Finn waited； poised for the least flicker of evasion in Diver’s blue eyes。
“Mail truck；” continued Diver。 “Load of steel rods。 Lumber。 Hardware。 That’s all。 No place for
men to hide。”
“That’s shit； Diver。”
“No！ No！ That’s all； honest！”
Finn’s fingers closed down。 Diver’s face went from red to purple。
“When you remember something ‘honest；’” said Finn； “wiggle your ears。”
After a few moments； Diver’s frantic efforts to speak were rewarded with a quarter inch of
breathing space。
“Laundry – truck！ Officers’ – laundry！”
Finn thought quickly but could not remember seeing a laundry truck on the list ONI had given
to him。
“Did you log in the truck？”
“No。”
“Why not？ Whores？ Drugs？ Betting slips？”
“Betting；” gasped Diver。 “Goddamn you – betting！”
“Describe the truck；” Finn said； easing the pressure on Diver’s neck。
“White。 Chicken tracks – on the door。 A Chink job。”
“License plate number。”
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“How the hell – aggh。”
Finn leaned down。 “Then how did you know it was the right truck？”
“Number 7 – on the door！”
Finn released Diver so suddenly that the CPO did not realize he was free。 Betting slips。 For the
sake of a few gamblers； 2 million people might die。
“The Chink has a legit business；” said Diver。 “Ho’s Good Luck Laundry。 Does dress whites
better than anyone in Frisco。”
“Did he leave out anything？” Finn demanded of the other three guards。
One of them； a Mexican…American with a burr haircut that emphasized his broad Indio features；
met Finn’s eyes。
“Dunno。 He never told us a damn thing about laundry trucks。 And since he kept the log…” The
man shrugged。
Finn’s glance shifted back to Diver。 “What did the bookies pay you to let that truck onto the
base？”
Diver licked his lips with a thick tongue。 “Not much。”
“And you kept it all； didn’t you？ None of that share …and…share…alike crap； right？”
Diver glanced nervously at his three colleagues。
“How much？” repeated Finn。 His hand went to Diver’s throat so quickly that the CPO had no
time to flinch。
“A hundred bucks！”
One hundred dollars。 Two million people。 A penny for every 200 dead or maimed。
Finn reached for Diver’s throat； wanting to kill the man who had sold his country so cheaply。 At
the last instant； he stepped back； his hands shaking。 He stared at Diver。 Behind the men； the
mess door opened。
“Coughlan’s drying off；” said Riley as he approached Finn。 Then； seeing Diver stretched out
upon the table。 “Still a war； cowboy？”
Finn looked at the agent for a long moment。 Then he turned away and spoke to the three
apprehensive guards。
“You three are supposed to be MPs。 Take this cheap son of a bitch to the brig and lose him。”
The three men hustled Diver out of the room。
“Was that all necessary？” asked Riley abruptly； gesturing toward the table。
“Anything new on the vehicles？”
“All present and accounted for。 We’re running the list again； of course。” Then； “Was it
necessary？”
Finn sighed。 “I told you hard or easy and you told me whatever works。 Remember？”
“Yes； but – “
Finn picked up his credentials from the table。
Riley looked at his feet； then back at Finn。 “Did it work？”
“You’ve got coffee stains on your shirt；” said Finn； taking Riley’s arm and pulling him toward
the door。 “I know a helluva good Chinese laundry。”
Riley tried to pull free； but Finn’s grip was too hard； “Don’t worry；” Finn said； opening the
door without letting go。 “CPO Diver assured me that Ho’s Good Luck Laundry is so popular
around Hunters Point that no one even bothers to log the laundry truck in or out。”
“Are you nuts？” Then； “Oh…”
“Yeah。 Oh。” Finn let go。
“Are you sure？”
“Nothing’s sure。 Tell the cops to put out an APB on Ho’s Good Luck Laundry truck number 7。
If they find it； call us and stay the hell away from the truck。 Then notify all police departments
from San Diego to Seattle to watch for male corpses that have no visible marks of violence。
Special attention to men between sixteen and forty。”
Riley looked up in silent query。
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“After thirty； the reflexes begin to go。 By forty a man either gets out or gets killed。”
“Sixteen to forty。 No marks。 Anything else？”
Finn hesitated； then shrugged。 If people started getting sick mysteriously； questions would be
asked anyway。 “If anyone goes to a hospital for burns； I want a Fed to investigate。 If the person’s
story isn’t good； or if the doctor thinks there is anything unusual about the burns； I want to know
immediately。”
“If I asked why； would you tell me？”
“I wouldn’t even tell myself without running a security check。”
