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again。 Riley came out of the restroom； wiping his face with a wet paper towel。
“Sorry。”
“You’ve still got your socks on；” said Finn。 “That’s better than I did the first time around。”
Finn turned and began retracing his steps to the lobby。 Riley followed him down the hall and up
a flight of stairs in companionable silence。
“What next？” said Riley； looking around the lobby。
“An APB on Refugio Reyes y Rincón。”
“What if he’s in Mexico？”
“I’d be damn grateful；” Finn said。 “Mexicans aren’t as genteel about questioning people as we
are。 Saves all kinds of time。”
“I’ll bet；” said Riley。 “And after the APB？”
“I don’t know。”
Finn walked the rest of the hall in silence； arranging the few immutable facts he possessed in their
most likely configuration。 Masarek； Refugio and his Mexican hirelings had penetrated Hunters
Point and stolen the two deadly chunks of metal。 Then there had been a falling out。 Masarek had
been killed； but not before he killed two of Refugio’s men。 Someone had been waiting for the
truck on the waterfront – the blond woman； probably。 Someone else had also been waiting；
another woman； the one who had helped Refugio escape： he would assume that it was Refugio
who was injured。 As for the uranium… it was either in the second truck with Refugio or in the
car with the blond。
Finn ran through the facts again in his mind。 The pattern fit； but he was not satisfied。 Something
was missing from it。 Refugio was a smuggler and a pimp； not a thief。 The plan for the theft must
have been Russian； which meant that Refugio probably had little or no idea of what he was
stealing。 Yet he had risked his life to steal the uranium from a man like Masarek。 If the uranium
had been gold； it would make sense； Refugio knew the worth of gold to the last peso。 Even if it
was assumed that Refugio knew what uranium was； what could he do with it once he had stolen
it from Masarek – sell it back to the U。S。？ Possibly； but it was not quite Refugio’s style。 His
political sympathies in the war lay with his pocket…book – and Takagura Omi。 Japan； “Kestrel；”
Finn said aloud。 “Kestrel。”
“What？” said Riley。
Finn did not hear。 He was remembering the moment he had seen Kestrel in the Green Parrot。
Kestrel； alert and deadly； watching him across the body of a dead fighting cock。 Kestrel’s eyes
had been as predatory as the hawk whose name he had taken。
Page 97
Yes。 Kestrel。
Los Alamos
7 Hours 7 Minutes After Trinity
“Your call is on the line； General。”
Groves rubbed chocolate from his fingers with a handkerchief and took the phone。 “How close
are you to a solution？”
“I don’t know。”
“Old Give…’Em…Hell…Harry was on the horn living up to his name。 I don’t need to tell you what
he said。”
“Forty hours and fifty…one minutes；” Finn said succinctly。
“What？”
“The time left until 0530； July 18th； Mountain War Time； when either we give Truman the
uranium or he gives us an invasion。”
“Yes； that’s roughly what the President told me。 Well？”
“All Hunters Point personnel vehicles are checked out and cleared。 No radioactivity； except for
the storeroom where the canister was opened。 After questioning the gate guards； I found out
that the vehicle the thieves used to enter and leave the Point was a truck from Ho’s Good Luck
Laundry。”
“ONI pressed by your method of questioning the guards；” said Groves。
“It got answers。”
“I’m not criticizing； Captain。 If I’d wanted a bridge party； I’d have sent the officers’ wives。”
“The Jaundry truck was found by the Oakland police。 They waited an hour to call us。”
Groves heard the residual fury in Finn’s voice。
“When I finally got to the waterfront；” continued Finn； “the bodies were gone。 The truck was
hot； and I don’t mean just stolen。 The men who grabbed the isotope were either suicidal or
flunkies who didn’t know what they had。 As far as I could tell； the uranium was still unshielded
when it was transferred to another truck。”
“And the men？”
“Dead。 Two of them made the counter sing； but they didn’t die of radiation。”
“What next？” said the General bluntly。
“I have an APB out for the Mexican national whose men were in the morgue。 The police and
hospitals are on the alert for unusual deaths or burn cases。 The FBI is checking out every eyelash
and piece of lint from those bodies and the truck； and questioning everyone on the Oakland
waterfront…。”
“Yes？” prompted General Groves。
“It’s something for them to do；” said Finn sardonically。
“You don’t think it will help？”
“If it can be done by the book； the FBI will do it。 But the book was revised at dawn this
