right size ammunition。 The gun itself was used； dirty； and still had a pawnshop number dangling
from its trigger guard。 She checked the weapon skillfully； then shrugged。 It might fire a few more
rounds before it fell apart。
Vanessa loaded the gun； put the hammer in the safe position and returned the weapon to Hecht。
He handled it awkwardly。
“Get used to it；” she said。
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Hecht looked up； startled。 “I thought it was for you！”
“I have one。”
She returned to the window； hoping to see Slaven with an unwilling Mexican in tow。 There was
one thing she had to know； a question only a Rincón would answer： which vehicle contained
Refugio and two lumps of U…235？ She would pay well for that information。
Abruptly； she turned back to Hecht。 “Go see if the stores are locked。 Try the front first； then the
back。 If the funeral home is open； come back here immediately。”
“What about this？” asked Hecht； holding up the pawnshop pistol。
“Shoot yourself；” suggested Vanessa in Russian。
Sonoma County
28 Hours 2 Minutes After Trinity
The black Ford flashed between rows of grapevines falling away from both sides of the country
road。 Riley dozed in the front seat。
“Heads up；” warned Finn。 He turned off onto a dirt farm…road。
The Salerno Brothers winery was a mile off the highway。 There were scattered outbuildings and
two large old barns with steep roofs supported by thick fieldstone walls。
Seven Mexican field hands； braceros； stood in the front yard； shaded by a large sycamore。 Finn
glanced their way as he got out of the car。 A restlessness in their manner caught his eye。 One of
the men said something in Spanish。 The others laughed。
Deputy Branscomb met Finn and Riley in the doorway of the winery。 A large pocket watch
gleamed in his rough…knuckled hand。
“Fifty…nine minutes and a few odd seconds。 Not bad at all； for amateurs。” Branscomb slipped
the watch back into the slash pocket of his worn green uniform pants。 “Back here；” he said；
leading them into the cool interior of the winery。
The sweet…sharp smell of green wine filled the building。 Twenty…foot…high redwood holding
tanks lined the aisle； their round sides girdled by steel hoops and wooden pipes black with age
and moisture。
Three men waited at the rear of the building。 Two were obviously brothers； perhaps twins。 Their
khaki work clothes； graying hair； tanned faces and hipshot stance were alike。 The third man was
the sheriff； tall and just beginning to go to fat。 He looked like a shrewd； hard； country politician。
“They’re yours； Riley；” said Finn； his voice too low for anyone else to hear。 “Give them your
best Boy Scout two…step while I look around。”
“Nuts to you；” whispered Riley。 He smiled and held out his credentials for the waiting men。
Finn slid off without a word。
“Can’t quite understand what interests the FBI about a two…cent breaking…and…entering clear out
here in the boondocks；” drawled Branscomb。 “All that’s missing is a case of wine and some lead
foil； bright red。 The wine was raw and the lead wasn’t worth much。”
Sheriff Brown chuckled。 “Must have been Mexicans。 They’re the only ones dumb enough to steal
green wine。”
Riley grinned companionably。 “Well； Sheriff Brown； I’d like to tell you all I know； I really would；
but；” he paused and lowered his voice； “it’s related to national security。”
“That a fact？” said Sheriff Brown； lighting a cigaret。
Finn walked aimlessly until no one was looking in his direction； then headed for a small room lit
by two naked bulbs hanging from frayed black wires。 A short conveyor belt dominated the
room。 At one end of the line were empty； long…necked bottles。 Pipes ran from a vat to the
bottling machinery。 Corks waited in metal claws。
The smell of raw wine was overpowering。 At the other end of the conveyor belt several bottles
had been smashed on the floor。 Glass glittered up from pools of wine darker than blood。
Broken glass crackled beneath Finn’s boots。
In the deep shadows behind the conveyor belt； Finn sat on his heels； examining the bottling
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machine and the floor。 He could just make out the shape of a footprint where someone had
stepped in a puddle of wine and then onto the dry concrete floor。 He struck a match and
examined the stain。 The print was striated； as though cut from the tread of a worn tire。 Probably
a left shoe； for the outside of the heel was worn down the left side。
It was a familiar print in Calexico’s dusty streets； huaraches； poor man’s sandals with soles cut
from old tires； cheap and nearly indestructible。
Finn dropped the match。 It fell into the puddle of wine； hissed briefly and died。 Shadows
returned to hide the thief s footprint。 Finn went back to the main room。 He saw that Riley had
his notebook out and was writing quickly。
“Mr。 Salerno；” said Finn。
Both brothers looked up。
“Do you use braceros？”
“Yes；” said one brother。
“All our men are Mexican nationals；” said the other。 “Except for Franco Rincón； the foreman。
He was born in California。”
Finn recognized the name Rincón； and felt the first surge of victory heat his blood。 “Get your
braceros in here。 Start with that bunch under the tree out front。”
“You’ll want the foreman； too；” said one brother as the other left to round up the braceros。 “He
translates for us。 None of the field workers speaks English。”
“You ？” Riley asked Finn。
“You get the first round。 Play it nice and easy and dumb。 If they step in it； I’ll take over。”
Salerno returned with eight Mexicans in tow。 Their easy flippancy was gone。 The winery was dim
