Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第17部分

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“…　is　de…　ceed…　second…　target…　im…med…　you…　me？…”
The　pilot　and　copilot　looked　at　one　another。　The　pilot　shook　his　head。　“One　more　time。”
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The　copilot　leaned　over　the　mike　and　yelled；　“Blue　One　to　Blue　Three。　Repeat。　Repeat。　Repeat。
Over。”
The　radio　crackled　explosively；　echoing　nearby　lightning。
“…　test　is　delayed。　Proceed　to…　immediately…　read　me？　Over。”
The　copilot　yelled　to　Finn；　“Did　you　get　that？　The　test　is　delayed。　We’re　supposed　to　go　on　to
California。”
Finn　looked　at　his　watch。　Almost　one…thirty。　The　test　had　been　delayed　twice　already；　he　would
be　lucky　to　make　it　to　Hunters　Point　on　time。
“Let’s　go！”　yelled　Finn；　giving　a　thumb’s　up　gesture　just　as　lightning　turned　the　cockpit　white。
The　pilot　banked　steeply　away　from　the　test　site；　climbing　for　the　relative　calm　between　the
squall　lines　that　had　been　sweeping　across　the　desert　from　the　Gulf。　As　the　copilot　yelled　his
understanding　of　the　new　orders　into　the　radio；　Finn　checked　the　black　radiation　counter
between　his　feet。　It　was　intact。
Thunder　rattled　the　plane；　making　his　teeth　ache。　He　settled　himself　in　for　a　long；　unpleasant
flight。
San　Francisco；　California
1　Hour　12　Minutes　Before　Trinity
Chill　and　wild；　the　wind　off　San　Francisco　Bay　gusted　down　streets　darkened　by　wartime；
rattling　windows　where　shards　of　light　glinted　between　blackout　curtains。　Some　windows　had
not　been　covered　at　all；　showing　light　like　great　blind　eyes。　The　seamless　coastal　midnight　of
1941　had　given　way　to　complacency　as　people　shed　the　inconveniences　of　a　war　they　believed
they　had　already　won。
Unnoticed　by　anyone；　San　Francisco　had　gradually　returned　to　being　a　civilian　city。　Bakery
trucks；　laundry　trucks；　cabs；　meat　trucks；　garbage　trucks；　buses；　pimps；　whores；　cops　and　thieves
competed　for　space　on　the　city　streets。
Among　the　delivery　vehicles　moving　over　streets　glistening　with　a　condensed　fog　was　a　pale
laundry　truck　with　Chinese　ideographs　and　a　small　number　7　on　the　door。　The　truck　pulled　up　in
the　alley　behind　a　Cantonese　restaurant。　The　driver　stretched　and　slowly　got　out　to　make　the　last
civilian　stop　on　his　route；　dropping　off　clean　linen　and　picking　up　napkins　smelling　of　ginger　and
soy　sauce。
Masarek　moved　his　head　just　enough　to　watch　the　back　of　the　restaurant。　He　was　so　close　to　the
parked　truck　that　he　could　smell　oil　oozing　out　of　a　leak　in　the　crankcase。
The　driver’s　heels　grated　on　the　broken　surface　of　the　alley。　A　rectangle　of　light　bloomed　at　the
back　of　the　restaurant。
Other　than　narrowing　his　eyes；　Masarek　did　not　move　to　evade　the　light。　He　had　chosen　his
clothes　and　his　cover　well；　light　did　not　separate　him　from　the　surrounding　darkness。
The　driver　and　dishwasher　exchanged　a　few　desultory　Cantonese　obscenities　as　clean　laundry
was　traded　for　dirty。　Masarek　waited；　poised　for　the　moment　when　the　restaurant　door　would
close　and　the　sound　of　deadbolts　slamming　home　would　be　loud　in　the　alley’s　silence。
The　rectangle　of　yellow　light　vanished。　Deadbolts　thumped　into　place。　The　driver　began　closing
the　van’s　rear　doors。
Masarek　flowed　out　of　hiding　with　no　more　sound　than　the　fog。　His　right　hand　covered　the
driver’s　mouth　at　the　exact　instant　that　his　stiletto　slid　between　the　man’s　ribs　and　pierced　his
heart。
Death　was　immediate。　There　was　no　time　for　fear　or　surprise；　escape　or　error。　Masarek　heaved
the　body　on　top　of　tea…stained　tablecloths；　slammed　the　van’s　doors；　and　climbed　into　the
driver’s　seat。　The　laundryman’s　death　had　taken　less　than　three　seconds。
Refugio　was　hidden　where　the　alley　met　the　street。　At　the　sound　of　the　driver’s　door　closing；　he
