Los Alamos (44 page)

“Beautiful,” he said.

She looked up, catching his tone. “You don’t like it?”

“Emma, what would I do on a ranch?”

“You could ride.”

“Me? We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

She smiled at him. “Have you ever proposed to anyone before?”

“No.”

“No. I thought so. You don’t know the form. You’re supposed to agree with everything. ‘Whatever you say, darling.’ You see? Like that. ‘I’ll do whatever you want.’ ”

He took her hand, stroking it with his. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

It was pitch dark all the way to Trinity, the night sky obscured by black clouds. After Albuquerque it rained off and on, brief shows of lightning followed by bursts of rain that puddled the road.

“They’ll call it off if this keeps up,” Mills said, leaning forward to see through the windshield. “The rain’ll spread the radioactive particles. A good wind could blow stuff all the way to Amarillo. They won’t risk that.” Connolly looked at him, surprised at the technical lesson. Mills shrugged. “You hear things.”

Connolly had dozed for hours, his chest aching dully, but as they neared the site he became alert, jumpy with the tension of the thunderstorms.

“What happened to the gun?” Mills asked, pretending to be casual.

“It’s in the wreck. The police’ll recover it. I don’t know in what shape.”

“You use it?”

“No. I didn’t get the chance.”

“So the Mex killed Karl?”

Connolly nodded. “I still don’t know with what. Maybe with his hands,” he said, feeling his sore neck.

“Why?” Mills said quietly.

Connolly thought for a minute. “Jealousy, near as I can make out. Karl was meeting the girlfriend. The guy went into a rage when he caught them.”

“That why she ran?”

“She was hysterical. She didn’t know what she was doing. Maybe she thought we’d nail her for starting the whole thing.”

“Kind of a love triangle.”

“I guess.”

“And the business with the pants—that was just to make us look in the opposite direction, huh?”

“It did, too.”

“How about the turquoise?”

Connolly hesitated. “That’s still a mystery. Maybe she was generous to her friends. Older woman. I don’t know. She took that one with her.”

Mills was quiet for a while. He turned off the main highway onto the road to the site. “You used to be a better rewrite man than that,” he said finally.

“I can’t help it. That’s the way it happened.”

“What about all those security files I pulled? They know about that.”

“The files? That was—” Connolly paused, smiling to himself. “That was just a red herring.”

Mills started to respond, then stopped, seeing the roadblock ahead. MPs in jeeps and trucks were stretched across the road for what looked to be miles on either side, a human security fence. “Christ,” he said, pulling up. A flashlight shone into the car.

“Sorry. You’ll have to turn back. This road is closed.”

“Jimmy,” Mills said, recognizing the guard, “it’s me, Mills. We have to get to base camp.”

“Not tonight you don’t. Not even a snake gets through here tonight.”

“Jimmy.”

“You see this ass? It’s not in a sling yet.”

“You have a radio?” Connolly asked suddenly.

The soldier looked at him suspiciously, then nodded.

“Radio ahead. Tell Oppenheimer that Connolly’s got a message for him.” The soldier hesitated, peering at him. “Do it.”

He went over to his jeep, and they could see him operating the bulky field phone, then nodding. “Okay,” he said, leaning into Mills’s window, looking only at him. “Who the hell is he, anyway?”

Mills grinned at him, putting the car in gear. “Better watch that ass.” He pulled the car around the jeep and headed into the flat waste of desert. “You sure you know what you’re doing? Using his name like that?” he said to Connolly.

“We’re through, aren’t we?”

“I mean, this is probably the most important night of his life. He might be a little high-strung.”

“We’re through,” Connolly said again.

In the distance they could see the camp lights and, beyond, a single tower in the middle of the desert, held in the beams of giant searchlights. The base camp at Trinity had grown. Barracks and tents had sprouted around the original buildings, and the air hummed with the sounds of makeshift generators and voices pouring out of the mess. Cars and jeeps were scattered at angles to the buildings. The rain had stopped, but small puddles from the last storm still caught the reflected light. Connolly heard what sounded like the croaking of frogs.

It was nearly four in the morning, but the mess was in full swing, dishing out powdered eggs and coffee, flat squares of French toast. Soldiers sat at tables, playing cards and reading with the studied waiting of people in a bus terminal. This time there were civilians too, men in suits and ties and wire-rimmed glasses, dressed to watch history. Connolly recognized Bush and Conant mingled with the scientists from the Hill.
The gang’s all here
, he thought.

