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they？”
The　cop　shrugged。　“I　tagged　the　evidence　myself。　Only　thing　we　took　out　of　that　truck　was
bodies；　laundry　and　weapons。”
“For　your　sake；　I　hope　that’s　true。　What’s　your　security　clearance？”
“I’m　Abel　Jones；　chief　of　detectives；”　snapped　the　gray…haired　cop。　“That’s　all　the　clearance　I
need。”
“This　truck；　this　block　and　everything　that　happened　is　classified。　Top　Secret。　Therefore　you　and
your　men　are　in　violation　of　wartime　security　regulations。　You’re　under　arrest。”
“What？　Now　you　listen　here；　you　smart…mouthed　son…ofabitch　–　“
“Can　it。”
Finn’s　voice　was　not　loud；　but　it　easily　cut　across　the　cop’s　words。　“I’m　not　the　kind　of　Fed
you’re　used　to。”　He　smiled。　“I’m　a　lot　nicer。”
Riley　looked　uneasily　at　Finn；　but　said　nothing。
“If　you　cooperate；”　continued　Finn；　“you’ll　get　a　star　on　our　fitness　report　the　next　time　around。
If　you　don’t　cooperate；　you　won’t　be　around　long　enough　to　get　another　report。　You’ll　be
Private　Abel　Jones。　Don’t　take　my　word　for　it。　Please　don’t。　Uncle　Sam　needs　all　the　cannon
fodder　he　can　get。”
Finn　waited。　Chief　of　Detectives　Abel　Jones　said　nothing。　He　turned　to　Riley；　recognizing　him。
“Does　this　guy　have　more　than　a　mouth？”
“Yes。”
“Where’s　Coughlan？”
“On　his　way　to　boot　camp。”
“He’s　too　goddamn　old　to　be　drafted。”
“So　are　you；”　said　Riley；　“but　you’ll　get　used　to　it　if　you　live　long　enough。”
Jones　looked　from　Riley　to　Finn；　then　back　to　Riley。　Abruptly；　he　laughed。　“I　almost　hope
you’re　telling　the　truth。　Be　worth　it　to　see　that　loudmouth　sonofabitch　Coughlan　sweat　out　a
forced　march。”　He　turned　to　Finn。　“You’ll　get　the　reports　as　soon　as　I　do。　Anything　else　you
want？”
“There　will　be　men　out　to　go　over　what　you　removed　from　the　truck。　Don’t　get　in　their　way。
Cordon　off　this　block。　Call　back　everyone　who　was　at　the　scene；　but　keep　them　out　of　my　way
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until　I　want　them。”
“Everyone’s　still　here　but　the　coroner　and　his　men。”
“Get　them　back　here。”
“You　want　the　four　bodies；　too？”　asked　the　chief　of　detectives　sarcastically。
“That’s　up　to　the　lab。　But　the　live　ones　have　to　be　checked　for…　poison。”
Jones　turned　and　walked　toward　the　men　who　had　been　waiting　beyond　the　truck。　One　of　those
men　ignored　the　detective　and　walked　toward　Riley　and　Finn。　The　man　moved　with　a　hesitation
that　was　just　short　of　a　limp。　Riley　took　one　look　and　swore　under　his　breath。
“We　got　trouble；”　said　Riley。　“That　guy　is　Hecht；　a　reporter。　This　is　what　he’s　been　dreaming　of
–　war　and　hell　and　all　the　things　he’d　love　to　write　about。　He　won’t　cooperate。　Count　on　it。”
Finn　studied　the　approaching　reporter。　He　was　Riley’s　age　or　younger。　As　though　the　reporter
sensed　the　scrutiny；　his　limp　became　more　pronounced；　a　visible　explanation　of　why　he　was
carrying　a　notebook　rather　than　an　Army　rifle。
“Leave　him　to　me；”　said　Finn。　“Take　the　counter　and　go　stand　by　that　fence。”
Riley　casually　walked　away；　then　turned　and　leaned　on　the　sheetmetal　fence　that　separated　piles
of　rusting　auto　bodies　from　the　cracked　sidewalk。　He　strained　to　hear　what　was　being　said；　but
all　he　could　hear　was　a　dog　sniffing　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　fence。
The　dog　sensed　Riley’s　presence；　but　made　no　noise。　Nor　did　the　animal　walk　away。　It　stood
silently；　poised；　waiting　for　Riley　to　go　over　the　fence　or　down　the　street。　Somehow；　Riley　was
reminded　of　Finn。
Riley　looked　up　as　the　reporter　turned　suddenly　and　limped　away；　as　though　he　wanted　to　put　as
much　distance　as　possible　between　himself　and　the　man　called　Finn。　Riley　waited　for　a　moment