after the bright morning outside。 Squinting； the men tried to see why they had been dragged
back to the scene of the previous night’s crime。
Riley flipped through his notebook as though looking for the right questions to ask。 “Do any of
you speak English？”
A man shrugged。 “I do。”
Finn looked at the man narrowly。 He was compact； muscular； and had a lazy yet aggressive air
about him。 He was wearing boots。
“Your name？” said Riley。
“Rincón。 Franco Rincón。”
“Translate for me； please。” Despite Riley’s smile； it was more of a demand than a request。
Franco shrugged again。 “Si。 I will talk for you。”
“Ask them if they saw or heard anything last night。 Tell them that it is a matter of great
importance。”
As Franco spoke； Finn watched carefully； studying the Mexicans。 Franco was at ease in his
position of command。 He was accustomed to leading men rather than working in fields。 The
men were lined up in a loose； informal row； like guerrilla soldiers。 Four of them wore huaraches。
None of them seemed particularly interested in what Franco was saying。 He turned back to
Riley。 “They know nothing。”
“Tell them there’s a reward；” said Riley。 “A hundred – no； a thousand dollars。”
Franco translated。
The men made sounds of both greed and awe。 One man in particular was impressed。
“That’s five times what we were paid！” he said in Spanish。
“Shut your hole； Griego！” warned Franco in the same language。
Finn stepped up to Franco and began speaking in rapid； hard Spanish。
“Why should he keep a closed mouth？” Finn demanded。 “What was he paid so little for？ He
looks tired。 Maybe he was up all night； no？ Maybe he is hung over from drinking the green wine
he stole here。”
Franco looked at Finn’s eyes； then looked away。 Finn moved quickly to intersect Franco’s gaze；
but he did not touch the Mexican。 Not yet。
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“You； Franco。 I’m speaking to you；” said Finn。 “Tell me what that little man is keeping inside his
closed hole。”
“Nothing；” said Franco； trying not to give way before the man with the soft Spanish words and
hard gringo eyes。
‘‘Are you a little boy that you can’t speak for yourself？ Finn demanded of Griego。
Griego looked into Finn’s unforgiving eyes； then glanced nervously at Franco。
“Don’t look to him；” said Finn。 “Franco says close your hole； but it is not Franco who will feel
my fists and boots break his balls。 It is you who will feel that； unless you talk to me。”
“Shut up； Griego！” Franco shouted。 “His threats are only air。 This isn’t Mexico。 He’s not
permitted to hurt you。”
Smiling； Finn said in English； “I was hoping you’d bring that up； pendejo。”
As Finn turned； his hand swept down to his boot and came back up holding a knife。
“There’s this little clock in my head；” he said casually。 “Tick tick tick tick。” The knife moved
back and forth like the arm of a metronome。 “Seconds going by。 Tick。 Tick。 Nothing’s quite as
dead as yesterday； amigo。 Would you like to talk about last night or be sent back to yesterday？”
“Now just a minute； mister；” said one of the Salerno brothers。 “Franco’s a good foreman。 You
can’t threaten him like this。”
“Freddy；” said Sheriff Brown； taking the brother by the arm； “you and Bob have been
promising me a taste of the thirty…nine crop。 Now is as good a time as any； and better than
most。”
Sheriff Brown took the Salerno brothers and led them out of the barn。
Branscomb looked at Finn； who ignored him。 The deputy turned to Riley； who hitched his
shoulders in a don’t…look…at…me shrug。 Finn watched Franco。 Franco watched the knife blade
flicking from side to side； marking off seconds。 Riley realized that he himself was silently
counting； had been counting since Finn’s knife had appeared。
Twenty…five。 Twenty…six。 Twenty…seven。
“Time’s up； pendejo。”
Even with that warning； the foreman was not prepared for the speed of Finn’s attack。 Before
Franco could blink； Finn had seized Franco’s middle finger and bent it flat along his palm in an
agonizing grip。
Franco paled。 Other than that； he gave no sign that he felt pain。
“That’s what I thought；” sighed Finn。 “One of the tough ones。”
Finn started to lead Franco away。
Deputy Branscomb stepped halfway in front of Finn。 “Now I’m the last one to question God’s
will；” said Branscomb easily； “but I’d sure like to know why you’re going to do whatever you’re
going to do with Salerno’s Mexican。”
Finn decided it would be quicker to explain than to push back。
“You know what machismo means？” asked Finn。
“Balls。 Manhood。 Something like that；” said Brans…comb。
“Close enough。 Franco here is muy macho； so whatever I get from him will be the hard way。”
Finn shrugged。 “His choice。 But I don’t have time to beat the truth out of him； so I’ll have to use
this。”
The knife glittered as Finn moved it abruptly。 He spoke in Spanish。 The field workers gasped
and stepped back。 A few crossed themselves。 Franco did not move because he could not； but
sweat slid from his forehead to his dark cheeks。
“What did you say to them？” asked Branscomb。
“I told them that Franco will either talk to me or he won’t have any manhood to protect。”
Finn brushed past the deputy。 Franco moved in unwilling lockstep； prisoner to Finn’s
excruciating grip。 In the silence； the remaining men could clearly hear boots crunching over
broken glass。 The two men disappeared behind a vat of raw wine。
Finn’s voice cut through the silence。 “Talk to me； pendejo。”
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The waiting men heard no answer。 Then came the sound of a man spitting。 Something heavy
slammed against the vat。 There was a grunt； then the snarl of ripping cloth。 Franco shrieked；
high