Once the bomb had been presented to Russia as a fait accompli； Stalin would accept and reward
his loyal comrade； Lavrenti Beria。 Until then； Beria’s actions invited misunderstanding。
Beria’s nail tapped the desk four times in rapid succession。 He still wished he could send
Vanessa every Russian agent in the United States； but he would be dead or in exile before she
could put them to use。
The fingernail descended to the polished desk a final time。
“Notify me immediately of any further communications from V；” said Beria； dismissing his
assistant with a motion of his finger。
Oakland
4 Hours 46 Minutes After Trinity
Finn turned off the radiation counter and walked back up the street from the spot where the
fourth body had been found。 If the dead man had carried the uranium； it was gone now。 The
counter had picked up residual radiation where the body had been； but nothing more。
“Okay； Detective；” said Finn； coming up to Jones。 “Let’s go over it again。”
Jones arranged weapons and labeled bags on the hood of a squad car as he spoke。 “When I got
here； there was a DB down the road。 Male Mexican； about thirty； powerful arms。 This knife；”
Jones indicated a short…bladed sheath knife； “was near him。 This bag has the contents of his
pockets。 No wallet。 No ID； just matches； cigarets and money。”
“Mexican or American？”
“Mexican all the way。 He smoked Dóminos。 His dead pal in the van smoked some other greaser
brand。”
Finn sorted the contents of the bag on the car’s hood。 The matches were from the Green Parrot。
He thought immediately of Refugio； but dismissed it。 Refugio’s eyebrows； not his arms； were his
most outstanding characteristic。
“How did he die？”
“Bullet wounds in the face and chest。”
“How about the van？”
Jones shifted a narrow cigar from one side of his mouth to the other。 “Well； the dead Chink was
in the back； stuffed in a laundry bag。”
Riley looked up at Finn； remembering what he had said earlier about the driver either being
bought or killed。
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“Funny thing about the Chink；” Jones continued。 “If his shirt hadn’t been off； we’d still be
looking for what killed him。 The wound wasn’t as wide as my finger。 Not a drop of blood。
Whoever did it was a pro。”
Finn looked in the bag holding the Chinese driver’s possessions。 He riffled through the wallet；
finding the paper residue of a life spent obeying white law in public and tong law in private。
Nothing for Finn to use。 It was the same for the bag holding more Mexican cigarets and Green
Parrot match books。
“Shot through the eye；” said Jones before Finn could ask about the second Mexican。 “Fell just in
back of the front seat。”
Finn nodded。 He had seen the puddle of blood。 He had also seen blood sprayed across the
inside of the windshield； the passenger side and down both sides of the seat。 As one cop had
pointed out； they had had their own little war in the van。
“You said four bodies；” Finn said； looking for another bag of personal effects。
“Nothing in the fourth guy’s pockets but lint – and not much of that。 Not even labels。”
“Describe him；” demanded Finn quickly。 It would be like Masarek to leave no trace of his
identity； not even labels in his clothes。
Detective Jones shrugged。 “Male； over thirty。”
“That’s not much help；” said Riley。
Jones took out his cigar and blew on its smoldering tip。 “Ever seen a razor wire； son？”
“Huh？” said Riley。
“Well； this wire job was bungled；” said Jones。 “Victim got a hand under the wire before it
closed。 Between the blood and the usual eye…popping； his own mother wouldn’t know him。”
Riley made an odd sound as he swallowed。
“Hair color？” Finn asked calmly。
“Dark。 Might have been gray at the temples。 Kinda hard to tell； what with all the mess。” Jones
shot a quick glance at Riley。 “You know； when you put the kind of pressure on a man’s artery；
not only does the face turn purple and the eyes bug out； but – “
“I’ll bet；” said Riley loudly； cutting across the details of death； “that you get a boot out of
putting razor blades in trick…or…treat apples。”
Detective Jones laughed； not at all offended。 “Kid； the first thing you learn as a homicide dick is
that corpses stink； blood washes off and lunchtime comes at noon。”
“ ‘Dead is pretty much dead；’” quoted Finn。 “Right； Riley？”
“Yeah。 Right。”
Finn turned away and walked back to the van； with both men following。
The air inside still smelled of cordite。 That told him nothing new； the cordite was
American…made and blood was the same the world over。
Only the uranium was unique； and it was gone。
“The way I figure it；” said Jones； leaning into the front seat of the van next to Finn； “is that the
guy with the wire and his pal stood behind the front seat； dropped the wire around the
passenger； and – “Jones made a juicy； descriptive sound。
“The passenger stays kicking long enough to do for the pal – bang bang – but can’t get to the
guy pulling on the wire。”
Finn’s glance raked over the truck； re…creating the scene in his mind。 “The driver was shot by the
passenger before the wire dropped；” said Finn。 He pointed to a veneer of blood on the driver’s
side that clearly showed the imprint of a seated man。 There was a bright streak where a bullet
had stripped paint off the driver’s door。 “Went through the thigh； probably。”
“Nope。 None of the DBs had leg wounds。 Every other damn thing but that。 I checked。”
“Then the driver limped away；” said Finn reasonably。
“Doubt it。 None of the guards saw him。 And guys were looking； believe me。” Jones jerked his
thumb over his shoulder at the two gray…haired factory guards who were still talking to the
