Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第28部分

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maintain　my　cover；　too。　I　have　to　get　that　story　first。”
Vanessa　studied　him　for　a　long　moment。　“One　of　the　four　bodies　in　Oakland　belongs　to　a
comrade。　So　hurry　there。　Ask　questions。　Be　sure　to　ask　if　anything　is　missing　from　the　truck。　But
be　very　discreet　or　the　police　will　be　asking　you　questions。”
San　Francisco
4　Hours　16　Minutes　After　Trinity
Ana　backed　the　flower　truck　into　a　small；　ramshackle　structure　that　served　both　as　garage　and
warehouse　to　the　Fragrant　Petal　flower　shop。　As　always；　she　winced　at　the　crude　translation　of
the　shop’s　name。　English　conveyed　none　of　the　subtle　and　complex　resonances　of　transience；
death　and　rebirth　that　were　implicit　in　the　ideograph　it　purported　to　represent。
But　then；　perhaps　the　translation　was　more　truthful　because　of　its　limitations。　Death　no　longer
seemed　either　subtle　or　complex；　merely　brutal　and　revolting。
Ana　hurried　from　the　truck　to　the　garage　doors。　The　alley　had　been　empty　when　she　entered　it。　It
was　still　empty　when　she　dragged　shut　the　canted　wooden　doors　of　the　garage。　The　gloom　inside
was　both　tangible　and　oddly　reassuring。　Darkness　would　blur　the　reality　in　the　back　of　the　van；
making　easier　what　she　must　do。
Ana　opened　the　back　of　the　van。　“Refugio？”
The　answer　was　more　groan　than　word。　Ana　hesitated；　trembling　suddenly。　The　strength　that
fear　had　given　her　was　gone；　but　Refugio　was　still　there；　wounded。　With　a　shaking　hand；　she
switched　on　the　garage’s　interior　light。
She　saw　Refugio　lying　in　the　back　of　the　truck；　his　body　bisected　by　a　wedge　of　light。　The　pure
crimson　covering　his　leg　would　have　been　beautiful　had　it　been　anything　but　blood。　Beyond　the
light　was　his　face；　invisible。
Ana　swayed；　her　knuckles　white　against　her　lips。
“Easy；　chica；”　said　Refugio。　“It　is　much　better　than　it　looks。”　He　tried　to　smile　and　nearly
succeeded。　“It　is　not　my　first　wound；　or　my　worst。”　His　abrupt　laugh　startled　her。　“Or　my　last；
please　God。”
Painfully；　Refugio　eased　himself　around　until　he　was　in　a　sitting　position　with　his　legs　dangling
over　the　truck。　“Okay；　chica。　Help　me　inside。”
He　held　himself　erect；　breathing　rapidly；　his　face　pale　with　nausea；　more　nausea　than　he　had
anticipated。　For　an　instant　he　wondered　if　Masarek　had　used　poison　on　his　bullets。
Ana　waited；　color　slowly　returning　to　her　face。　She　knew　she　must　help　Refugio。　If　he　died；
leaving　her　alone　in　the　fragrant　shambles　of　her　childhood；　all　this　would　be　for　nothing。
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“Wait。”
Ana　ran　to　the　shop　door　that　led　from　the　garage　to　the　living　quarters　in　back　of　the　store。　The
smell　of　bruised　petals　and　crushed　stems　was　everywhere；　heightened　by　the　damp　air。　Ana
shuddered；　hating　the　odor　and　the　childhood　it　recalled。
The　door　was　unlocked　and　painted　a　bright　pink　that　clashed　with　her　memories。　Her　father
would　never　have　permitted　such　a　garish　color　to　intrude　upon　the　serenity　of　his　household。
