Steal The Sun(战争间谍)-第29章

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Kestrel　noticed　his　speed　and　slowed　down；　watching　for　side　roads。　In　his　haste　he　had　already
become　lost　once　in　the　maze　of　dirt　tracks　threading　through　the　Jornada　del　Muerto。　He　had
bumped　around　for　a　long　time　before　he　had　found　a　road　leading　back　to　the　main　highway。
Now　he　needed　somewhere　to　hide　long　enough　to　shed　the　Indio　disguise。
He　spotted　a　windmill　and　a　dirt　road；　and　swerved　off　the　highway。　The　dirt　track　dipped　into
an　arroyo　deep　enough　to　conceal　his　car。　On　the　lip　of　the　arroyo；　the　windmill　turned　lazily；
filling　a　stock　tank　with　water　one　deliberate　revolution　at　a　time。　Scattered　cows　chewed　on
mesquite　bushes；　undisturbed　by　the　dusty　car　that　had　coasted　to　a　stop　near　the　water　tank。
Kestrel　slid　out　of　the　car　and　watched　the　dirt　track　behind　him。　Nothing　moved　but　thin
spirals　of　dust　rising　into　the　sun。　He　stripped　and　scrubbed　himself　in　the　tank　until　no　trace
remained　of　his　Indio　disguise。　The　water　was　clear　and　surprisingly　cold。　The　listless　wind　dried
him　as　he　walked　back　to　？he　car。　Kestrel　watched　the　dust　puff　beneath　his　feet　and　the　horizon
endlessly　falling　away　beneath　a　hard　blue　sky。　He　marveled　at　the　land’s　immensity　and
austerity；　its　only　inhabitants　silver　mirages　twisting　above　the　sand。
Kestrel　stood　unmoving　in　the　pouring　light；　letting　heat　draw　tension　out　of　his　body。　After　a
few　moments；　he　rolled　the　clothes　he　had　worn　and　buried　them　in　the　arroyo。　The　cattle　stared
at　him　with　languid　eyes；　then　turned　away；　more　interested　in　mesquite　beans　than　in　the
enigmatic　motions　of　man。
Dust　from　Kestrel’s　long　drive　across　the　desert　had　filtered　into　the　car’s　trunk；　but　the　clothes
inside　the　metal…bound　suitcase　were　still　clean　and　neatly　creased。　Beginning　with　cotton　GI
underwear；　Kestrel　quickly　pulled　on　the　uniform　of　an　American　captain。　He　tied　the　narrow
black　tie　in　a　knot　that　matched　the　one　in　his　ID　picture；　tucked　his　shirttail　in　his　tan　pants；
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adjusted　his　belt；　and　unwrapped　the　shiny　black　shoes。　They　were　too　wide。　He　tied　their　laces
so　tightly　the　leather　overlapped。　He　shined　the　toes　on　his　sleeve　in　an　American　gesture　he　had
acquired　from　his　college　roommate。
Smiling；　Kestrel　buffed　the　toes　one　last　time；　reassured　by　the　ease　with　which　American
mannerisms　returned　to　him。　He　knew　that　passing　for　an　American　was　a　matter　of　body
language　as　much　as　English　language。　He　had　lived　eight　years　in　America。　Its　patterns　were
embedded　in　him；　ready　to　be　used。
Today　his　life　would　depend　upon　using　them。
Kestrel　unzipped　the　worn　leather　shaving　kit　and　pulled　out　the　papers　which　established　that
he　was　Captain　Yokohama；　decorated　member　of　America’s　Nisei　Battalion；　on　emergency
leave　to　be　at　his　father’s　deathbed。　Kestrel　studied　the　print　on　his　papers　beneath　the　merciless
desert　light。　Considering　the　haste　involved；　the　papers　were　quite　good。
He　folded　the　papers　carefully　into　a　worn　GI　wallet；　hoping　they　would　fool　the　Army　Air
Corps　at　El　Paso。　He　got　back　into　the　car；　feeling　its　heat　engulf　him。　He　wondered　if　Refugio
had　killed　Masarek　yet；　and　if　Vanessa　were　tied　and　frightened　on　the　hard　floor　of　a　flower
truck；　and　how　Ana　was　accommodating　herself　to　sudden　violence。　He　wondered　what　had
