Los Alamos (11 page)

“Tell me about him, then. Help me with this, Mills—don’t fold on me. I need to know what he was like.”

“I thought you’d already decided that.”

“Does it make sense to you that someone who survived two prison camps would be careless with strangers?”

“Well, you know what they say—a stiff prick has a mind of its own.”

Connolly ignored him. “Does it make sense?”

“No, but none of it does. Okay, so he wasn’t the pickup type. He didn’t
seem
to be. But he was there. He wasn’t alone. So who was it?”

“I think he met somebody.”

Mills stared at him again. “You mean somebody from up here.”

“Maybe.”

“Then why go to Santa Fe?”

“I don’t know.” Connolly thought for a minute. “You said he liked surveillance detail. Was he covering someone that day?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Sure. It was his day off. You can check the sign-up sheet. I remember because we were shorthanded that weekend and I asked him, but he begged off.”

“What happens when you’re shorthanded?”

Mills shrugged.

“They go without cover?”

“Not the priority list. Oppenheimer, Fermi—there’s a group that always have a bodyguard or they don’t leave the project. The others, we do spot covers. The whole point is that they don’t know when they’re covered, so they have to assume they are. It works all right. Nobody’s been kidnapped yet.”

“Congratulations.”

“Or had any trouble. They’re not the kind. They go on
hikes
, you know? Picnics. Family stuff. Once in a while a dinner at La Fonda. You don’t seriously think it was one of the scientists.”

“Why not? That would explain the money. They’re the only ones here making more than six grand a year. Two hundred bucks would be a big piece of change for anyone else.”

“No,” Mills said, shaking his head. “It’s ridiculous. They’re professors. Pointy-heads. Half the time they’re up there somewhere in the clouds anyway, not down here with the rest of us. They’re not—” He searched for a word. “Violent. I mean, that’s the last thing they are.”

Connolly smiled. “They’re making a bomb.”

“They’re not, though. They’re solving a problem. That’s how they see it.”

“That’s some trick,” Connolly said. “Okay, so they don’t go around knocking people over the head. But we don’t know why he was hit. People do some unlikely things when they’re upset. You admit at least that it’s possible he had a friend up here?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“He met somebody. Why not a friend?”

“Then we’re back where we started. Why go to Santa Fe?”

“Maybe they were discreet. Maybe they liked to meet off the Hill.”

Mills shook his head. “God, I hate this. Pretty soon you’ll have me thinking just like you do, walking around here thinking ‘Is he one?’ Suspecting everybody. This isn’t New York, you know.”

“Don’t go small-town on me now,” Connolly said. “You’re a big boy.”

“But this is a small town—that’s just what it is. Do you know how much trouble we’ve had since the project started? None. A few kids sneaking through the fence. A little hanky-panky in the women’s dormitory. A fight now and then over in the hutments. That’s it. It sounds crazy, but this is the nicest place I’ve ever lived.”

“Except it has one dead guy in it.”

“Who was killed forty miles away. But that doesn’t feel right to you, so now we’ve got a killer on the loose up here. And we’re going to catch him by going through his bankbook. Aw,” Mills said, waving his hand in disgust, “we’re not thinking straight.”

“You can’t get away from the money. Where did he get the money?”

“If his friend is so rich, why was he wearing boots?”

“You got me. Maybe they’re not connected.”

Mills looked up to answer him and then stopped, his attention drawn away. They had walked back toward the Tech Area and now stood beside the fence, sidestepping a jeep. A girl in heels, her white badge flapping against her sweater, brushed past the MP guard, her face covered in tears. Outside the gate, she squinted into the late afternoon sun, then, blinded by the light, walked unsteadily past them, nearly knocking into Mills as she went.

“What was that?” Mills said.

“Trouble in paradise,” Connolly said lightly. “The boss yelled. The boyfriend took a hike. Maybe it’s—”

“No, look,” Mills said, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. “Something’s happened.”

Suddenly the street began to fill with people coming out of the buildings, then standing around aimlessly, unsure what to do, as if an explosion had gone off inside. Some of the women hugged each other. Others began to move in haphazard groups toward the open area in front of the Admin Building, anxious and listless at the same time.

