Stealing Trinity

Chapter 29

It took two days for Thatcher to reach Santa Fe. After a short night in a hotel, he called Sargent Cole.

"Have you heard anything new?"

Cole had been getting regular updates from the Newport Police regarding the almost certain murder of his son-in-law. He was Thatcher s source for current information.

"Yes. They tracked the airplane through a series of fuel stops. Last night it turned up — he crashed in New Mexico, about fifty miles east of Santa Fe. Near some little place called Villanueva."

"And Braun?"

"The airplane hit hard, but it clipped a couple of trees perfectly— ripped both wings off. The police figure that absorbed the impact of the crash. The cockpit was pretty banged up, but it was in one piece. They found blood inside, but not Alex."

"Blast! Does this man have no end of luck?"

"Oh, it gets better. Right next to the wreck was the body of some poor old Indian — had a nice hole in his chest. Apparently he was out hunting. Must have seen the crash, gone to help and —"

"And Braun gets another!"

"Looks that way. The guy's rifle and an old beat-up truck are missing."

Thatcher asked for a description of the truck, but Sargent Cole couldn't help. "Have you talked to Jones?" he asked.

"God damned right I did! When I heard about this I called and ripped him good. He says he's working on it, but not very hard if you ask me. He seemed more interested in you, Thatcher."

"Me?"

"Yeah, they seem to have lost track of you. I told him you were back in England, as far as I knew."

"Good. How is Lydia holding up?"

"Its been rough. They haven't found Edward's body yet."

Thatcher was not surprised. "They may never."

"I'm worried about her."

Thatcher understood perfectly. And it wasn't only Lydia. He heard it in Sargent Cole's voice as well — grief combined with anger. Thatcher knew how frustrating it could be, how it burned constantly from the inside. At that moment, he considered telling Sargent Cole the truth — that finding Braun would not end his family's misery. Life as they'd known it would never return. The pause was a long one.

"Thatcher? Are you still there?"

" Yes.. Yes. Give her my best, would you?" He then gave Sargent Cole the telephone number of his hotel. "Call me if you find out anything else."

Karl Heinrich looked nervously toward the entrance of Los Cuates. He mixed the last of the food on his plate, stirring rice and chicken into the green chili sauce. He'd be leaving New Mexico soon, yet for all he disliked about the place, Hatch green chili was the one thing he would miss.

The place was dark, more resembling a cave than a restaurant. Heavy wood beams held up the roof, and the walls were adobe, the mud and grass medium that dominated nearly every building, fence, and wall in Santa Fe. Heinrich had always wondered why it all didn't wash away in the heavy rains of monsoon season. The floor was dull and unvarnished, smooth not from fine craftsmanship, but rather years of wear. It was caked in a layer of brown dirt, probably swept in by the incessant wind. The wind he would certainly not miss.

He'd arrived an hour earlier — fifteen minutes before the place had opened for lunch — to ensure he got the correct table. It had probably been overkill. Even now, approaching noon, only three other tables were occupied. Eleven thirty, the time for the rendezvous, had come and gone. And still he was alone.

Again the questions gnawed. What if no one came? How would he reconnect with the Reich? His information was of such value, certainly vital to the rebuilding effort. Heinrich knew that his last contact, Klaus, had been killed by the Americans. This surprised him — even if they were the enemy, the Americans seemed a civilized lot, the type to handle prisoners in a fair and honorable manner. He could only assume that such severe justice was reserved for spies. Spies like him.

It had been a massive relief to find the new message last month, coded in a newspaper classified advertisement. A new contact would be made, someone to escort him back to the folds of the Fatherland. Heinrich again looked desperately around the restaurant. So where was he?

"Scheiss!" he muttered under his breath.

He scraped his plate clean. Should he push it away? Order something else? He'd never been good at this game. In the labs of Los Alamos he was on familiar ground — there, stealing secrets had become second nature. But Santa Fe was different. It was the only place where The Hill's scientists and workers were able to mingle with the general populace. Given this, the Army Intelligence G-2 men were on every corner. They were agonizingly obvious in their pin-striped suits and wing-tip shoes, against the locals who were partial to blue jeans, Stetson hats, and bolo ties. Heinrich had decided that the disparity was intentional, a message of intimidation. He was also convinced that some of the bolos were watching as well. It all made him feel like a fish washed up on the beach — flopping around and trying to breathe in an unnatural element, praying for a wave to come and sweep him away.

The chime on the front door jingled, and Heinrich looked up hopefully. He was disappointed. A skinny Spanish-American boy scurried in. The lad walked quickly, pointing at each empty table he passed, as if counting. When he reached Heinrichs table he stopped.

"Cinco!" The boy dropped a piece of paper next to Heinrich's empty plate. "Para usted, senor." He then held out his hand.

Heinrich was stunned to inaction. No, he thought, this is not the plan. This is not the way it is supposed to happen. He collected himself enough to fish a few coins from his pocket and drop them in the boy's hand. He smiled and scurried away.

Heinrich looked around the room expecting all eyes to be on him. In fact, none were. He took the note, undid one fold, and palmed it like a poker player with a tight hand. It read: Petroglyphs, fifteen minutes. End of southern path. There was no signature.

Karl Heinrich's spirits soared. His wave had come.

He tried to walk slowly so as not to draw attention. Heinrich ignored the Indians hawking trinkets from their blankets on the sidewalk, and tried to ignore two G-2 men who were chatting near a lamppost. His pace quickened as he passed La Fonda, the town's main boardinghouse, and continued east toward the foothills.

The petroglyphs were a local curiosity, situated near the terminus of the Santa Fe trail. The topography altered slightly just outside of town, the crusty hardpan soil giving way to clusters of boulders. Here the vegetation, scant to begin with, almost disappeared, a few desperate weeds fighting for survival amid the cracks between rocks. A thousand years ago the indigenous people, the Anasazi, had used the sides of the boulders as their canvases, engraving human and animal figures, along with more elaborate, artistic designs. A handful of these images remained with remarkable resolution, and the petroglyphs had become a mildly popular side trip for the scientists of Los Alamos. Today, however, at noon on the cusp of summer, Karl Heinrich was alone as he trudged across the informal walking path toward the southern end of the outcropping.

He'd been here once before, a year earlier with Bostich. Then, he had thought the petroglyphs indeed remarkable, but less so than the fact that the Anasazi had chosen to live in such a godforsaken place. Today these thoughts were completely lost to exhilaration — the possibility of reconnecting with the Fatherland.

The final segment of the path climbed a moderate rise. Combined with the altitude and excitement, it had Heinrich panting like a dog. A vulture turned lazy circles in the sky above. Heinrich spied it with defiance. Not today, you bastard. The path ended near an unusually large formation, a red-brown boulder the size of a truck. Heinrich stopped and bent over, his hands on his knees, his open mouth gasping for air.

"Guten Morgeriy Herr Wespe"

Stunned, he turned to see a man behind him. He was tall and blond, Aryan in appearance. He also looked like he'd taken a recent beating. There was a large bruise on his forehead, and he carried one arm close to his chest, bent at the elbow as if injured.

"We should use English, no?" Heinrich suggested.

His contact shrugged and smiled easily. "I've been watching closely. We are alone here, and the approaches are easily seen. But if you prefer—"

"No, no. I would like to use our native tongue. It has been a very long time for me."

The man came forward and extended his good hand. "My name is Rainer. It is good to finally meet you."

Relief swept across Heinrich. He lunged ahead and took the hand with both of his. "I am Karl. Dr. Karl Heinrich." He had to suppress tears as he held the man close. A hundred questions rushed to his excited head. "It has been very difficult to be isolated for so long — to hear only the American's view of the war. Surely it cannot be as dire as what I see in the newsreels and papers. What has come of our Reich?"

The man whose name was almost certainly not Rainer smiled confidently. "The Reich… it endures, Karl. It endures."

Heinrich was overwhelmed. He stood back and eased his bulk down on a rock, smiling as those words played in his mind. Even if Germany's situation had seemed bleak, Heinrich had never lost faith. And now here was the reward for his confidence. "What about our Fuhrer? Is it true that he is dead? No one has produced a body, so I suspected it might be a ruse."

"No, Karl, it is true. Hitler is dead. But the Reich remains strong. If we have lost the battle for Germany, the greater struggle will go forward."

"This I have never doubted," Heinrich insisted. "The next time the world will fall not to our sword, but to our cause, our logic. The impure races are a scourge on humanity, weighing the world down."

"Yes, without doubt," Rainer replied. "But it will take time for us to rebuild that cause."

"Yes, yes. Where will we go? I have guessed South America — Brazil."

There was a pause. Rainer smiled. "A good guess, Karl. Very close. It will be Argentina."

"Yes! Argentina!" Heinrich had been to Buenos Aires many years ago for a conference. It was a comfortable place. No dust. No wind.

"The military there will work with us," Rainer said as he took a seat on a nearby rock.

Heinrich watched the man. Even with his injured arm he moved languidly, like a strong cat. His eyes regularly checked the path that led back toward town, searchlights scanning for any possible threat. The Reich had chosen well, Heinrich decided. A dangerous man for a dangerous mission. And he would know what to do. Rainer would get him out of here. He said, "Have you seen the level of security in town? Army Security — G-2 they call it — is very busy here."

"Yes, they are everywhere indeed. Which is why I brought you here using that note. But the G2s, as you call them, they are easily seen."

Heinrich looked at Rainer's shoulder. "You have been injured?"

The man shrugged dismissively. "A minor accident. It will heal soon."

Heinrich bent forward and put a hand on Rainer's good shoulder, wanting again to feel the strength of a compatriot. He could no longer hold back his most important question.

" When? When can we go? My work here is nearly complete. It is critical that we provide it to the Fatherland."

"Yes, our mission is most vital. The specific arrangements for the journey have been left to me." His eyes skimmed up to the horizon, yet this time it seemed more in contemplation than watchfulness. "But I must tell you, Karl, when I was given this assignment I was told little about your work. This was a protective measure for you, in the event that I might be — intercepted. From here we will work together until arriving in Argentina, and it would be helpful for me to know something about this Manhattan Project."

It made sense to Heinrich. "Yes, you must know the importance of our mission." He organized his thoughts, beginning with his own story. He explained how the Jews had infiltrated the world of academe to spoil many great careers, including his own. He proudly covered his conversion to the National Socialist Party, and how easily the Americans had taken him into the center of their great secret. Finally, he took an instructional tone, a vestige of his days at the university.

"What do you know of physics and chemistry, Rainer?"

"I am an architect by training, so I have studied each at a basic level."

"An architect, yes! This is good. You see, the atom itself has structure and dimension. Have you ever heard of atomic fission?"

"I believe it involves splitting the atom."

"Precisely. And when this happens under specific conditions, a chain reaction can be initiated. Most importantly, huge amounts of energy can be released."

The student did not look impressed.

"Huge amounts," Heinrich reiterated, "with distinct military applications."

"So this process can bring about an explosion — a bomb of sorts?"

"A single weapon of this type can cause destruction an order of magnitude beyond anything ever imagined by mankind."

Rainer did not seem to appreciate the scope of what he was saying. He was distracted, again monitoring the pathways. It did not matter, Heinrich decided. Who could imagine such a thing as this bomb? He paused and regarded the blackened stick figures on the rock before him. It was strange, he thought, to be explaining the most fearsome weapon ever conceived while in the presence of such trivial, ancient testaments.

Rainer said, "Tell me, Karl, the information you have — what form is it in? Do you simply keep it in your head?"

"Ha!" Heinrich laughed. "God, no. I am on the Oversight Group, with access to all divisions of the project. There are thousands of pages — drawings, documents, and photographs. I keep it all in a suitcase in my room."

"A suitcase? Is this safe?"

Heinrich shrugged. "What else can I do? Each scientist has a personal safe in the laboratory, but one of the American wunderkind has made a hobby out of breaking into them."

"This is tolerated?"

"You must understand, the Army oversees this project, but it is run — or perhaps I should say overrun — by scientists. In any event, the Manhattan Project is nearly complete. The test will come soon. After this, I am to leave for the Pacific."

"The Pacific?"

"Yes. The gadget — thats what we've taken to calling it — if it actually works, the Americans will waste no time in using it against Japan. I have been assigned to personally accompany certain components to the field for final assembly. This journey is the best chance for me to disappear — after the delivery, on my return."

"When will you leave?"

"Immediately after Trinity."

Rainer was no longer gazing down the path. His interest had come full.

"Trinity is the code name of the test," Heinrich explained. "It will take place next week, south of here in the desert. From there, I will fly to Hawau and join a ship, the USS Indianapolis."

"So we must arrange for an escape during this journey."

"Yes." Heinrich looked at his watch and frowned. "I must return soon. The bus back to The Hill leaves in twenty minutes."

"All right," Rainer said. "Get the details of your travel plans— tell me exactly where this ship is going."

"I'll do what I can, but everything is kept most secret."

"Find out as much as possible. When can we meet again?"

"I do not think we should meet here, in Santa Fe. The risk is too high."

"Agreed. Do you have any ideas?"

Heinrich though for a moment, then smiled. "Yes." He explained the plan.

"It should work," Rainer said. He then paused. "There is something else, Karl."

"What?"

"We have hinted of this project to the Argentine military. It is possible they will lend some support. But we must have details to convince them, some kind of hard information to prove the value of what we possess."

"My information is priceless! No one, not even Oppenheimer himself, the director of the project, could hold such a comprehensive body of information. And we must be careful. What if the Argentines try to take it for themselves?"

Rainer turned up the palm of his good hand. "My thoughts as well, Karl. But we need help at the moment. We must trust the new leaders of the Reich. They are good men, Karl, strong. They need only a sample — a few detailed documents to prove the worth of what you possess."

Heinrich hesitated.

Rainer said, "By your own plan it will take a month or more for us to reach Argentina. In that time we can set much into motion."

"You can send it securely?"

"Yes. Of that I'm sure."

"All right. I will give you enough to raise everyone's appetite. I'll include it with the rest, as we discussed."

"Good."

Rainer went over the details of the plan once more for good measure, adding in a contingency should something go wrong. Heinrich tried to listen, but his thoughts were already drifting to the hero's welcome he would receive in Buenos Aires. He imagined addressing the leaders of the new order. For what I give you now, I have one inviolate demand — then a proper pause before the grand punch line — a schnitzel and a proper beer! He could hear the laughter now.

Rainer stopped talking. He sauntered toward Heinrich, seeming taller now, more imposing.

"Until we meet again, Karl." He offered his hand.

Heinrich backed away one step, stiffened, and snapped his palm up in a Nazi salute. "Long live the Reich!"

Rainer stood back, almost looking surprised. But then, with the most serious face Heinrich had seen, he responded in kind. "Long live the Reich."

Heinrich trundled away down the path, confident that the spy would disappear as magically as he had appeared. That's what men like Rainer did. Heinrich was giddy, and the swirl of dirt that came spinning across the path — the locals called them dust devils — did nothing to dampen his mood. Soon he would be free of this place, free of the life of deception that had grown so tiresome. And soon he would be recognized for his genius. Karl Heinrich — the father of Germany's atomic age.

From the shelter of the pinons, Braun watched the pudgy scientist waddle away down the path. So this, he thought, is Die Wespe. Hardly a figure to cast fear. Still, Braun would not underestimate the man. Whatever his shortcomings, he must be a top-notch physicist to gain involvement in this American project. Heinrich was no fool. But then neither were Hitler, Himmler, and the rest.

He traced one of the petroglyphs, a delicate deer-like figure, with his finger. He was glad he'd thought things through carefully before the meeting. With the war in Europe over, Braun had anticipated three possibilities. First, that Karl Heinrich might have wanted to get out, a reluctant spy or perhaps a conscientious scientist who only wanted to return home, perhaps to a family. But he now knew that there was no family. The man had asked about no one except Hitler, which led to option two — a hardened Nazi who would go to any length for the nonexistent Reich. Here Braun had been ready, his answers sure, confident, and swallowed whole. And he was thankful that the last contingency had not proven the case — that Wespe was of Braun's own mind.

He moved slowly through bristly vegetation to the place where he would wait for nightfall. The gully, or "wash" as they called them here, was a mile outside town. Again, Braun found himself living outside, exposed to the heat and cold, hunger pulling constantly. The recent weeks had been an exercise in extremes. He had slept on fine linens at Harrold House and on rocks in the open. He had taken an exquisite Chablis in Waterford crystal and brown water in a rusty cup. It all started five years ago, when the pleasurable sins of Paris had given way to the brutal sins of Stalingrad.

Braun wondered what would come of it all. Was the Manhattan Project really something valuable? The little scientist was sure, but Braun remembered from his time at Harvard how full the highbrow intellectuals could be of themselves. A new weapon? It sounded fantastic. How much power could be found in splitting a few atoms? Time, perhaps, would tell.

Chapter 30

Lydia sat in the dark surrounded by a mass of people. They were laughing at the antics of Abbot and Costello on the big screen. The smell of popcorn and candy sweetened the air, further sugar to coat the bitter reality that was the world outside.

Alice Van DeMeer sat next to her, dressed properly for the matinee in a conservative skirt and modest flats. Alice had called with the invitation at noon, but Lydia was sure it had been arranged by her mother, who'd been coming up with diversions all week. Shopping trips, excursions to the beach — anything to get Lydia s mind off the indelicate fact that she was now a widow at the age of twenty-five. Alice was two years younger, properly reared, and single. A perfect companion in Mothers eyes, Lydia supposed. And, of course, Alice was still full of that joie de vivre so common in young women not encumbered by the weight of dead husbands on the bottom of the ocean.

The movie had started thirty minutes earlier, but Lydia stared blankly. Any positive leanings in her mood had been ruined by the newsreels. The first had been about the battle in the Pacific, smiling young soldiers, boys jousting and ribbing one another lightheartedly before throwing themselves onto another death trap of a beach. But it was the second news clip that had imprinted so awfully in her mind. Footage of more American boys, these liberating a concentration camp — dead bodies stacked like cordwood, skeletal figures whose very shapes seemed to defy biology. It played over and over in her head, like a terrible song whose lyrics couldn't be pried away.

A roar of laughter erupted in the theater. Alice Van DeMeer doubled over in a very unrefined guffaw. Lydia could take no more. She jumped up and shoved rudely past ten sets of legs to reach the aisle. When she burst onto the street the brightness took her gaze down. It was just as well — she didn't want oncomers to see the tears streaming down her face.

Lydia walked quickly, though she doubted Alice would try to catch up. The whole affair had been awkward, Alice trying to be cheery and Lydia in a supremely dark mood. More importantly, she thought, the entire afternoon had been a waste. Another day of idleness, nothing done to help.

Lydia gathered herself as she walked. She passed a WAC, a smartly uniformed brunette of the Women's Army Corps. Why couldn't I have done that? Lydia thought. She could have been a nurse or a messenger. She could have gone to work in a factory building trucks or airplanes. Her mother would have been apoplectic. But Edward would have permitted it. Kind Edward would have seen how important it was to her. Instead, she had played tennis and gone to parties. She had learned how to drive, taking joyrides with no concern for the rations of fuel and rubber. While the world had suffered, she had gone to tea.

The afternoon heat bore down as Lydia walked home, fitting the ideas that were simmering in her head. Self-pity turned to self-loathing as she succumbed to the painful facts. She had let Alex seduce her, and the rest had followed directly.

As awful as it was, this realization brought great clarity. She had failed Edward. That was done. If there was any redemption to be had, it would be in helping to find Alex. And that would never happen until she finally took control of her life.

When Lydia arrived at Harrold House she was hot in sweat. Her mother was the first to see her.

"Where have you been, dear? Alice called to say that you'd left the matinee in a state."

"Where is Father?" she demanded.

"Lydia, I don t like that tone of voice. There's nothing respectable about being—"

"Where is he?" Lydia shouted.

Her mother stood back. She pointed toward the back lawn.

Lydia strode out to find her father seated in a chair at the bottom of the lawn, a cold drink in one hand, a newspaper in his lap. He seemed to be staring at the dock, where Mystic bobbed gently against her lines. Lydia stomped to a halt at his side. I must be a sight, she thought. She hoped her eyes were not puffy, evidence of her breakdown. She had to be strong.

Her father did not look up, but instead kept looking at the boat. His thumb and forefinger cupped his chin in contemplation. "I'm going to sell her," he murmured.

Lydia looked at Mystic. She was stunned. The boat had been Edward's joy. Something inside her snapped.

"No!" she shouted. "Absolutely not!"

Her father looked up patiently. Patronizingly.

"I won't allow it," she insisted. "Edward loved that boat. It was his, and now it's mine. I will never sell it. Never!"

Her father's response was to raise the newspaper. He began a study of the financials.

Lydia took a deep breath. "I'm going to New Mexico."

"New Mexico? Really, Lydia —"

"I want to help Major Thatcher find the man who killed my husband."

The paper still hid his face. "The major is very competent, dear. You mustn't worry—"

Lydia swatted the Times to the ground. Her father looked up in amazement.

"I do worry! I… I apologize for my impertinence, Father, but I'm going. I have sat around here far too long playing silly games and living a gilded life. The rest of the world is dealing with death and starvation. It's time I pitched in to help. And I'll do it with or without your approval."

Lydia braced for his rage. He would rise and tower over her to deliver the verbal dressing-down that would end her little rebellion. And then what would she do? What would she do when he denied her?

Strangely, her father sat still for a moment, and his expression turned to something else. Something very unexpected. If Lydia was not mistaken, it was pride.

