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private half…rose； half…saluted and called over his shoulder。
“Lieutenant！ Company！”
A crew…cut head appeared over a partition。 The lieutenant was scowling。 His expression changed
when he saw Kestrel standing at ease； his officer’s insignia shining in the dim light of the hut。
There was the sound of a chair scuffing across the floor and hurried footsteps。
The officer of the day was a young； very short first lieutenant whose uniform was correct in every
detail。
“Lieutenant Green； sir；” he said； stepping forward。 “What can I do for you？”
Kestrel returned the salute and then shook hands； remembering to add enough pressure to
satisfy American standards of manhood。 “I was hoping to catch a ride home on one of your
planes；” he said； handing over the forged papers。
Lieutenant Green scanned Kestrel’s orders； clicking his tongue sympathetically when he came to
the reasons for the compassionate leave。
“Captain； it’s never been my pleasure before to serve an Oriental member of my country’s
Army； but I can assure you it will be my pleasure now。” He moved to one side so that he could
see the Torch of Freedom shoulder patches on Kestrel’s uniform： “454th； isn’t it？” he asked。
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“Yes。”
“Then； sir； it is indeed a pleasure to serve you。 Your unit is one of the most famous in the entire
Army； white or Oriental。 Your men taught the world what courage is。 You proved you weren’t
yellow。”
Kestrel was amused in spite of himself by the earnest young officer。 “But we are； Lieutenant。”
The lieutenant’s eyes widened。 “What do you – oh！ Uh； that’s not what I meant at all； sir！”
“I know exactly what you meant； Lieutenant。 All men are the same color in a foxhole。”
“Exactly； sir。”
“About that plane ride…？”
The lieutenant turned to the private。 “Call the flight line。 See if that C…47 has left yet。 And move
it； Private！”
The private obeyed with a lack of enthusiasm that was just short of insolence。 The lieutenant
appeared not to notice。
“Flight’s taxiing out now； sir；” drawled the private finally。
“Hold the plane！” snapped Lieutenant Green。 “Tell them we have a top…priority officer – a
gallant member of our Nisei Battalion。”
The private and the first lieutenant exchanged a long look。 Then； in a disgusted voice； the private
spoke into the phone。 “Hold on； Sarge。 We’ve got a Jap bumming a ride。”
Oakland
6 Hours 37 Minutes After Trinity
The morgue was like every other government building Finn had ever been in。 Ugly。
Battleship…gray walls； dull linoleum floors； dirty ceilings hung with rows of cold lights； and air
that smelled used up。 He hurried down a long stretch of corridor。 The cold room at the end of
the hall was empty。 A sign on the desk said； OUT TO LUNCH。
“Now what？” said Riley； looking with distaste at rank upon rank of drawers the size of shallow
coffins。 “Just grab handles and start pulling out stiffs？”
Finn put the radiation counter on the desk and began fiddling with the adjustments。 Like the 。45
in the small of his back； the counter had become a part of him。
“Try the files；” said Finn。 “Look under Ching Han Lo。 That’s the name on the dead driver’s
license。 The others are John Does and could be filed anywhere。”
Finn turned on the radiation counter。 He moved the probe in long seeping lines； up one bank of
drawers and down another。 He had covered one wall when Riley looked up。
“It’s not under Ching。”
Finn moved over to the long wall and continued his search pattern。 Even with the counter on its
most sensitive setting； he could not be sure that the bodies would register。 They might not have
absorbed enough radiation to be picked up through the steel drawers。
“Not under Han。”
Finn grunted and continued his search。 As the number of drawers diminished； Finn began to
steel himself for an extended rummage through drawers full of death。
“Not under Lo。”
Riley slammed the file drawer in digust。
A sudden soft clicking came from the radiation counter。 Then the clicks became harder； faster；
like a toy train careening around a track。 Riley went over to Finn。
The probe moved over four drawers； hesitating at each one； then returning。
“Twenty…four through 27；” said Finn。
Riley reached for the handle of drawer 24。 The drawer slid out with a squeal of steel discs on
steel tracks。 The counter’s clicks ran together in a rush of sound。 Finn took one look at the
corpse’s glazed； slanting eyes and shut the drawer。 For Finn’s purposes； the driver was the least
interesting of the four bodies； victim rather than criminal。
“Was that the driver？” asked Riley。
