“… is de… ceed… second… target… im…med… you… me？…”
The pilot and copilot looked at one another。 The pilot shook his head。 “One more time。”
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The copilot leaned over the mike and yelled； “Blue One to Blue Three。 Repeat。 Repeat。 Repeat。
Over。”
The radio crackled explosively； echoing nearby lightning。
“… test is delayed。 Proceed to… immediately… read me？ Over。”
The copilot yelled to Finn； “Did you get that？ The test is delayed。 We’re supposed to go on to
California。”
Finn looked at his watch。 Almost one…thirty。 The test had been delayed twice already； he would
be lucky to make it to Hunters Point on time。
“Let’s go！” yelled Finn； giving a thumb’s up gesture just as lightning turned the cockpit white。
The pilot banked steeply away from the test site； climbing for the relative calm between the
squall lines that had been sweeping across the desert from the Gulf。 As the copilot yelled his
understanding of the new orders into the radio； Finn checked the black radiation counter
between his feet。 It was intact。
Thunder rattled the plane； making his teeth ache。 He settled himself in for a long； unpleasant
flight。
San Francisco； California
1 Hour 12 Minutes Before Trinity
Chill and wild； the wind off San Francisco Bay gusted down streets darkened by wartime；
rattling windows where shards of light glinted between blackout curtains。 Some windows had
not been covered at all； showing light like great blind eyes。 The seamless coastal midnight of
1941 had given way to complacency as people shed the inconveniences of a war they believed
they had already won。
Unnoticed by anyone； San Francisco had gradually returned to being a civilian city。 Bakery
trucks； laundry trucks； cabs； meat trucks； garbage trucks； buses； pimps； whores； cops and thieves
competed for space on the city streets。
Among the delivery vehicles moving over streets glistening with a condensed fog was a pale
laundry truck with Chinese ideographs and a small number 7 on the door。 The truck pulled up in
the alley behind a Cantonese restaurant。 The driver stretched and slowly got out to make the last
civilian stop on his route； dropping off clean linen and picking up napkins smelling of ginger and
soy sauce。
Masarek moved his head just enough to watch the back of the restaurant。 He was so close to the
parked truck that he could smell oil oozing out of a leak in the crankcase。
The driver’s heels grated on the broken surface of the alley。 A rectangle of light bloomed at the
back of the restaurant。
Other than narrowing his eyes； Masarek did not move to evade the light。 He had chosen his
clothes and his cover well； light did not separate him from the surrounding darkness。
The driver and dishwasher exchanged a few desultory Cantonese obscenities as clean laundry
was traded for dirty。 Masarek waited； poised for the moment when the restaurant door would
close and the sound of deadbolts slamming home would be loud in the alley’s silence。
The rectangle of yellow light vanished。 Deadbolts thumped into place。 The driver began closing
the van’s rear doors。
Masarek flowed out of hiding with no more sound than the fog。 His right hand covered the
driver’s mouth at the exact instant that his stiletto slid between the man’s ribs and pierced his
heart。
Death was immediate。 There was no time for fear or surprise； escape or error。 Masarek heaved
the body on top of tea…stained tablecloths； slammed the van’s doors； and climbed into the
driver’s seat。 The laundryman’s death had taken less than three seconds。
Refugio was hidden where the alley met the street。 At the sound of the driver’s door closing； he
gathered himself for a rush at the truck； certain that Masarek had somehow missed his quarry。
The truck stopped at the head of the alley。 The door on the right opened soundlessly。
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“Get in！”
Masarek’s hissed command galvanized Refugio and the two men waiting with him。
“In the back！”
One of Refugio’s men tripped over the driver’s body。
“Madre de Dios！ Salvador；” hissed Refugio。 “You are as clumsy as a boy with his first woman！”
Salvador rolled off the body with a curse； checking his clothes for bloodstains。 There were none。
The man had died before his heart could pump blood out of the single wound the stiletto had
made。
Refugio and Salvador helped the third Mexican； a man named Lopez； to strip the corpse of its
uniform shirt。 The truck swayed as it turned onto the main street； making the men’s work more
difficult。
“You；” said Refugio； handing the shirt to Lopez； the smallest of the three men。
Lopez looked over the shirt。 There was a tiny stain on the back where capillaries had oozed in
the instant before the driver’s blood pressure had dropped to nothing。 Lopez looked from the
stain to the man who had killed with such precision。
Refugio followed the glance。 He knew what Lopez was thinking； but Salvador was also quick；
silent and deadly。 And there would be three to Masarek’s one。
“Put it on；” said Masarek。 “You’ll drive。”
Lopez pulled on the shirt。 It still carried the dead driver’s warmth。 Lopez traded places with
Masarek； who went to the back of the truck and crouched； gun in hand； watching everyone。
“Go！” said Masarek。 “Quickly！”
Hunters Points； California
29 Minutes Before Trinity
Evans Avenue pointed like an arrow toward the gate at Hunters Point。 Inside the mammoth
naval shipyard； most streetlights and buildings were properly hooded。 Even so； there were
occasional islands of illumination。 Churned by the wind； rain made ragged patterns in the light。