"All right then," he said, "go."

Braun had hidden the old Indians truck in a derelict barn on the outskirts of Santa Fe, not sure if he'd even go back to it. But Heinrich had been right about one thing — Santa Fe was crawling with Army G-2 men, and probably the FBI. Braun knew he couldn't stay here.

He decided it was likely that the authorities had found the remains of the Luscombe and the body of the Indian. If so, they'd be looking for the truck. But they'd also be watching the train and bus stations. If he traveled at night, the truck remained his best bet.

He headed south at midnight. In three hours he passed only four cars, one a police black and white that fortunately showed no interest. During the drive Braun reflected on his meeting with Die Wespe. He would not see the scientist again until their rendezvous in the Pacific. And as soon as Braun was in possession of the trove of documents, he would dispose of the little Nazi. The question then became what to do with it all. If the information about this atomic weapon concept was indeed valuable, Braun had to find a way to sell it — to a country, most likely. Given the present dynamics of world affairs, there was one obvious choice.

Braun arrived in Albuquerque just before dawn, rattling along with a nearly empty gas tank. With daylight less than an hour away, he had to find a place to dump the truck for good. He found it on the southwest side of town, along the banks of the Rio Grande. A junkyard sprawled out behind a wooden fence, five acres of metal, rubber, and glass to blight the landscape.

He paused in front long enough to be sure no one was around. The "office" was little more than a shack, and a pair of guard dogs came running — German shepherds, perhaps, with something else mixed in that made them thicker in the chest and jaw. They barked and snarled behind the fence, and made Braun doubly sure that no one was inside the place.

He drove another hundred yards to find what he wanted — a telephone pole next to the road. He steered the truck carefully, accelerated a bit, and smashed into it, corrupting the left front quarter panel. He reversed, then charged again, this time giving treatment to the right headlight and bumper. The truck was a cosmetic disaster to begin with, but after ten minutes of battering it looked like a casualty from the Russian front.

As Braun guided it back to the junkyard, the radiator spewed steam and the steering wheel pulled hard to the right as rubber scraped metal. For a final resting place, he pulled the mess up to a swinging section of the fence that served as an access point to the junkyard. He was sure that by noon today his donation would be drug inside, no questions asked.

Five minutes later, the license plate and key went spinning into the Rio Grande. Once again, Braun began to walk.

Chapter 31

He spent three days in a flophouse south of Albuquerque. It was nestled in the Manzano Mountains, near Route 60, and run by a Spanish-American couple who spoke little English. Braun had learned long ago that it was the have-nots, the simple people, who would ask the fewest questions. The police would be less welcome at the Manzano Inn than the quiet patron who had paid cash in advance for a dirty room — simple breakfast and dinner included. The arranged term had been two weeks, though Braun only expected to stay half that long.

He'd hitched rides south to the area, and had immediately stumbled onto the place. It was ideal for his purposes — quiet, and only three miles from the strange dead-drop location Karl Heinrich had chosen. Braun had already made one dry run, borrowing a bicycle from the innkeeper for a late morning ride. On that occasion, he had picked out the correct cement road marker and climbed to the crest of the hill. There, he'd found nothing aside from the clearing Heinrich had described, and a magnificent view of the Rio Grande Valley. Tonight he hoped for more.

It was three o'clock in the morning, and the slim moon was little help. Braun found the road marker again, but only after passing it once. He walked the bike into the scrub and leaned it against a tree. From the handlebars he unhooked a kerosene lantern, also borrowed from the inn, and Braun stoked it to life.

The climb, which had been simple in daylight, would be a far greater challenge at night.

Braun started off carefully, keeping the lantern low and in front to illuminate trouble spots — loose rocks, fallen tree limbs, stray roots. The forest here was similar to Santa Fe, thick, stunted vegetation that clawed its way across dusty soil to probe every crevice for water and nutrients.

He reached the top at precisely three forty-five. Heinrich had been insistent on the time, thought Braun could not imagine why. By definition, a dead-drop meant that Die Wespe would be nowhere near the place. And Braun could hardly envision anyone else coming to this godforsaken wilderness at such an hour. He was breathing heavily and, as he stood straight, he imagined that the fat little Nazi must have been panting like a dog after such a climb. Again, he wondered what was so special about this time and place.

At the crest of the hill was the same clearing he'd seen last time, but in the lantern's light he saw something new. A tripod, the kind used by photographers, was centered on the best level ground. It was equal to his own height, and a small box was mounted on top. Braun went to it and put the lantern close. A metal plate read: spectrograph. On the opposite side was an orifice of sorts, oriented toward the south.

Braun looked out and saw the wide valley, barely visible in moonlight that filtered down through broken clouds. A few tiny clusters of light punctuated the landscape, all many miles away. He remembered Heinrich's next instructions. Go twenty paces toward the valley. He lowered the lantern and counted steps. Reaching sixteen, a knee-high rock blocked his path. Immediately behind it was a canvas bag. Braun set the lantern carefully on the rock and opened the bag. A handwritten letter was on top.

The test, Braun thought. That's why Heinrich had chosen this place. Rendezvous with the others — he truly believed the Reich would carry on. Braun marveled at how an educated man could be so blind. But then the ranks of the Nazi Party had included many such learned men, and they had proven blind indeed — every vision, every idea obscured by the blackness of hatred.

He checked his watch — 3:51. Braun reached into the bag and pulled out a thick folder of documents, a welders mask, and a bottle of suntan lotion. Suntan lotion. He wondered if it was Heinrich's idea of a joke. He stood and again regarded the nighttime vista.

Braun shook his head. He could not bring himself to apply the lotion, and he tossed it back into the bag. He did, however, resign to pulling the welder's mask over his head. It was heavy and ill-fitting. The dark glass faceplate turned the world nearly black. Braun could no longer see his watch, and the resulting limbo of time made him tense. He had seen every kind of explosion known to man, some at an uncomfortably close range. What kind of thing, he wondered, could require such precautions? And forty miles, a ridiculous distance. At this range there would be nothing — perhaps a momentary flash on the horizon.

He waited for what he thought was fifteen minutes. Nothing happened. A coyote howled a plaintive wail. Braun heard a rumble in the distance, but it was only the familiar, gentle roll of a distant rain shower. He took off the mask and tossed it aside in disgust. So where was the awe-inspiring weapon, this revolutionary idea? Had it been a failure? Had the Americans spent billions of dollars pursuing worthless, chalkboard theories? He eyed the folder of documents. Did Wespe have anything of value?

Braun again sat on the rock and began to read. The first document was some kind of scientific synopsis, an introduction to a collection of diagrams and calculations that were attached. The handwriting on the cover page was clearly Heinrich's, matching the letter Braun had already read:

Braun pored over the letter and attachments. Most of the papers were hand-drawn duplicates, but a few originals bore the header: U. S. Army Corps of Engineers — Manhattan District. These were stamped top secret. There was also a second file, regarding a place called Hanford, Washington. The cover letter, again in Heinrichs hand, was titled: Plutonium — the transmutation of u-238. Braun read it, then found himself carrying on to the rest, a thick volume of blueprints, diagrams, and equipment specifications. The project was industrial in nature, different from the artful works of design Braun had studied at Harvard. Yet he recognized enough to see the legitimacy of the information. The scale of this place in Tennessee was unlike anything he had ever seen.

Braun was seized by excitement. He pored over page after page by light of the lantern, checking dimensions, awed by the immensity of it all. 500 million dollars, he thought. For one industrial plant? Had the Americans gone insane? He looked at every page, his heart pulsing by the end. There was so much here — details, calculations. And this was only a sample of what Heinrich possessed. It had to be of value.

Braun stood. His back ached from sitting on the rock. He locked his hands above his head and stretched like a cat. The injured shoulder was better, almost no pain. A look at his watch told him it was nearly five thirty. He'd lost track of time and spent over an hour consuming Heinrich's file. But what good was any of it, he thought, if the whole project was a failure? Dejection stabbed in. Once more, Braun looked across the land. He saw only tranquility — a desert still, silent, and black. And then the sky exploded.

The universe fell ablaze in white light. The brightness was incredible, like nothing he'd ever seen. He instinctively stepped back and turned his head aside — yet Braun forced himself to look. The flash did not fade, but rather grew in intensity, as if the sun had crashed into the desert valley. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he saw a mountain of dust rising into the sky. He stood transfixed as smoke and light churned into a hellish orange fireball, rising up and up. Then Braun saw something else. A wave of destruction sweeping out, rolling across the desert at incredible speed. Rolling right at him. He braced himself.

It hit like a hurricane. Braun tried to stand firm against the pressure. He squinted and his hair was blown back. The sound came now, not an instantaneous crack, but a rumble that grew and grew like a thousand bass drums. It seemed to have no end, pulsing echoes that pounded off the surrounding hills.

Braun stood still. Watching, listening. Stunned.

After what seemed like an eternity, the sounds dampened and were lost. Silence gradually returned, and the tremendous ball of fire ebbed, taking with it the light. In the end there was only one thing — a gigantic column of smoke, a cylinder capped on top by an even wider ball of tumultuous, roiling dust. In the muted dawn it rose up as if trying to black out the heavens. He stared in raw astonishment, and a single number came to Braun's mind. Forty. He was forty miles away.

His lips parted, and the words came in a hoarse whisper.

"Mein Gott!"

Chapter 32

Lydia looked out the window as the train pulled into the station at Albuquerque. The place looked like something straight out of a western movie. The building was a skeleton of heavy wood beams supporting some kind of earthen material. Most of the men on the platform wore cowboy hats, and there was actually a horse tied to a rail in the dirt street.

The women, at least, were a mix. The Indians, with uniformly long, silky black hair, were wrapped in colorful robes, while the white women generally dressed in a more contemporary manner. A few wore skirts and blouses, but most seemed to prefer pants, a few even sporting denim blue jeans of the kind Lydia had only seen men wear. Stepping off the train through a mist of steam, she realized that there was a time in her life when these local fashion trends might have tipped her into the first clothing store. Now, however, she had far greater concerns.

She scanned the platform but saw no sign of Thatcher. She had kept in touch with him by telephone during her journey and he'd promised to meet her. He'd been scouring hotels and hospitals in both Santa Fe and Albuquerque, looking for any trace of a man who had survived a plane crash a week ago. So far he'd come up with nothing, but Lydia had brought her secret weapon — a photograph of Alex Braun. She'd nearly forgotten about it, a group picture of Alex and four other students acting silly on the beach. Her father had taken the negative and had it enlarged, and Lydia hoped it would jog someone's memory.

A look at the station clock told her why Thatcher wasn't here — the train had arrived early. Lydia flagged down a porter, a wide-shouldered Indian boy, and arranged for her trunk to be taken off the train.

She walked into the terminal. The place was busy, but nothing on the order of the big stations back east. Hers was the only train, resting on the only rail. People milled about, but none seemed in a hurry, perhaps slowed by the heavy heat that hung on the breeze. Lydia decided she should go out front, collect her trunk, and wait for Thatcher. As she steered through the light crowd, a hallway took her left, then right, and finally deposited her at the front of the station near the ticket booths. There, the first person she saw was Alex Braun.

He was in a fog. It had taken much of the morning to get back to Albuquerque, paying the innkeeper's brother twenty dollars for a ride to the station. Braun remembered none of it. His mind was completely absorbed by the enormity of what he had seen. It was an image of fire, a wave of destruction rolling across the landscape. A sight he would never forget.

He carried one bag. A change of clothes, a jacket, a razor — and the files Karl Heinrich had left on the hill. There were fewer than a hundred pages, yet the bag seemed heavy in his hand, a wonderful weight. He found himself gripping so hard that his fingers were numb. Of course, this was only a sample of what Die Wespe possessed. How heavy would the fat little scientist's suitcase seem? Braun wondered. How much could the world's greatest secret weigh?

He stood in the ticket line, one man in front of him. Braun had only discovered his destination five minutes ago, the third coin and third telephone operator having provided the answer.

The man in front of him disappeared and Braun edged forward, forcing his attention to the girl behind the window. She was very attractive, and met his eyes directly. Then she smiled. He tried to remember if she had smiled for the last man. He usually noticed such things.

"Where to, sir?"

"San Francisco. I'd like a sleeping compartment."

"We have roomettes in first class — its not much extra."

"That will be fine."

"One way or round trip?"

"One way, please."

Her hands worked, but her eyes darted between the papers and her customer. "So… you won't be coming back?"

He smiled engagingly. She was young, flirtatious. For the first time since this morning Braun entertained a thought other than Trinity. But the notion was fleeting. Carnal lust was an impulse he could control, switched on and off like a light. His impatience, he knew, lay elsewhere. "I'm afraid not. Not anytime soon."

"Pity," she said, sliding a ticket through the window. "That's twenty-six dollars and twenty cents."

Braun didn't even flinch. He paid and walked to the platform. His train was waiting.

Lydia stood behind a column and watched him leave the ticket counter. Fortunately, he turned away and headed toward the train. She looked out to the street, hoping to spot Thatcher. He was nowhere in sight.

She didn't know what to do. There were no policemen around. And if she went to one of the rail officials, what could she say? Would you please detain this customer — he killed my husband. Alex would know how to handle that. He'd smile his disarming smile. Lydia had once been vulnerable to it. But now, much too late, she knew his act for what it was — a simple tool. If confronted, Alex would exercise his charm until he was either turned loose or forced to kill again. No, Lydia thought, he was too dangerous to simply plead for help from a stranger. And the only other person to appreciate that risk was Thatcher. She looked desperately toward the street again, willing him to appear.

Alex walked to one of the forward cars, presented his ticket to the attendant, and disappeared into the coach. The big schedule board said the train would be leaving in five minutes. Lydia had to do something. She rushed to the ticket counter. A man was talking to the girl behind the window. Lydia couldn't wait.

"I'm terribly sorry," she said, elbowing in. She tried to give the fellow an attractive smile. "Would you mind? I'm in a terrible predicament."

The man eased back, annoyed, but trying to be polite.

Lydia turned to the attendant, whose jaw was working furiously on a piece of chewing gum. "A tall blond man just bought a ticket from you. Where was he going?"

The girl looked suspicious. "Is he a friend of yours, miss?"

Lydia blurted out the first thing that came to her head. "He's my husband."

The girl frowned. She said, "He's going to San Francisco. One way."

"Oh. I see."

The girl's face turned sympathetic. "It leaves in five minutes," she said.

Lydia stared at the first car. Inside, the man who had killed Edward was now settling in comfortably. She opened her purse. "Give me a ticket to San Francisco."

"Are you sure, miss?"

Lydia answered by widening her eyes severely and cocking her head.

"All right. What class?"

"Well — where is he?"

"He has a roomette in first class."

It was the same car she had come in on. "I'll take the day coach."

Lydia paid and walked quickly to the train. She would be in the open for a few seconds, and she kept her face turned away from the front passenger car. Lydia wished she'd worn a hat, something modest to pull down over her eyes.

She passed three sleeper Pullmans and stepped up onto the last car, boarding the same train she'd gotten off twenty minutes earlier, though much farther back. For as long as Lydia could remember, she and her family had taken the train to their winter home in Florida each year. In all that time, she had never ventured farther back than the dining car. After all, her father would say as he admonished her to keep her station, I hold a considerable interest in the Atlantic Coast Line. I know who rides back there, and I know that we make more money for each cow we carry.

Inside the coach, a worn wooden aisle separated two rows of bench seats that stretched all the way to the rear door. The seats had no cushions, and the air was still and hot. The mix of faces here was far less homogenous than what she was accustomed to — brown and white, dirty and clean, happy and miserable. All seemed to ignore her.

She shuffled and stumbled down the center aisle, a strange setting for a former Newport debutante. Lydia had been deeply heeled in the importance of making entrances. Dress well, eyes forward. Keep the chin high but don't overdo — regal as opposed to overbearing. Now she fumbled her way to the back of the last grimy train car, ducking her head desperately to see out the station-side window. What if Alex had gotten back off? Lydia wondered. Was it possible he'd seen her?

There were no seats open at the windows along her left, but Lydia spotted a soldier, clean cut and very young, with a single aisle seat open next to him. She recognized the uniform as Army, but struggled for anything more. Judging by the lone stripe on his shoulder and a complete lack of decorations, she decided he must be a new recruit. Lydia tried to wipe away the worry that had to be chiseled into her face.

"Is this seat taken?"

The boy looked up and smiled like he'd won a trifecta at Pimlico.

"No, ma'am."

Her voice was sugar, "I hate to be a bother, but do you think I might take the window?"

The young man slid over like he'd been parked on a hotplate.

"Thank you," she said, sliding demurely into the seat. She instantly surveyed the station for any sign of Alexander Braun. Or even better, Michael Thatcher. She saw neither.

A distant voice disrupted her thoughts." — I said, where are you headed?"

She turned to find the young soldier eagerly awaiting her reply. Smoke billowed from the front of the train and she heard the conductor make his last call.

"Ah, San Francisco." Not wanting to be rude, she added, "And you?"

"Los Angeles. My unit is going to ship out soon. I can't tell you exactly where, you know."

Lydia kept searching outside. "Of course." The train began to move.

"My name's Tommy. Tommy Moore."

Lydia nodded and offered a light handshake. "Lydia Murray. Nice to meet you, Tommy."

Tommy began to talk nonstop, and Lydia gave back an occasional nod in return. Trying to analyze her muddled situation, she suddenly realized that she carried nothing more than her purse — her trunk was sitting out on the curb waiting to be claimed. I should have stayed, she thought. Thatcher will turn up soon. Together they might have convinced the police. Alex could have been arrested at the next station. Instead, she was alone. There were rail employees and a few soldiers, but Lydia had never been good at authority, at badgering people. And Alex? She knew better than anyone how convincing Alex could be — engaging, confident, persuasive. God, how she knew.

The station disappeared and the train built up speed as it headed into a vast desert. Lydia's heart raced. What on earth have I done?

Thatcher parked his new car along the street in front of the station. It wasn't actually new, but a decent ride. The owner hadn't bothered with any paperwork once Thatcher had forked over four hundred in cash. He only wished Sargent Cole's money could procure Alexander Braun so easily.

Santa Fe had been a dead end. Knowing Braun had certainly been injured in the airplane crash, Thatcher's first stop had been to the only hospital in town. No one there remembered a tall, blond man. They'd even checked the logs to confirm that there was no record of a patient with suspicious injuries on the days in question. Thatcher had next tracked down every private doctor and nurse he could find. Nothing. He'd then tried the hotels and boardinghouses, coming up empty. To top it all off, the investigation back in Newport had gone equally cold.

Thatcher also noticed that the FBI men in Santa Fe — they seemed to be on every corner — paid him no attention whatsoever. Tomas Jones knew that Braun's stolen airplane had gone down nearby, yet there didn't seem to be any official search. Not for the first time, Thatcher thought the Americans seemed terribly confident in their security arrangements.

He walked across the front platform of the station, searching for Lydia. When Sargent Cole had told him she was coming, there was a sense of conveyance in his announcement — as if to suggest it was Thatcher's turn to hold her hand for a while. He'd do nothing of the sort. In fact, he expected she'd be quite useful. Lydia knew Alexander Braun better than anyone, and had strong reasons for wanting to find him.

A cloud of dust washed into the station from the street, blurring everything in a haze of red. Thatcher sneezed. He had thankfully recovered from his head cold, but something in the desert air was playing havoc on his sinuses. He spotted a sturdy young porter who was standing at the curb next to a large steamer trunk.

"I beg your pardon, but I'm here to meet a friend. Has the three o'clock from Amarillo arrived yet?"

"Yes, sir. Came in thirty minutes ago and she's just gone back out."

The man pointed and Thatcher saw a trail of black smoke to the southwest. He thanked the porter and entered the station. The crowd was modest, and everyone moved slowly in the heat. It took less than a minute to cover the entire place — Lydia was definitely not here. There were few remaining possibilities. She could be in the ladies room, or she might have walked down the street for a bite to eat. Thatcher took a seat on a long, empty bench. There was nothing to do but wait.

Lydia watched the desert drift past her window. It seemed endless, particularly at the tops of the hills where she could see mountains that must have been a hundred miles away. The openness was a comfort, daylight against the dark shadow of Alexander Braun.

The more Lydia thought through the situation, the more she calmed. Even if Alex were to come back, she was safe here, surrounded by dozens of people, half of them strong young men. He was a killer, but not a stupid, reckless one. She had certainly erred by getting on the train, but now the way out seemed clear. She would simply sit here in coach until the next station, a place called Winslow, Arizona. They were scheduled to arrive in an hour, and at the station she'd get off and call her father. It would work perfectly as long as Alex didn't see her.

Then Lydia remembered something Thatcher had said. Alex was here to contact a Nazi spy. The question rushed to her mind — could that person also be on the train? Perhaps in this very car? Lydia looked all around. A man two rows back was leering at her obviously. His face was narrow and pinched, with a rodent's black eyes. A shiver went down her spine, and Lydia turned away in fright. Had it been the sneer of an old lecher? Or something else?

She tried to see him in the reflection of the side window, but it was no use — too many faces, too much commotion. Still, it felt as if the man's eyes were boring into her back. But he couldn't be the one, she reasoned. If there was a spy on the train, it would be a stranger, someone who couldn't possibly recognize her. Unless… unless Alex had pointed her out.

