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Absently； Vanessa rubbed her neck where the dark navy sweater chafed her skin。 She wore no
makeup。 Her face was a blank； an artist’s canvas ready to hold whatever would be painted on。
Tonight； a plain face suited Vanessa’s purposes。 On other nights； a meticulously gilded face had
served her well。 For herself； she did not care。 She had been born into the wealth of an English
merchant family； but the predictable turns of such a life – marriage； children； church； bowing to
male desires six days a week and to a male God on the seventh – repelled her。 Beauty had given
her a weapon against men； a weapon that she used easures of cruelty and contempt。
When making and breaking romances no longer excited her； Vanessa had moved easily to affairs
of the mind。 First Fabian socialism； then Marxism； then radical communism attracted her； each
one more exciting than the last； and more dangerous。
A man who called himself Melinkov had recruited Vanessa for the NKVD； using a combination
of ruthless intellectual and sexual domination。 She rarely thought of Melinkov now； the memory
of her subjugation was uncomfortable。 Yet she owed him much。 He had taught her about human
weakness。
Slitted headlights flashed as a vehicle turned onto the waterfront。 Vanessa sat back far enough
not to be picked out by the hard light。 Traffic was thicker than she had expected for the hour； a
fact which pleased her。 The laundry van and dark coupe would not attract any notice。
Blend in。 Don’t stand out。 That was what both Moscow and London had taught her。 She never
forgot it。
Another set of lights； set wider and higher； brought Vanessa fully alert。 The momentary surge of
adrenaline stained and then further bleached her cheeks as a pale van came toward her out of the
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brilliant halo of light from an unhooded streetlamp。 Automatically； Vanessa ducked； her fingers
wrapped around the grip of a pistol hidden beneath the blanket that both concealed and
warmed her。
The van rattled by without slowing。 On its side； the inelegant shapes of a plumber’s helper and a
Stilsen wrench crossed in unconscious parody of the U。S。S。R。’s Hammer and Sickle。
Slowly； Vanessa let out her breath and settled back into the seat。 She allowed herself one brief
glance at the radium…bright face of her watch。
Five thirty…five。
They were late。 No； not late。 No time had been set for the rendezvous except after dawn and
before eight o’clock。 She looked up from her watch。 Her blue eyes were intent on the street； her
right hand warming the metal grip of her silenced pistol； waiting for Refugio。
Oakland； California
1 Hour 19 Minutes After Trinity
Ana looked at her watch for the seventeenth time since the last car had passed her hiding place
inside the flower truck that had once belonged to her father and now belonged to Refugio’s
cousin。 Five forty…eight。 Barely thirty seconds passed before she again peered at the glowing；
blue…green dial。 Daylight was coming on； but even more slowly than time was passing。
Her hand moved to yank aside the dark curtain separating the back of the van from the front；
but she restrained herself。 Her arm dropped to her side。 Radium lines leered up from her wrist。
The second hand seemd frozen in place。
With a small sigh halfway between fear and impatience； Ana wriggled further back between the
tall wicker baskets that held thick bouquets of flowers。 The rank odor of daisies and the
too…sweet smell of dying roses choked her。
She beathcd shallowly through her mouth； blaming the dense smells for her sweating palms；
nausea coiled like a snake in her stomach。
She hated being back in America。 She hated the stale wet waterfront air。 She hated the flower
van； its memories and its tightness and the darkness where roses overwhelmed her。’ Most of all
she hated herself for being terrified of the moment when Refugio would kill Masarek and drag
the blond woman into the truck。
How would Kestrel question the English spy？
Ana decided not to watch。 She did not have to see any of it。 Kestrel had told her only to bring
the van to this place and then hide in the back until Refugio came。 The van’s open engine
compartment would answer any questions – obviously the vehicle had broken down and was
waiting for a tow。
She had done what Kestrel asked。 Now she must wait； and she was very bad at waiting。 “Just like
an American；” Kestrel would say if he could see her impatience。 But she was not American。 She
was Japanese； and therefore patient。
Ana leaned against the cold metal side of the van。 The funeral smell of roses settled over her。
