Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第45部分

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diffuse　blue　light。　Below　him　was　seamless　dry　midnight。
Suddenly　his　body　knotted　with　pain。　His　stomach；　long　since　emptied　of　all　but　nausea；
attempted　to　throw　off　even　that。　He　hung　his　head　over　the　pan　beside　him。　His　whole　body
convulsed。　Nothing　came　up　but　a　vile　taste。
Fever　reclaimed　him。　His　mind　slid　on　toward　the　dark　bottom　of　the　well。　He　was　faintly
surprised　to　find　water　there；　delicious　and　cool。
Gradually　Refugio　realized　that　someone　was　washing　his　face　and　arms。　Darkness　receded。　He
opened　his　eyes　and　saw　a　pair　of　sure；　gentle　hands　ministering　to　him　with　white　rags　dipped　in
cool　water。
“Ana…”　Refugio　blinked　and　focused　on　the　nearby　face　with　an　effort。　“Kestrel？”
“How　do　you　feel？”　asked　Kestrel。　His　face　did　not　show　his　horror　at　the　bruises　that　mottled
Refugio’s　red　skin；　signs　of　massive　internal　bleeding　brought　on　by　radiation　poisoning。　Gently；
Kestrel　placed　another　wet　cloth　on　Refugio’s　forehead。
“Thirsty；”　Refugio　sighed。
Kestrel’s　hands　hesitated。　Water　would　make　Refugio　vomit　again；　weakening　him　even　more；
Kestrel　needed　him　for　one　additional　task。
“First；”　he　said；　“you　must　try　to　sit　up。”
Kestrel　braced　the　gurney　against　the　embalming　table　while　he　helped　Refugio　to　sit　up。
Refugio　retched　and　trembled。　Bruises　formed　on　his　skin　where　Kestrel’s　hands　held　him
upright。　After　a　moment；　he　was　able　to　sit　up　without　Kestrel’s　help。
“Very　good；”　Kestrel　said。　“Now　you　can　help　me。　I　won’t　take　long。”
He　eased　the　gurney　closer　to　the　embalming　table。　He　had　already　laid　swaths　of　thick　foil
down　the　length　of　the　table；　stopping　just　short　of　the　misshapen　sphere　of　uranium。　Where　the
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edges　of　the　foil　were　crinkled；　the　vivid　red　of　the　foil’s　reverse　side　showed　like　flames。
Refugio　stared　without　comprehension　as　Kestrel　locked　the　gurney’s　wheels。
“Listen　to　me；”　Kestrel　said。　Refugio　was　weak；　but　his　help　in　wrapping　the　uranium　would
reduce　Kestrel’s　risk　of　radiation　poisoning。　“Take　the　metal　ball　and　wrap　it　in　the　foil。　Try　to
put　equal　amounts　of　foil　on　all　sides　of　the　metal　ball。　Do　you　understand？”
Refugio　looked　at　the　uranium　and　then　at　the　foil　edge　with　a　hint　of　fire。　“Wrap　。　；　this”　–　he
touched　the　ball　–　“in…　this。”　He　waved　at　the　foil。
“Yes。”
Refugio　tried　to　pick　up　the　uranium　and　place　it　on　the　foil。　The　ball　was　too　heavy　for　him。
“Roll　it；”　suggested　Kestrel。　“But　be　careful！”
The　uranium　teetered　at　the　raised　edge　of　the　embalming　table　before　rolling　unevenly　onto　the
overlapping　foil　strips。　Clumsily；　Refugio　pulled　the　foil　up　and　over　the　uranium。　The　wrapping
was　erratic；　bunched　up　here　and　nearly　splitting　from　tightness　there；　but　it　would　have　to　do。
Refugio　sat　panting；　his　hands　trembling。
“You　did　that　very　well；”　said　Kestrel；　unlocking　the　gurney’s　wheels。　“Now；　hold　on　to　me。”
Kestrel　pushed　the　table　across　the　room　to　the　other　embalming　table。　The　smaller　piece　of
