Slowly； Vanessa drove by the flower shop。 The door was closed。 No one moved behind the
windows。 The shop looked as deserted as the Reyes Funeral Home that was next door。 She
drove down the block； watching the shop in the rearview mirror。 No one appeared in the
window。
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She wished that Masarek were alive。 Together they could have turned the shop and its occupants
inside out。 To… gethcr they could have – but Masarek was dead and she dared not contact any
other Russian agents in the Bay Area for fear that they were under surveillance。 She must protect
herself。 She was Russia’s only lead to the uranium。 She must be bold； yes； but also careful。
A sign； ROOM FOR RENT； FURNISHED； caught her eye。 The room was on the second floor
of a Victorian building across and down the street from the Fragrant Petal。 The window looked
like it would give a clear view of the shop。
The landlord was an old Mexican with a heavy accent； a light handshake and a pimp’s smile。 The
room was dirty； furnished with once…elegant Oriental pieces； and looked as though it had been
decorated by a blind man。 But the room’s view of the street was even better than Vanessa
expected。
“I’ll take it；” Vanessa said。
“When do you want to move in？”
“I’ll pay beginning today；” she said； “although I’ll only need the room occasionally。”
“Five dollars more for every man you bring to your room。”
Vanessa nearly laughed。 “That’s far too much。 One dollar。”
“Four。”
“Two。”
“Three…fifty；” said the old man； settling in for an enjoyable bargaining session。
“One…fifty。”
Startled by the unexpected turn of bargaining； the Mexican said in disbelief； “But that’s less than
your second offer！”
“Yes；” agreed Vanessa。 She fanned two months’ rent in her hand。 “And if you don’t take
one…fifty； my next offer will be even less。”
The landlord reached for the bills； but Vanessa hung on to them。 “One…fifty？” she said； her blue
eyes wide and innocent。
“Yes；” grumbled the man； counting the money。 He pulled two keys from his pocket and
slammed them on a table。 “The telephone is downstairs。”
He shut the door behind him with the vigor of a man half his age。 Vanessa slipped the deadbolt
and went to the bay window。 It was covered by curtains that allowed her to look down at the
street without being seen。 She dragged a chair over and began watching the front door of the
Fragrant Petal。
San Francisco
11 Hours 2 Minutes After Trinity
A green Plymouth cab pulled up a block away from the Fragrant Petal。
“You sure you got it right this time； buddy？” asked the cabbie。
“Yes。”
Kestrel had made the cabbie drive around the block several times； pretending not to be sure of
the location。 When he was convinced that the Fragrant Petal was not a trap； he told the cabbie to
pull over。
“It was hard；” said Kestrel。 “So many changes since I went to war。”
“Yeah。 Sure thing。”
Kestrel pulled out his suitcase； waited for the cab to disappear around the corner； then crossed
the street and walked briskly toward the peeling storefront called the Fragrant Petal。 Like Ana；
he deplored the shallow translation。 Unlike her； he did not denigrate the English language。 It was
a fine language for scientific inquiry。
Inside the shop； Ana was standing at her father’s former worktable； fashioning sprays and
wreaths。 Arranging flowers was the one part of her childhood that she remembered with
pleasure； the brilliant colors and petal textures shifting beneath her hands。 The pungence of
stems and greenery had not changed； nor had the sweet essence of petals。 Her fingers； however；
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had。 They were slow where they once had been quick； awkward where they once had been
skilled。
“Damn！” she muttered； stabbing an errant spray of scarlet gladiolus into the pottery frog at the
bottom of the vase。
The thick stem bent； the flower canted out at an awkward angle。
“Damned useless thing！” said Ana beneath her breath； pulling out stems until the frog was bare
once more。 “The flower stems are limp and there aren’t even any lead frogs。 How can anyone
make anything？”
“It would require patience；” suggested Kestrel softly。
“Oh！” The pottery frog crashed to the floor。 “Kestrel！” she cried。 “I didn’t hear – how did you
– are you all right？”
Kestrel smiled swiftly and touched Ana’s cheek with his fingertips。 She was so American；
impatient and transparent。 “My name is Captain Ikedo。 I’m your cousin and I’m fine；” said
Kestrel； speaking rapid Japanese。 “But you call me Kestrel because as a boy I was obsessed with
sparrow hawks。”
His dark glance flicked around the back room of the shop。 There was no one else nearby。
Kestrel removed his overseas cap and loosened the knot of his black uniform tie as if these were
things he did every day。 He walked over and stood beside Ana； selected a new pottery frog and
began to rebuild the flower arrangement。
“Tell me what happened；” he said； his voice both calm and commanding。
Ana watched his fingers – deft； gentle； skilled – and remembered when he had touched her as he
now touched flowers。 His hands paused。 He was watching her。
“I don’t know all of it；” she said quickly。 “I waited behind the curtain as you told me to do。 I
couldn’t see the street。 For a long time nothing happened。 Then； after dawn； there were shots。 I
looked out just as a car turned around and raced by me on the street。 There was another shot；
maybe more； from the van。”
Ana took a long breath to ease the fear that rose in her when she remembered the silence and
fog； shots and fear and a van full of blood。
