Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第47部分

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with　a　scalpel。　When　he　tucked　the　split　cloth　beneath　the　body；　the　rents　in　the　back　were
invisible。
The　corpse　now　wore　the　clothes　of　a　Nisei　and　the　face　of　an　Indio。　Kestrel　sewed　shut　the
mouth　and　powdered　and　rouged　the　dead　skin。　He　had　a　certain　skill　with　cosmetics；　but　the
eyes　defeated　him。　Short　of　surgery；　Kestrel　knew　of　no　way　to　fake　an　epicanthic　fold。
“Like　this；”　said　Ana。
She　took　the　dark　pencil　with　hands　that　trembled。　A　few　deft　strokes　increased　the　slant　of　each
eye　and　suggested　a　fold　on　each　eyelid。　Like　the　uniform；　the　eyes　would　now　pass　a　cursory
inspection。
“Good；”　said　Kestrel。　Then；　hearing　the　harshness　of　his　own　voice　he　added；　“Thank　you。”
Ana　looked　at　Kestrel’s　eyes；　then　looked　away　quickly。　“I　was　wrong；”　she　whispered。　“I’m　a
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coward。　I’m　glad　he’s　dead　and　I　don’t　have　to　hear　him　moan　and　see　him　–　but　I　wouldn’t　have
killed　–　I　couldn’t　–　I　–　“　She　began　sobbing。
“Hush。　It’s　almost　over。”
Kestrel　touched　the　tears　at　the　corner　of　her　eyes；　then　turned　back　to　what　must　be　done。　He
went　to　the　coffin　room；　selected　the　lightest　coffin　he　could　find　and　dragged　it　into　the
embalming　room。
He　pulled　the　coffin　onto　a　gurney；　then　heaved　Refugio’s　corpse　into　it；　arranged　the　body；　and
wheeled　the　coffin　back　into　the　storage　room。　He　nailed　the　lid　down。
“Bring　some　makeup　for　me；”　Kestrel　called　over　his　shoulder。　He　put　one　piece　of
foil…wrapped　U…235　in　each　bucket。　“I’ll　have　to　be　an　Indio　until　we　get　to　Manzanar。”
The　garage　was　dark　and　damp；　as　though　the　sun　never　penetrated　the　interior。　In　the　midst　of
the　gloom　was　a　black　Chevrolet　sedan。　Kestrel　opened　its　trunk　and　placed　a　bucket　along　one
side。
He　brought　the　second　pail　and　wedged　it　as　far　away　from　the　first　as　the　trunk　allowed。　He
waited；　squinting　into　the　dark　hole　of　the　truck。　No　blue　haze　shimmered　into　life。　It　was　a
crude　gauge　of　safety；　but　it　was　the　only　one　he　had。
The　heavy　trunk　lid　slammed　shut　with　a　thick；　final　sound。　Kestrel　went　to　the　door　that　opened
into　the　alley　and　peered　out。　No　one　was　in　sight。　If　there　were　any　watchers；　they　had　been
drawn　off　by　the　Rincón　exodus。
As　Kestrel　opened　the　garage’s　big　double　doors；　Ana　ran　in　from　the　front　of　the　funeral
home；　carrying　two　suitcases。　She　sat　on　the　right　side　of　the　car；　waiting　for　Kestrel。　He　slid
into　the　driver’s　side　and　started　the　engine。
In　the　sunlight　flooding　through　the　open　garage　door；　Ana　looked　pale；　thin…lipped；　distraught。
“Cry　now；　Ana。　It　will　help。”
Ana　gave　Kestrel　a　look　that　he　could　not　read。
“And　you；　Kestrel。　When　will　you　cry？”
Kestrel　drove　the　car　out　of　the　garage　without　answering。　Ana　did　not　ask　the　question　again。
Nor　did　she　cry。
San　Francisco
27　Hours　38　Minutes　After　Trinity
Vanessa　paced　the　room；　her　body　tense；　her　eyes　brilliant　with　suppressed　emotion。　Hecht　sat
very　quietly；　his　hands　clenched　around　the　cold　weight　of　the　gun　and　ammunition　he　had
