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。
Page 50
“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
between gusts of wind； he walked toward a solid black rectangle squatting across the night。
Several thin strips of light revealed the presence of ill…fitting doors。
Page 51
As soon as Masarek stepped down； Refugio began counting。
Masarek walked away from the truck without a backward look。 In his hand was a voltmeter and
an empty battery pack。 Both pieces of equipment were useless； but the guard would not know
that until it was too late。
The front door of the warehouse swung open with a sound of tin scraping over cement。 Masarek
disappeared。
Refugio counted to fifty； then signaled to Salvador。 He left the van in a rush and stole along the
warehouse to a padlocked rear door。 Heavy wirecutters gleamed like mercury in his big hands。
He waited for a gust of wind to rattle the warehouse； then lifted the cutters。 Steel parted with a
clicking sound。 Salvador held his breath and sweated。
Nothing moved but the wind。
Five seconds after Salvador vanished inside； Refugio slid through the open door of the
warehouse。 Lopez followed。 The door shut behind him with a slight snick。
The unshielded light at the far end of the warehouse pushed long； irregular shadows out of the
heaped…up machinery and cartons。 Refugio and his men merged with the shadows filling one side
of the warehouse。 Whatever noise the men made was covered by the wind prowling outside。
At the far end of the warehouse was a small storeroom created by partitioning off a corner of
the building。 A sentry in green fatigues sat on a chair beside the padlocked door of the
storeroom。 An M…l carbine lay across his lap。 Deliberately； Masarek let his feet scrape on the
concrete floor。 The sentry’s head snapped up。
“Filthy night； isn’t it？” said Masarek above the sudden drumroll of rain on the tin roof。
“What the hell are you doing here？” said the sentry； more surprised than alarmed。
“I’m Grummin； from the lab。 Didn’t they tell you？” he held up the voltmeter。 “I’m supposed to
check the can again。 You want to sec some ID？”
Masarek approached the sentry with a sure； soundless stride。