“I – I waited； but no one got out of the van。” She touched Kestrel’s arm in a silent bid for
understanding。 “I know you told me to wait for Refugia； but I was afraid he was – dead。”
“You did well；” murmured Kestrel。
Some of Ana’s rigidity left her。 She drew a ragged breath and began to speak more slowly。 “The
van – inside the van there was so much blood。” She swallowed。 “Dead men and blood
everywhere。”
Ana stared at the glowing red of the petals she had unconsciously crushed in her fist。
“Is Refugio dead？” asked Kestrel。
“No。” Ana turned her hand upside down； letting crushed petals fall to the floor。 “His leg； here；”
she said； touching the top of Kestrel’s thigh。 “Like a furrow plowed in raw meat。”
“Can he walk？”
“With help； yes。 He says it’s nothing。” Ana smiled。 “A long scab and a limp。 Except it hasn’t
stopped bleeding yet and he’s been very sick； throwing up and – “ She handed Kestrel a frond
of pale green fern。 “He’s been better in the last few hours； I think。”
Kestrel frowned。 It did not sound like a superficial leg wound。 “Is the bullet still in his leg？”
“No。 It’s a furrow；” repeated Ana。 She reached for the modeling clay used in complex flower
arrangements。 With her thumbnail she gouged a shallow trough across the clay。 “Like this。”
“Where is he？”
“I moved him next door； to his cousin’s funeral parlor。 There wasn’t enough privacy here。 Too
many people in and out。 And you told us to keep the businesses open； to act normally。”
Kestrel’s fingers paused； then he selected a flawless white rose and anchored it in the frog；
completing his work。 He had duplicated her flower arrangement； except that he substituted the
single white rose for her stalk of blood…colored gladiolus。 The result； like Kestrel himself； was
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strong and poised。
Ana led Kestrel to the interior door that connected the flower shop with the Reyes Funeral
Home。 As he put his hand on the door； he turned toward her。
“Memories can be as cruel as knives；” Kestrel said。 “Do not cut yourself more than you must；
Ana。 It was karma that brought you here。 When it is time； karma will take you away again。”
He was gone before Ana could find her voice to answer。
Kestrel was in a room without windows； without air。 In one corner was a shapeless； eerie blue
glow。 Kestrel had never seen a blue so pure； no tint of purple； no tone of green； nothing but a
flawless blue blush emanating from… what？
His hand fumbled for the wall switch。 Blue disappeared in a soundless explosion of white light
splintering off a porcelain table。 In the center of the table were two white； oddly shaped chunks
of metal； one of which was three times larger than xhe other。 The two pieces were less than a
hand’s width apart。
Swiftly； Kestrel’s fingers snapped off the light。 Blue suffused the area where the white metal
pieces had been。 Kestrel felt an instant of incredible elation。 He stood motionless； his hand on
the light switch； transfixed by the eerie blue light。 The binding power of the universe lay before
him； radiating energy as though alive。 And it was alive； the embryo of a deadly cloud eight miles
tall。 With that metal； he controlled the future of his country as surely as he controlled the light
switch on the wall。
But then a secondary realization drenched him like icy rain； making his skin contract in a reaction
as old as man。 He was looking at the radioactive heart of an atomic bomb； and that heart was
deadly to human flesh。
“Pretty； yes？” said a low voice。 “As blue as the eyes of God。”
Kestrel’s hand hit the switch again。 Light flooded the room； revealing what he had overlooked
the first time – Refugio； lying motionless on a gurney a few feet beyond the radioactive glow。
It took every bit of Kestrel’s discipline not to scream at Refugio’s lethal stupidity。 The Japanese
was a physicist before he was a spy； he knew that unshielded radioactive material could be as
deadly as curare。
“Yes；” he said； his voice ragged in spite of his control。 “They’re very pretty。 Where is their
box？”
“Box？”
“What they were packed in。”
“Oh；” Refugio’s voice was casual。 “That was too heavy。 Masarek told us to leave it。”
“Too heavy；” repeated Kestrel。 “Was it big？”
Refugio was lying on his back； his hands on his abdomen as though to hold back cramps。 The
bandage on his thigh was crimson。 His face was the color of old ivory。
“Not very。” Refugio pulled himself upright with a motion that sent the gurney wheeling closer to
the embalming table。 “About like this；” he said； sketching the canister with hands that shook。
“Lead？ Was it lead that made it so heavy？”
Refugio shrugged。 “Who knows？ It was very heavy； Se？or Kestrel。 Madonna！ Even Salvador
could not lift it。”
At the mention of Salvador’s name； Refugio’s expression changed。 “Salvador is dead。 So is
Lopez。” He sighed。 “Masarek； too。 He was hard to kill； that one。”
“The woman；” said Kestrel。 “Is she dead； too？”
“She killed Salvador。 I don’t know if he hurt her first。 I shot at her but it was foggy and my
leg…” Refugio shrugged again。 “I think the whore is alive。”
Kestrel drew a breath； feeling elation slide away。 Masarek was dead； but the blonde was still free。
She would be gathering other agents to her； planning a means of stealing back the uranium。 The
Russian spy network had the regenerative power of a gifted； mythic snake： so long as the head
remained intact； new bodies could be grown。
All he had was Ana and Refugio。
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“You’ve been sick；” said Kestrel。
“It’s the water；” said Refugio； laughing feebly at his joke。
“It’s more than water。 Can you walk