Stealing Trinity (33 page)

Thatcher came back hurriedly.

"Any luck?" she asked.

"No. They left the States three days ago, but nobody seems to know where Jones and his team are."

Lydia looked across the harbor. A small gray boat churned out toward Indianapolis, trailing a thin line of black smoke over the sunlit water. "But people will be coming ashore any minute. What can we do?"

"There's not much choice. We'll go down ourselves and see who comes off."

"But we don't even know who we're looking for," Lydia argued.

"No. Not unless we can spot Alex Braun."

Watching the small utility boat plow across Apra Harbor, neither knew that they were, at that very moment, looking directly at him.

He was seated on the aft bench of the small Navy tender. The craft plodded steadily through aquamarine water, its diesel engine growling at a constant pitch. As they closed in, Braun regarded the ship that lay before him.

She was ugly to begin with, a leviathan whose angular lines and blunt moldings were a pure crime of function over form. If this was not enough, she bristled with guns and antennae, the tools of destruction that were the very essence of her existence. Braun had seen beautiful ships. During the summer before his mother had died, they'd sailed to Europe on the S. S. Normandie. Even now, he remembered vividly that vessel's elegant flow and workmanship. Smooth, feminine curves. Cultured materials fitted by the hands of skilled craftsmen. Even Edward's little boat, Mystic, had held a certain grace. But the thing before him now was an abhorrence.

It made his task, to some degree, less unpalatable. When the war was over, Indianapolis would fall obsolete. Driving her home now to Davey Jones' Locker would simply save the world another rusting, mothballed eyesore. The fact that over a thousand men would be put in harm's way registered only as a footnote to Braun -- here in the Pacific, the war still ran, and in the calculus of armed conflict such a disaster could not be differentiated from the bombings of Dresden or Tokyo. Braun had killed before, and while it had always involved one victim at a time, the mass of agony he was about to unfurl seemed no worse by way of its scale.

He pulled the sea bag at his feet closer. It had been given to him by Kovalenko, and contained everything one would expect a basic seaman to carry. Spare uniforms, a few personal effects, and -- a touch Braun rather liked -- a Bible. The bag also carried one thing no basic seaman would keep -- a simple, yet powerful radio transmitter. It would activate intermittently over the next two days to act as a beacon.

Kovalenko had assured him that his bag would not be searched. Back at the pier, a sentry had gone over his orders and War Department ID card. Beria's people had done a fine job -- the photograph, fingerprints, and physical description were all quite legitimate, and the ID even showed a slight stain from spilled beer. The guard had thumbed Braun past without a second look at his ubiquitous sailors sea bag.

The tender pulled up alongside the big ships boarding area, and Braun spotted a half dozen uniformed officers milling about in wait. He was not surprised. Though Braun had served in the army, he suspected officers were a predictable lot, regardless of service or country. The captain and his staff would probably be the first to go ashore. They'd mingle with their peers at headquarters, make a few token decisions about when and how Indianapolis would depart. Then the group would recess for an extended lunch at the Officer's Club. There, they'd gossip about promotions, assignments, nurses, and -- if the mood struck -- the war.

Lines were tossed, and the tender, rocking on small seas, was secured to the unmoving island that was Indianapolis. Braun scanned behind the gaggle of officers. He finally saw what he was looking for -- Karl Heinrich with a suitcase chained to his wrist. The scientist did not see him, but then he wouldn't be looking for Braun here, and certainly not in a U. S. Navy uniform.

Braun stepped onto Indianapolis, following two other seamen. He tried to make eye contact with Heinrich, but the little German was talking to a Marine who was stationed at the gangway. The man was big and had the look of a fighter. Not that it mattered for the moment. Right now the only thing was to get Heinrich's attention. Braun had to keep him on the ship.

"Orders!"

The gruff command surprised Braun. He turned to see a weathered petty officer, his shoulder heavy with stripes. The man's hand was extended impatiently. Braun, uniformed as the lowest of the low, would get no respect. The Russians had wanted to make him a junior officer. Braun had argued that, while it might allow some small degree of authority once aboard, the commission would also bring duties and responsibilities. Instead, he had been suited as a basic seaman, his orders for kitchen duty. The expectations were slim -- salute any officer, respect enlisted superiors, and know port from starboard. It was a part Braun could play convincingly.

He fished his orders and ID from a pocket. As the man looked them over, the group of officers began boarding the launch. At that moment, Heinrich looked up. The German did a double take. He went rigid, his eyes becoming huge circles.

Braun blinked slowly, deliberately, to indicate calmness. He then gave an almost imperceptible nod away from the launch.

"Any contraband in there?" the petty officer demanded as he handed back Braun's orders.

"Just a few bottles of whiskey, chief." Braun smiled.

The gruff man eased up and chuckled. "Yeah, well you just save one for me, sailor. And tell the cook to stop using that goddamn horse meat in the stew."