When Oppenheimer saw him, he detached himself from the crowd and walked over. In a room of nervous people, he seemed to be vibrating with tension, his cigarette hand moving to his mouth in tiny jerks. Connolly had seen him jittery before; now he seemed close to breakdown.

“What the devil is it?” he said quickly.

“I’m sorry. I had to use your name to get in. I need to see you.” He glanced around the crowded room. “Alone.”

“Now? You want to see me
now?”

A hand on his shoulder interrupted him. Groves, looking even heavier than usual, a bulging mass of khaki, turned him half around, stopping him. Connolly was struck again by their odd disparity. “Meteorology says it’s clearing. Another hour.” Then, seeing Connolly, “What are you doing here?”

“After five-thirty there’s too much light,” Oppenheimer said. “The cameras—”

“They said an hour,” Groves said, calming him. “Something wrong?” he said to Connolly.

“Yes, what is it?” Oppenheimer said impatiently.

Connolly looked at both of them, waiting for him. But it was impossible now. There were two stories, not one. Why had he thought Oppenheimer would be alone? “I have to see Pawlowski,” he said, improvising.

Oppenheimer stared at him, amazed. “You’ve got a hell of a nerve coming here at a time like this. With personal problems,” he said, almost spitting the
p’s
.

“His wife’s in the hospital.”

“What are you, her nurse?”

“Actually, I need to see you too, but that can wait.”

“It can.”

“We got the guy. It’s over.”

“Congratulations,” Oppenheimer snapped. “Now get the hell out of here.” Then, controlling himself, “Pawlowski’s at S 10,000—that’s the control bunker for the gadget. You can get him after the test.” He looked at his watch.
“If
there’s a test. We’ve already postponed it once. Thirty-mile-an-hour winds. Thirty. Anything more than ten and—”

“They said an hour,” Groves said again, reassuring. Then, to Connolly, “I don’t understand. You found—”

“Yes, Mr. Connolly’s solved his case,” Oppenheimer said dismissively, lighting another cigarette. “He seems to think this is a swell time to make a report.” He spoke the slang word as if it were foreign. “If it’s really an hour, we’d better get Kisty away from that tower. We have to clear all personnel at least an hour beforehand.” Groves looked puzzled. “In case a vehicle breaks down and they have to walk. They’d need an hour. It’s six miles to the bunker.”

“And no one guards the gadget?” Groves said.

“No. We’ll give your saboteurs a fighting chance.” He checked his watch again. “They’d better hurry.”

Groves glanced at him, unamused, then back at Connolly, uncomfortable with an audience. “Let’s get out to S 10,000, then,” he said calmly to Oppenheimer. “There’s nothing more we can do here anyway. We’ve got the brass all taken care of.” He gestured toward the Washington visitors. “You get the driver, and I’ll be right along.” He looked at Oppenheimer. “The weather’s going to be fine.”

Oppenheimer, hearing the polite dismissal, smiled. “Okay,” he said, then turned to Connolly. “I’ll send Pawlowski back after the test. No one leaves there now. As long as you’re here, you might as well go up to Compania Hill with the rest of the visitors. Get one of the men to take you. You should be safe there—it’s far enough away—in case our calculations are wrong. Of course, that’s a relative thing, isn’t it? If we’re really off, Enrico thinks it’s possible to ignite the atmosphere. A chain reaction there—”

“That kind of talk is just out of line,” Groves said, annoyed. “I told him.”

“Yes. He told me you told him. I think he might have been joking, you know.”

“Some joke.”

Oppenheimer turned to Connolly. “I’ll send him back. I’m sorry if I’ve been rude. I still say you picked one hell of a time.”

Groves watched him walk out the door. “He hasn’t slept in two days,” Groves said. “We’re all keyed up. This rain didn’t help any.” He brushed his uniform, and Connolly noticed for the first time that it was covered in damp patches.

“I didn’t mean to bother him.”

“Well, bother me. I’ve got the time. This darn waiting’s the worst part. Nothing to do but go over the same thing, over and over. What’s this about solving the case?”

