Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第30部分

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Once　the　bomb　had　been　presented　to　Russia　as　a　fait　accompli；　Stalin　would　accept　and　reward
his　loyal　comrade；　Lavrenti　Beria。　Until　then；　Beria’s　actions　invited　misunderstanding。
Beria’s　nail　tapped　the　desk　four　times　in　rapid　succession。　He　still　wished　he　could　send
Vanessa　every　Russian　agent　in　the　United　States；　but　he　would　be　dead　or　in　exile　before　she
could　put　them　to　use。
The　fingernail　descended　to　the　polished　desk　a　final　time。
“Notify　me　immediately　of　any　further　communications　from　V；”　said　Beria；　dismissing　his
assistant　with　a　motion　of　his　finger。
Oakland
4　Hours　46　Minutes　After　Trinity
Finn　turned　off　the　radiation　counter　and　walked　back　up　the　street　from　the　spot　where　the
fourth　body　had　been　found。　If　the　dead　man　had　carried　the　uranium；　it　was　gone　now。　The
counter　had　picked　up　residual　radiation　where　the　body　had　been；　but　nothing　more。
“Okay；　Detective；”　said　Finn；　coming　up　to　Jones。　“Let’s　go　over　it　again。”
Jones　arranged　weapons　and　labeled　bags　on　the　hood　of　a　squad　car　as　he　spoke。　“When　I　got
here；　there　was　a　DB　down　the　road。　Male　Mexican；　about　thirty；　powerful　arms。　This　knife；”
Jones　indicated　a　short…bladed　sheath　knife；　“was　near　him。　This　bag　has　the　contents　of　his
pockets。　No　wallet。　No　ID；　just　matches；　cigarets　and　money。”
“Mexican　or　American？”
“Mexican　all　the　way。　He　smoked　Dóminos。　His　dead　pal　in　the　van　smoked　some　other　greaser
brand。”
Finn　sorted　the　contents　of　the　bag　on　the　car’s　hood。　The　matches　were　from　the　Green　Parrot。
He　thought　immediately　of　Refugio；　but　dismissed　it。　Refugio’s　eyebrows；　not　his　arms；　were　his
most　outstanding　characteristic。
“How　did　he　die？”
“Bullet　wounds　in　the　face　and　chest。”
“How　about　the　van？”
Jones　shifted　a　narrow　cigar　from　one　side　of　his　mouth　to　the　other。　“Well；　the　dead　Chink　was
in　the　back；　stuffed　in　a　laundry　bag。”
Riley　looked　up　at　Finn；　remembering　what　he　had　said　earlier　about　the　driver　either　being
bought　or　killed。
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“Funny　thing　about　the　Chink；”　Jones　continued。　“If　his　shirt　hadn’t　been　off；　we’d　still　be
looking　for　what　killed　him。　The　wound　wasn’t　as　wide　as　my　finger。　Not　a　drop　of　blood。
Whoever　did　it　was　a　pro。”
Finn　looked　in　the　bag　holding　the　Chinese　driver’s　possessions。　He　riffled　through　the　wallet；
finding　the　paper　residue　of　a　life　spent　obeying　white　law　in　public　and　tong　law　in　private。
Nothing　for　Finn　to　use。　It　was　the　same　for　the　bag　holding　more　Mexican　cigarets　and　Green
Parrot　match　books。
“Shot　through　the　eye；”　said　Jones　before　Finn　could　ask　about　the　second　Mexican。　“Fell　just　in
back　of　the　front　seat。”
Finn　nodded。　He　had　seen　the　puddle　of　blood。　He　had　also　seen　blood　sprayed　across　the
inside　of　the　windshield；　the　passenger　side　and　down　both　sides　of　the　seat。　As　one　cop　had
pointed　out；　they　had　had　their　own　little　war　in　the　van。
“You　said　four　bodies；”　Finn　said；　looking　for　another　bag　of　personal　effects。
“Nothing　in　the　fourth　guy’s　pockets　but　lint　–　and　not　much　of　that。　Not　even　labels。”
“Describe　him；”　demanded　Finn　quickly。　It　would　be　like　Masarek　to　leave　no　trace　of　his
identity；　not　even　labels　in　his　clothes。
Detective　Jones　shrugged。　“Male；　over　thirty。”
“That’s　not　much　help；”　said　Riley。
Jones　took　out　his　cigar　and　blew　on　its　smoldering　tip。　“Ever　seen　a　razor　wire；　son？”
“Huh？”　said　Riley。
“Well；　this　wire　job　was　bungled；”　said　Jones。　“Victim　got　a　hand　under　the　wire　before　it
closed。　Between　the　blood　and　the　usual　eye…popping；　his　own　mother　wouldn’t　know　him。”
Riley　made　an　odd　sound　as　he　swallowed。
“Hair　color？”　Finn　asked　calmly。