Trinity Site
2 Hours After Trinity
Lattimer signaled Groves urgently。 The General； who had been congratulating project
technicians and enjoying his triumph； was tempted to ignore the sign； but something about
Lattimer’s tense posture compelled attention。 Groves walked over to him。
“Well； what is it？”
“Admiral Purnell’s office； sir； in San Francisco；” said Lattimer； indicating the phone on the desk。
When Groves picked up the receiver and began to speak； Lattimer interrupted。 “General； if I
were you； I would clear the whole area。”
Groves studied the security man； first puzzled and then alarmed。 Lattimer’s anxiety was
contagious。
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“Sir；” said Lattimer。 “There’s a problem with the Bronx shipment。 Please let me clear the
room。”
Groves could feel the tension now； a tightness beneath his rib cage。 With his right hand； he
unconsciously touched the left side of his chest； probing for the buried knot of fear。
He waited while Lattimer herded people out of the office。 As soon as the door closed； Groves
turned to the phone。
“Groves speaking。 What the hell is going on？”
The answer was fuzzed by the patchwork of connections between San Francisco and Trinity Site；
but Admiral Purnell’s words were clear。
“I was hoping you could tell me； General。 You remember those mysterious packages you sent to
me for immediate delivery elsewhere？”
“Yes；” snapped Groves。 The tension in his chest increased； making it hard for him to breathe。
“Someone apparently couldn’t wait for Christmas。 One of the packages was opened。”
“The big one？” said Groves； thinking how easy it would be to sabotage the bomb’s
fifteen…foot…long casing with all its wiring； timers and fuses。
“No。 The small package。 The canister。”
“Jesus God！” Groves swallowed； trying to suppress his fear and fury。 “Anything missing？”
“How would I know？” asked the Admiral coolly。 “No one told me what was in the package in
the first place。”
“What’s left of the package？” Groves’ voice was thin with the effort of staying calm。
“The can； its top and a metal cylinder that fitted inside。”
“One piece？ Just one？”
“Yes。”
“What color is the piece？”
“What color！” exploded the Admiral。 “Dark…goddamn…gray！ General； an eighteen…year…old
ensign was murdered！ Now by God you are going to tell me what the hell is going on！”
Groves did not answer。 He could not。 His world had just imploded like the spherical charge of a
plutonium bomb。 His plans； his country’s plans； a world given back to gun soldiers who would
spend millions of lives to invade islands defended by fanatics。 And Russia – Russia hovering like
a vulture at a feast。
“Oh God；” he groaned； seeing the morning’s victory shattered。 “Oh my God。” He tried to
breathe but could not。 His chest was held in a vise of pain； his mind paralyzed by the rapid swing
from victory to catastrophe。 “How did it happen？”
“I don’t know；” snapped the Admiral。 “The theft and murder occurred between 0200 and 0630；
Pacific War Time。”
Groves glanced at his watch。 The uranium had been stolen at almost the same moment the
atomic bomb had been detonated。 He wondered whether the irony was accidental or
purposeful。 The thought that his enemies were laughing at him broke his paralysis。 He began to
think again； to take command。
“Let me talk to Finn。”
“His plane spent most of the night ducking thunderstorms；” said Purnell。 “I sent a man over to
Alameda Air Station to pick him up。 He’ll call you as soon as he’s on the ground。”
Groves swore viciously。
“Finn takes over the investigation the instant he gets to Hunters Point；” he continued。 “You will
give him every possible assistance。 You will treat his every suggestion as coming direct from the
President – which it does。” Groves paused； staring blindly out of the bunker； seeing an atomic
cloud spread across the sky。 “Call the local FBI office。 We’re going to need every agent they
have。 Tell them what you know。 I’ll call Hoover myself。”
“Hold it； General。 My Shore Patrol and Naval Intelligence boys are pretty damn good and – “
“No。 You will do nothing but what I told you。”
There was a long silence。 Then Purnell said； “The FBI will insist on knowing what’s missing。”
Page 59
“They can insist until their jaws lock。 Whether or not they find out is up to the President。”
“I see；” said Purnell。 He cleared his throat。 “You’ll put all those orders in writing； of course。”
“Of course。 But not even the Joint Chiefs of Staff have the security clearance to read them。”
There was another long silence。 Only the hiss of static told Groves that the line was still open。
“Is there any