She imagined the black eyes, felt his stare still fixed on her. Lydia had to do something. She turned to Tommy. He was nearly asleep, having long ago given up his offensive in the face of her cool, distracted responses.

"I'm sorry to bother you—"

His eyes opened fully, but the earlier excitement was gone. "Yeah, what is it?"

"There's a man back there — he's staring at me."

He started to turn, but Lydia took his arm. "No, don't look," she whispered. "He's middle-aged, wearing a brown shirt and a flat cap."

His chest puffed out. "You want me to go set him straight?"

"No, no. Look, it's probably nothing." She hesitated. "Listen, I'm going to go up to the next car. Could you just make sure he doesn't follow me?" She squeezed his skinny bicep. "It would really mean a lot."

The soldier grinned, awash in confidence. "Sure, sweetheart."

Lydia got up, walked quickly to the front, and passed into the next car. It was a sleeper, and there were more soldiers here, lounging in bunks on their elbows with magazines and cigarettes. More smiles. When Lydia reached the front of the car she ventured a look back. The man had not followed her. Ahead was another Pullman sleeper, also loaded with soldiers, many more solid and steeled than the wisp who was already serving as her guardian.

The sea of uniforms gave her a sense of security. Lydia gained confidence. Alex was up there, she thought, only a hundred feet away. The man who had killed Edward was relaxing, perhaps taking a Scotch. Enjoying a casual afternoon. But what was he doing here? Lydia wondered. And why San Francisco? Or was he even going there? It dawned on her that Alex might also get off the train in Winslow. If he did, he could disappear forever. And how many more would he kill? How many more women would feel what she felt at this very moment? Anger. Even hate. It made her seethe. Lydia was tired of being weak and ignored. It was time to stand up and fight.

And so she came up with a new plan.

Braun had settled into his tiny room. The flimsy door shut, he was sprawled on a bed three inches shorter than his frame. One arm lay draped over his forehead, a cigarette between thumb and forefinger, while the other hand held Heinrich's papers. He studied them now with ravenous intensity. Braun had tried to sleep, but even with the gentle rocking of the train it was no use. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the incredible light, felt the wind rush over him like a breath from hell.

And if that wasn't enough, he had found more evidence. The steward had delivered a newspaper to his cabin, a local rag called the Albuquerque Journal Braun found the article on page eleven, buried beneath a drab piece about the state budgetary process. "Early this morningy an ammunition magazine exploded near Alamogordo. There were no reports of injuries.. "

Braun was not a newspaper man, but he knew there were deadlines. The blast had taken place at 5:30 this morning, yet there had apparently been a delay. Heinrich's theatrics suggested that 4:00 was the original target. It all made sense — the story had been planted by the War Department. There would have to be some explanation put forward, some account for the few night watchmen and freight train engineers who would undoubtedly witness the event. The article in the paper was further proof about the scope of this Manhattan Project. And proof that the whole thing had not been a dream.

Braun rose from his bunk and stretched. He flicked his cigarette out the window that was cracked open and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. His stomach reminded him that he was neglecting it once again. It was time for a good meal and a decent cigar. He tucked Heinrich's file under the pillow, and gathered up his fresh clothes and shaving gear. A gentleman doesn't go to lunch unclean, he mused. Stepping from his compartment, he locked the door and headed for the washroom.

Thatcher waited thirty minutes before putting through a call to Newport. Sargent Cole confirmed that the train and time were correct. Baffled, Thatcher went to the ticket window. A young girl stood behind the counter, chewing gum and filing her nails.

"Perhaps you could help me," he said. "I'm looking for a young woman who came in on the last train. She's about your height and has dark hair, rather long."

The girl studied Thatcher for a moment before shrugging. "No, sorry mister." She went back to her nails.

Thatcher turned away with a sigh of frustration. Where had Lydia gone? Had she even arrived? He decided to walk down the street and look over the restaurants.

Back at the ticket counter, the young girl watched him from the corner of her eye. She was having a grand time thinking of all the scandalous possibilities. Most likely, Dreamboat had been the boyfriend, and the gimpy Brit soldier was the husband. She blew a bubble and it popped. Any way she figured it, she'd done the girl a big favor. "You owe me one, sister," she giggled under her breath.

Chapter 33

Lydia found the man she wanted in the dining car. Not knowing if Alex might be there as well, she leaned in and beckoned him over with a wave. He saw her, smiled, and came as requested.

"Hello, ma'am. I thought you got off in Albuquerque."

Lydia smiled conspiratorially. She dragged the old black man out of sight and into the next car. "Clifford, I'm so glad to see you!"

He'd been her steward all the way from Chicago. In spite of her mother's constant guidance that servants should "be held to their place," Lydia regularly befriended them, learning about their families and lives. Clifford lived in Chicago, had a wife and six children, and had been with the Santa Fe Line for nineteen years, after twenty with Union Pacific. He was also a very good steward.

"Where are you riding?" he asked. "I didn't see you up front."

"I have a seat in the day coach."

"The day coach? Young lady, what on earth —"

Lydia put a hand to his shoulder and giggled like a schoolgirl. "I need your help, Clifford."

"Help with what, miss?"

"You see, the reason I came out here is because I'm getting married."

"Married?" He smiled. "You never told me that. Well, congratulations!"

"Thank you. The big day is next Sunday in San Francisco."

"You mean you're headin' all the way out to San Francisco in coach?"

"No, no! That's the thing—" Lydia paused for effect and tried to look a bit shameful. "You see, my fiance boarded the train in Albuquerque. He's up front. And he doesn't know I'm here. It's a surprise!"

The steward of nearly forty years understood in an instant. He grinned as old men did when appreciating the good folly of youth. "I see. Who is the lucky fellow?"

Lydia nearly blurted the name before realizing that Alex might have used an alias. "He's tall and blond." To be sure, she added, "With a scar here, on his temple."

"Ah! Mr. Holloway. Yeah, he's in my section."

"Oh, that's wonderful! Clifford, will you do this for me — watch him, and when he leaves his room, come get me and let me in. It'll knock his socks off to open the door and find me there."

The old fellow chuckled, "I seen a lot of things in my time — but all right, miss. You wait right here."

Clifford came back right away. "He's out of his room now."

"He's not in the dining car, is he? I want it to be a surprise."

"No, ma'am. I checked on my way back. He must be up front in the lounge."

"All right."

He led her through the dining car. Lydia was forced to nod when she recognized a woman, a boorish old dragon who'd gotten on in Kansas City. Once in the first-class car, Clifford stopped and knocked on a door. She must have looked frightened, because Clifford said, "Don't worry. I'm just making sure." There was no response, and Clifford used his pass key to open the door. Lydia slipped inside, and as he slid it closed the old man gave her a knowing wink.

Lydia turned the lock and sighed heavily. There, she thought. Now what? Alex could come back at any moment. She was scared, but also exhilarated. She'd put herself in the devil's own lair —

now she had to make good use of it. Where is Alex heading? Lydia wondered. What is he up to?

She went straight to two drawers that were built into the teak room divider and found a pair of socks, an undershirt, and a pack of cigarettes. In the narrow closet was a jacket. Nothing more. Lydia scanned desperately around the room. His ticket was on a small table. San Francisco, one way. Just as the agent had told her. There has to be something else! A newspaper on the bed caught her eye. And then she saw something edging out from under the pillow.

Lydia pulled out a stack of papers. On top was a handwritten letter. She leafed through the rest and saw papers covered with equations and diagrams. It all looked terribly scientific. She had taken the basic sciences in school, so Lydia recognized a few chemical symbols, but the balance, a mountain of Greek letters and formulas, were undecipherable.

She went back to the letter on top and began to read. Rainer… a German name, she thought … Our plan is progressing well. In this bag are the documents you asked for. They are enough to convince anyone with a background in the field that my information about the Manhattan Project is invaluable. I have also detailed everything I know with regard to my travel plans. We must meet on the island of Guam. The ship we discussed will make port at 9:00 a. M. on July 27th. I will come ashore with everything at the first opportunity. From there we must rendezvous with the others —

Lydia heard footsteps approaching. They stopped outside the door. She looked around the room in a panic. The only place to hide was in the closet, but it looked incredibly narrow. A key jingled in the lock. There wasn't time to do anything. Lydia froze in panic.

"I beg your pardon." Braun pulled his key out of the lock and put his back to the door, allowing an attractive woman and her toddler to pass in the narrow corridor.

The woman smiled, perhaps more than she should have, and her reply was packaged in the Deep South, "Why, thank you, sir."

She continued away, holding the hand of her son. Or perhaps a nanny with her ward, Braun mused. He paused for a moment to enjoy the view before putting his key back in the lock. Once in his room, he closed the door behind him and stuffed his shaving gear and dirty clothes into a drawer. Braun hoped the food here was decent. He was due a good meal. He turned to go back out, but then remembered that a jacket was required in the dining car. His hand had just reached the closet handle when someone knocked on the door. Instinctively, he came alert.

"Who is it?"

"Steward, Mr. Holloway."

He opened the door to see the familiar black man holding a bottle of Champagne and two glasses, a towel draped over one arm. "What is it?" Braun said.

The steward held out the bottle, but looked perplexed. He seemed to be searching the cabin over Braun's shoulder. "Urn… compliments of the Santa Fe Line, sir."

Braun took the bottle and glasses tentatively. "Thank you."

The steward scurried away.

Braun closed the door. Champagne? Two glasses?" Something is not right," he hissed rhetorically. He felt a familiar rush, the glandular surge that kicked in when disaster was imminent. His heightened senses registered the next warning. A smell — perfume. The brand Lydia favored. He remembered the woman who had just walked by with the child — had she been wearing it? Or am I being paranoid? He saw the answer to that question on his bed. Heinrich's papers were lying in a loose pile. He had put them under the pillow! Someone had been in his room! Braun burst out to the corridor and spotted the steward.

"You!"

Chapter 34

Thatcher paced aimlessly around the station, still looking for Lydia. Another train was due to arrive soon and the place had gotten busier. He'd been waiting hours, far longer than it would have taken for Lydia to eat and come back. Something had gone wrong.

The porter he'd first spoken to was approaching with a trunk on a dolly. Thatcher was wondering what else he could ask the young man when he noticed the trunk's monogram — LBC.

He stopped the porter. "Excuse me! Whose trunk is that?"

"A young lady's."

"Medium height, dark hair, well-dressed?"

"Yes, sir. From back East, I'd say. It was strange. She asked me to take her trunk to the curb, but then never came for it. I have to take it to the unclaimed baggage room. Are you with her?"

"Yes, yes — so you didn't see her after she pointed out her luggage?"

"Actually, I did. I saw her at the ticket window. I figured she was buying a return ticket — people do that — but then I never saw her again."

Thatcher gave the man a dollar. "Right. Look after that bag."

He went to the ticket window. An older man was now in charge. "Excuse me," Thatcher said, "there was a girl working here earlier. Do you know where she is?" Once again, Thatcher was glad to be wearing his uniform.

The man was nearly bald with a small, compressed face. He looked Thatcher over and a starched, managers frown fell across his features. "What's she done now?"

"Its nothing serious. I only need to speak with her."

The agent's eyes went outside and Thatcher followed them. He saw the girl across the street, walking away with a purse under one arm. She was done for the day. "Thank you!"

He caught up before she reached the first side street. "Excuse me! Miss!"

She turned.

Thatcher was sure the man back at the ticket window was watching. He stopped a few steps away, eyeing the girl like a father who'd just caught his daughter sneaking back in a window at three in the morning. It worked. Her shoulders drooped in defeat.

"This is very important," Thatcher insisted.

Her jaw fell still, as if the energy she put into her gum had to be transferred to arrange her thoughts. "Okay, yeah. I did see that woman you were asking about. She was in a big hurry to buy a ticket on the train that was about to leave."

"A ticket? Going where?"

"To San Francisco."

"San Francisco?" He muttered rhetorically, "Why on earth would she be going there?"

The young girl must have heard. "To be with her boyfriend."

"Her what7"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Tall, blond, dreamy. Look mister, I hate to be the one to break it to you —"

"A scar! Did he have a scar, here?" Thatcher touched his temple.

"So you know about him. I don't like getting in the middle of—"

She didn't get the chance to finish her words. The girl watched as the little Brit dashed across the street as fast as his gimpy leg would take him.

"Someone's been in my room!"

Lydia heard Alex's voice boom from the passageway. She squirmed out of the closet, finally able to breathe. Hed been so close — his hand on the closet door, only inches away!

Lydia knew she had to move. She curled her head into the corridor and saw Alex up front — he had poor Clifford pinned up against the wall and was shouting accusations. She hoped it was enough of a distraction. With only a few steps she could disappear through the door that led to the next car.

Lydia bolted, thankful for the carpet that muffled her sturdy low heels. Just as she reached the door, a little boy burst through squealing with glee. A moment later his mother came running in chase. Lydia looked over her shoulder. Her eyes met Alex's. For an instant, there was fury in his face as he let go of Clifford. But then there was control.

He put a hand to the steward's collar and straightened it, then said something in a quiet voice. Lydia couldn't hear, but she put herself in his place. She imagined his upper school accent — Look, old boyy I'm terribly sorry about all this. I'll go have a word with the young woman and straighten things out. Please lock my room for me, and see to it that no one else gets in. He began walking toward her.

Lydia burst through the door in a panic. Heads swiveled to gawk as she ran through the Pullmans. She looked back at the end of each car, but didn't see Alex. Lydia knew he would come. She kept moving, wanting to get as far away as possible, desperate for time to think. She slowed when she reached the day coach. There, one tiny set of eyes went straight to her — the terrible wretch who'd been staring at her. Lydia looked for Tommy. He was gone.

She pressed on, her eyes straight ahead, but feeling the stranger's awful stare. She wondered again if he was working with Alex. He might be a German spy. He might be anything. She passed him and kept going, frantic to get away from them both. At the end of the car, a door led outside to the back platform. She looked through the window and saw Tommy having a smoke at the back railing. Thank God, she thought. Lydia rushed outside.

Tommy turned and smiled. "Well, hello." His voice was loud enough to overcome the clacking din of the train. Then his smile evaporated. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She didn't know what to say.

"Is that guy bothering you again? I had a little chat with him. He a slimy type, some kind of traveling salesman. But I set him straight."

"Oh, thank you, Tommy. Did he… did he have an accent of any sort?"

"Accent?"

"Yes, you know, like a foreign accent?"

"Naw. He was straight Midwest. You want me to go lean on him some more?"

"No, no. I—"

The door burst open and Alex appeared. Lydia backed away to the iron railing on one side. He stood still for a moment, clearly gauging the situation. More than ever Lydia wanted to get away, but there was nowhere to go. The train was traveling at full speed, and when she looked over the railing it was a blur of rocks, gravel, and iron. She would never survive a jump.

It only took Alex a moment. He relaxed. He nodded to Tommy as if they were at a dinner party. Alex pulled out a cigarette case and effortlessly held it toward Lydia. As he did, there was something in his eye, a knowing look, a slight gesture toward Tommy. He was telling her something. She shook her head to the offering and suddenly understood. He was going to kill her, of course. That was a given. The question was whether it would be necessary to kill the soldier as well. He was allowing Lydia a chance to spare the boy.

Strangely, these thoughts made her realize something. She knew Alex, and was beginning to think like him. What if she screamed? Alex had already made the calculations. He had placed himself between her and Tommy. He would strike her down and throw her off the train. Tommy, being a soldier, wasn't trained to raise an alarm. He would naturally attack Alex. And he was no match. Alex was in complete control.

She leaned back against the railing and searched desperately for a way out. Looking ahead, she caught a glimpse of where the train was headed. She saw something that made her mind spin. If I can think like Alex, weigh every angle — it might work.

"Tommy," she blurted, "this is my husband, Alex."

Alex raised an eyebrow. Tommy looked rather crestfallen, but put out a hand. Alex shook it.

"Tommy Moore. I'm headed out to the Pacific."

Alex smiled. The amiable Alex, hands deep in the pockets of his khaki pants. Moments ago he'd been rousting a porter — now he was at his gregarious best. He said, "No more Nazis to worry about, eh?"

Lydia said, "Alex and I are on our honeymoon, aren't we darling?"

Alex nodded, the luckiest man alive.

"Congratulations," Tommy said, flicking his cigarette butt off the back of the train. He edged toward the door.

Lydia took another glance ahead. She needed another minute.

"Alex was in the war in Europe, weren't you darling? What was your unit?"

Alex hesitated. He knew she was up to something. "The Forty-eighth Transportation Regiment. Not quite the Eighty-second Airborne, but we played our part. Now, dear, I'd like to have a private word with you."

Lydia felt it happening. The front of the train had hit the steep hill. Lydia knew about trains. The speed at which they were traveling would be cut in half during the climb. Just a little longer.

Tommy had had enough. "It was good to meet you both." He disappeared into the coach.

Alex looked through the window. Hes making sure the coast is clear. Their own car was still level, not yet on the incline. The clanging of the wheels over the rail changed cadence, slowing like a clock that needed winding, nearing the end of its spring. Alex hadn't noticed it yet. She still needed more time.

"I had to find you," she blurted. "I had to see you again."

Alex stood at ease, a few steps away. He was completely confident — a cat happy to toy with a cornered mouse. "You've always been hopeless, Lydia. How did you find me?"

"I remembered when you were looking at the map in the library. Your finger was on Santa Fe. And that Major Thatcher said you might come here. I had to try and warn you."

"Warn me?"

"They're looking for you everywhere."

Behind the steel eyes she saw his thoughts turning.

"Why, Lydia? Why are you here?"

She allowed her head a tilt. "Isn't it obvious? I love you, Alex."

There! She saw it. A shift in his gaze. His thoughts had lost focus. "The last time I saw you, I'd just sent you tumbling down a staircase," he argued.

"I know. You panicked, like I did when I ran from your room just now." She kept her gaze locked to Alex, not allowing him to concentrate on the surroundings. "And what you did to Edward, as awful as it was — I know you did it so we could be together."

"You can't believe—" his eyes narrowed. "If you came here to warn me, then why were digging through my papers? Why were you in my room?"

Lydia's mind raced. Just a few more seconds. "Didn't you see the champagne? The two glasses? When I sat on the bed, the papers were there. I'm sorry if I messed them up."

Silence. A distracted gaze. The platform tilted slightly. They had reached the rise. Lydia moved quickly She vaulted over the railing and got a footing outside. Leaning back, her hands clung to the platform, stretching for every possible second. Below, the rail bed was a blur. She heard the wheels churning and grinding just below her feet. All of it was dangerous, but less so than the man on the platform.

Her action had frozen Alex. He hadn't expected it. They stared at one another for an instant before Alex understood. His blue eyes came sharp, their raw intensity issuing the first strike. The same eyes Edward would have seen.

Alex lunged, his speed catching her by surprise. One hand snagged her shoulder, snapping shut like a bear trap. She was hanging free, her feet still firm, pushing away, but Alex tearing and ripping from across the iron railing. A foot slipped loose and she saw the huge metal wheel spinning below. Lydia twisted wildly, not knowing where she would fall. Not caring. Just get away!

Lydia s other foot slipped, and her legs slammed against the frame of the car, inches from the wheels. Alex pulled and clawed from the other side, his fingers digging into her flesh. He refused to give up. Amid the clattering mechanical noise she heard the sound of fabric tearing. And then Lydia fell.

She crashed to the ground, tumbling and rolling. Limbs thrashed and flailed, scraping across gravel and down the incline of the rail bed. When it finally stopped, Lydia lay motionless, crumpled in a heap.

She felt pain in every sinew of her body. She tasted blood in her mouth. All of it proved the unlikely truth — that she was still alive. Lydia forced her eyes open. Amid the dust, she saw the train a hundred feet away, climbing the hill. And she saw Alex, leaning on the railing, watching her intently.

Lydia wished she was closer, to see the look on his face. As the top of the train crested the hill, she spit out a mouthful of blood and moved. First an arm underneath, then a shift of a leg. The pain was awful, but using every reserve Lydia did it. In sheer defiance, she stood and stared at Alexander Braun.

Chapter 35

The conductor gave his notice: "Winslow, Arizona, ten minutes!"

Braun would be ready. He had already apologized to the steward and, on hearing his side of the story, devised an explanation. He and his fiancee had just suffered their first row, and dear Lydia was presently brooding back in the day coach. She would come around soon.

There had been no alarms raised. Not yet. But Braun had to get off the train — he was running through a minefield. Tommy, the steward — and Lydia. Her perfume still lingered as he stuffed his belongings into his suitcase. The vision came again. Lydia, bloody and battered, standing by the track. Damny why cant I shake it?

It had been a stunning performance. I had to try and warn you … Isn't it obvious? I love youy Alex. He had listened like a fool as she'd waited for the train to slow, waited for her chance. She had known he wouldn't follow — he had to stay with the train and the papers. A perfectly cunning deduction. Lydia. Witless, feeble Lydia! Braun slammed the suitcase shut, furious. But not because she'd gotten the better of him. He knew it was far more serious.

The train drew to a stop in a cloud of steam. Braun saw a station outside. The sign read: winslow arizona elevation: 4,940.

He got off the train and instantly went to work, driving away what had happened. He had to work fast. There were no other trains on the siding — a westbound freight would have been ideal. Outside, he saw a truck carrying rock. He could jump into the bed, but it might be headed anywhere. Echoes from Frau Schumann. Crowded places are best. He needed a population center, a place to get lost.