gathered　himself　for　a　rush　at　the　truck；　certain　that　Masarek　had　somehow　missed　his　quarry。
The　truck　stopped　at　the　head　of　the　alley。　The　door　on　the　right　opened　soundlessly。
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“Get　in！”
Masarek’s　hissed　command　galvanized　Refugio　and　the　two　men　waiting　with　him。
“In　the　back！”
One　of　Refugio’s　men　tripped　over　the　driver’s　body。
“Madre　de　Dios！　Salvador；”　hissed　Refugio。　“You　are　as　clumsy　as　a　boy　with　his　first　woman！”
Salvador　rolled　off　the　body　with　a　curse；　checking　his　clothes　for　bloodstains。　There　were　none。
The　man　had　died　before　his　heart　could　pump　blood　out　of　the　single　wound　the　stiletto　had
made。
Refugio　and　Salvador　helped　the　third　Mexican；　a　man　named　Lopez；　to　strip　the　corpse　of　its
uniform　shirt。　The　truck　swayed　as　it　turned　onto　the　main　street；　making　the　men’s　work　more
difficult。
“You；”　said　Refugio；　handing　the　shirt　to　Lopez；　the　smallest　of　the　three　men。
Lopez　looked　over　the　shirt。　There　was　a　tiny　stain　on　the　back　where　capillaries　had　oozed　in
the　instant　before　the　driver’s　blood　pressure　had　dropped　to　nothing。　Lopez　looked　from　the
stain　to　the　man　who　had　killed　with　such　precision。
Refugio　followed　the　glance。　He　knew　what　Lopez　was　thinking；　but　Salvador　was　also　quick；
silent　and　deadly。　And　there　would　be　three　to　Masarek’s　one。
“Put　it　on；”　said　Masarek。　“You’ll　drive。”
Lopez　pulled　on　the　shirt。　It　still　carried　the　dead　driver’s　warmth。　Lopez　traded　places　with
Masarek；　who　went　to　the　back　of　the　truck　and　crouched；　gun　in　hand；　watching　everyone。
“Go！”　said　Masarek。　“Quickly！”
Hunters　Points；　California
29　Minutes　Before　Trinity
Evans　Avenue　pointed　like　an　arrow　toward　the　gate　at　Hunters　Point。　Inside　the　mammoth
naval　shipyard；　most　streetlights　and　buildings　were　properly　hooded。　Even　so；　there　were
occasional　islands　of　illumination。　Churned　by　the　wind；　rain　made　ragged　patterns　in　the　light。
At　the　front　gate；　Shore　Patrol　sentries　hunched　inside　their　peacoats　and　cursed　the　wind；　the
military　and　the　bad　luck　that　had　given　them　duty　on　such　a　filthy　night。　They　hardly　interrupted
their　cursing　to　wave　through　routine　traffic　–　food　and　fuel　and　laundry。　The　vehicles　shuttled
back　and　forth；　weaving　Hunters　Point　into　the　fabric　of　civilian　San　Francisco。
The　cream…colored　van　with　Chinese　ideographs　on　the　door　was　just　one　of　many　vehicles　the
sentries　had　seen。　Laundry　trucks　at　Hunters　Point　were　as　common　as　Spam　in　field　rations。
“You　sure　this　is　the　right　truck？”　asked　Lopez　as　he　began　to　slow　for　the　gate。
“It’s　number　seven；”　said　Refugio　in　a　low　voice。　“Now　be　quiet；　fool！”
Lopez　puffed　on　his　cigaret　and　tried　to　ease　the　strain　of　the　too…small　uniform　across　his
shoulders。　His　dark　face　was　lit　by　the　cigaret　glued　to　his　lower　lip。　There　were　premature　lines
at　the　corners　of　his　eyes　from　squinting　against　the　perpetual　upward　curl　of　smoke。　His
nervousness　showed　in　the　deep　red　glow　as　he　sucked　hard　on　the　cigaret。
Masarek　crouched　in　the　back　of　the　truck；　watching。　He　did　not　expect　to　be　challenged　by　the
guards　–　it　was　the　right　truck；　the　right　guards；　and　the　right　night。　No　enlisted　man　would
search　the　truck　that　carried　the　punch…boards　and　betting　slips　for　all　the　illegal　gamblers　in
Hunters　Point。　But　there　was　always　the　chance　of　a　mistake；　a　new　guard　or　a　greedy　guard；　or
an　officer　who　had　decided　to　inspect　the　gate…。
The　Shore　Patrol　waved　through　the　laundry　truck　after　a　single　look　at　the　number　7。　Masarek
relaxed　slightly　as　the　truck　picked　up　speed。　He　would　have　had　a　difficult　time　explaining　the
three　men　hidden　in　the　back　of　the　van；　and　the　dead　man　who　did　not　quite　fit　into　a　laundry
bag。
Once　inside　the　base；　Lopez　killed　the　headlights　and　slid　unobstrusively　into　the　random