uniformed officers。 “This was the most exciting thing they’d ever seen。”
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Finn stared at Jones in disbelief。 “Between them； those two guys are about one hundred and
thirty。 On a foggy night； I could steal their goddamn factory piece by piece and they wouldn’t
see a thing。 Put out an APB for a male with a leg wound。”
As Jones walked off； Finn opened a large bag and began sorting through the weapons。 There
were knives； handguns and beneath them a sawed…off shotgun with silver inlays in the stock。 Finn
pulled it out of the bag。
“Salvador；” murdered Finn。 “ Refugio。”
“Gesundheit；” said Riley。
Finn looked up； almost smiled。 “Salvador Leon is a Mexicali thug with a reputation for murder。
He carries an escopeta like this and works for a crook called Refugio。”
“Can’t be too many like it。” said Riley； looking at the gaudy gun。 “Looks like whore’s
Christmas。”
This time Finn smiled。 “It kills just as dead as the plain models。” Finn sniffed the barrel。 “Hasn’t
been fired today。”
Riley peered into the bag and removed a pistol with a silencer attached。 “That explains it。”
Finn looked up。 “Explains what？”
“The guards only heard a few shots； but from what the cops said； a lot of lead must have been
flying。”
“Of course；” said Finn matter…of…factly。 “That’s why no one at Hunters Point heard the sentry
die。”
Riley put down the gun and went toward the back doors of the van。 As he reached for the
handles； Finn spoke。
“Don’t。”
Finn’s voice was flat； yet somehow urgent。 Responding to the tone as much as to the command
itself； Riley let go of the handles and stepped back quickly。
“What’s wrong？” complained Riley。 “You said there’s nothing in there but blood。”
“Stay away from the back end of the truck；” Finn said。 “Do your sightseeing from the front； and
don’t be too long about it。”
With a motion that was becoming second nature； Finn turned on the radiation counter and
walked around to the back of the truck。 The clicks increased in volume and frequency as he
approached the point where Riley stood。 Hastily； Riley stepped aside。 The clicks did not
diminish with his absence。 By the time Finn was at the back doors； he had had to recalibrate
twice。 The radiation was still within safety limits； but Finn knew when he opened the door the
counter would scream。
He moved the counter slowly across the back of the van。 The radiation was highest at the center
of the bumper； where blood had dripped from the van floor onto the chrome； as though the
surviving thief had set down the two pieces of metal； slid out of the truck； and then pulled the
uranium after him。
Finn was accustomed to the counter now。 He found it helpful； so long as he remembered to rely
on it and not the eyes to trace the invisible patterns of radiation that he knew were present。 He
concentrated； building a mental picture of what had happened on the foggy street where men
had fought and died over a stolen sun。
Sitting on his heels； Finn swept the probe just above the surface of the street。 He was rewarded
by a crackle of sound； as though the uranium had been set on the ground for an instant。 The
radiation was not as potent as that in the truck。
The probe quartered the street alongside the van； but no matter how sensitive the setting； there
was no response until Finn came to the place where Salvador’s body had rested。 That response
was relatively weak。
Finn walked slowly； avoiding the shards of glass from windows shot out of parked cars。 The
counter barely clicked； registering less than normal radiation。 The sandy sediment that lined the
gutters and filled the potholes did not set off the counter。
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Suddenly； Finn bent over and fished in the gutter between a parked car and the curb。
“Find something？” said Riley。
Finn tossed a shell casing to Riley； ent of his hand。
“Check the gun with the silencer。”
In a moment； Riley called out。 “Nope。 It’s a 9 millimeter。 Must be a 。38 somewhere。”
“Yeah。 Pretty big gun for a woman； though。”
“What woman？” demanded Riley。
“None of the dead men was small enough to make that print；” said Finn pointing at the muddy
street； “except the Chinese driver； and he was already dead。 Masarek was traveling with a
woman。 An Englishwoman called Vanessa Lyons。”
Riley looked； and then bent down and looked again。 There in the gritty mud was a small
footprint。
“Are you really an Indian scout？” said Riley； halfway between sarcasm and awe。
“She probably crouched half in and half out of the gutter；” said Finn； “laid the 。38 across the
hood； and fired。” He stood in the empty parking space and squinted along an imaginary line
leading to the van。 “Not a bad shot。 She nailed the van’s side mirror。 Probably covered her
escape。”
Riley looked at the empty parking place and shrugged。 “Whatever you say。”
“Only one problem with my theory；” Finn continued； walking up the street。 “The tread patterns
don’t match。”
Riley looked first at the tread impressions in the gutter； then at the potholes in the street next to
the van。 The damp soil in the potholes had taken clear impressions of the tires that last rolled
over the holes。 The tread pattern next to the curb did not match that in the potholes。
“Footprints don’t match； either；” said Finn。
Superimposed on a pothole treadmark were two footprints； side by side。 The footprint on the
left was half the size of the footprint on the right。 The pattern on the soles was also different。
“Either a woman or a small man on the left；” said Finn； “and a man on the right。” He measured
th