Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第39部分

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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；”　said　one　brother　as　the　other　left　to　round　up　the　braceros。　“He
translates　for　us。　None　of　the　field　workers　speaks　English。”
“You　？”　Riley　asked　Finn。
“You　get　the　first　round。　Play　it　nice　and　easy　and　dumb。　If　they　step　in　it；　I’ll　take　over。”
Salerno　returned　with　eight　Mexicans　in　tow。　Their　easy　flippancy　was　gone。　The　winery　was　dim
after　the　bright　morning　outside。　Squinting；　the　men　tried　to　see　why　they　had　been　dragged
back　to　the　scene　of　the　previous　night’s　crime。
Riley　flipped　through　his　notebook　as　though　looking　for　the　right　questions　to　ask。　“Do　any　of
you　speak　English？”
A　man　shrugged。　“I　do。”
Finn　looked　at　the　man　narrowly。　He　was　compact；　muscular；　and　had　a　lazy　yet　aggressive　air
about　him。　He　was　wearing　boots。
“Your　name？”　said　Riley。
“Rincón。　Franco　Rincón。”
“Translate　for　me；　please。”　Despite　Riley’s　smile；　it　was　more　of　a　demand　than　a　request。
Franco　shrugged　again。　“Si。　I　will　talk　for　you。”
“Ask　them　if　they　saw　or　heard　anything　last　night。　Tell　them　that　it　is　a　matter　of　great
importance。”
As　Franco　spoke；　Finn　watched　carefully；　studying　the　Mexicans。　Franco　was　at　ease　in　his
position　of　command。　He　was　accustomed　to　leading　men　rather　than　working　in　fields。　The
men　were　lined　up　in　a　loose；　informal　row；　like　guerrilla　soldiers。　Four　of　them　wore　huaraches。
None　of　them　seemed　particularly　interested　in　what　Franco　was　saying。　He　turned　back　to
Riley。　“They　know　nothing。”
“Tell　them　there’s　a　reward；”　said　Riley。　“A　hundred　–　no；　a　thousand　dollars。”
Franco　translated。
The　men　made　sounds　of　both　greed　and　awe。　One　man　in　particular　was　impressed。
“That’s　five　times　what　we　were　paid！”　he　said　in　Spanish。
“Shut　your　hole；　Griego！”　warned　Franco　in　the　same　language。
Finn　stepped　up　to　Franco　and　began　speaking　in　rapid；　hard　Spanish。
“Why　should　he　keep　a　closed　mouth？”　Finn　demanded。　“What　was　he　paid　so　little　for？　He
looks　tired。　Maybe　he　was　up　all　night；　no？　Maybe　he　is　hung　over　from　drinking　the　green　wine
he　stole　here。”
Franco　looked　at　Finn’s　eyes；　then　looked　away。　Finn　moved　quickly　to　intersect　Franco’s　gaze；
but　he　did　not　touch　the　Mexican。　Not　yet。
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“You；　Franco。　I’m　speaking　to　you；”　said　Finn。　“Tell　me　what　that　little　man　is　keeping　inside　his
closed　hole。”
“Nothing；”　said　Franco；　trying　not　to　give　way　before　the　man　with　the　soft　Spanish　words　and
hard　gringo　eyes。
‘‘Are　you　a　little　boy　that　you　can’t　speak　for　yourself？　Finn　demanded　of　Griego。
Griego　looked　into　Finn’s　unforgiving　eyes；　then　glanced　nervously　at　Franco。
“Don’t　look　to　him；”　said　Finn。　“Franco　says　close　your　hole；　but　it　is　not　Franco　who　will　feel
my　fists　and　boots　break　his　balls。　It　is　you　who　will　feel　that；　unless　you　talk　to　me。”
“Shut　up；　Griego！”　Franco　shouted。　“His　threats　are　only　air。　This　isn’t　Mexico。　He’s　not
permitted　to　hurt　you。”