At the front gate； Shore Patrol sentries hunched inside their peacoats and cursed the wind； the
military and the bad luck that had given them duty on such a filthy night。 They hardly interrupted
their cursing to wave through routine traffic – food and fuel and laundry。 The vehicles shuttled
back and forth； weaving Hunters Point into the fabric of civilian San Francisco。
The cream…colored van with Chinese ideographs on the door was just one of many vehicles the
sentries had seen。 Laundry trucks at Hunters Point were as common as Spam in field rations。
“You sure this is the right truck？” asked Lopez as he began to slow for the gate。
“It’s number seven；” said Refugio in a low voice。 “Now be quiet； fool！”
Lopez puffed on his cigaret and tried to ease the strain of the too…small uniform across his
shoulders。 His dark face was lit by the cigaret glued to his lower lip。 There were premature lines
at the corners of his eyes from squinting against the perpetual upward curl of smoke。 His
nervousness showed in the deep red glow as he sucked hard on the cigaret。
Masarek crouched in the back of the truck； watching。 He did not expect to be challenged by the
guards – it was the right truck； the right guards； and the right night。 No enlisted man would
search the truck that carried the punch…boards and betting slips for all the illegal gamblers in
Hunters Point。 But there was always the chance of a mistake； a new guard or a greedy guard； or
an officer who had decided to inspect the gate…。
The Shore Patrol waved through the laundry truck after a single look at the number 7。 Masarek
relaxed slightly as the truck picked up speed。 He would have had a difficult time explaining the
three men hidden in the back of the van； and the dead man who did not quite fit into a laundry
bag。
Once inside the base； Lopez killed the headlights and slid unobstrusively into the random
movements of trucks； staff cars and occasional Shore Patrol Jeeps。 The van rolled unchallenged
through the darkness； its tires sucking moistly on the wet roadways。
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“Second right；” said Masarek from the rear of the van。
Refugio translated quickly； not wanting Masarek to know that Lopez understood English。 The
three men in the back braced themselves as the van turned。 Other than clipped directions and
translations； no one spoke。 The only sound was Salvador’s fingernail slowly marking time on the
stock of a sawed…off； twin…barreled escopeta that lay across his knee。 The shotgun looked small
in his thick hands。 When he turned to look at Refugio； random light picked out the claw…shaped
scar on Salvador’s temple。
“Left。”
Refugio’s fingertips traced and retraced the lines of a silver…plated 。45 caliber Army pistol that
rested on his knee。
“Right。”
Masarek’s voice was thin； soft and precise。 His head was never still。
“Left。” Masarek’s head turned； listening。
The van swayed； then evened out as it negotiated the hard left turn。 Now the vehicle was
threading its way through narrow alleys behind warehouses and armories； alleys piled high with
equipment。 The supply line that had been created for the invasion of Japan had been filled
beyond its capacity。 Hundreds of tons of clothing and food； vehicles and fuel drums spilled out
of warehouses。 Field artillery pieces； self…propelled howitzers and other instruments of war
towered over the van。 Like millions of men； the supplies waited for a Presidential decision。
“Slow down。”
Refugio’s translation was like a garbled echo。 Lopez eased off the accelerator； guiding the van
along ever more cluttered roadways。
“Park on the right。”
Lopez backed into a spot behind a ten…foot…high pile of crated gasoline barrels。 It was unlikely
that the van would be spotted there。 Lopez shut off the engine and turned to speak to Refugio。
“Silence。”
Masarek’s command needed no translation。 No one moved or spoke while Masarek listened。 He
heard nothing but the random pops and pings of metal cooling in the van’s engine。 He turned
his head several times； listening； but he heard neither the soft scuff of his private fears nor the
tramp of military feet； nothing but the engine cooling。
Masarek waited。 He had survived forty years of Russian politics by being patient。 He listened
again； barely able to credit the information that a single guard had been assigned to the canister
of 7…235。 One man tonight； two men tomorrow to load the canister aboard the Indianapolis； and
no one on base knew what was inside the unimpressive container。
No one except Masarek。
Masarek’s mouth curved slightly beneath his long nose。 Using just one guard was clever。 Who
would believe the canister was valuable； when chocolate bars were better guarded？ Yet he could
not help wondering if the shipment was not a trap for men such as himself。
Deftly； Masarek screwed a silencer onto his pistol and pushed the gun into the waistband of his
dark pants。 His American sportscoat covered the gun； and a white shirt now concealed the thin
black sweater that had made him invisible in the alley’s dank night。 Clipped to the shirt pocket
was a Lawrence Radiation Laboratory ID badge。
Masarek stood； crouching slightly to avoid the roof of the van。 He did not move as quickly or as
freely as he once had； but the difference was apparent only to him。 He pulled off the back watch
cap he wore； revealing the fleshy shine of a receding hairline。 Quietly； he eased open the van
door。
The narrow aisles betpty of all but the rain…wet wind。 In the
distance； light from an unhooded lamp made a fuzzy sphere of illumination。 Masarek set himself
against the wind and stepped onto the pavement。 After a final； long moment of listening
betw