uranium　was　there；　along　with　another　swath　of　lead　foil。　Refugio　wove　unsteadily　as　the　gurney
bumped　into　the　table’s　porcelain　rim。　“Let　me…　lie　down。”
“We’re　almost　done；”　Kestrel　answered。　“Quickly；　now！”
Refugio　leaned　toward　the　table；　confused　by　the　presence　of　another　piece　of　uranium　and
more　foil。　Had　he　not　just　done　this？　His　hand　slid　off　the　gray…white　lump。　He　overbalanced；
tried　weakly　to　save　himself；　and　would　have　fallen　face　down　on　the　embalming　table　if　Kestrel
had　not　caught　him。
“Try　again；”　Kestrel　urged。
With　a　great　effort；　Refugio　herded　the　lopsided　sphere　onto　the　two…colored　foil。　The　foil　tore
beneath　his　clumsy　fingers。　Uranium　showed　through　the　tear　like　a　gray…white　tooth。　Refugio
tried　to　cover　it　with　more　foil；　but　his　hands　would　not　respond。　Retching　convulsed　him。　He
was　relieved　when　the　black　well　leaped　up；　surrounding　him　once　more。
Gently；　Kestrel　straightened　Refugio’s　unconscious　body　on　the　gurney。　As　he　did；　he　sensed
someone　coming　through　the　doorway　to　help　him。　Ana。　She　reached　for　the　half…covered　metal
sphere；　then　cried　out　when　Kestrel　slapped　away　her　hands。
“I　told　you　to　stay　out　of　here！”
Tears　grew　in　Ana’s　eyes。　“But　you　needed　help；”　she　said；　her　voice　breaking　between　reason
and　emotion。　“I　saw　Refugio　–　“
“Go　back　to　the　flower　shop。　Stay　there。　I’ll　be　through　in　a　few　minutes。”
Tears　gathered　in　her　lashes　and　slid　down　her　cheeks。
“Please；”　said　Kestrel；　kissing　her　eyelids。　“It　is　best　this　way。”　Reassured　by　Kestrel’s
gentleness。　Ana　left。　She　stopped　just　beyond　the　doorway。　Kestrel　did　not　notice。　He　had
already　turned　back　to　the　embalming　table。　Beneath　his　strong　hands；　uranium　and　foil　grew
into　an　ungainly　scarlet　jewel。
San　Francisco
27　Hours　15　Minutes　After　Trinity
A　knock　sounded　on　the　door。
“Who　is　it？”　called　Vanessa；　reaching　for　the　pistol　concealed　in　her　purse。
“A　student　of　history；”　answered　a　deep　voice。
“I；　too；　am　a　student　of　history。　Come　in。”
The　man　was　so　thick　and　muscular　that　he　almost　had　to　turn　sideways　to　enter　the　room。　He
was　young；　nearly　six　feet　tall。　His　head　seemed　to　be　joined　directly　to　his　huge　shoulders。　He
wore　a　merchant　seaman’s　rough　clothing　and　a　single　small　gold　loop　in　his　left　ear。
He　walked　by　Vanessa　without　speaking。　She　closed　the　door　but　did　not　look　away　from　him。
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He　saw　her　pistol；　but　acted　as　though　it　were　no　more　unusual　than　a　wedding　ring。
“Good　morning；　comrade；”　he　said；　smiling。
His　voice　was　surprisingly　gentle　and　unaccented；　despite　his　olive　skin　and　Mediterranean
appearance。
Vanessa　returned　the　smile　in　spite　of　herself。　After　Hecht’s　easily　shocked　innocence；　this　man
with　the　earring　was　reassuring。　Certainly　the　sight　of　a　gun　did　not　make　him　blanch。　A　young
Masarek；　perhaps。　She　lowered　her　gun。
“Welcome；　comrade。　What　shall　we　call　you　today？”
“Slaven？”　said　the　big　man。　He　laughed　and　swept　the　watch　cap　off　his　shaved　head。　“Yes；
Slaven　–　a　poor　working　man　who　helps　the　cause　any　way　he　can。”
