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Authors: Martin Cruz Smith

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Historical, #Adventure

Stallion Gate

BOOK: Stallion Gate
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Praise for
MARTIN CRUZ SMITH
and
STALLION GATE

“Smith, master craftsman of the good read, has given us another dandy.”

Los Angeles Times

“Smith’s dialogue is fresh, his pace unflagging.”

People

(more)

“That Smith succeeds by keeping us fascinated is largely owing to his invention of Sergeant Joe Peña.… With his deadpan wit and tough-guy-who’s-got-a-soft-touch manner, Joe is STALLION GATE’s secret weapon: He keeps us guessing all the way to ground zero.”

Glamour

“There are plenty of rewards in this novel.… The strength of STALLION GATE is in … the wonderful descriptions of the land and the people, the contrasts between nature and the forces that have set out to conquer it.”

The Boston Globe

“A towering novel … leaves a lasting impact on the reader. This is a monumental thriller in which the tormented Oppenheimer, Edward Teller, General Leslie Groves, and other historic figures live again.”

Publishers Weekly

“A historical novel of great weight and merit … more compelling as an act of imagination … Smith skillfully blends fact and fiction to re-create the tense yet exhilarating atmosphere in which the team of scientists tries to channel the atom’s power into a weapon of unprecedented destruction.”

San Francisco Chronicle

A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1986 Martin Cruz Smith

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint from previously published material: Famous Music Publishing Companies: Excerpt from the lyrics to “That Old Black Magic,” by Johnny Mercer and Harold Arlen. Copyright 1942 by Famous Music Corporation. Copyright renewed 1969 by Famous Music Corporation. MCA Inc.: Excerpt from the lyrics to “Machine Gun Butch,” words and music by Clarence Stout. Copyright 1943 by MCA Music, a Division of MCA Inc., New York, N.Y. Copyright renewed. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

B
ALLANTINE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-307-80974-2

www.ballantinebooks.com

v3.1

Contents

NOVEMBER
1943
1

The cell at Leavenworth was four feet by eight, barely large enough for Joe to sit at one end on an upended pail, but there was room in the dark for a circle of figures. Nearest Joe was a mountain lion as gray and white in color as a snowfall at night. The cat’s spine was a rattlesnake and the snake’s scaled head peeked over the lion’s shoulder. There was a girl with the body of a bird, a swallow. She had a beautiful triangular face and her eyes looked modestly down, away from Joe, who was only in dirty GI underpants. Across from her was a minotaur, a blue man with a shaggy buffalo head. At the far end was an officer who had brought his own chair to sit on. He had a long skull and sallow skin and ears pressed almost flat into close-cut black hair. He wore the patient manner and tailored uniform of a career officer and didn’t seem the least bothered by the overhead ring of golden sticks that beat against one another in subdued claps of light.

“You’re from New Mexico, Sergeant Peña?” the captain asked.

“Yes, sir,” Joe said.

The minotaur hummed softly and rocked from side to side. Joe tried to ignore it and the captain paid no attention at all.

“You know the Jemez Mountains, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sergeant Peña, as I understand it, you’re in here for insubordination,” the captain said. “But the real fact of the matter is, you were sleeping with an officer’s wife.”

“Not lately, sir. I’ve been in the brig for twenty days, the last ten in the hole on nothing but water.”

“Which is what you deserve. There is nothing dumber in this man’s Army than consorting with the wife of a superior, you’ll admit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any ill effects?”

“Some hallucinations.”

Joe had started seeing things after the fifth day in the hole. Guards banged on the door every time he lay down, so he hadn’t slept, either. The cat had come first. Joe thought the stench of the cell would drive out even a phantasm, but after the cat came the woman on wings. It wasn’t a religious experience; it was just crowded.

“You have the feeling you’re never getting out of here, Sergeant?”

“It occurs to me, sir. I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch the name.”

“Augustino.”

“You’re a defense lawyer?”

“They didn’t want to admit you were even in the brig, Sergeant. They’ve as good as buried you. No, I’m not a lawyer, but I can get you out.”

The snake twisted its head to regard the captain with more interest.

“Why don’t you tell me how, sir?” Joe suggested.

“You haven’t been back to New Mexico recently?”

“Not for years.”

“Wasn’t too stimulating?”

“Not stimulating enough.”