longer；　then　walked　back　to　the　truck。
Behind　the　metal　fence；　the　dog　snarled。
Moscow
4　Hours　41　Minutes　After　Trinity
Lavrenti　Beria’s　dark；　narrow　eyes　neither　blinked　nor　shifted　from　the　speaker’s　nervous　face。
“Read　it　again；”　said　Beria；　flicking　his　fingernail　against　the　edge　of　his　desk。　“Slowly；　this
time。”
The　assistant　risked　a　quick　throat…clearing　before　he　began　to　read　from　the　cable　in　his　hands。
To　be　Comrade　Beria’s　most　confidential　assistant　was　both　an　honor　and　a　trial。　Beria’s　scrutiny
could　be　dangerous。　The　head　of　the　Commissariat　of　Internal　Affairs　was　known　for　abrupt　and
irrevocable　decisions。
“Proceed；”　said　Beria。
“Yes；　comrade。　‘To　the　Commissariat　of　Soviet　Fisheries：　Encountered　stormy　weather　while
transferring　cargo　at　sea。　First　mate　swept　overboard；　almost　certainly　dead。　Hired　crew　gone。
Cargo　lost。　Am　pursuing　promising　methods　of　salvage；　but　require　an　experienced；　trustworthy
crew。　Repeat。　Trustworthy。’”　The　assistant　cleared　his　throat　again。　“It’s　signed　‘V；’　comrade。”
Beria　stared　at　the　floor　for　several　minutes；　as　though　he　could　see　halfway　around　the　world。
His　fingernail　tapped　in　counterpoint　to　his　thoughts。　At　least　Vanessa　had　followed　orders　and
avoided　contacting　any　Russian　agents　in　San　Francisco。　This　was　a　secret　operation。　Only　Beria
himself　knew　the　extent　and　necessity　of　that　secrecy。
Cargo　lost。
The　fingernail　hesitated；　then　resumed　its　rhythmic　tapping。　If　only　he　could　be　sure　that　the
U…235　would　stay　lost…　but　that　was　impossible。　As　long　as　the　uranium　was　within　American
reach；　the　future　of　Soviet　Russia　was　written　on　an　atomic　cloud。
If　Russia　had　the　uranium；　however；　it　was　America　whose　future　was　written　in　radioactivity。
America　would　foolishly　commit　more　and　more　of　her　men　and　wealth　to　Japan’s　conquest。
When　the　fighting　was　at　its　height　and　all　of　America’s　strength　was　locked　in　final　battle　with
the　Emperor’s　foolish　pawns；　a　Russian　plane　would　fly　over　Japan。　Or　London；　Or
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Washington；　D。C。
Then　a　second　sun　would　rise。　A　Russian　sun。
Russia　had　every　drawing　of　importance；　every　schematic；　every　design　made　at　Los　Alamos。
Even　so；　the　plutonium　bomb；　with　its　intricate　spherical　wrapper　of　sixty…four　lens…shaped
explosive　charges　and　millionth…second　timers；　was　beyond　Russia’s　engineering　capabilities。
But　the　uranium　bomb　was　not。　Russia　would　not　even　have　to　worry　about　such　sophisticated
items　as　proximity　fuses。　All　that　ple　casing　and　a　suicide　crew　to
detonate　the　bomb　a　few　hundred　feet　above　the　ground。
The　possibilities　were　limited　only　by　the　detail　of　the　missing　uranium　–　and　Stalin’s　refusal　to
recognize　the　atomic　bomb　as　the　most　revolutionary　political　tool　since　the　musket。
“Direct　V　to　the　nearest　secure　radio；”　said　Beria　calmly。　“Tell　V　not　to　trust　anyone　in　that　cell。
Those　agents　are　fit　only　to　count　ships　passing。　I’ll　send　one　good　man；　usual　recognition
signals。”
Beria　hesitated。　He　wanted　to　send　more　for　Vanessa；　much　more；　but　could　not　do　so　secretly。
Even　as　much　as　he　had　done　so　far　would　cost　him　his　life　if　Stalin　found　out。　The　Great　Leader
had　given　no　orders　to　steal　uranium。　He　did　not　even　know　it　had　been　attempted。　Only　Beria
was　the　right　combination　of　visionary　and　opportunist　and　strategist　to　appreciate　the　awesome
political　potential　of　the　atomic　bomb。　Stalin’s　usually　acute　grasp　of　global　politics　had　been
blunted　by　the　parochial　necessities　of　governing　a　Russia　at　war。
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　wa