In silence； Riley followed Finn to the car。
San Francisco
4 Hours 11 Minutes After Trinity
Vanessa stood on the street before the newspaper building and looked around carefully。 She had
circled the block once already； inspecting each of the parked cars； looking for agents who were
looking for her。 She did not find any； nor did she expect to。 There had not been enough time for
the local police to identify Masarek； much less put a watch on anyone in the Bay Area who might
be associated with him。
As she passed the newspaper office once more； she glanced past the gold…leaf lettering to the
open room beyond。 Young men and middle…aged women sat typing or talking on telephones。
None of the people impressed her。 She did not want to count on anyone in that room； but had
little choice。 Masarek had not used the emergency message drop。 She must assume that he was
dead or captured。 She could not go to any of the professional agents she knew in San Francisco；
if they were not already under surveillance； they would be shortly。 The whole city would be shut
down while the Americans searched for the uranium。 She needed an inactive agent； someone
who had never really overtly worked for Russia and thus would not be under surveillance。
In the reflection of the window； Vanessa once more checked her makeup。 The scratches were
nearly invisible now； and her expression was calm； remote。 Satisfied； she entered the office。 A
teenager approached her。 She dazzled him with a smile。
“I’m looking for a reporter named Peter Hecht；” she said。
The teenager stared for a moment before she turned and shouted Hecht’s name across the
office。 A reporter who was hunched over a phone waved without looking up。 He wore dark
pants； a badly fitted sportcoat and a dirty shirt。 He scribbled notes as he spoke on the phone。
Vanessa waited； letting the rest of the people resume their normal activities。 Then she stepped
uninvited past the wooden railing and walked across the room to Hecht’s desk。 He glanced up；
showing alert eyes in an impatient face。 Vanessa smiled。 He waved at a chair beside his desk and
continued talking into the phone。
“What’s that address again？” said Hecht。 “Yeah； yeah。 Got it。 You sure there were four bodies？
God； that Oakland waterfront gets worse every day。” He glanced toward the wall clock。 “Shit； I
just blew a deadline。 Oh well； that gives me ninety minutes to get this story together。 Okay。
That’s one I owe you。” He hung up and turned toward Vanessa。 “Did you want to see me？”
“Are you Peter Hecht？” said Vanessa； smiling warmly again despite the shock his words had
given her。 Four bodies on the Oakland waterfront。 Refugio had escaped； but Masarek had not。
“Yeah； I’m Hecht； but I’m in the middle of a big story。”
“Then I won’t waste time。 I’m a student of history。”
For a moment it was clear that Hecht did not recognize the signal。 “Well； that’s very…” His
voice faded and his complexion paled as he stared at the beautiful woman who was smiling at
him。 “Jesus；” he whispered。 “I never thought I’d be called。”
Vanessa leaned toward him； still smiling。 “Comrade Hecht；” she murmured； “the response。”
Hecht took a deep breath and said； “I； too； am fascinated by historical processes…”He looked
around； afraid one of his colleagues would overhear。
“Listen carefully；” said Vanessa； “and smile。 We’re just old friends talking together。 “
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He nodded and smiled unconvincingly。
“That’s better。 The Party has need of your services。”
“Now？ I just got a tip on a big story。 That was the police dispatcher。 Pretty soon every
newspaper in town is going to know about it。”
“You have police contacts？”
“Shit yes。 A reporter can’t live without them。”
“Can you trace a license plate for me？” demanded Vanessa。 “I need it quickly。”
“Is that all？” said Hecht； relief obvious in his voice。 “Easy。 I know an Irishman on the auto theft
squad。”
“He doesn’t know about your ties to the Party？”
“No！ No one does。 And it has to stay that way。 My city editor hates communists。”
Vanessa took a piece of paper from his desk and wrote quickly。 “This is the number。 I need to
know the name and address of the owner； and whether the truck is listed as stolen。 I’ll call you in
an hour。”
She stood up。 Hecht came awkwardly to his feet； favoring his right leg。 He took the paper and
glanced at it。 He paused before putting the paper into his pocket。
“This isn’t going to get me into any trouble； is it？ I mean； I want to help the Party； but I have to
maintain my cover； too。 I have to get that story fir