Stealing Trinity (27 page)

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!"