But　her　father　was　in　a　prison　camp　called　Manzanar；　and　the　shop　had　been　sold　to　Refugio’s
cousins　for　a　fraction　of　its　worth。
There　were　other　changes　inside。　Colors　that　offended　her；　floors　that　were　crusted　with　the
sediment　of　a　different　culture；　startling　pictures　of　improbable　bulls　and　glittering　bullfighters
painted　on　black　velvet。　There　were　religious　paintings　of　an　impaled　Christ　and　a　smiling
Madonna。
One　bed　remained。　It　was　used　as　an　informal　couch；　covered　by　a　rainbow　serape。　Ana　yanked
off　the　blanket　and　threw　it　on　the　floor。
She　turned　and　ran　back　to　the　truck。　Refugio　was　standing；　holding　on　to　one　of　the　van　doors
and　swearing　with　a　fervency　that　most　men　reserved　for　prayer。　Ana　pulled　his　arm　over　her
shoulder；　substituting　her　support　for　that　of　the　door。
After　a　few　awkward　attempts；　Ana　and　Refugio　learned　to　gauge　the　other’s　weakness　and
strength。　A　moment　later；　Refugio　was　stretched　out　on　the　bed；　groaning　with　relief。　He　felt
feverish；　which　he　expected。　The　intensity　of　his　nausea；　however；　worried　him。　Sweating
suddenly；　he　fought　the　urge　to　vomit。
Ana　saw　Refugio’s　convulsive　swallowing　and　guessed　its　cause。　She　grabbed　an　empty　flower
pail　and　shoved　it　under　his　nose。　When　he　was　finished；　she　went　to　the　bathroom；　emptied　the
pail；　then　set　it　by　the　bed。
“Thanks；”　said　Refugio；　wiping　his　face　on　the　wet　cloth　she　had　given　him。　“It　is　only　a　little
wound。The　pain　is　not　so　bad；　now。”
“Good；”　said　Ana；　her　jaw　set；　“because　we　have　to　clean　your　leg。”
“Yes；”　sighed　Refugio；　letting　his　head　drop　back　onto　the　thin　mattress。　He　took　his　knife　out
of　its　belt　sheath。　“Can　you　do　it　or　do　you　want　me　to？”
Secretly；　Ana　had　been　hoping　that　he　would　refuse　her　help。　Without　a　word；　she　took　the　knife
from　Refugio’s　cold　fingers；　sliced　through　his　pant　leg；　and　peeled　away　the　bloody　cloth。
The　wound　was　a　scarlet　furrow　gouged　across　the　meaty　top　of　Refugio’s　thigh。　Though　bloody
and　undoubtedly　painful；　the　wound　was　obviously　not　a　serious　one。
Refugio　saw　the　relief　in　Ana’s　face。　“It’s　as　I　told　you。　A　small　thing；　not　to　be　worried　about。”
Ana’s　smile　was　so　brief　that　Refugio　missed　it。　He　closed　his　eyes　and　lay　passively　beneath　her
hands。　She　was　surprisingly　deft。　Within　a　very　few　minutes；　Refugio’s　leg　was　clean　and　the
wound　gently　bathed。
Even　so；　the　pain　made　Refugio　sweat。
“All　I　could　find　to　disinfect　the　wound　is　alcohol；”　said　Ana。
“Good；”　Refugio　said；　clenching　his　teeth。　“Do　it。”
When　the　alcohol　washed　over　raw　flesh；　Refugio　convulsed　with　pain。　Ana　forced　herself　to
finish；　then　went　into　the　bathroom　and　vomited　until　she　had　nothing　left　in　her　but　a　numb
desire　to　wake　from　the　nightmare　of　the　last　hour。
There　was　no　awakening。　When　she　went　back　to　the　room；　Refugio　was　still　there；　throwing　up
into　the　tin　pail。　When　he　was　finished；　she　bound　his　leg　in　strips　of　the　only　clean　sheet　she
could　find。　Then　she　went　back　to　the　bathroom。　She　was　gone　a　long　time。
Refugio　did　not　open　his　eyes　when　Ana　returned。
“The　worst　is　over；　chica。　The　wound　will　scab　and　the　leg　will　be　stiff；　and　I　will　limp　around
