Stealing Trinity (29 page)

Seeing their job as done, the Flagstaff police pulled back and stood to watch as the train gathered steam once again. None took notice as a nearly empty Greyhound bus eased behind them on Route 66 and coasted into town.

A trucker carrying a load of hay found Lydia at dusk, limping alongside the road. She told the man her story, which was backed up by her miserable condition, and the driver made best time to Winslow. There, Lydia retold everything to the sheriff, who'd been looking for her. They all tried to guess where Alexander Braun had gone.

At seven that evening, Thatcher arrived at the station. He walked straight over, put his hands on her shoulders, and studied her with clear concern. Lydia understood -- she had already been to the mirror. There were scrapes across one side of her face, cuts and bruises scattered all over her body. Her right elbow was severely swollen, but that was at least hidden by the shirt she had on, lent to her by one of the lawmen.

"Good Lord, you've been in another scrap. What happened?"

"I found him, Michael. I found Alex."

He took her by the elbow--the one that didn't hurt -- and guided her to a quiet corner. The station was tiny, a wood and plaster square that might have been built a hundred years ago.

There were two officers on duty, both filling out paperwork to explain the day s lively events. Lydia recounted her story, Thatcher taking in every word.

"Damn! I'm sorry, Lydia. I must have arrived at the station in Albuquerque just a few minutes too late."

"I definitely could have used your help. When I saw Alex I didn't know what to do. I'm afraid I acted without thinking. It was terribly impulsive, wasn't it?"

"It was brave."

Lydia thought the word sounded strange. Had it been? Was that what bravery was -- impulsiveness in the name of good cause?

"At least you found him," Thatcher continued. "That's more than I've managed in the last week. Tell me, have you talked to your father? He's been worried about you."

"Yes, I already called him. He insisted that I come straight home."

"I see. That's probably for the best."

Best for who? Lydia thought. She had nearly been killed, but she'd finally done something useful. If Alex had managed to leave Albuquerque unseen, he might have been lost forever. Lydia had found him, sent him scrambling.

"I have to tell you about the papers," she said, "the ones I found under his pillow."

"Papers?"

"Yes. I told you I went into his room. There was a stack of papers under his pillow. They were scientific -- equations and formulas. On top was a letter addressed to someone called Rainer. That's a German name, isn't it?"

Thatcher nodded, "Usually."

"The letter said the papers were important. It was all about something called the Manhattan Project. Do you know what that is?"

Thatcher's gaze drifted.

"What's wrong?"

"Something I've suspected for a while --but this proves it.

The Manhattan Project is a tremendous undertaking by your government. Its a new weapon, very secret. All along we've been chasing Braun because we considered him a threat to this project. But think about it -- sabotage is no use. Germany has lost. And now we know he's met with a German spy in New Mexico."

"That's where the letter and papers came from?"

"Almost certainly. Was this letter signed? Did you see a name?"

Lydia tried to remember, but nothing came. "No, I never got that far."

"So Braun and this agent have somehow stolen information about the project."

"But there's no one to give it to," Lydia said.

"Isn't there?"

"You just said it yourself -- Germany is finished."

"Yes," Thatcher rubbed his forehead, "but it could have terrific value. What else can you remember?"

Lydia squeezed her eyes shut.

"Something about a ship making port for a meeting. And that I'm sure about -- nine a. M. on July twenty-seventh."

He swiveled his head, and then pointed to a day calendar hanging crookedly on the station wall. "That's next Friday. What else? Where? What was the name of the ship?"

She tried to recall.

"We know when, but without knowing where --"

"Guam!" Lydia spat out.

"Guam? The island? That's in the middle of the Pacific Ocean."

"Is it? So what can we do?"

She watched Thatcher's taught features strain as he considered the options.

"Excuse me, miss," someone said.

Lydia turned. It was one of the deputies. "Yes?"

"We're down to our last car, so I've got to run Ed over to the train depot -- he needs to ask a few questions. Normally, I'd lock up, but if you two want to stay that's okay by me."

Lydia looked at Thatcher, who said, "We dont have anywhere to go at the moment, so if you don't mind we'll stay."