A bus was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes, bound eventually for Los Angeles. He found a timetable and mentally recorded every stop it would make on the way. Braun walked quickly across the street. In a gift: shop he found a map of Arizona. Braun studied it against the route he had just memorized. He could not stay on the bus long — the authorities would surely track it down. But he had to leave now, and it seemed the only way.

Braun went back to the station and purchased a ticket all the way through to Los Angeles. He boarded the bus, which was nearly empty, and kept the suitcase close by. He vowed never to let the papers out of his sight again.

When the bus left the station, he closed his eyes. Braun tried to deconstruct everything, tried to make his actuary's appraisal of the events on the train. But the disturbing vision intruded. He saw her hanging outside the railing. He saw her fall to the rocks below. Braun had stood with a torn sleeve in one hand before rushing to the back. He watched Lydia tumble and roll like a rag doll, her body battering down the embankment. His hands had clutched the iron railing with a force that might have bent it. When Lydia finally stopped her twisting, turning plunge, she remained still. Perfectly still.

And then Braun had done the most unimaginable thing. The thing that had absolutely puzzled him ever since. To a God he had never believed in, he'd prayed that Lydia would survive. And when she stood — wobbling, bleeding, but alive — he had felt the most indescribable joy.

A flurry of telephone calls ran between Michael Thatcher, Sargent Cole, and Tomas Jones. The local authorities caught up with the Western Express just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. It was a spot where Route 66 paralleled the rail line. Four police cruisers, the town's full complement, along with five officers frantically waving their arms, were enough to convince the engineer to apply his brakes.

The authorities searched the train for nearly an hour, giving particular interest to one first-class cabin. Interviews with the passengers and rail employees confirmed that a tall, blond man had in fact been on the train, but no one had seen him since Winslow. The officials also noted the absence of a young woman, identified as Lydia Murray, who was supposed to have been on board. Radio calls were made, and the information relayed by wire. The focus of the investigation quickly recentered thirty miles east, back in Winslow.

Seeing their job as done, the Flagstaff police pulled back and stood to watch as the train gathered steam once again. None took notice as a nearly empty Greyhound bus eased behind them on Route 66 and coasted into town.

A trucker carrying a load of hay found Lydia at dusk, limping alongside the road. She told the man her story, which was backed up by her miserable condition, and the driver made best time to Winslow. There, Lydia retold everything to the sheriff, who'd been looking for her. They all tried to guess where Alexander Braun had gone.

At seven that evening, Thatcher arrived at the station. He walked straight over, put his hands on her shoulders, and studied her with clear concern. Lydia understood — she had already been to the mirror. There were scrapes across one side of her face, cuts and bruises scattered all over her body. Her right elbow was severely swollen, but that was at least hidden by the shirt she had on, lent to her by one of the lawmen.

"Good Lord, you've been in another scrap. What happened?"

"I found him, Michael. I found Alex."

He took her by the elbow — the one that didn't hurt — and guided her to a quiet corner. The station was tiny, a wood and plaster square that might have been built a hundred years ago.

There were two officers on duty, both filling out paperwork to explain the day s lively events. Lydia recounted her story, Thatcher taking in every word.

"Damn! I'm sorry, Lydia. I must have arrived at the station in Albuquerque just a few minutes too late."

"I definitely could have used your help. When I saw Alex I didn't know what to do. I'm afraid I acted without thinking. It was terribly impulsive, wasn't it?"

"It was brave."

Lydia thought the word sounded strange. Had it been? Was that what bravery was — impulsiveness in the name of good cause?

"At least you found him," Thatcher continued. "That's more than I've managed in the last week. Tell me, have you talked to your father? He's been worried about you."

"Yes, I already called him. He insisted that I come straight home."

"I see. That's probably for the best."

Best for who? Lydia thought. She had nearly been killed, but she'd finally done something useful. If Alex had managed to leave Albuquerque unseen, he might have been lost forever. Lydia had found him, sent him scrambling.

"I have to tell you about the papers," she said, "the ones I found under his pillow."

"Papers?"

"Yes. I told you I went into his room. There was a stack of papers under his pillow. They were scientific — equations and formulas. On top was a letter addressed to someone called Rainer. That's a German name, isn't it?"

Thatcher nodded, "Usually."

"The letter said the papers were important. It was all about something called the Manhattan Project. Do you know what that is?"

Thatcher's gaze drifted.

"What's wrong?"

"Something I've suspected for a while — but this proves it.

The Manhattan Project is a tremendous undertaking by your government. Its a new weapon, very secret. All along we've been chasing Braun because we considered him a threat to this project. But think about it — sabotage is no use. Germany has lost. And now we know he's met with a German spy in New Mexico."

"That's where the letter and papers came from?"

"Almost certainly. Was this letter signed? Did you see a name?"

Lydia tried to remember, but nothing came. "No, I never got that far."

"So Braun and this agent have somehow stolen information about the project."

"But there's no one to give it to," Lydia said.

"Isn't there?"

"You just said it yourself — Germany is finished."

"Yes," Thatcher rubbed his forehead, "but it could have terrific value. What else can you remember?"

Lydia squeezed her eyes shut.

"Something about a ship making port for a meeting. And that I'm sure about — nine a. M. on July twenty-seventh."

He swiveled his head, and then pointed to a day calendar hanging crookedly on the station wall. "That's next Friday. What else? Where? What was the name of the ship?"

She tried to recall.

"We know when, but without knowing where —"

"Guam!" Lydia spat out.

"Guam? The island? That's in the middle of the Pacific Ocean."

"Is it? So what can we do?"

She watched Thatcher's taught features strain as he considered the options.

"Excuse me, miss," someone said.

Lydia turned. It was one of the deputies. "Yes?"

"We're down to our last car, so I've got to run Ed over to the train depot — he needs to ask a few questions. Normally, I'd lock up, but if you two want to stay that's okay by me."

Lydia looked at Thatcher, who said, "We dont have anywhere to go at the moment, so if you don't mind we'll stay."

"No problem," he said, putting on his gun belt. "I'll be back in twenty minutes." The two men left.

Before she and Thatcher could resume their conversation, the telephone rang. They looked at one another. Lydia shrugged and picked up the handset.

"Winslow Sheriff's Department," she said.

"Hello, I need to speak to whoever's in charge."

Lydia thought the voice sounded vaguely familiar. Then it came.

"This is Tomas Jones, FBI. It's quite urgent."

"Um… one minute, sir."

She held the phone to her chest, and her eyes went wide. "It's him!" she whispered harshly.

"Who?" Thatcher mouthed.

"Jones! He wants to talk to the sheriff."

Thatcher frowned, then said quietly, "Tell him the sheriff just left, but you'll take a message." He put an ear next to hers so they could both hear.

"I'm afraid he just left, sir. May I take a message?"

"Where is he?"

"Um—"

Thatcher fumbled across the desk for a pencil and scribbled — Looking for German spy.

Lydia caught up. "He's out looking for a German spy."

"Right. Any luck yet?"

Thatcher shook his head, then wrote — And you?

Lydia nodded. "No, sir. Does the FBI have any information about the suspect I should pass along to the sheriff?"

"No. We're looking, but nothing yet. I have a pair of men headed your way from Phoenix — they should arrive soon. Have the sheriff give them whatever they need so we can find this guy once and for all."

"Of course, sir."

"There's a young woman, Lydia Murray. I understand you have her at the station?"

Lydia nearly giggled. "Yes, she's right here." She immediately regretted the answer, realizing that Jones might ask to speak to her. Lydia was contemplating a change of voice when Jones let her off the hook.

"Good. Keep track of her. Her father is a bigwig back East — he's coming out to collect her."

"Okay."

"Oh, and one more thing. There's an Englishman, a Major Michael Thatcher — has he turned up there?"

"Not that I know of, Mr. Jones."

"Well if he does, arrest him. Immigration charges — whatever the sheriff can come up with. We want him."

"Is he a spy too?" Lydia prodded mischievously.

"No, just a danged pain in the ass."

Before hanging up, Jones gave a number where he could be reached.

"All right, Mr. Jones, I'll have the sheriff get in touch if we find anything. Good-bye."

Lydia put the phone to the cradle and looked at Thatcher. She saw a slight curl at the corners of his mouth. They burst out laughing at the same time. Lydia bent at the waist, the laughter aggravating her pain, but there was nothing she could do. After all that had happened it felt incredibly good.

She said, "I can't believe I just did that."

He wore a satisfied smile. "You should do it more often."

"Lie to the FBI?"

"No, laugh."

She sighed. "I used to do it a lot. But lately—" Lydia paused, not able to finish the thought. She began to ponder what would happen next. "My father is on the way, Michael. He'll tell me I've had my little adventure, and now it's time to go home."

He looked at her pensively. Lydia knew what he was thinking.

"Of course, I have my passport," she said. "I never travel without it."

"Nor do I," he replied. "What we really need is transportation. I think it's time I put through a call to my boss in England."

Thirty minutes later, the sheriff arrived to find two FBI men outside his station. They all went inside and found a note tacked to the wall by his desk.

Chapter 36

The Russian Consulate in San Francisco was a nondescript affair, its modest Victorian facade blending nicely among a row of similar buildings. Surrounded by a fence, the narrow entrance was just wide enough for a pathway that could be flanked by a pair of guards.

The two on duty had every reason to be happy young men — happy to have spent the war battling the menace of capitalism in northern California, as opposed to the Wehrmacht on the European front. Here, the food was plentiful, the weather agreeable, and the guards had little to do beyond scheming with regard to how they could extend their assignments.

That being the case, as the two stood with rifles hung loosely over their shoulders, one was chatting up the ambassador's daughter. She was a plump cow who might have been doomed to spinsterdom if not for her father's lofty position. The other soldier had his nose buried in a Russian-to-English dictionary. He gave particular attention to certain vital words — girl, movie, beer, bed — along with a few verbs to encourage the sequence. Neither man saw the brick coming.

It slid across the sidewalk at considerable speed, hit a rut, and tumbled the last few yards, coming to rest directly at the feet of the language student. He was surprised enough to lower his book, but not so much as to grip his Kalashnikov which was, in fact, not even loaded. He scanned the busy sidewalk just outside the gate. People were scurrying about, and two cars had just passed — a sedan in one direction and a taxi in the other. He first thought that it was an insult of sorts, a pathetic little political statement. He hadn't seen much of it in his two years here, but Russia and America were becoming less allied and more estranged with each passing day. He looked to his partner, who hadn't even noticed.

"Andrei!"

The other man broke away from his shmoozing.

"What?"

"Look! Someone just threw this at us!" He pointed to the brick.

"What do you mean?"

The student picked it up. Strangely, an envelope was wrapped around the brick, secured with rubber bands. It was addressed in English: The Consul General. These words he had been required to learn some time ago.

His partner came over and looked at the brick, then out to the street. The ambassador's daughter got involved next. With one look, she snatched it away.

"Give me that, you idiots! It might be important."

She disappeared into the embassy, leaving the two guards staring at each other in her wake. They said it in English, and in unison.

"Bitch!'

Pavel Kovalenko sat at his desk feeling troubled. It was his Russian nature to be a pessimist, but the more he pondered his future, the more depressed he became. Officially, he was the Russian Consulate's charge d'affaires, a diplomatically useful title that masked his true position — Kovalenko was the head local officer of The People's Commissariat of Internal Affairs, better known in the west as the NKVD. It was Russia's internal security service, tasked to keep a watchful eye over every military unit and diplomatic outpost in the world. Or as Stalin was fond of saying, "Even the purest of revolutions require counsel."

Kovalenko was a colonel, a recent promotion that his wife had begged him to decline. As if there had been a choice. He had long worked under the illusion that the higher up one rose in an organization, the more secure life would be. Perhaps in America, he thought, but not in the People s Commissariat. Here, each promotion brought greater responsibility, but also greater uncertainty. Screwups at this level met a very unkind end, and war had only magnified the stress. Still, Kovalenko reckoned, things could be worse. There were hundreds of NKVD colonels right now enduring far less desirable circumstances — harassing the Red Army, busting heads in Gulags.

Pushing the work on his desk away, he looked out the window. It framed a wonderful view of the Presidio. Kovalenko liked America. He often imagined that he might have gone far in this country. Here, he would have been a businessman, the Ford Motor Company, perhaps. As it was, Kovalenko remained, in best terms, a bureaucrat. He sighed, and decided he needed something. What would a capitalist magnate do?

"Irina! Coffee!" he bellowed through the door to his secretary.

She acknowledged the request.

"And no cream," he added, looking down at his waistline. It seemed like he was finding a new notch on his belt each week. Kovalenko was a broad man, strapping in his younger days — but the straps had begun to loosen at a disturbing pace. Nearing fifty, the years had turned against him, his hair coming full gray, framing a wide Slavic face that had recently acquired jowls. It was all related to the stress of the job, he decided.

These were his weary thoughts when Katya, the ambassador's daughter, burst in. The girl was a pain in the ass, but smart enough to know the true order of things — it was not her father, but Kovalenko who ran this little outpost. She slammed a brick onto his desk theatrically.

Kovalenko saw the attached envelope, addressed to the counsel general. "Where did this come from?" he demanded.

"Someone just threw it at our guards." Katya then smiled wryly. "Unfortunately, they missed."

Kovalenko picked it up, slid off two rubber bands, and weighed the envelope in his hand. It seemed rather heavy. He started to open it, but then saw Katya looking on eagerly. He nodded sharply to the door, shooing her away. With a pout, she waddled off and disappeared.

Kovalenko opened the envelope. Inside were ten pages, all in English, the same meticulous, handwritten script. Kovalenko's English was reasonably good, but much of what he saw was scientific jargon, symbols and equations. On the last page was a cryptic message. Embarcadero, South end. One person only. 21 July 3:00 p. M.

Two days from now, Kovalenko thought. Someone was giving him time. Time to send this information, whatever it was, to a higher level. He read through it all once more, but the science escaped him. Perhaps a professor from one of the universities, he reckoned, trying to sell his research. Or give it away — there were any number of communists in the local academic community. At any rate, it might be important. There was only one thing to do.

He wrote a short, concise statement regarding how the papers had arrived at the consulate. Kovalenko then put it all into a folder. He trundled downstairs to the basement communications room. The officer on duty, a new woman, was sound asleep. She had probably been here all night. It struck him that she was not unattractive — his wife had been in Moscow for the last six months. Never one to miss an opportunity, he gently rubbed her back. "Wake up, dear."

She did. "Um… sir, I'm sorry. I was—"

"It's all right. Take these papers. There are formulas and diagrams, but encode as much as you can, then send it to headquarters."

Straightening up, she looked over it. "There are ten or twelve pages here. It will take—"

"Whatever it takes, please do it!" he ordered, not allowing his libido to sidetrack what had to be done. "And secure it in the safe when you are finished."

He left the room feeling lighter. It occurred to him that the entire matter might be a test. Headquarters relished that kind of thing. If so, everything had been done squarely by the book. Pavel Kovalenko had nothing to worry about.

A soft tropical breeze blew across Karl Heinrich's nearly bald head as he rode in the Navy skiff across Pearl Harbor. Things were already getting better, he thought. He'd only been in Hawau one day, yet for the first time in a year his skin was not cracked from dryness.

In the distance, moored just off Ford Island, was the USS Indianapolis. Heinrich had seen her pull into port this morning, a brute among brutes. But now, as he closed in, she looked even bigger, her gray hull looming like a sleek mountain against the backdrop of the country's biggest debacle.

To Americans, including the scientists at Los Alamos, it was still the war cry: "Remember Pearl Harbor/" Heinrich had expected to see Armageddon, a junkyard of scuttled relics. Arizona and Utah remained, but there were few other telltales of that day nearly four years ago. Now, the place buzzed with activity — ships, aircraft, and soldiers everywhere. Pearl was back in business, a through point for the tools of America's war machine. And Heinrich knew there was no bigger tool in the box than the sledgehammer that lay in two containers on the ship in front of him — 20,000 kilotons. That was the new estimate for Little Boy.

Heinrich had stayed in New Mexico for two days after the Trinity test. Information was analyzed, calculations made. The next atomic blast would be the one that counted, the one the world would see, and the results of Trinity had to be incorporated to maximize every effect. He carried with him the final guidance for the team that would assemble the bomb on Tinian. The precise altitude for fusing — 580 meters. Options for delivery geometry, with respect to terrain and time of day. Fine tuning, Heinrich thought of it, as one would a radio station that suffered heavy static — only with far more barbaric results. These new figures were in the suitcase chained to his wrist. The same suitcase that held a massive compilation of secrets regarding the entire program.

The vision of the Trinity test was still fixed in his mind. Heinrich had watched the incredible success from one of the observation bunkers. After his initial shock, a strange corollary had come to mind. He remembered, perhaps a year ago, seeing a newsreel about Germany's V-1 rocket. The film had showed the rocket blasting skyward, then broke away to show Hitler as he reveled in the spectacle. The Fuhrer had clasped his hands together in joy, delighted at the new strength his scientists had given him. If only he could have witnessed, Heinrich imagined, the power that I will give the Fatherland.

The skiff pulled alongside Indianapolis, coming to rest at a boarding platform. Dull gray armor seemed to rise straight to the sky. Yet while the ship had appeared sleek and modern from a distance, up close Indianapolis showed her scars. Fittings above the waterline spewed brown water, staining the gray steel. Rust was evident along joints and creases, and the hull itself carried any number of dents and lesions. She had been to the battles.

Heinrich spotted a familiar face from Los Alamos on the boarding platform. Major Lynn, U. S. Army, had been placed in charge of security for the voyage.

"Hello, Dr. Heinrich," he called.

Heinrich waved. "Hello, Major."

Lynn took Heinrich's second bag, containing his personal effects, as the scientist clambered awkwardly over a gangplank, the heavier case clutched to his chest.

"Welcome aboard. How was your trip?"

"Oh, fine," Heinrich said. "And yours? The crossing has been uneventful?"

"A little weather, but nothing severe." Lynn guided him to a passageway. "Let's get you bivouacked."

Lynn led through a maze of passageways under the ship's stern quarter. Heinrich had never been on such a large vessel, and he marveled at the complexity of it all. Over the narrow corridor, dim lights were encased in protective frames of steel wire, providing light in muted economy. Ventilation ducts and bundles of wires snaked across the ceiling. Every so often he was forced to step up and through an oval steel doorway. He guessed that these were the watertight doors he had always heard about, used to separate the compartments if sections of the ship began to flood. The thought was discomforting, and for the first time Heinrich felt a pang of fear not related to his being a spy — he was about to enter a war zone.

"Are our quarters higher up?" he asked.

Lynn spoke over his shoulder, "Yep. We're up in captain's country. That's what they call it around here. But first I want to show you something."

Lynn's feet clomped across the hard steel floor as he navigated stark, utilitarian passageways. He paused at an intersection, looked left and right, and then scratched his head.

"What is it?" Heinrich asked.

"Damn Navy," he said in a low voice. "They don't put up signs to tell you which way is which. I've never been on this deck before."

An enlisted man came by. "Can I help you, sir?"

Lynn said, "No, no thanks." After the navy man was gone he turned to Heinrich and said, "I'll figure it out."

Heinrich made a note of this. The ship was huge, complex. The moment might come when he would need to know his way around. He'd have to find some kind of diagram. Or, if necessary, he would explore and make his own — the physicist had solved far more complex problems in his time.

Lynn climbed a staircase and eased through another watertight door. Heinrich followed awkwardly, the heavy case clattering from side to side as he went up. At the top he found Lynn in a wider passageway.

"Indy is the flagship of the Fifth Fleet," the American explained. "This is the Flag Staff Quarters, although they're not in residence. We're on our own for this cruise." He led to a door labeled: flag lieutenant. Two large men in uniform — Heinrich thought they might be Marines — were standing watch. They came to attention as Major Lynn approached.

"At ease, boys. This is Dr. Heinrich. He's one of the scientists who helped build this thing. I'd like to let him in for a minute."

One of the guards became spokesman, "All right, sir. But you'll have to escort him. Those are our orders. Nobody goes in without you."

"Sure." Lynn led the way through the door.

Heinrich followed. He smiled and nodded at the guards, but said nothing as he passed. He had learned long ago to keep quiet in the presence of such men. His accent was severe, and while his peers at Los Alamos accepted his nationality freely, not all Americans were so accepting.

The room inside was small, but looked larger because everything had been stripped out. It was simply a rectangular space, a few fasteners hanging from the walls to suggest where a bunk or desk might have been mounted. There was, in fact, only one thing in the entire room — a lead bucket, roughly two feet high, and slightly less in circumference. It was strapped securely to anchor points in the floor. Lynn parked at the door.

Heinrich went closer to the bucket. He knew what was inside. It was the stack — nine uranium rings, each 6.25 inches in diameter, with a 4-inch hole in the center, all held in a 7-inch high canister.

The heavy lid was free, no locks to secure it in place. He looked over his shoulder at Major Lynn. "May I?"

"You helped make it. But are you sure it's okay — I mean with the radiation and all?"

"Uranium 235 has a long half-life, Major, which means the rate of decay is extremely slow. Brief exposures are quite acceptable."

The officer shrugged, clearly not understanding, but accepting the word of a scientist. Heinrich put his suitcase on the floor and lifted the thick lid slowly, as if expecting a demon to jump out. Inside he saw it — so simple and small, a stack of well-machined metal rings. Nothing to suggest the fireball of hell he had seen at the Trinity test. The ridiculous notion came to his head that he should take it, stuff it in his suitcase. For ten seconds he could feel like the most powerful man in the world. Heinrich replaced the buckets lead top. Noy he thought with satisfaction, I am already that.