While the snake watched the captain the big cat turned its yellow eyes languidly to Joe.

“I know what you mean, Sergeant. I’m from Texas myself.”

“Really, sir?”

“On my sixteenth birthday I applied for the Citadel.”

“Is that so, sir?”

“You get more dedicated officers out of the Citadel than you get from the Point.”

“Interesting, sir. Can you get me out of this fucking hole or can’t you?”

“Yes, I have the authority to get anyone I want. Sergeant, do you remember a J. Robert Oppenheimer?”

“No.”

“Jewish boy from New York? He had tuberculosis? His family sent him to New Mexico?”

“Okay. I was a kid too. That was a long time ago. We went riding.”

“To Los Alamos?”

“All over, yeah.”

“He’s back.”

“So?”

“Sergeant, the Army is setting up a project at Los Alamos. Dr. Oppenheimer is in charge, and he will need a driver. You are, in almost every particular, the perfect man. Violent enough to be a bodyguard. Ignorant enough to hear classified information and not understand a word. Be liaison.”

“Who with?”

“Indians, who else? Most of all, you might be a name Oppenheimer would recognize and trust. I put you on the list. We’ll find out.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“You’ll rot right here. If he does pick you, you’ll return to your various scams, Sergeant—I expect that. You’ll be in glory. But don’t forget who found you in this hole. I want his man to be my man. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain rapped on the door to go. Waiting for the turnkey, he added, “I hear your mother is Dolores the Potter. I have some wonderful pieces by her. How is she?”

“Wouldn’t know, sir. I haven’t been in Santiago since the war started.”

“You don’t do pottery yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re not that kind of Indian?”

“Never was, sir.”

The captain took his chair with him when he left. Joe
leaned back on the pail and shut his eyes to the figures who stayed in the cell with him. He could hear new apparitions arriving. Then he opened one lid and caught the girl with the swallow body lifting her eyes and giving him a wistful look. He laughed. He knew nothing about visions, but he knew women. He was getting out.

DECEMBER
1944
2

Staff Sergeant Joe Peña was playing the piano for the Christmas dance. He had a narrow face for a Pueblo Indian, a deep V of cheekbones, a broad mouth and wide-set eyes. Black hair and brows, one brow healed over an old split. His uniform was crisp, the chevron on his sleeve so bright it looked polished, his tie tucked in between the second and third buttons of his shirt. Picking out ballads on the parlor grand, he gave a first impression of a huge, attractive man. Also of damaged goods.

The lodge’s walls and columns had the honeyed glow of varnished ponderosa pine. In keeping with the Christmas theme, red and green crepe festooned wagon-wheel candelabras and the open balconies of the second floor. Paper reindeer were pinned to the Navajo rugs on the walls. Atop the eight-foot-high stone mantel of the fireplace a cardboard St. Nick stood between Indian pots.

“Everyone’s here.” Foote leaned on the piano. He was a horsey Englishman in a threadbare tuxedo.

“Not everyone,” Joe answered while he played.

“You say. Who’s not here?”

“Soldiers aren’t here, MPs aren’t here, WACs aren’t here, machinists aren’t here, Indians aren’t here.”

“Of course not, we don’t want them here. It’s not their bloody bomb. Bad enough that we have the military command. Especially Captain Augustino creeping around like a Grand Inquisitor.”

“I’m ready.” Harvey Pillsbury brought Joe a bourbon. In his other hand he carried a clarinet. “I really appreciate this second chance, Joe.”

“Just blow. Last time you were so silent it was like playing with a snowman.”

Harvey had the contours of a snowman, fair downy hair and the high, nasal accent of West Texas.

“Be prepared for quantum improvement.”

“Whatever that means.” Joe finished the drink in a swallow.

He played “Machine Gun Butch” and everyone sang along. “ ‘… was a rough and ready Yankee, / He’ll never let the old flag touch the ground. / And he always will remember the seventh of December, / With his rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat, and he’ll mow them down.’ ” The English and Italians sang loudest, and the odd thing was that Joe liked them all, Foote included and Harvey especially. Most were Americans, the majority babies straight from college. The boys had loose ties and sweaty faces; the girls had short skirts and scrolls of hair around broad, polished foreheads. A rent party in Harlem it wasn’t, but they were trying.

BOOK: Stallion Gate
3.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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