"No problem," he said, putting on his gun belt. "I'll be back in twenty minutes." The two men left.

Before she and Thatcher could resume their conversation, the telephone rang. They looked at one another. Lydia shrugged and picked up the handset.

"Winslow Sheriff's Department," she said.

"Hello, I need to speak to whoever's in charge."

Lydia thought the voice sounded vaguely familiar. Then it came.

"This is Tomas Jones, FBI. It's quite urgent."

"Um ... one minute, sir."

She held the phone to her chest, and her eyes went wide. "It's him!" she whispered harshly.

"Who?" Thatcher mouthed.

"Jones! He wants to talk to the sheriff."

Thatcher frowned, then said quietly, "Tell him the sheriff just left, but you'll take a message." He put an ear next to hers so they could both hear.

"I'm afraid he just left, sir. May I take a message?"

"Where is he?"

"Um--"

Thatcher fumbled across the desk for a pencil and scribbled -- Looking for German spy.

Lydia caught up. "He's out looking for a German spy."

"Right. Any luck yet?"

Thatcher shook his head, then wrote -- And you?

Lydia nodded. "No, sir. Does the FBI have any information about the suspect I should pass along to the sheriff?"

"No. We're looking, but nothing yet. I have a pair of men headed your way from Phoenix --they should arrive soon. Have the sheriff give them whatever they need so we can find this guy once and for all."

"Of course, sir."

"There's a young woman, Lydia Murray. I understand you have her at the station?"

Lydia nearly giggled. "Yes, she's right here." She immediately regretted the answer, realizing that Jones might ask to speak to her. Lydia was contemplating a change of voice when Jones let her off the hook.

"Good. Keep track of her. Her father is a bigwig back East -- he's coming out to collect her."

"Okay."

"Oh, and one more thing. There's an Englishman, a Major Michael Thatcher -- has he turned up there?"

"Not that I know of, Mr. Jones."

"Well if he does, arrest him. Immigration charges -- whatever the sheriff can come up with. We want him."

"Is he a spy too?" Lydia prodded mischievously.

"No, just a danged pain in the ass."

Before hanging up, Jones gave a number where he could be reached.

"All right, Mr. Jones, I'll have the sheriff get in touch if we find anything. Good-bye."

Lydia put the phone to the cradle and looked at Thatcher. She saw a slight curl at the corners of his mouth. They burst out laughing at the same time. Lydia bent at the waist, the laughter aggravating her pain, but there was nothing she could do. After all that had happened it felt incredibly good.

She said, "I can't believe I just did that."

He wore a satisfied smile. "You should do it more often."

"Lie to the FBI?"

"No, laugh."

She sighed. "I used to do it a lot. But lately--" Lydia paused, not able to finish the thought. She began to ponder what would happen next. "My father is on the way, Michael. He'll tell me I've had my little adventure, and now it's time to go home."

He looked at her pensively. Lydia knew what he was thinking.

"Of course, I have my passport," she said. "I never travel without it."

"Nor do I," he replied. "What we really need is transportation. I think it's time I put through a call to my boss in England."

Thirty minutes later, the sheriff arrived to find two FBI men outside his station. They all went inside and found a note tacked to the wall by his desk.

.

Please forward to Tomas Jones, FBI.

Braun headed to meet with unknown ship making port in Guam on July 27, 09:00 a. M.

See you there.

Michael Thatcher, Pain in Ass.

Chapter 36.

The Russian Consulate in San Francisco was a nondescript affair, its modest Victorian facade blending nicely among a row of similar buildings. Surrounded by a fence, the narrow entrance was just wide enough for a pathway that could be flanked by a pair of guards.

The two on duty had every reason to be happy young men -- happy to have spent the war battling the menace of capitalism in northern California, as opposed to the Wehrmacht on the European front. Here, the food was plentiful, the weather agreeable, and the guards had little to do beyond scheming with regard to how they could extend their assignments.

That being the case, as the two stood with rifles hung loosely over their shoulders, one was chatting up the ambassador's daughter. She was a plump cow who might have been doomed to spinsterdom if not for her father's lofty position. The other soldier had his nose buried in a Russian-to-English dictionary. He gave particular attention to certain vital words -- girl, movie, beer, bed -- along with a few verbs to encourage the sequence. Neither man saw the brick coming.