been　stolen；　and　if　it　would　turn　out　to　be　worth　even　an　assassin’s　life。
With　a　roar　that　scattered　the　cattle；　Kestrel’s　car　raced　out　of　the　arroyo。
Hunters　Point
3　Hours　35　Minutes　After　Trinity
Finn　left　the　guards　at　the　front　gate　and　drove　back　toward　the　mess　hall　where　last　night’s
guards　were　eating。　The　guards　at　the　gate　had　been　less　concerned　with　checking　his　credentials
than　with　proving　that　they　were　not　responsible　for　the　breach　in　security。　Beneath　their
government…issue　starch　was　relief。　A　sentry　was　dead；　but　they　were　alive。　Some　new　weapon
may　be　missing；　but　so　what？　The　war　was　as　good　as　over。　It　was　only　a　matter　of　time。
Time；　2　million　casualties　and　a　new　Russian　world。
Finn　felt　his　anger　outstrip　his　control。　He　reminded　himself　that　the　guards　did　not　know　what
had　been　lost；　but　that　did　not　calm　him。　A　clock　in　the　back　of　his　head　hammered　relentlessly；
counting　the　minutes　until　0530；　July　18th。　He　parked　the　car　and　stalked　into　the　linoleum　and
formica　ugliness　of　a　military　mess　hall。　The　four　guards　he　wanted　were　not　hard　to　spot。　They
were　the　only　men　in　the　room　except　for　a　sailor　trailing　a　worn　broom　between　rows　of　tables。
The　men　did　not　immediately　notice　Finn。　They　were　in　a　corner　of　the　long　room；　heads　tilted
over　cups　of　coffee；　cigarets　pressed　between　their　knuckles。
Finn　waited；　sizing　up　the　men　as　he　had　once　sized　up　jungle　trails。　By　now　the　guards　had　told
and　retold　their　stories；　assuring　themselves　they　were　not　at　fault　for　the　dead　sailor　and　stolen
equipment。　He　would　have　to　shock　them　out　of　that　assurance。
Three　of　the　men　were　young；　barely　out　of　training。　The　fourth　was　several　years　older；　a　chief
petty　officer　with　the　look　of　a　man　who　knew　where　the　action　was。　Every　base　had　a　few　men
like　CPO　Diver。　Their　major　battles　were　fought　against　fellow　soldiers。
Finn’s　eyes　lingered　on　Diver。　He　looked　smart；　he　would　never　take　a　bet　he　could　not　lay　off；
just　as　he　never　would　trade　punches　with　the　local　leg　breaker。　All　that　remained　for　Finn　was
to　convince　Diver　that　all　bets　were　off；　and　Finn　was　the　local　leg　breaker。　He　walked　up　to　the
table；　put　on　a　genial　smile；　stopped　behind　the　CPO’s　chair。
“Morning。　I　was　told　you　were　on　duty　at　the　gate　last　night。　The　front　gate。”
“So　what？”　said　Diver；　without　looking　up。
“So　I　want　some　information；”　said　Finn；　still　smiling　despite　the　anger　building　in　him。　“What
moved　on　and　then　off　base　between　midnight　and　0600　that　you　didn’t　inspect？”
“Nothing；”　said　Diver；　before　any　of　the　other　men　could　speak。　He　crushed　out　his　cigaret　and
lit　another　before　he　half…turned　to　Finn。　“Not　a　damn　thing。”
Finn’s　smile　widened。　“Bitch　of　a　night；　wasn’t　it？　Rainr　and　wind　and　all。　Nights　like　that；　a
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guardhouse　gets　to　looking　homey。　Hate　to　leave　it　just　to　look　at　a　few　–　“
“We　inspected　all　thirty…seven　vehicles；”　Diver　said。
“Neither　rain　nor　sleet；　right？”
“Yeah；”　said　Diver　indifferently。　“We’re　regular　mailmen。”
Diver　turned　back　to　the　table；　dismissing　Finn。　Finn’s　arm　hooked　around　Diver’s　throat。　In　a
single　motion　Finn　heaved　Diver　out　of　his　chair　and　laid　him　out　on　the　table　like　a　side　of　beef。
Diver　lunged　forward；　gagged　and　lay　back　again。　Before　the　three　other　guards　could　collect
themselves；　Finn　flipped　his　credentials　between　the　coffee　cups　and　ashtrays。　“Read　those　and