purchased。　He　watched　Vanessa’s　luminous　beauty　with　more　fear　than　admiration。
“Comrade；”　said　Hecht　hesitantly；　again　holding　out　the　brown　paper　bag；　“the　gun。”
Vanessa　gave　Hecht　a　single；　savage　glance。　She　had　watched　flower　trucks　and　funeral　cars　leave
their　respective　shops。　She　had　watched；　and　been　helpless。　She　needed　fifteen　men。　All　she　had
was　Slaven　and　a　nitwit　with　pretensions　to　international　communism。
At　the　moment；　Slaven　was　chasing　one　of　four　dusty　black　funeral　cars。　The　flower　store　and
funeral　home　might　or　might　not　be　a　trap；　might　or　might　not　be　baited　with　something
significant。　She　must　know；　and　she　must　depend　on　Hecht　to　find　out。
Vanessa　made　a　sound　of　disgust。
“Have　I　done　something　wrong？”　asked　Hecht；　looking　away　from　Vanessa’s　fierce　blue　eyes。
“You　were　born；”　said　Vanessa；　but　she　said　it　in　Russian　because　she　still　had　a　use　for　Hecht。
She　took　the　paper　bag　from　him　and　examined　its　contents。　At　least　he　had　managed　to　buy　the
right　size　ammunition。　The　gun　itself　was　used；　dirty；　and　still　had　a　pawnshop　number　dangling
from　its　trigger　guard。　She　checked　the　weapon　skillfully；　then　shrugged。　It　might　fire　a　few　more
rounds　before　it　fell　apart。
Vanessa　loaded　the　gun；　put　the　hammer　in　the　safe　position　and　returned　the　weapon　to　Hecht。
He　handled　it　awkwardly。
“Get　used　to　it；”　she　said。
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Hecht　looked　up；　startled。　“I　thought　it　was　for　you！”
“I　have　one。”
She　returned　to　the　window；　hoping　to　see　Slaven　with　an　unwilling　Mexican　in　tow。　There　was
one　thing　she　had　to　know；　a　question　only　a　Rincón　would　answer：　which　vehicle　contained
Refugio　and　two　lumps　of　U…235？　She　would　pay　well　for　that　information。
Abruptly；　she　turned　back　to　Hecht。　“Go　see　if　the　stores　are　locked。　Try　the　front　first；　then　the
back。　If　the　funeral　home　is　open；　come　back　here　immediately。”
“What　about　this？”　asked　Hecht；　holding　up　the　pawnshop　pistol。
“Shoot　yourself；”　suggested　Vanessa　in　Russian。
Sonoma　County
28　Hours　2　Minutes　After　Trinity
The　black　Ford　flashed　between　rows　of　grapevines　falling　away　from　both　sides　of　the　country
road。　Riley　dozed　in　the　front　seat。
“Heads　up；”　warned　Finn。　He　turned　off　onto　a　dirt　farm…road。
The　Salerno　Brothers　winery　was　a　mile　off　the　highway。　There　were　scattered　outbuildings　and
two　large　old　barns　with　steep　roofs　supported　by　thick　fieldstone　walls。
Seven　Mexican　field　hands；　braceros；　stood　in　the　front　yard；　shaded　by　a　large　sycamore。　Finn
glanced　their　way　as　he　got　out　of　the　car。　A　restlessness　in　their　manner　caught　his　eye。　One　of
the　men　said　something　in　Spanish。　The　others　laughed。
Deputy　Branscomb　met　Finn　and　Riley　in　the　doorway　of　the　winery。　A　large　pocket　watch
gleamed　in　his　rough…knuckled　hand。
“Fifty…nine　minutes　and　a　few　odd　seconds。　Not　bad　at　all；　for　amateurs。”　Branscomb　slipped
the　watch　back　into　the　slash　pocket　of　his　worn　green　uniform　pants。　“Back　here；”　he　said；
leading　them　into　the　cool　interior　of　the　winery。
The　sweet…sharp　smell　of　green　wine　filled　the　building。　Twenty…foot…high　redwood　holding
