waterfront。　Repeat。　Oakland　police　responded　to　a　disturbance
involving　Ho’s　laundry　truck　number　17。”
Finn　started　the　Ford　and　surged　into　traffic　while　Riley　wrote　in　his　notebook。　When　the　voice
said　“17；”　Riley　swore。　He　glanced　at　the　speedometer。　“What’s　the　rush？　We’re　looking　for
number　7；　not　17。”
“Ho　only　has　nine　trucks。”
Finn　slid　into　a　bicycle…sized　opening　between　two　trucks；　then　braked　hard　for　a　right　turn。
“Ask　when　the　truck　was　found；”　he　said。　“And　tell　Coughlan　to　keep　the　locals　the　hell　away
from　it。　There’s　always　some　hero　who　can’t　leave　well　enough　alone。”
Riley　spoke　rapidly；　his　words　lost　to　Finn　beneath　the　sound　of　the　Ford　whining　up　to　peak
acceleration。
“They　found　it　an　hour　ago。”
“For　the　love　of　Christ；”　snarled　Finn；　weaving　around　a　startled　motorist；　“why　weren’t　we
notified！”
Riley　braced　himself　on　the　dashboard。　“The　APB　was　for　truck　number　7。”
“Shit！”　said　Finn；　his　voice　furious；　“nobody’s　that　dumb！”
“The　locals　hate　our　guts；”　said　Riley。　“The　only　reason　they　let　us　in　on　anything　is　because
they’re　forced　to。　If　you　go　out　there　screaming　like　Coughlan；　Oakland’s　finest　will　do
everything　they　can　to　hamstring　your　investigation。”
Finn　answered　by　throwing　the　car　into　a　controlled　skid。　He　straightened　the　wheel　and　aimed
for　the　Bay　Bridge　rising　out　of　the　gloom。　The　radio　mumbled　again。
“Three　bodies　were　aboard　and　a　fourth　down　in　the　street。　Coroner　has　them　now。”
“Tell　everyone　to　stay　away　from　the　truck；”　said　Finn。　He　thought　about　those　eager；
half…bright　Oakland　cops；　all　of　them　wondering　what　had　the　FBI　so　stirred　up；　crawling　over
the　truck　and　soaking　up　radiation。
The　car　raced　onto　the　Bay　Bridge　as　Riley　replaced　the　microphone。
“Where’s　the　600　block？”　asked　Finn。
“Bear　to　the　right　coming　off　the　bridge；　then　make　a　hard　right　at　the　first　cross　street。　It’s　on
the　waterfront。”
“What　about　the　Lawrence　Radiation　men？”
“They　cleared　Coughlan。　They’re　finishing　up　at　Hunters　Point。　Should　be　here　in　about
forty…five　minutes。”
Using　first　brake；　then　accelerator；　Finn　slid　through　a　right　turn　and　onto　a　rough　waterfront
street。　A　roadblock　of　police　cars　appeared　a　few　blocks　away。　The　cop　on　the　roadblock　was
big　and　hard…bellied。　He　let　them　pass　grudgingly。
Finn　parked　the　car；　grabbed　the　radiation　counter　and　walked　quickly　to　the　knot　of　men
around　the　laundry　truck。　He　adjusted　dials　as　he　went。　Riley　followed　at　a　trot；　the　only　way　he
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could　match　Finn’s　long…legged　stride。
A　dozen　men　stood　by　the　truck；　six　in　police　uniform；　four　in　suits　and　two　in　the　uniforms　of。
factory　security　guards。　Finn　ignored　all　of　them。　He　swept　the　counter’s　wand　back　and　forth。
Conversation　stopped；　everyone　stared　at　Finn。　He　moved　the　wand；　testing　the　outside　of　the
vehicle。　In　the　silence；　the　click　of　the　counter　was　clear。　Finn　moved　the　dial　up　again　before
opening　the　truck’s　front　door　and　sticking　the　probe　inside。
The　clicking　increased。　Finn　reset　the　dial。　The　clicking　slowed。　He　checked　the　front　seat；
looking　carefully　at　every　place　where　the　uranium　might　have　been　hidden。　The　seat　was　intact；
the　glove　compartment　empty；　the　wall　panels　untouched。
Finn　turned　his　attention　to　the　back　of　the　truck。　As　he　moved　toward　the　rear　doors；　the
counter　shrieked。　Finn　retreated；　there　was　no　reason　to　stay。　The　spots　that　set　off　the　counter
were　patently　bare　patches　of　floor。　The　isotope　that　had　irradiated　the　floor　was　gone。
Slamming　the　door；　Finn　examined　the　number　of　the　truck。　The　electricians　tape　that　had　made