Mills went up to the guard. “What’s going on?”

“It’s the President—Roosevelt’s dead,” he said, not looking at them.

Nobody said a word. Connolly felt winded, caught by an unexpected punch. He was surprised by how much he minded. Only the war was supposed to end, not the foundation of things. Now what? He imagined himself back in Washington—bells tolling, people stupefied in their maze of offices, the humming of gossip about a new order that was beginning before its time. Most of the people he knew there had come to Washington for Roosevelt, measuring their lives by his successes. They never expected to know anything else. Now the others would begin scurrying to make the town over—it wasn’t too soon, even now. For the first time since he’d come to Los Alamos, Connolly missed it, that nervous feeling of being at the center of things, where telephones rang and everything mattered. He felt suddenly marooned on a cool, bright plateau, looking at an inconsequential crime while the rest of the world skipped a beat.

They joined the others drifting toward the Admin Building, drawn home like children after dark. It was only when he saw Oppenheimer appear on the steps that he realized why they had come. There was a different White House here, and the plain army-green building was as central and reassuring as the one across from Lafayette Square. There were no loudspeakers and Oppenheimer barely raised his voice, so that Connolly missed most of what he said. There would be a service on Sunday. He knew everyone must be shocked. He knew they would carry on the President’s ideals. The words faded even as he spoke them. But no one looked anywhere else. His face visibly troubled, Oppenheimer held them all with the force of his caring. In Washington there had been the rakish glint of Roosevelt’s eyes, his generous celebration of worldliness, but here the center was held by Oppie’s almost luminous intelligence. It was his town. When something went wrong—the water supply, a death in the larger family—they didn’t have to hear what he said. It was enough to have him here.

Connolly looked around the crowd of his new town. Scientists in jeans. Nurses and WACs and young typists with vivid red nails. MPs. Fresh-faced graduate students in sweater vests and ties—you could almost see them raising their hands in class, eager to impress. Some were openly weeping, but most people simply stood there, sober after a party. And then Oppenheimer was finished, coming down the few steps to join the crowd, and people began drifting back, not wanting to burden him further.

Connolly couldn’t stop watching him, and Oppenheimer, glancing up, caught his stare and looked puzzled for a moment, until he placed him. He was walking toward them, and Connolly felt oddly pleased to be singled out, then embarrassed when he saw that Oppie had been headed for Professor Weber all along.

“Well, Hans,” he said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “a sad day.”

Weber, always in motion, now seemed to bubble over. “Terrible, terrible. A gift to the Nazis. A gift.”

Oppenheimer looked at his watch. “It’s already tomorrow there. Friday the thirteenth. Dr. Goebbels won’t even have to consult his astrologer. For once, a clear sign, eh?”

“But Robert, the music. What should we do? Should we cancel this evening? It seems not respectful.”

“No, by all means let’s have the music,” Oppenheimer said softly. “Let the Nazis look at their entrails—we’ll take our signs from the music.”

Weber nodded. Oppenheimer, in a gesture of remembering his manners, turned to include Connolly. “You know Mr. Connolly?”

“Yes, forgive me. I didn’t see you. We met at the dancing.”

“How are you getting on?” Oppenheimer said.

“All right, I guess.”

“Good. You must invite him to your evening, Hans.” Then, to Connolly, “All work and no play—it can be a disease here. They’re really quite good.”

“But I have invited him. Yes? You remember? So come.”

“I’m planning on it. If there’s room.”

“Oh, there’s always room,” Oppenheimer said. “And the cakes are even better than the music.”

“Vays mir,”
Weber said, putting his hand to his head. “Johanna. You’ll excuse me, please?” But he went off before anyone could answer.

Oppenheimer lit a cigarette and sucked the smoke deeply, like opium. “He likes to help.
Schnecken
. Seed cake. I think the music is an excuse. How
are
you getting on?”

“Slowly. Thanks for running interference on the files.”

“I hope they’re worth it. They say bad things run in threes—maybe you’ll find something yet.”

“Would that make three? Has something else happened?”