shut　up。”
Finn’s　right　forearm　lay　against　Diver’s　slamming　pulse　and　his　resilient；　elusive　windpipe。　Finn
leaned　down　until　blackness　filled　Diver’s　world。
“Let’s　try　it　again；　minus　the　horseshit。　How　many　vehicles　did　you　inspect？”
“About…　half。”
“Which　ones　didn’t　you　inspect？”　Finn’s　rage　showed　in　his　voice　and　his　eyes；　but　most　of　all　in
his　arm　choking　the　man　whose　greed　could　cost　millions　of　lives。
“Stop！”　gasped　Diver。
Finn　lifted　his　arm　a　few　inches；　then　slammed　Diver　back　onto　the　table。　“You’re　shit；　Diver。　If
you’d　done　your　job；　that　kid　wouldn’t　be　dead。”　That　kid　and　all　the　other　children；　a　world
lost。　“Which　vehicles　didn’t　you　inspect？”
“The　staff　cars；”　said　Diver。　As　he　swallowed；　his　Adam’s　apple　strained　against　Finn’s　forearm。
“If　we　knew　the　officers；　we　didn’t　look　in　the　trunk。　Chrissake；　no　one　expects　us　to！　It’s　a
dumb　–　“
“What　else？”
“Nothing。　We　–　“
Diver　gagged。
“You’re　wasting　my　time；”　snarled　Finn。　“What　about　the　civilian　stuff？”
Diver’s　face　was　deep　red。　Finn　lifted　the　pressure　very　slightly。
“Nothing；”　gasped　Diver。
“What　does　that　mean？”
Diver　swallowed　convulsively。　“I　can’t　–　talk。”
“Sure　you　can；”　Finn　said。　“You　just　have　to　try　a　little　harder。”
“A　liquor　truck　–　for　Officers’　Club；”　gasped　Diver。　“Never　inspect　that。　Sealed。”
Finn　waited；　poised　for　the　least　flicker　of　evasion　in　Diver’s　blue　eyes。
“Mail　truck；”　continued　Diver。　“Load　of　steel　rods。　Lumber。　Hardware。　That’s　all。　No　place　for
men　to　hide。”
“That’s　shit；　Diver。”
“No！　No！　That’s　all；　honest！”
Finn’s　fingers　closed　down。　Diver’s　face　went　from　red　to　purple。
“When　you　remember　something　‘honest；’”　said　Finn；　“wiggle　your　ears。”
After　a　few　moments；　Diver’s　frantic　efforts　to　speak　were　rewarded　with　a　quarter　inch　of
breathing　space。
“Laundry　–　truck！　Officers’　–　laundry！”
Finn　thought　quickly　but　could　not　remember　seeing　a　laundry　truck　on　the　list　ONI　had　given
to　him。
“Did　you　log　in　the　truck？”
“No。”
“Why　not？　Whores？　Drugs？　Betting　slips？”
“Betting；”　gasped　Diver。　“Goddamn　you　–　betting！”
“Describe　the　truck；”　Finn　said；　easing　the　pressure　on　Diver’s　neck。
“White。　Chicken　tracks　–　on　the　door。　A　Chink　job。”
“License　plate　number。”
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“How　the　hell　–　aggh。”
Finn　leaned　down。　“Then　how　did　you　know　it　was　the　right　truck？”
“Number　7　–　on　the　door！”
Finn　released　Diver　so　suddenly　that　the　CPO　did　not　realize　he　was　free。　Betting　slips。　For　the
sake　of　a　few　gamblers；　2　million　people　might　die。
“The　Chink　has　a　legit　business；”　said　Diver。　“Ho’s　Good　Luck　Laundry。　Does　dress　whites
better　than　anyone　in　Frisco。”
“Did　he　leave　out　anything？”　Finn　demanded　of　the　other　three　guards。
One　of　them；　a　Mexican…American　with　a　burr　haircut　that　emphasized　his　broad　Indio　features；
met　Finn’s　eyes。
“Dunno。　He　never　told　us　a　damn　thing　about　laundry　trucks。　And　since　he　kept　the　log…”　The
man　shrugged。
Finn’s　glance　shifted　back　to　Diver。　“What　did　the　bookies　pay　you　to　let　that　truck　onto　the
base？”
Diver　licked　his　lips　with　a　thick　tongue。　“Not　much。”
“And　you　kept　it　all；　didn’t　you？　None　of　that　share　…and…share…alike　crap；　right？”
Diver　glanced　nervously　at　his　three　colleagues。
“How　much？”　repeated　Finn。　His　hand　went　to　Diver’s　throat　so　quickly　that　the　CPO　had　no
time　to　flinch。
“A　hundred　bucks！”
One　hundred　dollars。　Two　million　people。　A　penny　for　every　200