from an enemy prison camp called Manzanar。
San Francisco
36 Hours After Trinity
Exhaustion gnawed at Finn。 The clock that had ticked in his mind since Hunters Point seemed to
accelerate as it approached Truman’s deadline。 Twelve hours from now； just before dawn； time
would run out for him and for 2 million men。 He wondered whether Groves at his desk in New
Mexico was feeling the first cold touch of despair。 No time。 Not enough time。 But always plenty
of blood staining the green land。
Finn shook his head； banishing his bleak thoughts。 He climbed the stairs two at a time； going to
the apartment above Velasquez’s grocery store。 He had exhausted the leads and false trails from
the funeral home and flower shop。 Now there was only the trail left by a blond woman with a
British accent。
The door to the apartment was guarded by a young FBI agent who reminded Finn of Riley；
whose blood had dried beneath Finn’s fingernails； Riley； who was still unconscious after surgery
to repair his femoral artery。
“Has anybody been inside？” asked Finn。
“No。 We were told to wait for you。”
Finn shifted the radiation counter to his left hand and tried the door。 Locked。 He lifted his foot
and kicked the latch out of the jamb with one powerful blow。
The sitting room was empty； but the air had the coppery scent of blood。 There were dark pools
of blood dried on the carpet。 Finn looked around quickly and turned on the counter。
“Stay behind me；” he said。
He went into the small bedroom。 It was empty。 The counter remained quiet。 He opened the
small bedroom closet。 The body of a man and a child tumbled slowly into the room。 He bent
over the man’s body； recognizing Hecht。 He had died of two bullet wounds； one in the heart。
The child was Mexican； with thick eyebrows that reminded him of Refugio。 The boy had been
executed by a single shot behind his ear。 His right index finger had been broken before he died。
The finger was bruised and swollen。 Torture； then execution。 He wondered what the blond
woman had found out by torturing a child。 For an instant he thought about the boy who fed his
cat； and the thirteen…year…old Japanese in Okinawa。 Children should not die that way。
Coughlan walked into the room with another man who had the wary eyes of a street cop。
“Finn； this is Detective Mullen from the San Francisco Police Department。” Then； to Mullen；
“Tell him。”
Mullen looked ill at ease as he shook hands with Finn。 “I don’t really – Jesus！ What happened？”
he said； noticing the bodies sprawled behind Finn。 “Hecht！ My God！ I ran a truck registration
for him yesterday；” he said； pointing to Hecht’s body。 “I didn’t think too much about it until
today； when the FBI got interested in the place the truck was registered to – the flower shop
down the street。”
“Yesterday？” said Finn。 Yesterday！ That meant that the woman had a long lead on him； and he
had little time left to overtake her。 He turned to Coughlan。 “Does your Red Squad have
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anything on Hecht？”
Coughlan looked surprised； then thoughtful。 “Doesn’t ring any bells； but I’ll check the name
anyway。”
“Doubt if you find anything；” said Mullen。 “I’ve been swapping favors with Hecht for three
years； and he’s never said anything radical in my hearing。”
Finn’s mind raced ahead of the conversation。 He had been following two sets of tracks –
Russian and Japanese – and finally they were beginning to converge。 But he did not have enough
time to wait for the trails to touch and become one。 He had to guess； and guess accurately；
where the trails would meet。 He looked around the room； certain that he was close to the
answer。
His glance was held by pale roses lying on a chest inded him of
Kestrel’s impenetrable eyes； and Refugio； dead； wearing the uniform of a Nisei captain。 Hecht
dead； and the Mexican boy。 All of them connected somehow。 All had more in common than
violent death。 He must find the connection； quickly； before all the time in the world was only a
handful of seconds。
Hecht。 Hecht had asked Mullen to run a license plate。 Hecht was dead； probably murdered by
the same woman who had asked him to trace the license。
“That license plate – did it lead back to the Rincón brothers？” asked Finn。
“No；” said Mullen。 He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket。 “It’s a commercial vehicle
owned by the Fragrant Petal。 The purchaser is listed as Takeo Oshiga。 The Rincons just rented
it。”
Finn’s exhaustion gave way to adrenaline。 Takeo Oshiga； father of Ana Oshiga。 Ana； secretary
and confidante to Takagura Omi。 Takagura； who was Refugio’s partner。