“Eisler was meeting a man called Hector Ramirez,” Connolly began his new story. “Spanish. Maybe Mexican—we don’t know yet. Big guy. Laborer. He even managed to get himself a job on the Hill—construction or maintenance, I guess. Anyway, not a scientist. Eisler appears to have been his only contact, so he may have been trying to scout out some new business.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“I killed him.” Connolly felt the bandage on his forehead. “A fight. His head got in the way of some scrap metal.”

“You’re sure it was him?”

“Absolutely. That’s why the fight. He tried to kill me.”

“He tell you anything? Who his friends were? Who he passed—”

Connolly shook his head.

“Wonderful.”

“He’s dead,” Connolly said steadily. “It ends with him.”

Groves sighed. “Now what?”

“Now I’m going to need a story to tell the papers. It was a public fight. I’d say a woman, probably. They’re used to that here. Every Saturday night there’s some kind of trouble like that. Police chief in Santa Fe is a friend of mine. I can fix it with him. But you’ll have to call your boys off. Your friend Lansdale’s already got the net out for me. So give him a call and tell him to keep his hands to himself. I’m a direct report, remember?”

Groves peered at him. “You telling me a story too?”

“General, I’m working for you.”

“You’re working for your country, mister.”

“And both of you are going to get what you wanted all along. You had a security leak and now it’s plugged and nobody ever has to know. Just you and whoever else you want to tell. If it were me, I’d keep it to myself. The guy who did it is dead, and the guy who helped him is dead. And nobody knows why they’re dead. Not even their bosses. Your case is closed. Now all you have to do is seal it.”

Groves looked at him, turning this over. “They’ll try again.”

“Maybe. Make them work for it. I’d say we’ve been lucky. Did you really think you could control a project like this? Thousands of people? They know something, but they don’t know everything. And they don’t know that you know. A poker player would kill for that. That’s what they’re doing in Germany right now, isn’t it? Playing poker? And you’re giving our guy signals.”

“No, Mr. Connolly,” Groves said, looking at his watch. “In about an hour, I’m going to give him the ace.”

Connolly hesitated. “Then he won’t need anything else.”

Groves looked at him. “Such as?”

“A petty crime. That’s all this turned out to be, a crime. Nothing else. Not enough to bother people about.”

“Let me understand you—”

“Nothing else happened. Not Eisler. Not New York. None of it.”

“Why?”

“I think it might be best. For the project.”

“For the project.”

“Yes,” Connolly said, looking directly at him. “Nobody needs to raise any questions now. Not when they have the ace.” He paused. “You won your hand.” Groves stared at him. “They can turn on you too. You give them a spy case and they’ll take the project away from you.”

Groves stood still. “I’ve always played things by the book, Mr. Connolly.”

Connolly looked away. “I assume you want a report?”

“What do you intend to say?”

“General, I’m writing it for you. What do you want it to say?”

Groves still didn’t move, letting the crowded mess buzz around them. “Paper’s a funny thing,” he said finally, shifting his leg. “I’ll want another briefing. Before we decide.”

Connolly nodded.

“Officially, you were brought here to investigate a murder. Nothing else.”

Connolly nodded again. “We had a break there too, by the way. Our Spanish friend liked to beat up queers. We had another case, right on the Hill. The victim identified him. I can get him to testify if it’s necessary, though to tell you the truth, I’d like to keep him out of it. You know how nervous it makes the guys in G-2—they start looking at everybody in the showers, just in case. Anyway, there’s your link to Bruner, if you want to play that angle. Eisler doesn’t have to come into it at all.”

Groves took a piece of candy out of his pocket and looked at it thoughtfully as he crinkled the wrapper. “Nice and tidy, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s not often things end up being so neat.”

“Almost never.”

“But that’s the way it is,” he said, a question.

“And the way everybody wants it to be,” Connolly said, looking at him coolly. “Isn’t it what you asked for the first time we met?”

“I never thought you’d do it.”

“I was lucky. Maybe we’re both lucky.”

Groves looked up at him. “Why do I always feel I’m making a bargain with you?”

“Because you’re about to make one. I need a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” he said guardedly.

“I said before that no one knows about this except you. But there is one other person. Me. In fact, I’m the only one who’s public at all. I killed a man. I’m going to have to explain that. And I’m going to have to make everybody believe just what we want them to believe—what happened to Bruner, what happened to Ramirez, all of it.”