Lynn led Heinrich to his quarters.

When they arrived, Heinrich thanked him. "It was kind of you to allow that."

"No problem, but it was a one-time deal. Your two colleagues have been all over it, but I thought you should at least get one look, Dr. Heinrich. I know how hard you worked."

"You don't know the half of it."

"The other crate, the big one, is up in a hangar on deck. Of course, that one's not much to look at — just a bunch of hardware and wires."

"Indeed."

"Oh, your buddies wanted me to pass along that they'd meet you in the officer's mess at five."

Price and Hudson, both engineers, had escorted the components all the way from Los Alamos. "I will be there," Heinrich said.

"We've had a safe installed in your room. You can keep your papers there. Set the combination to whatever you like — the instructions are on top."

Heinrich saw the industrial gray steel box bolted to the floor in a corner. "Yes, that is good." Very good.

Twenty minutes later Karl Heinrich was settled. He stretched out on his bunk and stared accusingly at the vent in the ceiling. Little, if any, air was circulating. The room was hot and uncomfortable, and he felt his clothes already sticking to his skin. Heinrich sighed. It was a small thing. He had to appreciate the rest — everything was going according to plan. Perfectly.

He began to drift off, feeling the toll of his travels. Heinrich dreamed about of the coolness of Bavaria, the crispness of summer in the mountains. Like winter in Argentina…

The message to the Russian Consulate came that morning:

Pavel Kovalenko read it only once. He then headed straight to his liquor cabinet.

Chapter 37

Braun watched the Russian pace nervously across the heavy wooden dock at the head of Pier 1. The Embarcadero was busy. Travelers and office workers scurried in and out of the adjacent Ferry Building. Others strolled more casually, tourists and sightseers enjoying the cool, sun drenched afternoon.

It was 3:15, well past the instructed rendezvous time. He saw the man take a flask from his jacket and, none too discretely, take a hard swallow. Braun knew what he was thinking — I don t even know who I'm looking for.

He had been watching the consulate for two days. A small operation, it didn't take long to deduce by the reactions of the guards who was in charge. He had found out the name, Kovalenko, and Braun supposed he was NKVD, though it really wasn't important. He was a marshmallow of a man, at least fifty years old, probably fifty-five. And not very fit — Braun had watched him become winded climbing the hill to the consulate. He had the aspect of a civil servant, not a soldier — Braun suspected he could have found either, and he registered this as a positive.

Today, Kovalenko was not alone. He had brought help, two men who looked in far better shape. At 3:20, Braun decided it was time. He approached from behind, masked by a threesome of chattering women.

Braun spoke in Russian, "Hello, Kovalenko."

Kovalenko turned, tension deep in his soft veneer.

"Hello," he replied.

Up close the man looked even older than Braun had supposed. His cheeks were florid, the eyes bloodshot. He looked like he hadn't slept well. Braun held out an arm, suggesting a stroll. Kovalenko fell in at his side, and Braun set a casual pace. He switched to English, "My Russian is passable, but I think we should use English. Others will pass near. Also, it is important that we have no misunderstandings."

"Of course," Kovalenko replied, his voice surprisingly thin and reedy for such a big man.

"Tell your men to leave."

Kovalenko stuttered, "What do you mean?"

"The one by the Ferry Building, and the other at the end of Market Street. Give them a nod, whatever it takes. Make them go away."

The Russian hesitated.

"Do it now or I will leave!" Braun insisted.

Kovalenko turned and stared obviously at each of his men, shooing them away with a wave of his arm. They looked mystified, so he amplified the effort. The two joined up and, like a pair of hunting dogs with their tails between their legs, disappeared to a side street.

"Now, come with me," Braun said. He took Kovalenko by the elbow and guided him to a waiting taxi.

"Where are we going?" Kovalenko asked, concern clear in his voice.

Braun pushed slightly to get him into the cab. The driver started off — he already had his instructions. Braun looked at the Russian and smiled. "You are going to buy me dinner."

Ten minutes later they walked into Romans, a classically overpriced Italian restaurant.

Braun addressed the maitre d', "You have a table reserved for Kovalenko."

The man nodded and guided them through a nearly empty dining room. They were seated three tables away from the nearest company. Once free of the maitre d', Braun said, "There will not be a crowd for at least two hours. I selected the time of day and the restaurant so that we might speak freely."

Kovalenko was more comfortable now. He said, "How do you know my name?"

"I've been following you for some time. I know your name, where you live, and I know about that little blond tart you see regularly." Braun had, in fact, only seen her once, but it was a reasonable deduction.

Kovalenko kept an even keel. "And you are?"

"Alex will do."

"American?"

"My nationality is a complex thing. And not relevant."

"But you are here to tell me what is?"

"Have you reviewed the documents I sent?"

"Sent?" The Russian grinned. "You make it sound like a postal delivery."

"The purpose was served."

"I passed them on to higher authorities."

"And?"

"And we are interested in what you present. I've been told that if you have as much information as you claim, we can pay handsomely for it."

The waiter approached with menus. Braun said, "I will put this to a test." He addressed the waiter, "Barolo, 1939." The waiter nodded and disappeared.

"Nineteen dollars," Braun said.

Kovalenko frowned. "I am trying to remember how much I have in my wallet." He gave a Slavic shrug. "Perhaps we should enjoy a good meal first. We can talk business afterward."

"Why not?"

Braun ordered veal, Kovalenko, the duck. The two made small talk, casual banter about the future of Russia and Europe, and how the Americans would pursue the end of the Pacific war. The meal was superb, though Braun did not enjoy it as much as he might have. Kovalenko was soft, a bureaucrat, but such men could be thick with guile — he would have to keep his guard. Afterward, Braun took a brandy. Kovalenko kept a cigarette and a Scotch in constant play. It was the Russian who eventually drifted to the point.

"The information you are offering — it is scientific in nature. I suspect you are not a scientist. Therefore, shall I assume youve stolen it?"

Braun paused, deciding how much to give. "There is another man. He is deeply involved in this American project. A spy."

"For whom?"

"Germany."

"Germany?"

"And you should know that he still believes his work will go to the Nazis."

Kovalenko scoffed. "Does he not read the papers? Does he not have eyes and ears?"

"I've convinced him that the German Reich is still functioning — only displaced."

Kovalenko chuckled and lifted a tumbler to his lips.

Braun warned, "He is not a stupid man, I assure you — only blinded by the same hatred that took so many Germans down Hitler's foolish road."

"What is his name?"

"That I will keep to myself."

"And your friend, this Nazi, he holds the information now?"

Braun explained how Heinrich kept a suitcase jammed with thousands of documents.

"He works with you — why? Does he think you are a Nazi as well?"

"Something like that. We are to meet next week. He is traveling on a ship, the USS Indianapolis."

"And you wish us to take over this ship?" Kovalenko guessed.

Brauns eyes glazed over. He was disappointed in the Russian. "No. It's a heavy cruiser, you — " he held back the last word.

Nothing would be gained by antagonizing. "I am to rendezvous with him on the island of Guam. And since I am the only one he will trust, I must meet him alone. Our bargain will be this — I keep the meeting, dispose of him, and deliver the documents to you."

Kovalenko paled slightly. "And he trusts you enough to—"

"I agree!" Braun interrupted loudly as the waiter approached. He kept blathering in the overt voice of a man who'd tipped one more drink than he was accustomed to, "The Russians alone would never have been a match for Hitler's Wehrmacht!"

The waiter left the check discreetly in the middle of the table, then shuffled away. Braun pushed it toward Kovalenko.

The Russian reached for his wallet. "And I suppose you have a price in mind for your work?"

"One million U. S. dollars — half tomorrow."

The Russian laughed freely for the first time, still chuckling as he pulled cash from his wallet. "You Americans do have an excellent… how do they say it… sense of humor!"

The two engaged eyes and Kovalenko s smile evaporated. He said, "Surely you cannot be serious! My superiors—"

"Your superiors," Braun cut in, "will agree without reservation. My information can save them a thousand times as much. The fee is absolutely nonnegotiable. I have no affinity for mother Russia. Other countries would easily recognize the value of what I offer." Braun hadn't really considered it, but he suspected there was enough truth in the threat to make it stick. He dictated his final instructions.

"I will deal only with you. Meet me tomorrow, same place, same time, and bring half the fee. If I spot anyone else this time, you will never see me again. Wait ten minutes before you leave." Braun got up and walked away.

Kovalenko sat still. He watched the man he knew as Alex move smoothly to the door. A million dollars, he thought miserably. How could he put forward such an offer to headquarters? They would be livid. Kovalenko wondered how high this fiasco had already gone in the NKVD. Had the chief of the American zone seen it yet? Moscow was clearly interested in Alex's information. The cable had authorized Kovalenko to offer anything — but they could never have imagined such madness. He wished the stupid brick had never come to him. He wished he was one of the colonels breaking heads in a dark corner of Lubyanka's basement. If he wasn't careful, Kovalenko knew he could soon be on the other end of it.

And it wasn't only his superiors who worried him. He wanted nothing to do with Alex, or whatever his name really was. Kovalenko was a good judge of men. He had risen far in a cutthroat organization, and it was largely thanks to his ability to assess people. Thieves and liars, police and thinkers — Kovalenko thrived on the accuracy of his instincts. From the initial letter, he thought this contact might be a harmless college professor wanting to support the Communist cause. But at the Embarcadero, Kovalenko had quickly decided otherwise. It was the way Alex moved, the way he eyed Dmitri and Sergei.

Alex was a killer. Of this, Kovalenko was sure.

Chapter 38

"What kind of airplane is it?" Lydia asked as she and Thatcher walked across the cement parking apron.

The big silver transport ahead of them was one of dozens in a row that looked exactly the same. The only thing to distinguish this particular craft was the markings on the tail — it was the only one without the star emblem of the U. S. Army Air Force.

Thatcher said, "It's a C-47. The Americans have been building them by the thousands."

"And this ones Australian?"

"Yes."

A young man in greasy coveralls — the loadmaster, Thatcher had explained — greeted them at the back stairs."

"G'day. So youre the two that need a lift?"

"Yes," Thatcher replied. "We'll try to stay out of your way."

"Not to worry," the airman said, "make yourselves comfortable."

Thatcher climbed up first. Lydia followed, and as she did, she felt the Australian's eyes on her — ogling like the boys had in high school. She supposed that's where he'd been not long ago.

Inside there was barely room to move. Wooden crates were piled high, matching the contour of the ceiling. They were all stenciled with labels — welding torches, powdered milk, light-bulbs, and whiskey. The larger crates were tied down, secured to the floor and walls, while the smaller boxes sat wedged in gaps. Altogether, Lydia imagined it must weigh tons.

She followed Thatcher forward, having to turn sideways to squeeze through gaps in the mountain of cargo. Just behind the flight deck, a pair of webbed bench seats were situated on each side. He dropped his suitcase to the metal floor. "I should go introduce myself to the pilots."

They had tried to find a commercial flight to Guam, but there were none. The only option was military transport, and Thatcher had somehow gotten approval to drag her along. He had a way of doing that, she'd noticed, a knack for getting what he wanted. Lydia took a seat on the rickety bench. It was ridiculously uncomfortable. If father could see me now.

Thatcher came back and took a seat beside her, settling in with ease.

"You're used to this kind of thing, aren't you?"

"Well, yes. I suppose so. Have you flown before?"

"Twice. But it was a better air line than this. I didn't much like that purser."

He laughed. "I'm afraid it will take at least three of these flights to get us to Guam. Can you manage it?"

"I might come to like it, actually. So your boss, Colonel Ainsley, arranged it?"

"Reluctantly. His first inclination was to bring me back to England. But when I told him about all that's happened, Roger had no choice. He insisted I go to Guam. As far as getting the flight, we knew the Americans wouldn't help and the RAF had nothing passing through. The Aussie's were our best bet. He called in an old favor."

"A side advantage of Colonial rule?"

"Well — Australia. I think Roger liked that. It's where we've always sent our undesirables. Although with any luck we won't have to go that far. I think there's a good chance we can find a shortcut along the way."

"Did you tell the colonel I was going with you?"

"No. Did you tell your father?"

"Of course not. He thinks I'm on a flight headed back East right now."

The engines whined and spat as they spun to life.

"It's very loud," Lydia shouted, her hands over her ears.

"Wait until we take off!"

Indeed, engine noise seemed to shake the entire plane as it careened down the runway. The boxes and crates teetered precariously, straining against tie-down straps. Without them, Lydia was sure they'd have been crushed. The young loadmaster was slouched on the opposite bench, grinning, but looking very tired, his head nodding to one side.

The noise lessened once they were in the air. Thatcher unstrapped their seat belts and pulled Lydia to a window. Below, she could see Los Angeles, an impossible maze of concrete and metal. Soon, the city drifted away and there was nothing beneath but the deep blue Pacific.

"We'll be seeing a lot of that," Thatcher remarked.

"And so will Alex," Lydia found herself saying.

"Yes. He might be looking at the very same view right now."

"Do you really think he has a chance, Michael? We know where and when to look for him. The FBI are involved, aren't they?"

"According to your father, Jones has been given everything. He'll have to pursue it now. Of course, he's always seen Alex as a direct threat — you know, a saboteur. But you proved it on the train, Lydia — he's carrying information on the Manhattan Project."

Lydia felt a chill. Edward, she thought. The flight instructor, Mitchell. And the poor old Indian who'd gone to help after Alex's plane had crashed. She wondered how many others there had been. "Do you think we can stop him?"

There was no answer, but she felt a comforting hand on her tense shoulders. It was just what her father would have done. She looked appreciatively at Thatcher, who was pretending to look out the window.

"Michael," she said, "what was your wife's name?"

He turned toward her, clearly surprised by the question. "Madeline."

"Madeline," she repeated. "What a lovely name." Lydia turned back to the window and smiled.

Kovalenko strode past his secretary, heading toward his office.

Irina jumped up. "Sir, wait!"

Kovalenko paused. Then he heard voices behind his door.

"In your office—" she began.

"No one is allowed there in my absence!" He burst inside. "What's the meaning of—" Kovalenko went pale. Standing behind his desk was a man he recognized instantly. Bald, short, puffy lips — and a vipers eyes behind pince-nez glasses. Lavrenti Beria. Head of the Peoples Commissariat of Internal Affairs, or NKVD. After Joseph Stalin, the second most powerful man in Russia.

"C… Comrade Beria. What a surprise."

Beria s eyes drifted toward him, and Kovalenko suddenly felt cold, as if a Siberian wind had swept into the room. There were two other men — nondescript bodyguards or aides. Neither said a word.

Beria smiled, or tried to. "Comrade Kovalenko. I don't believe we have met."

Actually Kovalenko had seen Beria once before, at a speech he had given to a group of Foreign Service NKVD officers. Kovalenko remembered him as being quite lively and vibrant. Clearly, the war had taken a toll. Beria had gained weight, and his skin held a gray, deathly pallor.

"It is an honor," Kovalenko prattled, "I did not know you were in America."

"Nor do the Americans," Beria said, his smile broadening. "I came here directly from Germany, the Potsdam Conference."

Kovalenko had read about it in the papers. Stalin, Churchill, and Truman doling out the world like poker players splitting a pot. "You have come a long way, then."

"I have a good reason." Beria pushed a chair noisily across the hardwood floor. "Please, Kovalenko, make yourself comfortable."

Kovalenko sat.

Beria stuck his head out the door toward Irina and asked very politely for tea. He became more animated, his tone unnervingly pleasant. "It has come to my attention that your consulate was approached by a man who has offered to sell a collection of scientific papers."

"Yes, I met with him only an hour ago."

"Good, good. You kept the meeting."

"Of course."

"And you were wise to send this matter immediately to higher authorities."

Kovalenko did not feel wise. If he had known the papers were going to bring Lavrenti Beria to his office, he would have run to the Golden Gate Bridge and thrown them straight into the ocean.

Beria leaned against Kovalenko's desk, his backside up against the nameplate. "Do you know what this involves?"

"Not really. We did not talk about the subject matter. I was only following my instructions to facilitate the exchange." In a moment Kovalenko would later look back on with pride, he undertook a detailed, lucid account of his meeting with Alex. When he finished, Beria exchanged a look with one of his silent underlings.

Beria said, "This man told you that he has thousands of pages of information?"

"Yes. He said it covered every aspect of an American project of some sort."

A knock came at the door. Irina brought in the tea. She was as white as fresh snow. Beria poured two cups and handed one to Kovalenko, who could only think— Vodka> that's what I need.

"Kovalenko, allow me to explain." Beria s voice assumed a lyrical tone, as if reading a bedtime story to a child. "In the days immediately after the fall of Berlin, our Red Army brothers captured a German in Austria. He was taken into custody and questioned, but it took many weeks to discover his true identity. Does the name Hans Gruber mean anything to you?"

"He was in the SD, was he not?"

"Yes! Very good. He was a colonel, a senior man in the Operations Directorate. Once we realized this, he was brought to Moscow, to Lubyanka. Unfortunately, our hand of persuasion was — a bit too heavy. He expired." Beria said this as if talking about a loaf of bread that had turn moldy. "This was two weeks ago. In his last hours, however, Gruber did provide some intriguing information. It seems that the Germans were able to insert a spy into a very secret American weapons project."

"The friend that Alex told me about?" Kovalenko managed.

Beria looked pleased. "Perhaps, perhaps not." He put down his tea and walked slowly toward the window. "But there is a way for me to find out. So tomorrow, I will keep the meeting with Alex."

"You? But with all respect, Alex was very specific that only I should come."

Kovalenko saw Beria's head cock slightly to one side. Dear God, he thought, what am I saying? "Of course—"

Beria cut him off with a raised hand. "You should know something else, Kovalenko." His voice was sharper now, brittle. "When I was in Potsdam, with Stalin, word came that the Americans have tested this new weapon with great success." Beria turned toward him, his face now altogether different. The eyes were cold and void, and the veins at his temple spidered darkly. Yet somehow Kovalenko had the impression Beria was not addressing him, but rather talking to himself, airing his frustration. "When Stalin heard of this, he went mad. I tell you, Kovalenko, I have stood by him through a revolution and a war — a war that has cost over twenty million of our countrymen their lives — and never, never have I seen him so angry. There was indeed a moment when I feared for my own life."

Beria's underlings had receded to the corners, perhaps having sensed the impending storm. Kovalenko held motionless, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like a man about to fall off a cliff. He knew that Beria himself, as head of the NKVD, was responsible for taking at least ten million lives during the revolution. The consequence of one more — Kovalenko's, perhaps — could not be more trivial.

"You see, Kovalenko," Beria continued, "we are at a very critical juncture in the path of our world. The war is nearly done, and the winners are dividing the spoils." He then spoke as if quoting holy verse, "Whoever has this new weapon, this power, will dictate to the rest."

The head of the NKVD then calmed, his eruption over. He looked directly at Kovalenko, and said, "So here is what we will do—"

Chapter 39

The Embarcadero was less busy. A cool rain and vigorous wind had driven away the casual traffic, leaving the docks and sidewalks to carry only the business of the day. Seagulls sat hunched on pilings, their beaks tucked into their chests. Braun did much the same as he stood in a heavy overcoat and watched Kovalenko from a distance. He did not like what he saw.

The Russian had been right on time, loitering at the same spot they'd met yesterday. But twenty yards away two new men, replacements for Sergei and Dmitri, were blatantly obvious. Even worse, another man had joined them, a short, stubby man in an overcoat who, in spite of his build, seemed strangely agile. The only verse of good news was that this new man carried a briefcase.

Standing near a canvas awning that fronted a busy hotel, Braun considered his options. He could wait, but the extras would not go away. The Russians were presenting not a choice, but an ultimatum — show up if you want, but we are in charge. Braun decided he had to go forward. But he would meet intimidation with intimidation.

He walked briskly across the street and made a beeline to Kovalenko. The Russian saw him coming and forced a nervous smile. Braun spit out the first words.

"Did you not understand?" he said combatively. "You were to come alone!"

Kovalenko held up his palms, and spoke in a plaintive whisper. "I had no choice." He nodded to a bench where the new man was now seated. The bodyguards had backed off— out of earshot from the bench, but close enough to help if needed. Kovalenko hissed, "Do you have any idea who that is?"

Braun took a good look at the man on the bench. There was something vaguely familiar, but no name came to mind. "No. Should I?"

"It is Lavrenti Beria, head of the NKVD."

Braun reset his eyes on the man. He had seen a few pictures of Beria, usually standing at the shoulder of Stalin himself. Jesus, he thought, it is him. "Why is he here?" Braun demanded.

"He wants to talk to you, of course." Kovalenko turned and simply walked away.

Lavrenti Beria smiled and moved to one side of the bench, making plenty of room. Braun looked across the Embarcadero. Even in the drizzle, there were people milling about. They would not try to snatch him away — not here. Braun walked directly to the bench.

Beria spoke in heavily accented English as Braun approached, his voice light, almost glib, "Alex, my name is —"

"I know who you are," Braun said, even more casually. He might have been meeting a new relative at a wedding — not the man who, by all reliable accounts, was one of the most notorious mass murderers the world had known, right up with Hitler and Himmler themselves. Braun felt himself being weighed, and he continued, "The question is, old man, why are you sitting on a park bench in the rain — in America?"