Smiling；　Finn　said　in　English；　“I　was　hoping　you’d　bring　that　up；　pendejo。”
As　Finn　turned；　his　hand　swept　down　to　his　boot　and　came　back　up　holding　a　knife。
“There’s　this　little　clock　in　my　head；”　he　said　casually。　“Tick　tick　tick　tick。”　The　knife　moved
back　and　forth　like　the　arm　of　a　metronome。　“Seconds　going　by。　Tick。　Tick。　Nothing’s　quite　as
dead　as　yesterday；　amigo。　Would　you　like　to　talk　about　last　night　or　be　sent　back　to　yesterday？”
“Now　just　a　minute；　mister；”　said　one　of　the　Salerno　brothers。　“Franco’s　a　good　foreman。　You
can’t　threaten　him　like　this。”
“Freddy；”　said　Sheriff　Brown；　taking　the　brother　by　the　arm；　“you　and　Bob　have　been
promising　me　a　taste　of　the　thirty…nine　crop。　Now　is　as　good　a　time　as　any；　and　better　than
most。”
Sheriff　Brown　took　the　Salerno　brothers　and　led　them　out　of　the　barn。
Branscomb　looked　at　Finn；　who　ignored　him。　The　deputy　turned　to　Riley；　who　hitched　his
shoulders　in　a　don’t…look…at…me　shrug。　Finn　watched　Franco。　Franco　watched　the　knife　blade
flicking　from　side　to　side；　marking　off　seconds。　Riley　realized　that　he　himself　was　silently
counting；　had　been　counting　since　Finn’s　knife　had　appeared。
Twenty…five。　Twenty…six。　Twenty…seven。
“Time’s　up；　pendejo。”
Even　with　that　warning；　the　foreman　was　not　prepared　for　the　speed　of　Finn’s　attack。　Before
Franco　could　blink；　Finn　had　seized　Franco’s　middle　finger　and　bent　it　flat　along　his　palm　in　an
agonizing　grip。
Franco　paled。　Other　than　that；　he　gave　no　sign　that　he　felt　pain。
“That’s　what　I　thought；”　sighed　Finn。　“One　of　the　tough　ones。”
Finn　started　to　lead　Franco　away。
Deputy　Branscomb　stepped　halfway　in　front　of　Finn。　“Now　I’m　the　last　one　to　question　God’s
will；”　said　Branscomb　easily；　“but　I’d　sure　like　to　know　why　you’re　going　to　do　whatever　you’re
going　to　do　with　Salerno’s　Mexican。”
Finn　decided　it　would　be　quicker　to　explain　than　to　push　back。
“You　know　what　machismo　means？”　asked　Finn。
“Balls。　Manhood。　Something　like　that；”　said　Brans…comb。
“Close　enough。　Franco　here　is　muy　macho；　so　whatever　I　get　from　him　will　be　the　hard　way。”
Finn　shrugged。　“His　choice。　But　I　don’t　have　time　to　beat　the　truth　out　of　him；　so　I’ll　have　to　use
this。”
The　knife　glittered　as　Finn　moved　it　abruptly。　He　spoke　in　Spanish。　The　field　workers　gasped
and　stepped　back。　A　few　crossed　themselves。　Franco　did　not　move　because　he　could　not；　but
sweat　slid　from　his　forehead　to　his　dark　cheeks。
“What　did　you　say　to　them？”　asked　Branscomb。
“I　told　them　that　Franco　will　either　talk　to　me　or　he　won’t　have　any　manhood　to　protect。”
Finn　brushed　past　the　deputy。　Franco　moved　in　unwilling　lockstep；　prisoner　to　Finn’s
excruciating　grip。　In　the　silence；　the　remaining　men　could　clearly　hear　boots　crunching　over
broken　glass。　The　two　men　disappeared　behind　a　vat　of　raw　wine。
Finn’s　voice　cut　through　the　silence。　“Talk　to　me；　pendejo。”
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The　waiting　men　heard　no　answer。　Then　came　the　sound　of　a　man　spitting。　Something　heavy
slammed　against　the　vat。　There　was　a　grunt；　then　the　snarl　of　ripping　cloth。　Franco　shrieked；
high