“No, I’m anticipating. It’s been just the opposite. Today Otto Frisch finished the critical assembly experiments with metallic U-235.” He paused, looking at Connolly. “You haven’t the faintest idea what I’m talking about, have you? Well, so much the better. I probably shouldn’t be talking about it in any case. Suffice it to say, it’s a significant step—best news in a week. And now this. No doubt there’s some philosophical message in it all, but I’m damned if I see it.”

“Did you know him well?”

“The President? No, not very well. I’ve met him, of course, but I can’t say I knew him. He was charming. But that’s beside the point.”

“Which is?”

“It was his project. He okayed it. Now it’s anybody’s guess—”

“Truman opposed it?”

“He doesn’t know about it.”

“What?”

Oppenheimer smiled. “You know, I’m constantly surprised at security’s being surprised when something secret is kept secret. No, he doesn’t know. Nobody there knew except Roosevelt and the committee. And I expect he’ll be furious when Stimson tells him what he didn’t know.”

“Touchy, anyway,” Connolly agreed. “But he’s not going to pull the plug at this point.”

“How well do you really know Washington? This project has cost nearly two billion dollars.” He watched Connolly’s eyes widen. “None of the men you sent to Washington to spend your money knows a thing about it.”

“That’s a lot of money to hide,” Connolly said, thinking about his own paltry search.

“Only Roosevelt could have ordered it,” Oppenheimer said. “It had to come from the top. Still does.”

“So you’re off to Washington, hat in hand?”

“No,” Oppenheimer said, “nothing that drastic. General Groves will take care of it—he knows his way around those land mines better than anybody. But it’s—” He hesitated, grinding out his cigarette. “A complication. We were always racing against time, and now it’s worse. It’s a bad time to get a new boss.”

“It always is.”

“This is a particularly bad time.”

“Can I ask you a question? What if it doesn’t work?”

“I never ask myself that. It will.”

“Because it has to?”

“Because the science is there. It will work. The question now is what happens after that. The generals will want to own it. We’ll need a whole new kind of civilian control. Otherwise, all our work here—” He looked away, rehearsing some talk with himself. “Otherwise, it will be a tragedy. Roosevelt saw that. Now we have—who? Some politician nobody ever heard of. How can he be expected to make such a decision? For all I know, he’ll think it’s just a giant hand grenade.” He stopped, catching himself. “Well, let’s hope for the best,” he said, looking back at Connolly. “A little music for the soul. Seven o’clock. Weber’s on Bathtub Row—just ask anyone. By the way, I hope you’re not looking too closely at my bank account. It feels like someone’s going through my laundry.”

When Connolly got back to the office, there was a message to call Holliday.

“I have something for you,” he said, not even bothering to mention Roosevelt. Most people on the Hill had taken an unofficial holiday and left early. “We found out where your boy went that night. Or at least where his car went.”

“You found the bar?”

“He wasn’t drinking. He went to church.”

“Church?”

“San Isidro, out on the Cerrillos Road. A Mex place.”

“What would he be doing in church? He was a Jew.”

“I didn’t say he was praying. I just said his car was parked there. An alley next to the church. Not a parking lot, exactly, but people park there.”

“What’s around?”

“Houses. A gas station. No bars. Quiet.”

“And one of the neighbors saw him?”

“No. Actually, one of my men. You were right, put out the word and you always haul something in. The night of the killing, he was driving past on his way to some complaint and noticed the car there. Didn’t think anything of it until I put out the description of the car.”

“What made him notice it?”

“A ’forty-two Buick? In a Mexican neighborhood?”

“But he didn’t stop?”

“There’s nothing illegal about parking there. Figured it must be somebody visiting.”

“The church was open?”

“Not for mass. They don’t lock churches around here. This one pulls in a tourist now and then. They’ve got an old
reredos
there that’s supposed to be something special.”

“At that time of night? What time was it, anyway?”

“Nine maybe, more or less. He’s a little fuzzy about that. If you ask me, he was taking his own sweet time about answering the complaint and didn’t want to say so.”

“Where’s the church in relation to where Bruner was found?”

“Well, it’s out a ways, but you go straight down Cerrillos over the bridge and you’re on the Alameda.”

“So it’s the first park?”

“In that direction, yes.”