“Dark。　Might　have　been　gray　at　the　temples。　Kinda　hard　to　tell；　what　with　all　the　mess。”　Jones
shot　a　quick　glance　at　Riley。　“You　know；　when　you　put　the　kind　of　pressure　on　a　man’s　artery；
not　only　does　the　face　turn　purple　and　the　eyes　bug　out；　but　–　“
“I’ll　bet；”　said　Riley　loudly；　cutting　across　the　details　of　death；　“that　you　get　a　boot　out　of
putting　razor　blades　in　trick…or…treat　apples。”
Detective　Jones　laughed；　not　at　all　offended。　“Kid；　the　first　thing　you　learn　as　a　homicide　dick　is
that　corpses　stink；　blood　washes　off　and　lunchtime　comes　at　noon。”
“　‘Dead　is　pretty　much　dead；’”　quoted　Finn。　“Right；　Riley？”
“Yeah。　Right。”
Finn　turned　away　and　walked　back　to　the　van；　with　both　men　following。
The　air　inside　still　smelled　of　cordite。　That　told　him　nothing　new；　the　cordite　was
American…made　and　blood　was　the　same　the　world　over。
Only　the　uranium　was　unique；　and　it　was　gone。
“The　way　I　figure　it；”　said　Jones；　leaning　into　the　front　seat　of　the　van　next　to　Finn；　“is　that　the
guy　with　the　wire　and　his　pal　stood　behind　the　front　seat；　dropped　the　wire　around　the
passenger；　and　–　“Jones　made　a　juicy；　descriptive　sound。
“The　passenger　stays　kicking　long　enough　to　do　for　the　pal　–　bang　bang　–　but　can’t　get　to　the
guy　pulling　on　the　wire。”
Finn’s　glance　raked　over　the　truck；　re…creating　the　scene　in　his　mind。　“The　driver　was　shot　by　the
passenger　before　the　wire　dropped；”　said　Finn。　He　pointed　to　a　veneer　of　blood　on　the　driver’s
side　that　clearly　showed　the　imprint　of　a　seated　man。　There　was　a　bright　streak　where　a　bullet
had　stripped　paint　off　the　driver’s　door。　“Went　through　the　thigh；　probably。”
“Nope。　None　of　the　DBs　had　leg　wounds。　Every　other　damn　thing　but　that。　I　checked。”
“Then　the　driver　limped　away；”　said　Finn　reasonably。
“Doubt　it。　None　of　the　guards　saw　him。　And　guys　were　looking；　believe　me。”　Jones　jerked　his
thumb　over　his　shoulder　at　the　two　gray…haired　factory　guards　who　were　still　talking　to　the
uniformed　officers。　“This　was　the　most　exciting　thing　they’d　ever　seen。”
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Finn　stared　at　Jones　in　disbelief。　“Between　them；　those　two　guys　are　about　one　hundred　and
thirty。　On　a　foggy　night；　I　could　steal　their　goddamn　factory　piece　by　piece　and　they　wouldn’t
see　a　thing。　Put　out　an　APB　for　a　male　with　a　leg　wound。”
As　Jones　walked　off；　Finn　opened　a　large　bag　and　began　sorting　through　the　weapons。　There
were　knives；　handguns　and　beneath　them　a　sawed…off　shotgun　with　silver　inlays　in　the　stock。　Finn
pulled　it　out　of　the　bag。
“Salvador；”　murdered　Finn。　“　Refugio。”
“Gesundheit；”　said　Riley。
Finn　looked　up；　almost　smiled。　“Salvador　Leon　is　a　Mexicali　thug　with　a　reputation　for　murder。
He　carries　an　escopeta　like　this　and　works　for　a　crook　called　Refugio。”
“Can’t　be　too　many　like　it。”　said　Riley；　looking　at　the　gaudy　gun。　“Looks　like　whore’s
Christmas。”
This　time　Finn　smiled。　“It　kills　just　as　dead　as　the　plain　models。”　Finn　sniffed　the　barrel。　“Hasn’t
been　fired　today。”
Riley　peered　into　the　bag　and　removed　a　pistol　with　a　silencer　attached。　“That　explains　it。”
Finn　looked　up。　“Explains　what？”
“The　guards　only　heard　a　few　shots；　but　from　what　the　cops　said；　a　lot　of　lead　must　have　been
flying。”
“Of　course；”　said　Finn　matter…of…factly。　“That’s　why　no　one　at　Hunters　Point　heard　the　sentry
die。”
Riley　put　down　the　gun　and　went　toward　the　back　doors　of　the　van。　As　he　reached　for　the
handles；　Finn　spoke。
“Don’t。”
Finn’s　voice　was　flat；　yet　somehow　urgent。　Responding　to　the　tone　as　much　as　to　the　command
itself；　Riley　let　go　of　the　handles　and　stepped　back　quickly。
“What’s　wrong？”　complained　Riley。　“You　said　there’s　nothing　in　there　but　blood。”
“Stay　away　from　the　back　end　of　the　truck；”　Finn　said。　“Do　your　sightseeing　from　the　front；　and