Slaven’s　formality　had　a　mocking　quality；　but　it　was　himself　he　laughed　at；　not　her。
“Tell　me；　Slaven；”　murmured　Vanessa；　“can　you　shoot？”
“Yes。”
“Good。　What　work　do　you　do？”
“I’m　a　longshoreman；”　he　said。　“Sometimes。”
“A　trade　unionist？”
“Sometimes。”
“And　what　do　you　do　now？”
A　sound　came　from　the　hallway；　footsteps　approaching。　As　Slaven　moved　toward　the　door；　a
gun　appeared　in　his　huge　fist。　The　footsteps　passed　without　pausing。　Slaven　waited　until　they
could　be　heard　no　more。　Then；　before　he　replaced　his　gun；　he　flicked　open　its　cylinder；
inspected　the　cartridges　and　then　the　barrel。　He　handled　the　pistol　the　way　a　cook　would　handle
a　skillet　–　with　utter　familiarity。　“Sometimes　I’m　a　metal　worker。”
“Metal？　Steel　and　lead；　no　doubt。”
Slaven’s　only　answer　was　another　smile。
San　Francisco
27　Hours　21　Minutes　After　Trinity
“I　followed　the　gringo　down　the　street；　to　an　apartment　above　Velasquez’s　grocery　store；”　said
Julio　Rincón。
“Were　you　able　to　learn　anything　more？”　asked　Kestrel。　His　eyes　were　patient；　impenetrable。
Marco　smiled。　“I　talked　to　Velasquez。　He　told　me　that　he　rented　the　apartment　just　yesterday
afternoon　to　a　blond　woman　with　a　foreign　accent。”
Kestrel　glanced　at　Ana；　who　stood　watching；　concern　growing　on　her　face。
“Masarek’s　woman；”　said　Ana。　“It　must　be。”
Kestrel　nodded　absently；　his　mind　examining　the　dimensions　of　the　problem。　The　flower　shop
had　become　a　trap。　He　must　escape　it　before　the　woman　could　recruit　enough　help　to　take　back
the　uranium。　Refugio　was　no　help　to　him　now。　He　was　dying。　Once　dead；　the　Rincón　brothers
would　want　to　strike　a　new　deal　with　Kestrel；　and　the　Rincón　brothers　were　more　American　than
Mexican。　He　could　not　trust　them。
“Where　is　the　woman　now？”　asked　Kestrel。
“Velasquez　thinks　she　is　still　in　the　apartment。　I　have　one　of　the　children　watching　to　see　who
comes　and　goes。”
“Children？　This　isn’t　a　game　for　children！”
Julio　shrugged。　“He’s　only　watching。　I　told　him　to　stay　out　of　sight。”
“Did　he　see　anything？　Is　she　alone？”
“The　man　who　bought　the　flowers　stayed　there。　Another　man　came；　too。　He　is　very　big；　very
strong。　A　mean　one；　se？or。”
Kestrel　dismissed　Julio　with　a　quick　nod　and　turned　away。　The　mourning　room　in　which　he
stood　was　small；　draped　ceiling　to　floor　with　dark　velvet。　The　heavy　folds　of　cloth　absorbed
sound　and　light；　leaving　nothing。　On　one　wall　was　a　massively　framed　portrait　of　a　languid
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Cristo；　a　pale　effeminate　face　on　a　black　velvet　background。
Kestrel　looked　away　from　the　picture；　repelled　by　its　shallowness。　Even　the　dusty　god’s　eye　in
the　Mexicali　whorehouse　was　more　meaningful　than　this　icon。　He　would　be　glad　to　be　free　of　a
culture　that　pickled　their　dead　in　the　name　of　a　bland；　androgynous　god。
Frowning；　Kestrel　looked　around　the　room；　measuring　choices　he　no　longer　had。
Refugio　was　dying；　his　useful　family　network　would　die　with　him。
Ana　was　nervous；　frightened；　fragile。
The　Russian　spy　with　the　British　accent　had　somehow　traced　the　uranium　to　this　place。
It　was　doubtful　that　he　could　convince　Refugio’s　cousins　to　kill　the　Englishwoman　and　her
f