Beria rose to the challenge and bantered back, "Comrade Kovalenko is efficient, but I thought that my being here would impress upon you the importance of our work."

"Our work? The importance of our work will be most clear if you are carrying a half million U. S. dollars in that briefcase."

Beria gave the case at his feet a pat. "Three hundred thousand — not an easy thing on short notice, but I believe it shows our sincere interest. The rest will come, you have my word. But, of course, there are requirements. Please—" he gestured to the bench.

Braun sat slowly. The number had distracted him. It was only a fraction of what he d asked for, yet the thought of being so close to such a massive sum made his head swirl. He tried to keep his wits. "Requirements?"

Beria waxed, "There is a saying where I come from — 'One does not always swim in waters of one's own choosing.'"

"Are all Russians poets?"

Beria s dead, gray lips curled up at the corners. "Perhaps it is so."

"What are you getting at?"

"This friend of yours, the German. I think I know who he is." Beria looked at Braun intently.

"Good," Braun shot back, "then you know the value of what he holds."

"Perhaps. But your own plan to take his information, dispose of him, and exchange it for cash — this is not wholly acceptable."

Braun considered it. "You want the German as well."

Beria nodded.

"He won't help you, if that's what you're thinking. He's a Nazi, straight off the SS assembly line."

"I appreciate your opinion, Alex, but our methods of persuasion can be most productive."

"I can imagine," Braun said.

"No," the head of the NKVD replied, "you cannot." Beria paused. "And there is more yet. Once the German is in our hands, it would be very helpful if his disappearance was not noticed."

"That would be a trick. I suppose you have something in mind?"

Beria explained his idea.

When he was done, Braun looked at the Russian more closely. There was a lively glimmer behind the pince-nez glasses, a smirk in the swollen lips. Braun had always considered himself ruthless, albeit in the name of his own good cause. But the man seated next to him was on another level. "You want it to appear that this man remains on the USS Indianapolis after she sails — and then you intend to sink her?"

"If done correctly, the ship will be only another casualty of this long, terrible war."

"Will I have a hand in it?"

"Yes, Alex. We will pay what you ask, but you must do more. You must carry a package on board this ship and leave it, then take your friend and escape in a way that will not be noticed."

"Package? You can't mean a bomb."

"No, this would not be practical. You must carry a radio transmitter."

Braun began to see the outline, but had not yet come full circle. "How could this work? A transmitter to broadcast the ship's position and then — a torpedo?"

"Yes, Alex, good. A submarine."

"But a Russian sub could never risk attacking—" Braun paused.

Beria nodded, urging him on. "Figure it out Alex. You have a knack for this."

Of the countries that kept submarines in the South Pacific, only one would be interested in sinking an American heavy cruiser. "A Japanese sub?"

The Russian stabbed a chubby index finger into the air to register the hit.

Braun decided Beria was enjoying his little charade far too much. He said, "How can you get a Jap sub to sink an American ship?"

"We do, as it turns out, have access to a small fishing trawler in this area — a boat that does little fishing. With a beacon to guide, it could intercept such a large American ship. Remember, Alex, the United States and Japan are at war, but my country is not yet formally engaged with Japan. There are still quiet relations between our countries. We let slip where Indianapolis might be — perhaps a few radio calls at the right time."

"Why would the Japanese trust you?"

"The Imperial Navy has had few successes lately. I think they might trust us enough to investigate such an opportunity. In any event, this part of the operation would be left to us. I explain it only so that you understand the relevance of what we are asking you to do."

For a moment Braun considered how many men would be aboard a ship like Indianapolis. Eight hundred? A thousand? He was sure Beria had no idea. Braun s thoughts moved ahead to distill more practical matters. "I'll have to get aboard Indianapolis before my contact gets off."

"Do you have any ideas?"

What came to Brauns mind was simple enough. And simplicity was always good. He told Beria what he would need.

"Yes," he replied, "I can get you these things."

"And I'll have to go there right away, to lay the foundation."

"I can give you the aircraft I came in on." Beria then nodded over his shoulder, "My two men will go along to help."

Braun hesitated. He looked squarely at the Russians reptilian features. Here was a man who had just whimsically plotted the death of a thousand men.

"No," Braun said. "Your men do not come. I want the aircraft, one pilot, and — and Kovalenko."

"Kovalenko?" Beria burst out. "We are going to pay you an incredible sum for your work. Kovalenko is not acceptable."

"All the money on earth is no good to me when I am dead. One pilot and Kovalenko."

"Absolutely not! I will—" Beria stopped in mid-sentence.

Braun knew why. It must now be in his face, in his eyes. The familiar sharpness had come to his mind, the acute concentration. He knew precisely where the two bodyguards were. He knew where Beria's hands were. Where his neck was. In the next ten seconds, Lavrenti Beria would realize who was in control, or he would die. His bodyguards would not save him, nor would his own abilities. The Russian s eyes snapped back and forth between his help and his adversary. Yes, Braun thought — Beria knew his thoughts exactly.

"All right," Beria allowed, his tone suddenly very different. "I consent to this."

The rising, uncontrolled wave in Braun's mind began to slowly recede. He added, "And I don't want to see anyone else in Guam. When I deliver the German, you will have to trust Kovalenko and the pilot to handle him."

"Agreed," Beria said. "But there is one more thing, Alex."

Braun narrowed his eyes.

"I told you that I think I know who your German scientist is. If it is the right man, his information could indeed be worth all this trouble."

"It is worth much more. I have seen the results with my own eyes."

"Still, if you can answer one question, Alex, it will convince me beyond a doubt. What was his code name?"

Braun wondered briefly how Beria could know this. But then he remembered — the man was a spy master.

"Die Wespe," Braun said. "The Wasp."

Lavrenti Beria smiled.

Chapter 40

The USS Indianapolis carved into the crystalline blue waters of Apra, Guam, on the morning of July 27th, 1945. The deep-water harbor was a largely natural formation. Cradled by the Orote Peninsula to the south, and Cabras Island to the north, modest hills of bleached white coral stood protectively around the glistening waters. The few enhancements to the natural breakwater were thanks to the U. S. Navy Seabees, who had been in possession of the island for nearly a year since the occupying Japanese forces had been evicted. The Seabees, starting from scratch as always, had turned a strip of barren coral rock into one of the world's busiest sea ports.

From the highest ground available, a short coral bluff, Lydia watched the huge ship lumber into the center of the harbor, gradually fall still, and then drop her massive anchor. It reminded her of a big dog marking its territory. There were several other ships in the harbor, a mix of sizes and purposes, but none were on the scale of Indianapolis. Lydia looked over her shoulder, wondering where Thatcher was. He had gone to use the telephone in the Naval Operations building. Tomas Jones had sent word that he'd be arriving with a team of FBI men to watch the harbor this morning. Oddly, she and Thatcher had seen no signs of them yet.

Thatcher came back hurriedly.

"Any luck?" she asked.

"No. They left the States three days ago, but nobody seems to know where Jones and his team are."

Lydia looked across the harbor. A small gray boat churned out toward Indianapolis, trailing a thin line of black smoke over the sunlit water. "But people will be coming ashore any minute. What can we do?"

"There's not much choice. We'll go down ourselves and see who comes off."

"But we don't even know who we're looking for," Lydia argued.

"No. Not unless we can spot Alex Braun."

Watching the small utility boat plow across Apra Harbor, neither knew that they were, at that very moment, looking directly at him.

He was seated on the aft bench of the small Navy tender. The craft plodded steadily through aquamarine water, its diesel engine growling at a constant pitch. As they closed in, Braun regarded the ship that lay before him.

She was ugly to begin with, a leviathan whose angular lines and blunt moldings were a pure crime of function over form. If this was not enough, she bristled with guns and antennae, the tools of destruction that were the very essence of her existence. Braun had seen beautiful ships. During the summer before his mother had died, they'd sailed to Europe on the S. S. Normandie. Even now, he remembered vividly that vessel's elegant flow and workmanship. Smooth, feminine curves. Cultured materials fitted by the hands of skilled craftsmen. Even Edward's little boat, Mystic, had held a certain grace. But the thing before him now was an abhorrence.

It made his task, to some degree, less unpalatable. When the war was over, Indianapolis would fall obsolete. Driving her home now to Davey Jones' Locker would simply save the world another rusting, mothballed eyesore. The fact that over a thousand men would be put in harm's way registered only as a footnote to Braun — here in the Pacific, the war still ran, and in the calculus of armed conflict such a disaster could not be differentiated from the bombings of Dresden or Tokyo. Braun had killed before, and while it had always involved one victim at a time, the mass of agony he was about to unfurl seemed no worse by way of its scale.

He pulled the sea bag at his feet closer. It had been given to him by Kovalenko, and contained everything one would expect a basic seaman to carry. Spare uniforms, a few personal effects, and — a touch Braun rather liked — a Bible. The bag also carried one thing no basic seaman would keep — a simple, yet powerful radio transmitter. It would activate intermittently over the next two days to act as a beacon.

Kovalenko had assured him that his bag would not be searched. Back at the pier, a sentry had gone over his orders and War Department ID card. Beria's people had done a fine job — the photograph, fingerprints, and physical description were all quite legitimate, and the ID even showed a slight stain from spilled beer. The guard had thumbed Braun past without a second look at his ubiquitous sailors sea bag.

The tender pulled up alongside the big ships boarding area, and Braun spotted a half dozen uniformed officers milling about in wait. He was not surprised. Though Braun had served in the army, he suspected officers were a predictable lot, regardless of service or country. The captain and his staff would probably be the first to go ashore. They'd mingle with their peers at headquarters, make a few token decisions about when and how Indianapolis would depart. Then the group would recess for an extended lunch at the Officer's Club. There, they'd gossip about promotions, assignments, nurses, and — if the mood struck — the war.

Lines were tossed, and the tender, rocking on small seas, was secured to the unmoving island that was Indianapolis. Braun scanned behind the gaggle of officers. He finally saw what he was looking for — Karl Heinrich with a suitcase chained to his wrist. The scientist did not see him, but then he wouldn't be looking for Braun here, and certainly not in a U. S. Navy uniform.

Braun stepped onto Indianapolis, following two other seamen. He tried to make eye contact with Heinrich, but the little German was talking to a Marine who was stationed at the gangway. The man was big and had the look of a fighter. Not that it mattered for the moment. Right now the only thing was to get Heinrich's attention. Braun had to keep him on the ship.

"Orders!"

The gruff command surprised Braun. He turned to see a weathered petty officer, his shoulder heavy with stripes. The man's hand was extended impatiently. Braun, uniformed as the lowest of the low, would get no respect. The Russians had wanted to make him a junior officer. Braun had argued that, while it might allow some small degree of authority once aboard, the commission would also bring duties and responsibilities. Instead, he had been suited as a basic seaman, his orders for kitchen duty. The expectations were slim — salute any officer, respect enlisted superiors, and know port from starboard. It was a part Braun could play convincingly.

He fished his orders and ID from a pocket. As the man looked them over, the group of officers began boarding the launch. At that moment, Heinrich looked up. The German did a double take. He went rigid, his eyes becoming huge circles.

Braun blinked slowly, deliberately, to indicate calmness. He then gave an almost imperceptible nod away from the launch.

"Any contraband in there?" the petty officer demanded as he handed back Braun's orders.

"Just a few bottles of whiskey, chief." Braun smiled.

The gruff man eased up and chuckled. "Yeah, well you just save one for me, sailor. And tell the cook to stop using that goddamn horse meat in the stew."

Braun slipped his papers back into his pocket and smiled again. "You bet." He walked toward the main passageway and saw Heinrich speaking to the Marine again. Rounding a corner, Braun was out of the crowd's sight. Heinrich appeared a moment later.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered. "I thought we were to meet on shore!"

"Steady, Karl. We have thought things through very carefully. You must trust our planning." Braun watched the effect of these words.

"We? You have had contact with those in —" Heinrich looked over his shoulder, afraid to say it out loud.

"Yes, yes Karl. Our plans are progressing well. But we cannot talk about it now. You must tell me some things."

The scientist nodded eagerly.

"When does the ship sail?"

"Sometime tomorrow morning, they say."

"Good. Will there be other tenders, other chances for you to go ashore?"

Heinrich shrugged. "I wanted to get off right away. They told me this was the first opportunity. I know there is no shore leave for the sailors, but I heard a few officers talking about going ashore later."

"All right, Karl, listen closely. Come back tonight, at 4:00 a. M., to this very spot."

Heinrich nodded.

"And you must come alone."

"That will be easy. The rest of the scientists from Los Alamos left the ship back in Tinian. Now, I am the only civilian — and of course the only German. No one here has a word for me."

"They do not guard you?"

"Not anymore. All the important documents went with the cargo to Tinian." He grinned conspiratorially and raised his suitcase slightly. "All that is left is my dirty laundry."

Braun looked at the suitcase and his thoughts stumbled. "Yes — make sure you bring everything tonight."

"We will leave then?"

Braun nodded. He pulled a paper from his pocket, something on Navy letterhead he'd scavenged from a trash can on the pier. He handed it to Heinrich. "Go wave this at the guard. Tell him your instructions have changed and you won t be getting off until the next port. And tell anyone else who will listen."

Heinrich was clearly curious at this strange request, but he agreed, "All right."

"Go, Karl. Go now. I will see you tonight."

The scientist disappeared around the corner. Braun could not stay to watch over him. He turned and began to move, search, and record. Passageways, staterooms, storage compartments, and gear. Braun could not learn the entire ship, but he would know certain sections intimately. He had sixteen hours.

The act of highest risk would come first — he had to hide and activate the transmitter. The Russians wanted it high, yet in a place where it would not be discovered. Then he would gather what he and Heinrich needed to extricate themselves. Finally, Braun would hide — a ship this size must have any number of seldom used closets and alcoves. He did not intend to search out the kitchen, suspecting it would be days before someone realized that the green sailor who'd boarded in Guam had never reported to his duty station.

As Braun scoured the ship, his mind faltered briefly as he thought of the suitcase. It was the first time he'd seen it, and he felt like a pirate getting his first look at a treasure chest. It had been only inches from his grasp. Braun cursed the Russians for demanding Heinrich himself, and for making him stage the scientist's disappearance. So many complications.

All had gone well so far, but Braun had felt the same confidence on other occasions. Flying a little airplane through clouds over New Mexico, only to be thrown into a mountain. Standing in a cool rain on the Embarcadero, only to collide with the head of the NKVD. And lounging on a train in Arizona, only to encounter Lydia. Hopeless, cunning Lydia. Her image came to mind, and Braun wondered where on earth she was at this moment.

Tomas Jones was surrounded by a thousand miles of ocean in every direction. He was stuck on a tiny mound of coral in the Marshall Islands, along with his contingent of eight FBI men.

They all sat sweating in a thatched hut, even though it was early evening, and watched as a pair of mechanics jacked up their C-47 transport, the big left tire rising off the ground.

A similar craft had brought them in yesterday, only to be sent back stateside on a mission deemed more important. No amount of complaining by Jones had been able to cut through the red tape, and they'd watched their perfectly good airplane disappear into the eastern sky.

The Army had been merciful enough to provide an alternative, a spare aircraft that unfortunately had a partially collapsed landing gear. They promised it would only take a few hours to repair — once the parts arrived. And arrive they had, only twenty minutes earlier. The mechanics were moving now, but clearly at a pace that reflected the heat.

Jones was in a lousy mood. He trudged over to a large tent and saw the officer in charge, a captain, just hanging up a telephone. "Captain, do you understand how important it is that we get to Guam ASAP?"

"Look, Jones, I'm trying. That was HQ on the phone and they wondered the same thing. What's all the fuss? And what the heck is the FBI doing in the South Pacific?"

Jones heaved a sigh. He needed to unload to somebody. "Ahh! We're chasing a damned Nazi spy."

"A Nazi?"

"Can you believe it? This all came to a head in the last few days. The Army has some super-secret project, and who do they take right into the middle of it? A German scientist, for cryin' out loud."

"Jeez."

"They raided his room and found a camera, some code books — lots of suspicious stuff."

"So you're chasing him down?"

"Yeah. We got a lead from," Jones hesitated painfully, "a British officer. He thinks this spy is gonna turn up on Guam."

The captain looked out through the door of the tent. "My guvs have the old strut arm off already. When do you have to be there?"

"9:00 a. M. on the 27th. The pilot says the flight will only take about six hours, so if we can get out of here before midnight we'll still make it."

The captain looked at the wall calendar. "I've got some bad news for you, Jones."

"What?"

"It happens all the time — we Americans aren't exactly a worldly lot. You see, there's this thing called the International Date Line."

"The what?"

"The International Date Line. You crossed it yesterday. Here in the Marshalls — or I guess more importantly for you, in Guam — it's already the 27th."

An apoplectic Tomas Jones rushed to look outside. "Can't I catch a break!" he shouted.

At that very moment, the two mechanics dove out from under the C-47 as it wobbled, then fell off the jack. The airplane crunched down on a wingtip and sat precariously balanced for a few seconds. Then, with an audible crack, the wing snapped in half at the midpoint, and the entire machine collapsed into a lopsided heap.

Jones threw a roundhouse punch at the tent, his hand striking the hidden metal frame. "Shit!"

Chapter 41

At four o'clock in the morning Indianapolis was like a tomb, the air still and strangely cool. Karl Heinrich heard snoring as he made his way past compartments where crewmen were racked, and the ship's plumbing and ventilators murmured occasionally. Otherwise the place was silent. He imagined how much different it must be when the big ship was engaged in combat — shouting, explosions, the huge guns above spewing their massive shells. Heinrich was happy to have fought the war on his own terms.

He passed only one crewman, a sleepy junior officer who had not bothered to challenge Heinrich's cause for walking around at this hour with a suitcase tucked under his arm. It was a good thing, because Heinrich only been able to prepare one weak response — that he was lost.

Approaching the gangway, he kept to the shadows. He saw a sentry on duty, another Marine, this one smaller and less imposing than the man who'd been on duty earlier. This guard looked drowsy, slumped on a metal chair with his feet propped on a rail. Heinrich heard the slightest sound and he turned. Rainer beckoned him toward a passageway. He scurried to follow.

Rainer said nothing, but walked at a quick pace. After five minutes of turning and twisting, he led through a heavy, watertight door. Heinrich was greeted by darkness and a light breeze that was not strong enough to overcome the most unmistakable scent — rotting garbage. They were on a platform at the fantail of the ship, perhaps two levels above the waterline. Heinrich knew the kitchen was near, and he calculated that this was where the ship's garbage was dumped overboard. Rainer began digging through a large wooden box mounted on the deck.

"What are—"

Rainer cut off Heinrich's words by putting a vertical hand to his lips. "Quiet, Karl," he whispered. "There is a man on watch three decks above." He pointed straight up.

Heinrich looked up cautiously and matched Rainer's whisper, "What are we doing here?"

"We are leaving."

"How?"

Rainer produced a wool blanket and a bulky package from the stowage box. The package was stenciled militarily: emergency life raft: two person.

"Can you swim, Karl?"

"Swim? No, and besides —" Heinrich looked down into the water, "there are sharks out there. They follow the ship for the garbage."

Rainer pulled a lanyard on the raft, and with a soft hiss it inflated to full size. "They don't dump anything in port, Karl." Rainer looked up at the sky. "The moon comes and goes. We must wait until it falls behind a cloud."

Rainer grabbed a rope that was already attached to the railing. It was thick, with large knots tied at intervals. He secured the free end to the raft, then fed it over the side.

"How far away is the shore?" Heinrich asked.

"Two hundred meters. No more." Rainer handed him a life preserver. "You'll need this."

Heinrich started to put it over his head.

"No, Karl! If you fall it would break your neck when you hit. Carry it on your arm for now."

Flustered, Heinrich did as he was told.

"Give me the suitcase."

Heinrich hesitated. His prize had never been in another's hands.

"I am stronger" Rainer insisted. "Give it to me."

Heinrich did, and watched as his countryman wrapped it in two layers of thick oilskin, then secured his work with twine.

"Now, over!"

Heinrich looked into the blackness below.

"Go!"

He straddled over the safety rail and clambered awkwardly down the rope. At the bottom he clutched the life preserver tightly and dropped into the water. He could, in fact, swim, although it had been years. He looked up and saw the suitcase just over his head. Rainer slipped into the water next to him and yanked on a second line that was now in his hand. The rope with the knots fell into the water with a splash. There would be nothing left, Heinrich thought, no sign of their escape. He has thought of everything.

Rainer flipped the suitcase, still dry, into the raft. He then put the dark, wet blanket over it all. The yellow raft became a murky, indiscriminant blob on the water. He helped Heinrich pull on his life preserver. Just then, Rainer looked up. A heavy cloud floated overhead to obscure the moon.

Rainer spoke quietly in German, "You see, Karl? Luck is on our side."

Those words, spoken so purely in his native tongue, made Heinrich forget any misgivings. "Rainer," he said, "I cannot believe we lost the war having men like you on our side."

Rainer grinned. He pulled the blanket over their heads, and they pushed off toward shore.

Thatcher watched Lydia sleep. She was slumped in a wicker chair, her head cocked coyly at an angle and resting on a wadded beach blanket they'd found. Lydia had almost lasted the entire night, finally drifting off an hour ago. But Thatcher noted it was a fitful sleep as she shifted constantly. Whatever dreams were circulating, he hoped they were better than his own.