morning。”
There was a silence followed by a muttered oath。 “Captain； I’ve shut down the ports and
borders。 And I mean shut down。 No ships leaving。 No planes flying over。 Nothing。 You
couldn’t move a fart without my men smelling it。 But that won’t do any good if the thieves just
sit on that uranium for the next forty…one hours。”
“They’d better wrap it in lead before they roost； or they’ll – “ Finn stopped speaking suddenly。
“Excuse me； General。 Are there any other questions？”
“You just thought of something。 What？”
“Lead； sir。 Whoever organized this theft must have known what he was stealing。 His flunkies
bounced the pieces together enough that the uranium must be fairly hot by now。 Whoever takes
delivery is going to need some lead to cool off the pieces。 Since lead is on the restricted list of
war materials； all sales are recorded。”
Page 98
“Good idea； Finn。 Get on it and call me when – “ Groves realized he was talking into an empty
line。
San Francisco
8 Hours 42 Minutes After Trinity
Vanessa made a right turn and entered Chinatown； looking for addresses or signs written in a
language she could understand。 As she searched she tried not to think about the dangerous lie
she had sent to Beria。 She had no “promising” salvage prospects。 She had nothing but her wits；
her determination and a license plate number。
The streets seemed more narrow than those in the rest of the city； but were not。 They simply
teemed。 People spilled out in to the streets。 Voices raised in dispute were nearly drowned out by
the honks of drivers who had crept around one obstruction only to be balked by another。
In the end； Vanessa found Ho’s laundry more because of the identically modest； unmarked cars
in front of it than because of its small English sign。 The cars； as much as the curious crowd； told
Vanessa that Ho’s Good Luck Laundry had become a focus of police attention。
She had not really expected the FBI； although it was that possibility which had lured her into
Chinatown。 If the Americans knew about the laundry truck； did that mean that they had
recovered the uranium？ She had to know。 To find out； she needed Hecht； the reporter。
Vanessa parked her own car down the block； well away from casual observation。 After a
moment’s hesitation； she removed the pistol from her purse； tucked it well under the front seat；
locked the car and hurried to the laundry。
Ho’s laundry was closed。 There were several men outside； trying to break up the crowd。 Vanessa
stood across the street； growing more uneasy。 The men in front of the laundry were FBI agents；
not local police。 Only the FBI had men so carefully dressed。
Here in Chinatown； these well…trained agents stood out like popcorn in a bowl of peanuts。
And so did she。
She slipped into a crowded market and watched the laundry through a window that was all but
covered with ideographs。 She spotted Hecht easily； his limp was pronounced as he brushed past
the cordon in front of the laundry。 Immediately； he was challenged by an agent at the front door。
Hecht gestured angrily； then produced identification from his wallet。 The papers were not
sufficient to gain him entry into the laundry。 Arguing； gesturing and waving his ID； Hecht was
escorted back behind the cordon。
He turned and began looking around； clearly trying to spot Vanessa in the crowd。 She had no
desire to be seen while the FBI was around。
Hecht looked for a minute longer； then limped back down the street toward his car。 Vanessa
watched him approach； waited； then left the store to intercept him a block from the laundry。
“Did you get the license plate traced？” she demanded。
Hecht dug in his pocket and produced a slip of paper with an address on it。 He handed the
paper to her。
“Detective Mullen got it for me； no problem；” he said。 “Told me it’s out in what used to be
Little Tokyo。 The license was issued to a truck owned by Julio Rincón。 It’s a commercial vehicle
used for something called the Fragrant Petal。 Sounds like some kind of Oriental flower shop； or
maybe a teahouse。”
“Did the police want to know why you needed the information？”
“No。 Mullen was doing me a favor just like I’d do for him。” He smiled。 “He’d have been hot if
he knew the license was somehow connected with the four murders。 There’s a whole lot of cops
mad about being cut out of the action。”
“What do you mean？”
“Take a look。” Hecht gestured back toward the laundry。 “Those are FBI agents； not local cops。
They don’t have jurisdiction in local crimes。 That means the murders aren’t what they were said
to be – g