don’t　be　too　long　about　it。”
With　a　motion　that　was　becoming　second　nature；　Finn　turned　on　the　radiation　counter　and
walked　around　to　the　back　of　the　truck。　The　clicks　increased　in　volume　and　frequency　as　he
approached　the　point　where　Riley　stood。　Hastily；　Riley　stepped　aside。　The　clicks　did　not
diminish　with　his　absence。　By　the　time　Finn　was　at　the　back　doors；　he　had　had　to　recalibrate
twice。　The　radiation　was　still　within　safety　limits；　but　Finn　knew　when　he　opened　the　door　the
counter　would　scream。
He　moved　the　counter　slowly　across　the　back　of　the　van。　The　radiation　was　highest　at　the　center
of　the　bumper；　where　blood　had　dripped　from　the　van　floor　onto　the　chrome；　as　though　the
surviving　thief　had　set　down　the　two　pieces　of　metal；　slid　out　of　the　truck；　and　then　pulled　the
uranium　after　him。
Finn　was　accustomed　to　the　counter　now。　He　found　it　helpful；　so　long　as　he　remembered　to　rely
on　it　and　not　the　eyes　to　trace　the　invisible　patterns　of　radiation　that　he　knew　were　present。　He
concentrated；　building　a　mental　picture　of　what　had　happened　on　the　foggy　street　where　men
had　fought　and　died　over　a　stolen　sun。
Sitting　on　his　heels；　Finn　swept　the　probe　just　above　the　surface　of　the　street。　He　was　rewarded
by　a　crackle　of　sound；　as　though　the　uranium　had　been　set　on　the　ground　for　an　instant。　The
radiation　was　not　as　potent　as　that　in　the　truck。
The　probe　quartered　the　street　alongside　the　van；　but　no　matter　how　sensitive　the　setting；　there
was　no　response　until　Finn　came　to　the　place　where　Salvador’s　body　had　rested。　That　response
was　relatively　weak。
Finn　walked　slowly；　avoiding　the　shards　of　glass　from　windows　shot　out　of　parked　cars。　The
counter　barely　clicked；　registering　less　than　normal　radiation。　The　sandy　sediment　that　lined　the
gutters　and　filled　the　potholes　did　not　set　off　the　counter。
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Suddenly；　Finn　bent　over　and　fished　in　the　gutter　between　a　parked　car　and　the　curb。
“Find　something？”　said　Riley。
Finn　tossed　a　shell　casing　to　Riley；　ent　of　his　hand。
“Check　the　gun　with　the　silencer。”
In　a　moment；　Riley　called　out。　“Nope。　It’s　a　9　millimeter。　Must　be　a　。38　somewhere。”
“Yeah。　Pretty　big　gun　for　a　woman；　though。”
“What　woman？”　demanded　Riley。
“None　of　the　dead　men　was　small　enough　to　make　that　print；”　said　Finn　pointing　at　the　muddy
street；　“except　the　Chinese　driver；　and　he　was　already　dead。　Masarek　was　traveling　with　a
woman。　An　Englishwoman　called　Vanessa　Lyons。”
Riley　looked；　and　then　bent　down　and　looked　again。　There　in　the　gritty　mud　was　a　small
footprint。
“Are　you　really　an　Indian　scout？”　said　Riley；　halfway　between　sarcasm　and　awe。
“She　probably　crouched　half　in　and　half　out　of　the　gutter；”　said　Finn；　“laid　the　。38　across　the
hood；　and　fired。”　He　stood　in　the　empty　parking　space　and　squinted　along　an　imaginary　line
leading　to　the　van。　“Not　a　bad　shot。　She　nailed　the　van’s　side　mirror。　Probably　covered　her
escape。”
Riley　looked　at　the　empty　parking　place　and　shrugged。　“Whatever　you　say。”
“Only　one　problem　with　my　theory；”　Finn　continued；　walking　up　the　street。　“The　tread　patterns
don’t　match。”
Riley　looked　first　at　the　tread　impressions　in　the　gutter；　then　at　the　potholes　in　the　street　next　to
the　van。　The　damp　soil　in　the　potholes　had　taken　clear　impressions　of　the　tires　that　last　rolled
over　the　holes。　The　tread　pattern　next　to　the　curb　did　not　match　that　in　the　potholes。
“Footprints　don’t　match；　either；”　said　Finn。
Superimposed　on　a　pothole　treadmark　were　two　footprints；　side　by　side。　The　footprint　on　the
left　was　half　the　size　of　the　footprint　on　the　right。　The　pattern　on　the　soles　was　also　different。
“Either　a　woman　or　a　small　man　on　the　left；”　said　Finn；　“and　a　man　on　the　right。”　He　measured
th