They had moved closer to the naval facility, finding a perch on the deck of a bar that was the closest vantage point for watching the tender dock. The place had closed shortly after midnight. It was a sailors bar, scuffed floors and cheap wood stools, everything drenched in the bitter smell of spilled beer. Clearly, the big ship at anchor in the harbor had not granted general shore liberty — otherwise, the place would probably still be open.

They'd been watching for the better part of a day. In that time, the tender had made three trips to and from Indianapolis. Thatcher and Lydia had observed carefully — a total of sixteen men had gotten off the tender. Every single one was in the uniform of a naval officer. This alone was no guarantee that one might not have been Die Wespe, but they had all stayed together in groups. The first load had been the captain and his staff. Then two small parties of midlevel officers. Thatcher had looked for anything amiss — a haircut out of regulation, a uniform worn improperly, a loner edging away from the pack. There was no way a German spy, a scientist from Los Alamos, could comfortably blend into such a crowd.

An airplane flew overhead, its radial engines jarring the early morning silence. Lydia stirred.

"Oh, Michael, I'm sorry. I fell asleep."

"It's all right. You didn't miss anything. The tender hasn't left the dock."

"And there's still no sign of Jones or his men?"

"No. It seems we're on our own."

"Michael, look!" She pointed out toward Indianapolis.

Thatcher didn't see anything new. "What?"

"The smoke."

A moderate stream of black swirled up from the main stack. "What about it?"

"I've been on ships before, Michael. She's lighting her boilers. I think she's about to sail."

The swelling cloud did look heavier, Thatcher realized. He probably hadn't noticed because it had built gradually. "You're right. She's leaving soon."

"But we haven t seen anything of Alex or this spy he was supposed to meet. Do you think their plans changed? Maybe they already met in a different port."

Thatcher's instincts told him otherwise. "No. Indianapolis arrived here right on schedule. We've just missed something."

They both watched the big ship's anchor rise up from the water.

"We can only assume they're here on Guam," Lydia reasoned. "And if that's the case, where would they go next?"

Thatcher's eyes came alight. "Yes." His thoughts returned to the dilemma he'd been wrestling for weeks. The one question that had bedeviled him. What was the point of it all? These two men had valuable information on the Manhattan Project, but what good was it with Germany defeated? An odd vision came to Thatcher's mind — the bulletin board at Handley Down. Situations wanted. Instant wealth. And then he understood.

"Lydia! Assume Alex and this spy, Wespe, have valuable secrets about some new weapon. It's no use to Germany anymore, so what would do they do?"

"Well… they could sell, it I suppose."

"Exactly! And do you remember — two days ago, when we arrived at the airport? There was one airplane that really stood out."

"I saw lots of airplanes. The place was thick with them."

"Yes, but one was out of place."

"What are you getting at, Michael?"

"There was an Ilyushin."

"I'm sorry, but that doesn't mean anything to me."

"It's a medium transport aircraft. More to the point, it had a big red star on the tail."

"A Russian—" Lydia clearly saw it as well. "Michael, that's it!"

Chapter 42

The airfield was located on the islands very northern tip. With classic lack of imagination, the Army had designated the place North Field — though one mischievous staff officer had pushed for West Field, arguing that it would completely throw off the Japanese in the event of an attack. Six mile-and-a-half long airstrips — credit again to the Seabees — lay up against the sea, carpet-like runners of rock and steel that launched wave after wave of long range B-29's against the Japanese mainland.

Braun and Heinrich arrived in the back seat of a U. S. Army military sedan that Kovalenko, in the drivers seat, had somehow managed to commandeer. Braun thought it a stylish touch that the Russians were stealing America's greatest secret with the help of their motor pool.

The journey had taken thirty minutes. Kovalenko had been ready with dry clothing after plucking them out of Apra Harbor at the rendezvous point. Heinrich was still pulling on his dry boots.

"These boots, they do not fit!" he fussed.

"Just do your best, Karl. We'll find something better after we get on the airplane."

At a checkpoint, Kovalenko flashed the drowsy guard some kind of authorizing paper. Whatever it was, it had clout, and they were waved right through. The scrutiny might have been tougher had they been going to the "business end" of the airfield, where seemingly endless rows of B-29s were being loaded and readied for their next missions. Fortunately, they were going to the Transient Ramp. It was a tiny corner of North Field where a handful of transports sat idle, their fin flashes a mix of services and nationalities.

Braun caught Kovalenko's eye in the rear view mirror, and he wondered what the Russian was thinking. The man had not said a word since picking them up, but this was by design. Heinrich was not yet suspicious — but he certainly would be if he heard Kovalenko's severe Russian accent. Braun had not yet seen the most important thing — his money. Until he took possession of seven hundred thousand dollars, he would keep Karl Heinrich and his heavy suitcase very close indeed.

Heinrich finally wedged his boot on. Braun looked him over. A mechanic's khaki overalls strained at the seams. Scuffed boots, and a cap with a brim. Nothing to indicate rank or insignia. Just an anonymous wrench turner. Braun was dressed in a similar fashion, wearing workman's pants and a ubiquitous cotton shirt. All they had to do was get Heinrich and his collection of secrets calmly across a hundred feet of hardpan coral to the aircraft, a heavily modified Ilyushin transport. The pilot would have the engines running, ready to dash. For his part, Kovalenko was dressed as the co-pilot. It was rather unconvincing — his age and lack of fitness did not conjure up the image of a military aviator — but then, it was a Russian plane. The American soldiers might snicker and point, but there was nothing to raise an alarm.

Kovalenko drew the sedan to a stop just short of the aircraft ramp. The Russian gave Braun an almost imperceptible nod, then got out of the car and hurried toward the waiting Ilyushin. One of the aircraft's engines was already idling, and the second spit smoke as it started to turn. Braun watched from the car as Kovalenko climbed up a short set of stairs and disappeared into the airplane.

Thatcher and Lydia arrived on the hourly military bus that shuttled worker bees between the island's two main hives — the Navy base at Apra, and the Army Air Forces North Field. Lydia craned her neck to find what they were looking for — a mid-sized airplane with a red star on the tail.

"I don t see it," she said.

Thatcher concurred, "It's hard to see anything with all this hardware."

North Field was presently one of the busiest airports in the world, according to the pilot who'd brought them in. When Lydia looked out, she saw hundreds of huge bombers. For the moment, they sat still, surrounded by a flurry of carts, trucks, and men. But soon the fleet would be ready for the next big wave.

The bus stopped to let everyone off near a large tent that was labeled: MESS HALL. Thatcher took her hand and led the way, weaving amid a city of tents and prefabricated buildings. As they cleared a stinking line of latrines, Thatcher stopped cold.

"There!" he said.

Lydia saw it a few hundred feet away — the Russian transport, one engine already running. And walking across the ramp were two men dressed in workman's clothes. One she recognized instantly. "It's Alex!"

Thatcher nodded. "And the other man must be Wespe. Look at the case he's carrying. I'll bet I know what's inside."

"What can we do?"

Thatcher's eyes searched all around.

"There were Military Police back at the gate," Lydia suggested. "We have to go get them."

"They'll never get here in time. That airplane's ready to taxi." Thatcher scanned the area. "You go for the MP's."

"What about you, Michael?"

He gripped her shoulder and pointed. "There! That's what I need! "

Lydia saw a small utility tug. It was parked untended, and attached to the back was a trailer loaded with bombs.

"I don't understand!" Heinrich demanded as he was being hustled across the ramp. "This is a Russian airplane!"

Braun was prepared. "What did you expect, Karl? The Luftwaffe?" He smiled knowingly and spoke over the roar of two radial engines, "I told you — our new leaders are clever. It is a Russian aircraft, yes. We captured it years ago, and now it has turned quite useful." Braun let this sink in. "Can you imagine a better deception, Karl?"

Heinrich eased. "Yes… I see. It is a good idea. The pilots, they are German?"

"Of course. They speak a bit of Russian, just to be convincing. But both are SS men."

"All right, Rainer."

Kovalenko appeared in the aircraft's entry door and beckoned them with a wave. Braun didn't like how things were flowing. He grabbed Heinrich's elbow and stopped him twenty paces away.

"Stay here, Karl," Braun instructed. He pointed to the suitcase. "And hold on to that grip."

Braun walked quickly across to the airplane, leaving Heinrich and his priceless trove of information safely in the open. With the engines running, he nearly had to shout at Kovalenko. "Where is my money?"

"Here." Kovalenko slid a large briefcase into view.

"Give it to me now," Braun demanded.

Kovalenko shook his head. "First bring the scientist and his papers."

The two glared at one another. The sequence of the exchange had not been discussed — not this far. Braun was now improvising. Kovalenko pulled the briefcase back slightly from the door and opened it. Stacks of fifty dollar bills bulged inside. He then snapped it shut. "Bring Wespe. Once he is aboard, you can have it."

"How will you keep him aboard after I leave?"

Kovalenko twisted just enough to show a gun tucked amateurishly into the back of his waistband. Braun recognized it as a Tokarev Tula. He hesitated. Would the Russian use the gun against him? No, he decided. Otherwise he would not have shown it. In any event, Braun was confident he could find a way past Kovalenko. And off of this infernal island. He turned and jogged toward Heinrich.

"All right, Karl," Braun announced, "its time to go!"

Heinrich cradled the case as if holding a newborn child. He began to follow across the crushed coral. But when Braun reached the airplane and looked back, Heinrich had stopped again.

"Come on!" Braun shouted.

Suddenly, Kovalenko rushed down the stairs and toward Heinrich.

Braun took the chance. He reached into the airplane and pulled the briefcase closer. When he unlatched the locks, an array of fifty dollar bills stared up at him. He felt an instant of elation — but it was short-lived. He raked a stack of bills with his thumb, then a second. Only the money on top was real, the rest carefully cut stacks of paper. Furious, he turned.

Kovalenko was at Heinrichs elbow, ushering him to the airplane. Braun heard Heinrich ask, "Where is our first stop?" The words were in German.

Kovalenko reacted badly. He froze, a bewildered expression on his face.

The little German scientist suddenly understood. With a speed that surprised Braun, Heinrich swung his suitcase into Kovalenko's ribcage. The Russian doubled over, and Heinrich pried the gun from his belt. Kovalenko recovered enough to snatch at the weapon, but Heinrich was smart — using both hands, he kept the gun close to his chest, operating from a position of strength. A single shot rang out, and Kovalenko crumpled to the ground.

Braun was already moving. He pulled the worthless briefcase to his chest, using it as a shield, and rushed Heinrich. The German got off one shot, but it was absorbed by the thick wads of paper in the briefcase. Braun battered into Heinrich, locking onto his gun hand as they both went sprawling.

From there, it was no match. Braun was far stronger, far more experienced. In seconds his hands were wrapped securely around the Tokarev. Braun twisted the short barrel toward the German and jammed it into his bulging gut. He looked at Heinrich, saw his face flush with fear, saw the eyes bulging. Brauns own gaze was steady, composed — both men knew who would win.

Braun found the trigger. On the first shot the Nazi looked stunned. On the second he let out a churning wheeze. With the third, angled higher, into the heart, the body of Die Wespe fell completely limp across the hard crushed coral. Braun pried the gun away and looked at Kovalenko. The Russian was lying perfectly still in a spreading pool of red. The MP's had not reacted yet — Braun knew he had only a minute, perhaps two, and his brain did the calculations. He reached a solution in two parts — the suitcase containing Heinrich's documents, and the aircraft waiting a few steps away.

Braun snatched the case and bounded up the steps into the Ilyushin. The next problem was seconds away. He knew the pilot was an aviator — the man had brought them here from San Francisco — but was he also NKVD? Was he armed? Braun rushed the flight deck, gun leveled, and the answer was instantly clear. The man sat half turned in his seat, strangely calm. Resigned. He knew what Braun would ask of him.

"Where we are going?" the pilot asked in broken English.

"I don't care!" Braun yelled, pointing the gun at the man's head. "Anywhere! Just go!"

The pilot released his parking brake and gave power to the big radial engines. The Ilyushin began to move, lumbering toward the runway. They'd gone less than fifty feet when the pilot slammed on his brakes, nearly throwing Braun to the deck.

The pilot spewed a stream of obscenities in his native language.

"What is it?" Braun shouted.

The pilot gestured with both hands for him to look down, over the glare shield. Braun scrambled up to the empty copilot's seat and looked low under the nose. Some suicidal idiot had just cut them off with a loaded bomb cart.

Chapter 43

Lydia s mission had been to bring the MP's as quickly as possible. She'd only made a hundred feet across the parking apron when she heard their whistles and saw them coming at a dead run. The alarm had been raised, but they were still two hundred yards away.

She turned back and spotted Thatcher as she ran. He was driving the tug wildly, careening across the ramp with a load of bombs still in tow. He brought it all skidding to a stop smack in front of the airplane. Thatcher jumped off as a collision seemed imminent, but the pilot slammed on his brakes and the big airplane's nose rocked down as it ground to a halt. Thatcher did a half circle around the right side of the airplane, just clearing the propeller that still spun in a blur. Lydia couldn't imagine what he was up to as he crouched down behind the big right wheel.

She was close now, and Lydia ducked into the shadow of another airplane. An instant later, Alex came bounding off the Russian craft. He had his gun poised, sweeping left and right in a crouch as he ran to the tug. He climbed on, started it, and drove the thing clear.

With Alex distracted, Thatcher moved on the opposite side of the airplane, scurrying toward the back. He stopped just in front of the tail and began prying against the side of the cabin. Lydia realized there was a door. It was farther back and larger than the entry door on the other side — probably used for loading cargo. Thatcher expertly released the latches and had it open in a matter of seconds. He boosted himself up and disappeared, the door swinging shut behind him.

Against the churning vibration of the airplane's engines, Lydia heard a whistle. The MP's were closing in, but they'd never make it in time. Alex was already scrambling back inside, and the big airplane began to move. She had to do something. She'd just seen Alex kill a man. Now Thatcher was with him, alone. And Alex still had the gun. He had every advantage.

Lydia eyed the cargo door. It was still hanging loose on its hinges, the latches undone. There was no time to think. She scampered from her hiding spot and ran like she'd never run before.

Braun pointed the pistol at the pilot and screamed, "Go/"

There was no hesitation — the airplane began to move. He looked out the entryway and saw MP's running, handguns drawn. Braun reached for the handle to draw the door closed, but it was locked in place. He was trying to find the release mechanism, his body squarely in the opening, when the blow came. Something smashed into his left arm. The Tokarev went flying out onto the ramp. Braun went for balance, spreading his feet and arms to the corners of the door frame. A flash came from behind and he ducked as hard steel glanced off his head. Braun was stunned. He tried to hold on as he strained for consciousness.

At that moment, the big airplane turned and accelerated under full power. He senses that his adversary was thrown off by the movement, and it gave Braun time to recover. He turned, his stance was wide, his hands up to deflect the next blow. But nothing came. The blurry shape in front of him was struggling to right itself.

Slowly, Braun's vision cleared. He heard the other man curse. Lifting a sleeve to wipe the blood from his face, Braun could not believe what he saw. The gimpy little Englishman. The same man who had started all his troubles back at Harrold House.

"You!" he hissed.

The Englishman stood. He was hanging onto the aft bulkhead, and they stared at one another as the aircraft sped down the runway. A window suddenly exploded, and Braun threw himself to the deck as bullets plinked into metal and glass. He saw the shooters flash by outside — two MPs emptying their handguns into the huge Ilyushin. An instant later, the hail ended.

The big airplane levitated slowly, lumbering into the cairn morning air. Braun got back to his feet. The Englishman was brandishing a wrench. If he was hopelessly outmatched, his eyes didn't show it. They held nothing but fight. The man lunged at Braun with agility that belied his infirmity. The wrench whizzed by Brauns ear, and whacked painfully into his shoulder. But then Braun used his size. He kept the Englishman close and clamped down on the arm that held the wrench. A head butt caught Braun flush in the face, crunching against his nose. The pain was excruciating, but anger and adrenaline overcame it. He twisted toward the Englishman's bad leg and sent him spinning. His skull smacked hard against the metal sidewall, and he crumpled to the deck.

Grimacing, Braun spit out a mouthful of blood. He looked up front and set eyes on the pilot, who was watching the events in back. Braun had no idea who the man had been rooting for, but everything was clear now. "Keep it headed west!" Braun demanded. The pilot turned back to his controls.

Cautiously, Braun moved closer and inspected his adversary. Thatcher, he remembered. Major Michael Thatcher. The man was dazed, but not dead. Not yet. Braun looked at the still open door. Wind whistled past the opening, a rush of noise that Braun remembered from his parachute training. He contemplated tossing Thatcher out, as he'd done with old Mitchell. But then he had second thoughts. Thatcher might have valuable information.

Braun looked across the deck. Heinrich's suitcase, at least, was still there. Its tremendous value remained in his grasp. But he had to get away, and to do that Braun needed to know exactly who was after him, how much they knew. He might very well throw the little Englishman out the door — just not yet.

Lydia watched intently from behind the steel bulkhead that separated the main cabin from the aft cargo compartment. A heavy sheet of canvas was strung across the small opening that connected the two sections. It was loose on one edge, and Lydia supposed that was how Thatcher had gotten forward to confront Alex.

She only wished she could have helped. On crawling through the cargo door she'd found a mountain of luggage, supplies, and equipment to overcome. The violent maneuvering of the airplane on the ground had sent her reeling twice, and she'd gotten to the bulkhead just in time to see her partner thrown against the wall. Her heart skipped as he lay motionless, but then she saw Alex drag him forward and bind his hands and legs. Thatcher was still alive.

Lydia watched Alex as he moved up front and took the copilot's seat. He was addressing the pilot — not conversationally, but with intimidation. Alex was giving instructions. The pilot, a Russian she imagined, was not necessarily on Alex's side. Given the carnage that had already taken place, he was probably just out to save his own skin.

Lydia had heard Alex's first demand — Keep it headed west! As the airplane droned onward, she knew time was not on her side. Lydia turned and quietly rummaged through the luggage and equipment, looking for something to help her against Alex. The labels were in Cyrillic, but most was obvious enough — spare tires, tools, cans of grease and oil. Nothing that would give her a chance. She went back to her vantage point and her heart soared. Thatcher was stirring against his restraints.

The wind rushed across the still open entry door nearby. Lydia imagined pushing Alex out — was she cold enough to do it if the chance came? Had she become like him? Lydia did not have the answer to either question. She desperately scanned the forward part of the airplane. If nothing else, the noise from the open door would mask any sounds.

Think dammit! Think like Alex! And then Lydia's eyes locked onto something — it was just to her right, against the bulkhead. The weapon she needed.

Braun saw nothing but blue water in every direction. He had no desire to battle the ocean again. Keeping an eye on the pilot, he was encouraged that he knew enough about flying to keep the man honest. They had sufficient fuel to make the Philippines. There, Braun would force a landing at an obscure field, a road if necessary. And then he would take Heinrichs treasure and disappear.

Looking back, he saw Thatcher stir. The Englishman's eyes opened, and he groaned. Then his hands began to twist, testing the bindings. Braun had done his best with what was available, but the man might eventually worm his way free — he was nothing if not persistent. Braun walked back and bent down to face Thatcher.

"So, Major, you are back with us?"

The reply was defiant. "I hope I look better than you."

Braun grinned and touched the goose egg that had erupted just above his scar. His face would also be smeared in blood. "Yes, my friend, you put up a good fight. But you have lost."

"I'm behind at the moment." Thatcher was able to lock eyes with the pilot.

"No, Major, our Russian friend will not help you. He knows what is best for him." Braun's tone grew lighter, "You know, I have wondered for some time — how did you track me to Newport?"

Thatcher hesitated before explaining. "Back in England I interrogated a young corporal, Hans Gruber's secretary."

Braun strained to remember. "Yes … yes. I do remember him. He gave you my name?"

"That and a few other things. He was destroying some of Gruber's files, but he looked them over first."

Braun nodded vigorously. "Yes. That makes sense."

"So now you tell me," Thatcher said, "what are you going to do?"

Braun gestured to the suitcase in back. UI still hold the secrets of the world's greatest weapon. I have seen this thing, Major. I was a witness to the test. Someone will pay a great deal of money for the information."

"Money? Is that what Newport was about? You never really cared about Lydia, did you?"

Braun grasped at the question, but it was like trying to catch a thrown dagger. "No," he blurted, "of course not. Though we might have ended up together had it not been for your interruption." This idea surged in Brauns mind — the man before him had ruined everything. "I am growing weary, Major," he spat. Braun grabbed Thatcher roughly by the collar. "Who else is after me at this moment? And what do they know? If you do not answer these questions right now—" Braun stopped in mid-sentence and tensed. Something was wrong. He saw it in Thatcher's eyes. He followed the Englishman's gaze and looked over his own shoulder. There, standing by the open door, was Lydia. In her hand was Karl Heinrich's suitcase.

"Stay where you are, Alex!" Lydia shouted to be heard over the noise, but also to take command. Even she was surprised by the confidence that radiated in her voice.

Alex said nothing. He stood tall and simply stared. Lydia tried to read the expression on his face. He had to be surprised, but there was something else. Something she didn't recognize. "If you come any closer, Alex, I'll throw it out the door!" To emphasize the point, she undid the latches on the heavy case. It cracked open slightly, and the edges of a few papers eked out to flutter sharply in the turbulent air. "Untie Michael," she demanded.

Alex finally spoke. "Lydia. What in God's name are you doing here?" He began to move closer.