7　into　17　was　half…peeled　off；　curling　back　on　itself　like　a　dying　leaf。
The　chief　of　detectives　wandered　over　to　Finn。　“Just　discovered　that　little　bit　of　tape　a　few
minutes　ago。　If　we’d　seen　it　sooner；”　he　smiled　insincerely；　“we’d　have　called　you　Feds　right
away；　just　like　our　orders　said　to　do。”
The　man　waited；　but　Finn　had　nothing　to　say。
“But　don’t　worry；”　continued　the　detective。　“Our　Crime　boys　took　care　of　everything。　You
should　have　the　report　sometime　next　week。”
“There　were　two　chunks　of　metal；　one　fist　sized；　one　about　three　times　as　large。　Where　are
they？”
The　cop　shrugged。　“I　tagged　the　evidence　myself。　Only　thing　we　took　out　of　that　truck　was
bodies；　laundry　and　weapons。”
“For　your　sake；　I　hope　that’s　true。　What’s　your　security　clearance？”
“I’m　Abel　Jones；　chief　of　detectives；”　snapped　the　gray…haired　cop。　“That’s　all　the　clearance　I
need。”
“This　truck；　this　block　and　everything　that　happened　is　classified。　Top　Secret。　Therefore　you　and
your　men　are　in　violation　of　wartime　security　regulations。　You’re　under　arrest。”
“What？　Now　you　listen　here；　you　smart…mouthed　son…ofabitch　–　“
“Can　it。”
Finn’s　voice　was　not　loud；　but　it　easily　cut　across　the　cop’s　words。　“I’m　not　the　kind　of　Fed
you’re　used　to。”　He　smiled。　“I’m　a　lot　nicer。”
Riley　looked　uneasily　at　Finn；　but　said　nothing。
“If　you　cooperate；”　continued　Finn；　“you’ll　get　a　star　on　our　fitness　report　the　next　time　around。
If　you　don’t　cooperate；　you　won’t　be　around　long　enough　to　get　another　report。　You’ll　be
Private　Abel　Jones。　Don’t　take　my　word　for　it。　Please　don’t。　Uncle　Sam　needs　all　the　cannon
fodder　he　can　get。”
Finn　waited。　Chief　of　Detectives　Abel　Jones　said　nothing。　He　turned　to　Riley；　recognizing　him。
“Does　this　guy　have　more　than　a　mouth？”
“Yes。”
“Where’s　Coughlan？”
“On　his　way　to　boot　camp。”
“He’s　too　goddamn　old　to　be　drafted。”
“So　are　you；”　said　Riley；　“but　you’ll　get　used　to　it　if　you　live　long　enough。”
Jones　looked　from　Riley　to　Finn；　then　back　to　Riley。　Abruptly；　he　laughed。　“I　almost　hope
you’re　telling　the　truth。　Be　worth　it　to　see　that　loudmouth　sonofabitch　Coughlan　sweat　out　a
forced　march。”　He　turned　to　Finn。　“You’ll　get　the　reports　as　soon　as　I　do。　Anything　else　you
want？”
“There　will　be　men　out　to　go　over　what　you　removed　from　the　truck。　Don’t　get　in　their　way。
Cordon　off　this　block。　Call　back　everyone　who　was　at　the　scene；　but　keep　them　out　of　my　way
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until　I　want　them。”
“Everyone’s　still　here　but　the　coroner　and　his　men。”
“Get　them　back　here。”
“You　want　the　four　bodies；　too？”　asked　the　chief　of　detectives　sarcastically。
“That’s　up　to　the　lab。　But　the　live　ones　have　to　be　checked　for…　poison。”
Jones　turned　and　walked　toward　the　men　who　had　been　waiting　beyond　the　truck。　One　of　those
men　ignored　the　detective　and　walked　toward　Riley　and　Finn。　The　man　moved　with　a　hesitation
that　was　just　short　of　a　limp。　Riley　took　one　look　and　swore　under　his　breath。
“We　got　trouble；”　said　Riley。　“That　guy　is　Hecht；　a　reporter。　This　is　what　he’s　been　dreaming　of
–　war　and　hell　and　all　the　things　he’d　love　to　write　about。　He　won’t　cooperate。　Count　on　it。”
Finn　studied　the　approaching　reporter。　He　was　Riley’s　age　or　younger。　As　though　the　reporter
sensed　the　scrutiny；　his　limp　became　more　pronounced；　a　visible　explanation　of　why　he　was
carrying　a　notebook　rather　than　an　Army　rifle。
“Leave　him　to　me；”　said　Finn。　“Take　the　counter　and　go　stand　by　that　fence。”
Riley　casually　walked　away；　then　turned　and　leaned　on　the　sheetmetal　fence　that　separated　piles
of　rusting　auto　bodies　from　the　cracked　sidewalk。　He　strained　to　hear　what　was　being　said；　but
all　he　could　hear　was　a　dog　sniffing　on　the　opposit