It slid across the sidewalk at considerable speed, hit a rut, and tumbled the last few yards, coming to rest directly at the feet of the language student. He was surprised enough to lower his book, but not so much as to grip his Kalashnikov which was, in fact, not even loaded. He scanned the busy sidewalk just outside the gate. People were scurrying about, and two cars had just passed -- a sedan in one direction and a taxi in the other. He first thought that it was an insult of sorts, a pathetic little political statement. He hadn't seen much of it in his two years here, but Russia and America were becoming less allied and more estranged with each passing day. He looked to his partner, who hadn't even noticed.

"Andrei!"

The other man broke away from his shmoozing.

"What?"

"Look! Someone just threw this at us!" He pointed to the brick.

"What do you mean?"

The student picked it up. Strangely, an envelope was wrapped around the brick, secured with rubber bands. It was addressed in English: The Consul General. These words he had been required to learn some time ago.

His partner came over and looked at the brick, then out to the street. The ambassador's daughter got involved next. With one look, she snatched it away.

"Give me that, you idiots! It might be important."

She disappeared into the embassy, leaving the two guards staring at each other in her wake. They said it in English, and in unison.

"Bitch!'

Pavel Kovalenko sat at his desk feeling troubled. It was his Russian nature to be a pessimist, but the more he pondered his future, the more depressed he became. Officially, he was the Russian Consulate's charge d'affaires, a diplomatically useful title that masked his true position -- Kovalenko was the head local officer of The People's Commissariat of Internal Affairs, better known in the west as the NKVD. It was Russia's internal security service, tasked to keep a watchful eye over every military unit and diplomatic outpost in the world. Or as Stalin was fond of saying, "Even the purest of revolutions require counsel."

Kovalenko was a colonel, a recent promotion that his wife had begged him to decline. As if there had been a choice. He had long worked under the illusion that the higher up one rose in an organization, the more secure life would be. Perhaps in America, he thought, but not in the People s Commissariat. Here, each promotion brought greater responsibility, but also greater uncertainty. Screwups at this level met a very unkind end, and war had only magnified the stress. Still, Kovalenko reckoned, things could be worse. There were hundreds of NKVD colonels right now enduring far less desirable circumstances -- harassing the Red Army, busting heads in Gulags.

Pushing the work on his desk away, he looked out the window. It framed a wonderful view of the Presidio. Kovalenko liked America. He often imagined that he might have gone far in this country. Here, he would have been a businessman, the Ford Motor Company, perhaps. As it was, Kovalenko remained, in best terms, a bureaucrat. He sighed, and decided he needed something. What would a capitalist magnate do?

"Irina! Coffee!" he bellowed through the door to his secretary.

She acknowledged the request.

"And no cream," he added, looking down at his waistline. It seemed like he was finding a new notch on his belt each week. Kovalenko was a broad man, strapping in his younger days -- but the straps had begun to loosen at a disturbing pace. Nearing fifty, the years had turned against him, his hair coming full gray, framing a wide Slavic face that had recently acquired jowls. It was all related to the stress of the job, he decided.

These were his weary thoughts when Katya, the ambassador's daughter, burst in. The girl was a pain in the ass, but smart enough to know the true order of things -- it was not her father, but Kovalenko who ran this little outpost. She slammed a brick onto his desk theatrically.

Kovalenko saw the attached envelope, addressed to the counsel general. "Where did this come from?" he demanded.

"Someone just threw it at our guards." Katya then smiled wryly. "Unfortunately, they missed."

Kovalenko picked it up, slid off two rubber bands, and weighed the envelope in his hand. It seemed rather heavy. He started to open it, but then saw Katya looking on eagerly. He nodded sharply to the door, shooing her away. With a pout, she waddled off and disappeared.

Kovalenko opened the envelope. Inside were ten pages, all in English, the same meticulous, handwritten script. Kovalenko's English was reasonably good, but much of what he saw was scientific jargon, symbols and equations. On the last page was a cryptic message. Embarcadero, South end. One person only. 21 July 3:00 p. M.