"Stay where you are!" she shouted.

He seemed not to hear. His eyes were locked to hers, not even seeming to register the suitcase she had thought would command his attention. What is he thinking? She cracked the case further, and a handful of pages fluttered out and were swept away in the windstream. Alex stopped a few feet away.

I'll do it, Alex! You know I will!"

He lunged and grabbed for her arm. Lydia was ready. She swung the case outside and it snapped open. Stacks of paper flew out, a flurry of white swirling behind into the empty sky. Alex was on her. In the struggle Lydia lost her grip on the handle, and the suitcase was gone. They fell to the floor in a tangle, Lydia slipping toward the door.

"No!" he screamed.

Just like on the train, Lydia thought she would fall. But this time Alex had her. He pulled her back inside. With a fierce grip on her shoulders, he brought her away from the door. Alexs grip loosened, but he kept holding on, locking her at arm's length. Lydia braced for a strike, the back of a hand across her face. She expected anger, but what she saw instead was carved into his every feature. Confusion. The mercurial, indomitable Alexander Braun seemed utterly bewildered.

"Do you know what you just cost me?" he said.

Lydia was defiant. "And how can you say that to me?"

They stared at one another for a long moment. Then an engine sputtered.

The pilot spewed a stream of harsh Russian that could only be expletives. The starboard engine coughed again, then shuddered to a stop with a sickening vibration. The Ilyushin lurched to one side as the pilot slapped at levers up front. The port engine went to full power.

"Fuel!" the pilot yelled.

They all looked out at the affected engine. Liquid was streaming out from a pair of jagged holes in the metal cowling.

Thatcher said, "The MP's were shooting at us — they must have nicked a fuel line! Can you do anything?" he shouted to the pilot.

The Russian shook his head violently. "We fly on one engine, but not far!" He pointed behind as the aircraft began a turn. "We must to go back — Guam! This is only way!"

The port engine screamed at full power. Alex broke away from Lydia. He went up front and looked at the gauges, trying to make sense of it.

"We can t go back! Head somewhere else!" he ordered the pilot.

The man ignored him. "I am pilot. There is no choice. Forty minutes, and we are back in Guam. Either that, or —" he pointed down to the indigo blue Pacific.

Chapter 44

The stricken Ilyushin was level at three thousand feet. It was the best she could manage on one engine, but they'd made it halfway.

Lydia watched Alex, who was in the copilot's seat. He was arguing with the pilot in a mix of English and Russian, trying to find an alternative to going back to North Field. Thatcher sat next to her, still in restraints. Alex had not bothered to bind her hands, and Lydia wondered why. Did he not consider her enough of a threat? Given a chance, she'd be happy to prove that notion wrong. In any event, the airplane was headed back to Guam now. They might all get out of this yet.

She was studying Thatcher's bindings, wondering how quickly she could undo them, when Alex and the pilot had a particularly heated exchange. The Russian tapped an instrument on his panel. Alex went to the port side window and looked at the good engine.

"What now?" Thatcher asked.

"The port engine," Alex replied.

Lydia looked out and saw a thin black streak along the side of the metal casing.

"It's operating at such a high power setting, we're losing oil. The engine's going to seize." Alex turned to the pilot. "How long?"

"Five minutes!" came the reply. "Maybe ten!"

"How far to shore?" Lydia asked.

Thatcher replied, "More than that."

"So that's it," she said. Lydia looked down at the ocean. "There's still a chance," she said hopefully. "If we can survive the impact."

Thatcher addressed the pilot, "Where's the service port?"

The Russian gave him a look like he was crazy.

"Where?" Thatcher demanded.

The Russian pointed to a small door at the midpoint of the engine.

"It might work," Thatcher said. He explained his idea.

Lydia agreed with the pilot — he was mad. "You can't be serious, Michael."

"There's a strut right there to hang on to. We break the window, and pull back power to lessen the wash from the propeller. Someone crawls out and adds oil — we have a case of it in back. It's simple, really."

The pilot certified the idea as insane, but had no objections if someone wanted to try.

"Who's going to do it?" Lydia wondered.

Thatcher looked at Alex. "You're the strongest."

Alex seemed to think it over. He looked outside, down at the water. He eyed Lydia.

"No, Major. I'm afraid if I went out there, I might find my way back inside blocked." He pointed defiantly at Thatcher. "You do it."

Thatcher met his gaze, and raised his bound hands. "All right. Get these off."

They punctured two cans and poured the oil into an empty vodka bottle — the pilot had watched forlornly as they'd poured his personal stash out the door. Thatcher figured the bottle's long neck would give him a better chance. He took off his jacket as Braun broke out the window with a monkey wrench. Thatcher stood at the opening and mapped out his steps. He had a screwdriver in a pocket. The bottle of oil would stay in his left hand.

Braun returned from talking to the pilot. "He says you'll have about two minutes before he has to add power. When it's coming, I'll pull your leg twice to give you twenty seconds notice. He doesn't think you'll be able to hold on once the prop wash hits at full power."

"Michael," Lydia said, "if you show me what to do, I can try." She looked him in the eye and said, "I've got two good legs."

"No!" Braun said. "Absolutely not!"

Thatcher agreed. "No, Lydia. I can manage."

With that, Thatcher looked up to the pilot and nodded. The engine went to idle, its rumble almost gone, and the nose of the airplane fell slightly. They were now gliding down.

Thatcher wedged through the window and placed his good leg on the thick wing strut. The big Ilyushin was flying at her minimum speed — sixty knots was the least she'd do without falling out of the sky — but even then, the wind was nearly hurricane force. Thatcher leaned into the stream, finding his balance, and stretched out toward the access panel. He pulled the screwdriver from his pocket, and when he got the door opened it flipped back in the windstream. He tossed the screwdriver away, and found himself watching as it twirled into the ocean below.

The filler cap came off by hand. Thatcher switched the bottle between his hands, but as it came across his face, oil splattered into his eyes. Blinded, he wiped his face across a shirtsleeve that was rippling in the wind. His vision was blurred by the viscous brown goo, but he got the long bottle neck in place and began to pour.

His right leg was tiring, the muscles straining at odd angles as it wrapped around the strut. He looked down and saw the Pacific. It seemed incredibly clear. Incredibly close. Thatcher felt two tugs on his leg. Twenty seconds. The bottle was only half empty. He kept at it, the brown liquid spilling and spraying, but most of it going to the engine. When the bottle was finally empty, Thatcher tossed it away. He fumbled with the filler cap. If he couldn't get it back on, it would all be for nothing — the oil would only have another avenue of escape from the engine. Thatcher wondered how many more seconds he had.

He got the cap in place, but when he looked down Thatcher thought it was too late. They were no more than twenty feet in the air. He braced, and then it hit — the engine roared to life. Wash from the propeller struck like a massive wave, pulling every part of his body back, tearing him away from his handhold. Thatcher felt his oily fingers slipping. He tried to wrap around the strut, hooking one elbow and his good leg. It was no good. The rush of air was too strong, his grip too slick from the oil. His hand gave way.

Thatcher braced for the fall, but then his belt caught on something. His upper body flailed back in the windstream, but he still didn't fall. His eyes were closed against the maelstrom of wind, and he reached back to grab whatever was holding him in place. He felt a hand.

All at once, the engine fell back to idle power. Thatcher squinted to see Braun halfway out the window. He pulled Thatcher toward the fuselage, and seconds later they were both back inside. The pilot instantly reapplied full power, and the Ilyushin began another sluggish climb.

Thatcher hunched over breathlessly, his hands on his knees, Lydia at his side. He scanned the pilot's instrument panel, trying to find the port engine oil quantity gauge. He then looked up at Braun. The man was completely disheveled — bloody face, clothes torn, hair askew. Thatcher nodded to the spy. "Thanks for that."

Braun paused to eye Thatcher for a moment. He then shrugged it off. "We may need you again, Major. It is possible we'll require one more service to make land."

Thatcher gave no reply.

Chapter 45

"Are you all right?" Lydia asked.

"Couldn't be better,"Thatcher said.

Lydia found a first-aid kit and tended to him. As she did, she eyed Alex. He was in the copilots seat studying charts, talking to the pilot in Russian. She spoke in a low voice, "Michael, he's not going to let the pilot take us back to North Field. The place is already swarming with MPs."

"I know," he said. "Hes probably trying to convince the man to land elsewhere."

The pilot shouted excitedly in Russian, and pointed out the front windscreen.

Alex turned toward the back. "Land-ho," he announced.

"Where are we going?" Lydia demanded.

"That is for me—" Alex stopped in mid-sentence. He shot a look at the pilot.

Then Lydia heard it — a vibration, steady but growing.

Everyone looked to the port engine. It had been running at full power for a very long time. The pilot pulled back on the throttle, but the vibration only increased. Soon the entire craft began to shake. Lydia could barely see, her vision rattled to a blur. Then the engine exploded.

Parts sprayed into the fuselage, ripping through glass and metal. Lydia ducked to cover Thatcher. When she looked up, the left wing was on fire, the engine a tangled mass of metal. Then she saw the pilot. The Russian was slumped to the side across the control panel, his head covered in blood.

Alex dragged him out of the left seat and took his place. He struggled fiercely against the control column.

"Can you fly it?" Lydia shouted.

"It's a glider now! All I can do is try to crash it well!" Alex looked over his shoulder. "Get up here, Lydia."

She scrambled forward. The ocean grew larger in the windscreen.

"Strap into that seat," Alex ordered. "We're going to hit hard."

There were no other seats, and Lydia said, "What about Michael?"

Alex looked back. "Go stand by the door, Thatcher! I'll get her as slow as I can, and right before she hits, jump!"

"Jump? He can't do that!" Lydia argued.

"No," Thatcher said, "he's right." He pried himself up and moved to the door.

Lydia put on her seatbelt.

Alex fought with the controls. "It's really heavy," he said, "mushy. I don't know if I can control it."

He looked her over. "Shoulder straps!"

Lydia wasn't sure what he meant. Alex reached across with one hand and pulled two straps from behind her seat. He secured it all and pulled everything tight. The two locked eyes for just a moment, then Lydia looked out the side window. It seemed like they were skimming across the waves.

"Get ready, Thatcher!" Alex shouted. "Now!"

Lydia saw Thatcher disappear out the door. When she turned back around, the right wing clipped a wave, and a curtain of white enveloped everything. The airplane cartwheeled a half turn before the windscreen imploded in a wall of water. Everything disappeared.

Braun was stunned. He felt a cool wetness enveloping his body — strangley calm and serene. Then he realized he was face down in the water.

Braun snapped his head up and shook it violently, taking the water from his eyes and the fog from his brain. When he tried to move, everything seemed surprisingly intact. He began to remember. Looking around, he saw the Ilyushin, or what was left of it. Only the tail and the spine of the fuselage were still visible, wallowing atop the ocean swells a hundred yards away. He had somehow been thrown clear. Yet again, Braun had survived.

The thought nearly brought a smile until he remembered — Lydia. Had she been thrown clear as well? Braun quickly scanned the ocean around him. He saw a wing and a few bits of debris. But no Lydia. The Ilyushin already appeared to be lower in the water — she was sinking fast.

"Lydia!" he shouted, hoping for some weak response. He heard nothing. Braun began to swim. He tore through the waves as the big airplanes fuselage began to disappear. When he reached it, the cockpit was already under, but Braun found a gaping hole midway back along the fuselage. He pulled himself though, flowing easily inside with the torrent of water. Getting back out might not be as simple, he realized.

The water inside the barrel of the airplane was up to his shoulders. He scrambled forward, a mix of running and swimming, until he heard a sound that gave him an incredible lift — a soft, unintelligible moan.

"Lydia!" Braun found her semiconscious, still strapped into her seat. She was battered and incoherent, but alive. Water rushed in from the other side of the cockpit. There, the sidewall, windows, and captains seat were simply gone.

"Come on! Weve got to get you out!"

The water was nearly up to Lydia s neck. She moaned again as Braun worked his hands blindly in the water to release her straps. He found the latch and pulled, but just at that moment the airplane lurched. There was a terrible noise, a groan, as if the big ship was expelling its last painful breath, and then the fuselage buckled behind them. The aft section seemed to fall, and everything rotated. What was left of the cockpit now pointed straight up. For a moment, Braun saw blue sky through the window, but then it disappeared in a swirl of foam and slapping waves. They were headed down.

"Come on, Lydia!" With the cockpit elevated, the remaining air now surrounded them. Braun saw that Lydia's right arm was badly broken. The water rose even more quickly now, and as he tried to lift her from the seat, he looked up through what had been the front window. Braun saw the ocean s surface clearly — it was definitely receding. They were already ten or twenty feet down, sinking like a stone.

It was a death trap that would only stop falling when it hit the bottom. Braun knew he could make it to the surface if he went now. But not with Lydia in tow. And he knew she'd never make it alone. Lydia, the ocean, his own well being — it all triangulated in his mind. Then he remembered the life vests.

Still cradling Lydia, Braun reached behind her seat and groped in the stowage pocket with his hand. He found what he wanted — the emergency life vest. He worked it around her neck and secured the strap, then positioned Lydia carefully near the breach in the sidewall, where the remaining air was fighting a tumultuous, losing battle with the sea.

"Lydia!" he screamed, shaking her shoulders.

Her eyes opened, but the gaze was lazy, unfocused.

"Listen to me, dammit!"

There was a glimmer of comprehension as her soft green eyes locked to his. The water was back up to chest level. "Take a deep breath! I'm going to send you up!"

Lydia looked around briefly, registering their predicament, seeing the vest strapped around her. Braun might have expected panic, or at least fear. Instead he saw only one thing etched into her face — determination. She nodded. "All right."

Braun made sure she was clear of any obstructions, and Lydia drew in a full breath. He reached for the inflation lanyard on her vest and they locked eyes once more. Braun felt like he was taking a snapshot of her face. The battered cheek, wet hair plastered across her forehead. All so incredibly— Braun cursed himself for the hesitation. He pulled the lanyard and guided her clear. In a rush of air and water, Lydia was gone.

He watched her rise in a maelstrom of bubbles as the water level reached his own chin. He had considered going up with her, but his added weight would have slowed the ascent. With only a small pocket of air remaining, Braun took his last breath. As he did, he was suddenly beset by a sickening realization. There had been a second vest — but it was gone, lost with the pilots seat. How had he not realized it? What had he been thinking?

He scrambled out, trying to clear the wreckage. His shirt caught on something, and Braun tried to wrestle free. As the airplane pulled him farther into the abyss, he looked up, his vision blurred by the stinging salt water. The surface was less distinguishable now, simply a lighter shade against the darkness surrounding him. How deep could he be? Fifty feet? A hundred? There was an urge to close his eyes, to take his minute of calm. But in a minute his body would be crushed by the depth.

Braun finally ripped free, his lungs demanding air after the exertion. He again looked up to find the surface. He saw the sun, a faded orb, obscure and distant. It reminded him of the sky on a snowy Russian morning. Then Braun s eyes captured something else — a tiny dot dancing near the surface, a lone figure awash in muted sunlight. Lydia.

The vision above him faltered. And soon it faded to nothing.

Lydia burst to the surface gasping for air. The brightness was incredible. She slapped frantically against the waves, as if trying to keep afloat. Her right arm blazed in pain, every movement a torture as she gasped for breath. She then heard a distant voice.

Lydia… Lydia.

A shudder coursed briefly through her nervous system. But then she saw the source — it was Thatcher, clinging to a piece of wreckage thirty yards away. Lydia gave him an awkward wave with her good arm.

"Are you all right?" he shouted across the divide.

The question was a simple one, yet a thousand thoughts spun in her mind. She tried to wave again, then saw Thatcher pointing toward the sky. Lydia looked up and saw an airplane overhead flying low, lazy circles.

A strange tranquility set in. The ocean seemed to still, and Lydia lay back, allowing the vest to keep her afloat. The pain in her arm lessened as she relaxed. With each new breath, Lydia gained clarity. Bits and pieces flowed to her marginally coherent head — the violent torrents of water, Alex pulling her free. And the look on his face right before he had inflated her vest — the same odd expression she'd seen after throwing his precious papers into the sky. Only now did she recognize it for what it was.

Lydia looked all around, drawing her gaze carefully across the sea. Alex was not here. He was gone.

Two hundred miles to the west, a small Russian fishing boat received the first faint signal. Her captain adjusted course accordingly. The man who was truly in charge, an NKVD colonel, made a series of plots on his chart. He then issued the first of what would eventually be four messages. Contact established.

The Japanese submarine I-58 acknowledged.

Chapter 46

Thatcher woke to the gentle din of rain tapping at his window. The impulse to move was not a strong one, and so he lay in bed with his eyes closed and listened. Aside from the rain, there was nothing. Nothing at all. He had never been one to appreciated things like silence, yet today, somehow, it seemed a like a treasure.

It had taken over a week to get back to England, and it all seemed a blur. After a few days in a clinic on Guam, Thatcher had delivered Lydia to her grateful family in Newport. He'd spent a day there, mostly giving her parents a glowing account of their daughter's exploits. That evening, he and Lydia had spent a few hours alone in the kitchen — at the same table where they'd first gotten to know each other late one night over a month ago. The next two days were lost to travel. And finally Thatcher was home.

When he tried to rise, his limbs felt heavy, as if the bones had been replaced with leaden rods. He sat up slowly and, like each morning for the past week, found today's pains to be slightly more bearable than yesterday's. Dim morning light filtered in through the windows, and he looked at the unset alarm clock by his bed. Ten thirty. He had slept for sixteen hours — and was already four hours late for work. Today would be Thatcher's first day back at Handley Down since he'd left over a month ago.

He pried himself out of bed and cracked open the windows, hoping to stir the stale air that had gathered in his absence. His next stop was the mirror — a grievous mistake. One side of his head displayed a gash with ten stitches, and his jaw was still swollen on the opposite side. On top of this, he hadn't shaved in three days, and his hair was completely askew. Thatcher sighed. He went through the motions as best he could — washing, dressing, breakfast, and tea.

Before heading outside, he paused at the nightstand. As always, the picture of Madeline was there. Thatcher studied it for some time before picking up the unopened envelope that leaned against it. Lydia had given it to him in parting, with instructions that it should not be opened until Thatcher had arrived back in England. Yesterday he'd been tired. But also fearful. He'd been thinking a great deal about Lydia Murray, and what the letter might or might not say.

Thatcher sat on the bed, took a deep breath — and slid the letter into the pocket of his jacket.

He rode through the gate at Handley Down thirty minutes later. The guard shack was vacant. He parked his bicycle and went straight to Roger Ainsley's office.

When Thatcher limped in, Ainsley looked up from his desk in astonishment. "Good Lord, Michael!" He rushed over to help, but Thatcher shooed him off.

"I'm fine, Roger. Really." Thatcher eased into a chair. "Much improved, actually, from when they fished me out of the Pacific."

"All the same, you should have told me." Ainsley crossed his arms defiantly. "I simply won't have you here in this state, Michael. You must take time off to convalesce. I won't hear any argument."

For once, Thatcher gave none.

"Can I send for tea?"

"No, thank you."

Ainsley edged back behind his desk. "Have you seen the newspapers?"

Thatcher shook his head, and Ainsley spun the Times across the hardwood writing surface. The headline displayed prominently: atomic bomb devastates hiroshima.

Thatcher skimmed through the article. "Dear God — 100,000 dead?" He pinched the bridge of his thin nose. "So this is what it was all about — what Braun was trying to sell to Russia."

"Yes. And he would have done it if it hadn't been for you."

Thatcher tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Actually… there was another person who had an even bigger part in stopping him."

Ainsley raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask the obvious question. Instead, he said, "There's something else. Page 9, bottom left."

Thatcher leafed through and found the second article: u. S. sailors spend four days adrift. Again he read, and again he felt his stomach churn. "Indianapolis. Do you think Braun had something to do with it? Or the Russians?"

"I think it's a hell of a coincidence," Ainsley replied.

"Eight hundred men — it ought to be investigated."

"It ought to be. But it's been a long war, Michael. I have a feeling we'll probably never know if there was any connection."

Thatcher nodded, then paused to consider it. "Perhaps it's best that way."

The telephone rang, and Ainsley answered, falling victim to his daily chores.

Thatcher briefly considered venturing across the hall to his own office, to inspect the mountain of papers that must certainly have accumulated in his absence. Instead, he pulled Lydia's letter from his pocket. After some hesitation, he forged it open and read.

Thatcher read the letter three times. He then folded it carefully and sat very still, playing her voice in his mind. And what would come? The future tense had been foreign to his thoughts for so long.

Ainsley hung up his telephone. "Apparently we'll be getting another tomorrow — a colonel from the 7th Army Headquarters who —" Ainsley stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Thatcher. "Are you hearing any of this?"

When the question broke Thatcher's thoughts, he could think of only one thing to say. "I think you're right, Roger. I'm going to take some time off."

Ainsley walked around his desk and put a hand on Thatcher's shoulder. "Take as much as you need, Michael. God knows, you've earned it."

Thatcher left Ainsley's office and passed his own without a glance. There would be others to find, he knew. It might take years, even decades to track them all down. In time, he would do his share. But not today. And not tomorrow. As he walked down the hall his pace quickened. He could almost hear Madeline's strong, clear voice urging him elsewhere — It's time to live now, Michael Live!

Outside, Thatcher struggled onto his bicycle and began to pedal surely through the warm August rain.