Suddenly the tracks Finn had seen along the Oakland waterfront made sense。 A man and two
women – Refugio； helped by Ana and pursued by Masarek’s blonde。 Refugio； hired by the
Russians to steal or smuggle the uranium out of the United States。 Refugio； selling the Russians
and the uranium to Japan。 To Kestrel。
But something must have gone wrong on the waterfront。 Instead of killing the Russians and
fleeing to Mexico with the uranium； Refugio had lost two men； been wounded himself and
allowed Masarek’s woman to escape。 He had kept the uranium； though； with Ana Oshiga’s help。
Ana； whose father had owned a flower shop in San Francisco before Pearl Harbor； a flower
shop now owned by Refugio’s cousins。
Then there was Kestrel； shrewd enough to steal the prize。 He had come into America wearing
the uniform of a Nisei captain – how he must have savored wearing the battalion patch whose
motto was “Remember Pearl Harbor。”
But even Kestrel had not foreseen hot uranium and a dead Refugio。 Ketrel must be getting
desperate。 With Refugio dead； there were no more Mexican contacts in America to abet the
Japanese。 Kestrel and Ana were isolated now； two Japanese adrift on a sea of Western faces。
Nor could they find others of their race to hide behind while they made new plans to smuggle
the uranium out of America。 From Seattle to San Diego； the Little Tokyos of America had been
closed down； boarded up； sold and abandoned。 By the hundreds and the thousands； the
Japanese had been transported to “relocation camps” well away from the Pacific Coast。
The camps！ That was where Kestrel would hide。 It was not only a sea of like faces； it was safe –
who but a Japanese would think of hiding in his enemy’s jail？ But there were many camps。 Which
one would Kestrel choose？ He would need some assurance that he would be welcome or at least
tolerated。
“Mullen。 Where is Takeo Oshiga now？” asked Finn。
“The registration forms were forwarded to Manzanar。 You know the place？ A relocation camp
on the other side of the Sierras。”
Finn did not know the place； but he soon would。 “Coughlan； call the people at Manzanar。 Tell
them to open the inbound gates。 Anybody wants in； let him in。”
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“And then tell them that I’ll personally execute the guard who lets anyone out。”
Manzanar； California
36 Hours 28 Minutes After Trinity
From the road； the car was invisible； concealed in a dry ravine。 A wind moaned over the desert；
leaving enigmatic patterns in the sand。 The car was quiet but for the rustle of newspaper when
Kestrel turned a page。 Beside him on the front seat was a pile of unread periodicals。
Kestrel folded up the section he had read and put it on the floor。 The noise startled Ana； who
had been dozing in the back seat。 She sat up。
“Is it time？”
“It’s only five o’clock；” said Kestrel； glancing at his watch。 “It won’t be dark for several hours。
Go back to sleep。”
“I can’t。 I keep thinking about Manzanar。”
“Don’t worry about getting into the camp；” said Kestrel。 “Manzanar won’t be well guarded。
Why should it be？ Where would an escaping Japanese go？” He waved a hand at the desolation
surrounding them。 “Only the gate has soldiers； and we won’t use the gate。”
Ana looked at the stack of newspapers and magazines on the front seat。 Kestrel had bought one
or two in each little hamlet he had driven through on the way down the east side of the Sierras。
“There’s nothing in those but propaganda；” said Ana。 “Lies and more lies about what a
generous victor America is。 All lies！”
Kestrel shook out the July 17th edition of the San Francisco Chronicle。 “American newspapers
are naive； malicious and often trivial； but they aren’t echoes of their government。 They tell more
about the war than my own government does； and tell it more accurately。”
“For example？”
“Your newspapers tell me Russia is more America’s enemy than her ally。 That would be useful to
Japan； if Russia weren’t also our enemy。” Kestrel turned the page。 “Russia is a sword with every
edge honed and no handle – whoever uses it risks cutting himself more deeply than his
opponent。”
“Where does the Chronicle say that？” Ana asked。
“Where are the pictures of smiling Russian soldiers playing poker with American GIs in Berlin？”
countered Kestrel； pointing to a feature story。
“Those are British soldiers；” said Ana； reading over his shoulder。
“Exactly。 Not a single Russian smiling for the camera。”
A wave of nausea rippled through him。 He breathed slowly； deeply； until it passed。 Sweat
suddenly covered his skin。 Another surge of nausea gripped him。 Deliberately； he folded