tanks　lined　the　aisle；　their　round　sides　girdled　by　steel　hoops　and　wooden　pipes　black　with　age
and　moisture。
Three　men　waited　at　the　rear　of　the　building。　Two　were　obviously　brothers；　perhaps　twins。　Their
khaki　work　clothes；　graying　hair；　tanned　faces　and　hipshot　stance　were　alike。　The　third　man　was
the　sheriff；　tall　and　just　beginning　to　go　to　fat。　He　looked　like　a　shrewd；　hard；　country　politician。
“They’re　yours；　Riley；”　said　Finn；　his　voice　too　low　for　anyone　else　to　hear。　“Give　them　your
best　Boy　Scout　two…step　while　I　look　around。”
“Nuts　to　you；”　whispered　Riley。　He　smiled　and　held　out　his　credentials　for　the　waiting　men。
Finn　slid　off　without　a　word。
“Can’t　quite　understand　what　interests　the　FBI　about　a　two…cent　breaking…and…entering　clear　out
here　in　the　boondocks；”　drawled　Branscomb。　“All　that’s　missing　is　a　case　of　wine　and　some　lead
foil；　bright　red。　The　wine　was　raw　and　the　lead　wasn’t　worth　much。”
Sheriff　Brown　chuckled。　“Must　have　been　Mexicans。　They’re　the　only　ones　dumb　enough　to　steal
green　wine。”
Riley　grinned　companionably。　“Well；　Sheriff　Brown；　I’d　like　to　tell　you　all　I　know；　I　really　would；
but；”　he　paused　and　lowered　his　voice；　“it’s　related　to　national　security。”
“That　a　fact？”　said　Sheriff　Brown；　lighting　a　cigaret。
Finn　walked　aimlessly　until　no　one　was　looking　in　his　direction；　then　headed　for　a　small　room　lit
by　two　naked　bulbs　hanging　from　frayed　black　wires。　A　short　conveyor　belt　dominated　the
room。　At　one　end　of　the　line　were　empty；　long…necked　bottles。　Pipes　ran　from　a　vat　to　the
bottling　machinery。　Corks　waited　in　metal　claws。
The　smell　of　raw　wine　was　overpowering。　At　the　other　end　of　the　conveyor　belt　several　bottles
had　been　smashed　on　the　floor。　Glass　glittered　up　from　pools　of　wine　darker　than　blood。
Broken　glass　crackled　beneath　Finn’s　boots。
In　the　deep　shadows　behind　the　conveyor　belt；　Finn　sat　on　his　heels；　examining　the　bottling
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machine　and　the　floor。　He　could　just　make　out　the　shape　of　a　footprint　where　someone　had
stepped　in　a　puddle　of　wine　and　then　onto　the　dry　concrete　floor。　He　struck　a　match　and
examined　the　stain。　The　print　was　striated；　as　though　cut　from　the　tread　of　a　worn　tire。　Probably
a　left　shoe；　for　the　outside　of　the　heel　was　worn　down　the　left　side。
It　was　a　familiar　print　in　Calexico’s　dusty　streets；　huaraches；　poor　man’s　sandals　with　soles　cut
from　old　tires；　cheap　and　nearly　indestructible。
Finn　dropped　the　match。　It　fell　into　the　puddle　of　wine；　hissed　briefly　and　died。　Shadows
returned　to　hide　the　thief　s　footprint。　Finn　went　back　to　the　main　room。　He　saw　that　Riley　had
his　notebook　out　and　was　writing　quickly。
“Mr。　Salerno；”　said　Finn。
Both　brothers　looked　up。
“Do　you　use　braceros？”
“Yes；”　said　one　brother。
“All　our　men　are　Mexican　nationals；”　said　the　other。　“Except　for　Franco　Rincón；　the　foreman。
He　was　born　in　California。”
Finn　recognized　the　name　Rincón；　and　felt　the　first　surge　of　victory　heat　his　blood。　“Get　your
braceros　in　here。　Start　with　that　bunch　under　the　tree　out　front。”
“You’ll　want　the　foreman；　too；”