Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第53部分

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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　escape。　He　had　kept　the　uranium；　though；　with　Ana　Oshiga’s　help。
Ana；　whose　father　had　owned　a　flower　shop　in　San　Francisco　before　Pearl　Harbor；　a　flower
shop　now　owned　by　Refugio’s　cousins。
Then　there　was　Kestrel；　shrewd　enough　to　steal　the　prize。　He　had　come　into　America　wearing
the　uniform　of　a　Nisei　captain　–　how　he　must　have　savored　wearing　the　battalion　patch　whose
motto　was　“Remember　Pearl　Harbor。”
But　even　Kestrel　had　not　foreseen　hot　uranium　and　a　dead　Refugio。　Ketrel　must　be　getting
desperate。　With　Refugio　dead；　there　were　no　more　Mexican　contacts　in　America　to　abet　the
Japanese。　Kestrel　and　Ana　were　isolated　now；　two　Japanese　adrift　on　a　sea　of　Western　faces。
Nor　could　they　find　others　of　their　race　to　hide　behind　while　they　made　new　plans　to　smuggle
the　uranium　out　of　America。　From　Seattle　to　San　Diego；　the　Little　Tokyos　of　America　had　been
closed　down；　boarded　up；　sold　and　abandoned。　By　the　hundreds　and　the　thousands；　the
Japanese　had　been　transported　to　“relocation　camps”　well　away　from　the　Pacific　Coast。
The　camps！　That　was　where　Kestrel　would　hide。　It　was　not　only　a　sea　of　like　faces；　it　was　safe　–
who　but　a　Japanese　would　think　of　hiding　in　his　enemy’s　jail？　But　there　were　many　camps。　Which
one　would　Kestrel　choose？　He　would　need　some　assurance　that　he　would　be　welcome　or　at　least
tolerated。
“Mullen。　Where　is　Takeo　Oshiga　now？”　asked　Finn。
“The　registration　forms　were　forwarded　to　Manzanar。　You　know　the　place？　A　relocation　camp
on　the　other　side　of　the　Sierras。”
Finn　did　not　know　the　place；　but　he　soon　would。　“Coughlan；　call　the　people　at　Manzanar。　Tell
them　to　open　the　inbound　gates。　Anybody　wants　in；　let　him　in。”
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“And　then　tell　them　that　I’ll　personally　execute　the　guard　who　lets　anyone　out。”
Manzanar；　California
36　Hours　28　Minutes　After　Trinity
From　the　road；　the　car　was　invisible；　concealed　in　a　dry　ravine。　A　wind　moaned　over　the　desert；
leaving　enigmatic　patterns　in　the　sand。　The　car　was　quiet　but　for　the　rustle　of　newspaper　when
Kestrel　turned　a　page。　Beside　him　on　the　front　seat　was　a　pile　of　unread　periodicals。
Kestrel　folded　up　the　section　he　had　read　and　put　it　on　the　floor。　The　noise　startled　Ana；　who
had　been　dozing　in　the　back　seat。　She　sat　up。
“Is　it　time？”
“It’s　only　five　o’clock；”　said　Kestrel；　glancing　at　his　watch。　“It　won’t　be　dark　for　several　hours。
Go　back　to　sleep。”
“I　can’t。　I　keep　thinking　about　Manzanar。”
“Don’t　worry　about　getting　into　the　camp；”　said　Kestrel。　“Manzanar　won’t　be　well　guarded。
Why　should　it　be？　Where　would　an　escaping　Japanese　go？”　He　waved　a　hand　at　the　desolation
surrounding　them。　“Only　the　gate　has　soldiers；　and　we　won’t　use　the　gate。”
Ana　looked　at　the　stack　of　newspapers　and　magazines　on　the　front　seat。　Kestrel　had　bought　one
or　two　in　each　little　hamlet　he　had　driven　through　on　the　way　down　the　east　side　of　the　Sierras。
“There’s　nothing　in　those　but　propaganda；”　said　Ana。　“Lies　and　more　lies　about　what　a
generous　victor　America　is。　All　lies！”
Kestrel　shook　out　the　July　17th　edition　of　the　San　Francisco　Chronicle。　“American　newspapers
are　naive；　malicious　and　often　trivial；　but　they　aren’t　echoes　of　their　government。　They　tell　more
about　the　war　than　my　own　government　does；　and　tell　it　more　accurately。”
“For　example？”
“Your　newspapers　tell　me　Russia　is　more　America’s　enemy　than　her　ally。　That　would　be　useful　to
Japan；　if　Russia　weren’t　also　our　enemy。”　Kestrel　turned　the　page。　“Russia　is　a　sword　with　every
edge　honed　and　no　handle　–　whoever　uses　it　risks　cutting　himself　more　deeply　than　his
opponent。”
“Where　does　the　Chronicle　say　that？”　Ana　asked。
“Where　are　the　pictures　of　smiling　Russian　soldiers　playing　poker　with　American　GIs　in　Berlin？”
countered　Kestrel；　pointing　to　a　feature　story。
“Those　are　British　soldiers；”　said　Ana；　reading　over　his　shoulder。
“Exactly。　Not　a　single　Russian　smiling　for　the　camera。”
A　wave　of　nausea　rippled　through　him。　He　breathed　slowly；　deeply；　until　it　passed。　Sweat
suddenly　covered　his　skin。　Another　surge　of　nausea　gripped　him。　Deliberately；　he　folded