movements　of　trucks；　staff　cars　and　occasional　Shore　Patrol　Jeeps。　The　van　rolled　unchallenged
through　the　darkness；　its　tires　sucking　moistly　on　the　wet　roadways。
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“Second　right；”　said　Masarek　from　the　rear　of　the　van。
Refugio　translated　quickly；　not　wanting　Masarek　to　know　that　Lopez　understood　English。　The
three　men　in　the　back　braced　themselves　as　the　van　turned。　Other　than　clipped　directions　and
translations；　no　one　spoke。　The　only　sound　was　Salvador’s　fingernail　slowly　marking　time　on　the
stock　of　a　sawed…off；　twin…barreled　escopeta　that　lay　across　his　knee。　The　shotgun　looked　small
in　his　thick　hands。　When　he　turned　to　look　at　Refugio；　random　light　picked　out　the　claw…shaped
scar　on　Salvador’s　temple。
“Left。”
Refugio’s　fingertips　traced　and　retraced　the　lines　of　a　silver…plated　。45　caliber　Army　pistol　that
rested　on　his　knee。
“Right。”
Masarek’s　voice　was　thin；　soft　and　precise。　His　head　was　never　still。
“Left。”　Masarek’s　head　turned；　listening。
The　van　swayed；　then　evened　out　as　it　negotiated　the　hard　left　turn。　Now　the　vehicle　was
threading　its　way　through　narrow　alleys　behind　warehouses　and　armories；　alleys　piled　high　with
equipment。　The　supply　line　that　had　been　created　for　the　invasion　of　Japan　had　been　filled
beyond　its　capacity。　Hundreds　of　tons　of　clothing　and　food；　vehicles　and　fuel　drums　spilled　out
of　warehouses。　Field　artillery　pieces；　self…propelled　howitzers　and　other　instruments　of　war
towered　over　the　van。　Like　millions　of　men；　the　supplies　waited　for　a　Presidential　decision。
“Slow　down。”
Refugio’s　translation　was　like　a　garbled　echo。　Lopez　eased　off　the　accelerator；　guiding　the　van
along　ever　more　cluttered　roadways。
“Park　on　the　right。”
Lopez　backed　into　a　spot　behind　a　ten…foot…high　pile　of　crated　gasoline　barrels。　It　was　unlikely
that　the　van　would　be　spotted　there。　Lopez　shut　off　the　engine　and　turned　to　speak　to　Refugio。
“Silence。”
Masarek’s　command　needed　no　translation。　No　one　moved　or　spoke　while　Masarek　listened。　He
heard　nothing　but　the　random　pops　and　pings　of　metal　cooling　in　the　van’s　engine。　He　turned
his　head　several　times；　listening；　but　he　heard　neither　the　soft　scuff　of　his　private　fears　nor　the
tramp　of　military　feet；　nothing　but　the　engine　cooling。
Masarek　waited。　He　had　survived　forty　years　of　Russian　politics　by　being　patient。　He　listened
again；　barely　able　to　credit　the　information　that　a　single　guard　had　been　assigned　to　the　canister
of　7…235。　One　man　tonight；　two　men　tomorrow　to　load　the　canister　aboard　the　Indianapolis；　and
no　one　on　base　knew　what　was　inside　the　unimpressive　container。
No　one　except　Masarek。
Masarek’s　mouth　curved　slightly　beneath　his　long　nose。　Using　just　one　guard　was　clever。　Who
would　believe　the　canister　was　valuable；　when　chocolate　bars　were　better　guarded？　Yet　he　could
not　help　wondering　if　the　shipment　was　not　a　trap　for　men　such　as　himself。
Deftly；　Masarek　screwed　a　silencer　onto　his　pistol　and　pushed　the　gun　into　the　waistband　of　his
dark　pants。　His　American　sportscoat　covered　the　gun；　and　a　white　shirt　now　concealed　the　thin
black　sweater　that　had　made　him　invisible　in　the　alley’s　dank　night。　Clipped　to　the　shirt　pocket
was　a　Lawrence　Radiation　Laboratory　ID　badge。
Masarek　stood；　crouching　slightly　to　avoid　the　roof　of　the　van。　He　did　not　move　as　quickly　or　as
freely　as　he　once　had；　but　the　difference　was　apparent　only　to　him。　He　pulled　off　the　back　watch
cap　he　wore；　revealing　the　fleshy　shine　of　a　receding　hairline。　Quietly；　he　eased　open　the　van
door。
The　narrow　aisles　betpty　of　all　but　the　rain…wet　wind。　In　the
distance；　light　from　an　unhooded　lamp　made　a　fuzzy　sphere　of　illumination。　Masarek　set　himself
against　the　wind　and　stepped　onto　the　pavement。　After　a　final；　long　moment　of　listening
betw