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“Yeah。 That was the easy one。”
Number 25 was a one…eyed Mexican。 Finn swept the probe over his body。 The counter clicks ran
together into an angry buzz。
“This one was lucky；” said Finn； looking at the corpse； then at the reading on the counter。
“Lucky？” said Riley tightly； trying not to see too much of what had once been a man’s left eye。
“Just how do you figure that？”
“Bullets are quick。” Finn squinted at the face。 Something about the man was familiar。 “Cover his
eye with the sheet。”
“It doesn’t bother me。”
“Not for you； Red。 For me。”
Riley jerked up the sheet。 Finn rearranged it until the right half of the head was revealed。
Without the gaping wound； the face looked normal except for the random smears of dried
blood。
“Know him？” said Riley； understanding finally why Finn had wanted the eye socket covered。
“Maybe。 There are a lot like him along the border。”
Finn rolled shut the drawer and opened number 26。 Beneath the sheet was a blunt…faced；
broad…shouldered man with powerful arms。 His eyes and hair were not much darker than Finn’s；
and his hands made the radiation counter sing。
Finn pulled up the sheet； covering the bullet wounds on the torso and the vaguely surprised
expression on the face。 “Adiós； Salvador；” he said。
“Salvador？”
“Salvador Leon – smuggler； bodyguard； murderer and all…around sweetheart。 He works for a
Mexican crook called Refugio Reyes y Rincón。” The pattern was becoming more clear now。 The
bodies were like tracks – physical facts devoid of emotion and politics and the exigence of war。
They were something he could depend on。
“What the hell are these Mexicans doing all the way up here？”
“The usual。 Theft； murder； smuggling。”
“What about that other guy – Masarek – whose ID was in the sentry’s hand？”
“He hired Refugio； most likely。”
“But why？ The job was in San Francisco； not Mexico。”
Finn looked at Riley’s pale； earnest face。 “You’re from the Midwest； right？”
“Chicago。”
Finn nodded。 “Ever been to the border？”
“No。”
“Well； it’s not some God…given black line stretching across the continent。 Mexicans have been
ignoring that border for centuries； and up until a few years ago； so did we。 Take Refugio。 His
family has been working from San Francisco to Culiacán for at least a hundred years。 I know；
because my father’s family has been chasing them for at least that long。”
Finn smiled。 “They’ve caught a few； too。 But the point is that Refugio； like most Mexicans； has
cousins and inlaws and uncles who are American citizens living everywhere from El Paso to San
Francisco。 He even has some Chinese and Japanese thrown in along the line。 He’s one of the few
Mexicans who can get in and out of Barrio Chino without an uproar。”
“Now；” continued Finn； “if you wanted to come into America without a passport； steal
something and then smuggle it back to Mexico； and from there across the Gulf to the Atlantic；
and from there to Russia – “
“I’d hire a man who knows his way around；” finished Riley。
“Refugio； or someone like him；” agreed Finn。 “Nobody knows his way around like Refugio。”
“Is that how he ended up here？” said Riley； tapping drawer number 27。
“I’m not sure he did。”
The drawer came out smoothly。 There was some radiation； but not nearly as much as Salvador
and the other man had shown。
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Finn shut off the counter； set it down and pulled aside the sheet。 The corpse’s eyes and tongue
protruded grotesquely。 The razor wire was still embedded in the purple flesh of the neck；
swinging with the forward motion of the drawer。 Just below the right ear was an old scar left by
crude surgery to relieve mastoiditis。
Finn had seen all he needed。 otion of his wrist； he covered the obscene remains of
the Russian spy。
Riley had his back turned and was breathing through clenched teeth。 When he heard the drawer
close； he turned around again。 His skin was very white； almost transparent； and covered with a
cold mist of sweat。
“Masarek；” said Finn； indicating the closed drawer。
“Christ；” said Riley between his teeth。 “How could you tell？”
“Scar；” said Finn； pointing to his own neck。 “He must have had a lot of earaches as a kid。 Too
bad the doctor’s knife didn’t slip。”
Riley said nothing。 He swallowed hard。 Without a word； Finn grabbed Riley and hustled him
down the hall。
“Get it over with；” commanded Finn； kicking open the restroom door and shoving Riley
through。
Finn went back to the cold room； retrieved the radiation counter and walked down the hall
again。 Riley came out of the restroom； wiping his face with a wet paper towel。
“Sor