for　a　few　days　like　Ridgewalker。”
“When　will　your　cousin　be　here　to　open　the　shop？”
“Before　noon。”
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Refugio　squinted　up　at　Ana；　realizing　that　there　was　something　different　about　her。　Then　he　saw
that　now　she　wore　her　hair　ratted　and　tousled　around　her　face。　She　had　put　on　dark　makeup
instead　of　her　customary　rice　powder。　Wedges　of　black　at　the　outer　corners　of　each　eye
disguised　their　Oriental　slant；　and　a　stripe　of　blue　subdued　their　epicanthic　fold。　Bright　lipstick
thickened　the　line　of　her　lips。　The　total　effect　was　more　Mexican　than　Japanese；　although　a　close
inspection　revealed　the　delicate　bones　of　her　face。
“Good；”　said　Refugio　approvingly。　“Even　your　own　father　would　have　to　look　again　to　be　sure
that　he　saw　you。”　His　eyes　traveled　over　her　again。　“Very　pretty。　Why　do　you　not　do　this　in
Mexico？”
Ana　thought　she　looked　like　a　two…peso　whore；　but　did　not　say　so。　At　least　she　would　not　be
recognized　by　any　of　her　former　San　Francisco　neighbors。　She　looked　at　her　watch。　Not　yet　nine
o’clock。
She　knew　she　should　call　Takagura　Omi；　but　could　not　face　it　yet。　She　was　afraid　that　he　would
tell　her　Kestrel　could　not　come。　Then　she　would　have　to　drive　the　length　of　California　alone　–　a
fugitive　Japanese　girl　with　a　wounded　Mexican　murderer　and　two　canvas　sacks　whose　contents
had　already　cost　several　lives。
Ana　looked　again　at　her　watch；　knowing　she　must　call　soon。
“What　will　you　do　if　he　does　not　come？”　said　Refugio；　his　dark　eyes　shrewd　in　spite　of　his　pain。
He　knew　Kestrel　did　not　trust　him。　He　did　not　resent　it。　He　respected　the　Japanese　spy’s
pragmatism。　“Did　he　leave　the　money　with　you？”
“No。”
Refugio　smiled。　“Don’t　feel　bad。　He　didn’t　trust　me；　either。　But　that　doesn’t　answer　my　first
question。　What　do　we　do　if　he　doesn’t　come？”
“We　get　back　in　the　truck　and　drive　to　the　tunnel；”　said　Ana。　“Kestrel　left　sealed　instructions
with　Takagura　Omi。　Don’t　worry　–　you’ll　get　paid。”
Ana　emphasized　Takagura’s　name；　reminding　Refugio　that　should　he　cross　Kestrel；　Takagura
could　make　Refugio’s　life　a　preview　of　hell。　Takagura’s　wealth　and　power　extended　far　beyond
Barrio　Chino。
“It’s　you　who　should　not　worry；”　said　Refugio；　smiling　invitingly。　“If　Kestrel　does　not　come；　I
will　take　care　of　you。”
“He’ll　come；”　said　Ana　fiercely。
San　Francisco
4　Hours　31　Minutes　After　Trinity
Finn　and　Riley　were　parked　on　a　hill　overlooking　San　Francisco。　The　view　was　interrupted　by
streamers　of　fog　stirred　by　a　fitful　wind。　Toward　Oakland　the　fog　was　dense；　white　and　opaque。
On　the　Berkeley　hilltops　it　was　as　fine　as　gossamer；　brilliantly　backlighted　by　the　hidden　sun。
Although　Finn　had　driven　to　the　hilltop　for　the　radio　reception　rather　than　the　view；　he
appreciated　the　elegance　of　the　white　city　swathed　in　mist；　and　at　the　same　time　could　not　help
wondering　where　in　all　those　teeming　streets　was　Good　Luck　laundry　truck　number　7。　The　two
men　listened　to　reports　emanating　from　across　the　city；　including；　finally；　a　report　from
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；　no