Braun slipped his papers back into his pocket and smiled again. "You bet." He walked toward the main passageway and saw Heinrich speaking to the Marine again. Rounding a corner, Braun was out of the crowd's sight. Heinrich appeared a moment later.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered. "I thought we were to meet on shore!"

"Steady, Karl. We have thought things through very carefully. You must trust our planning." Braun watched the effect of these words.

"We? You have had contact with those in --" Heinrich looked over his shoulder, afraid to say it out loud.

"Yes, yes Karl. Our plans are progressing well. But we cannot talk about it now. You must tell me some things."

The scientist nodded eagerly.

"When does the ship sail?"

"Sometime tomorrow morning, they say."

"Good. Will there be other tenders, other chances for you to go ashore?"

Heinrich shrugged. "I wanted to get off right away. They told me this was the first opportunity. I know there is no shore leave for the sailors, but I heard a few officers talking about going ashore later."

"All right, Karl, listen closely. Come back tonight, at 4:00 a. M., to this very spot."

Heinrich nodded.

"And you must come alone."

"That will be easy. The rest of the scientists from Los Alamos left the ship back in Tinian. Now, I am the only civilian -- and of course the only German. No one here has a word for me."

"They do not guard you?"

"Not anymore. All the important documents went with the cargo to Tinian." He grinned conspiratorially and raised his suitcase slightly. "All that is left is my dirty laundry."

Braun looked at the suitcase and his thoughts stumbled. "Yes -- make sure you bring everything tonight."

"We will leave then?"

Braun nodded. He pulled a paper from his pocket, something on Navy letterhead he'd scavenged from a trash can on the pier. He handed it to Heinrich. "Go wave this at the guard. Tell him your instructions have changed and you won t be getting off until the next port. And tell anyone else who will listen."

Heinrich was clearly curious at this strange request, but he agreed, "All right."

"Go, Karl. Go now. I will see you tonight."

The scientist disappeared around the corner. Braun could not stay to watch over him. He turned and began to move, search, and record. Passageways, staterooms, storage compartments, and gear. Braun could not learn the entire ship, but he would know certain sections intimately. He had sixteen hours.

The act of highest risk would come first -- he had to hide and activate the transmitter. The Russians wanted it high, yet in a place where it would not be discovered. Then he would gather what he and Heinrich needed to extricate themselves. Finally, Braun would hide -- a ship this size must have any number of seldom used closets and alcoves. He did not intend to search out the kitchen, suspecting it would be days before someone realized that the green sailor who'd boarded in Guam had never reported to his duty station.

As Braun scoured the ship, his mind faltered briefly as he thought of the suitcase. It was the first time he'd seen it, and he felt like a pirate getting his first look at a treasure chest. It had been only inches from his grasp. Braun cursed the Russians for demanding Heinrich himself, and for making him stage the scientist's disappearance. So many complications.

All had gone well so far, but Braun had felt the same confidence on other occasions. Flying a little airplane through clouds over New Mexico, only to be thrown into a mountain. Standing in a cool rain on the Embarcadero, only to collide with the head of the NKVD. And lounging on a train in Arizona, only to encounter Lydia. Hopeless, cunning Lydia. Her image came to mind, and Braun wondered where on earth she was at this moment.

Tomas Jones was surrounded by a thousand miles of ocean in every direction. He was stuck on a tiny mound of coral in the Marshall Islands, along with his contingent of eight FBI men.

They all sat sweating in a thatched hut, even though it was early evening, and watched as a pair of mechanics jacked up their C-47 transport, the big left tire rising off the ground.

A similar craft had brought them in yesterday, only to be sent back stateside on a mission deemed more important. No amount of complaining by Jones had been able to cut through the red tape, and they'd watched their perfectly good airplane disappear into the eastern sky.

The Army had been merciful enough to provide an alternative, a spare aircraft that unfortunately had a partially collapsed landing gear. They promised it would only take a few hours to repair -- once the parts arrived. And arrive they had, only twenty minutes earlier. The mechanics were moving now, but clearly at a pace that reflected the heat.

Jones was in a lousy mood. He trudged over to a large tent and saw the officer in charge, a captain, just hanging up a telephone. "Captain, do you understand how important it is that we get to Guam ASAP?"

"Look, Jones, I'm trying. That was HQ on the phone and they wondered the same thing. What's all the fuss? And what the heck is the FBI doing in the South Pacific?"

Jones heaved a sigh. He needed to unload to somebody. "Ahh! We're chasing a damned Nazi spy."

"A Nazi?"

"Can you believe it? This all came to a head in the last few days. The Army has some super-secret project, and who do they take right into the middle of it? A German scientist, for cryin' out loud."

"Jeez."

"They raided his room and found a camera, some code books -- lots of suspicious stuff."

"So you're chasing him down?"

"Yeah. We got a lead from," Jones hesitated painfully, "a British officer. He thinks this spy is gonna turn up on Guam."

The captain looked out through the door of the tent. "My guvs have the old strut arm off already. When do you have to be there?"

"9:00 a. M. on the 27th. The pilot says the flight will only take about six hours, so if we can get out of here before midnight we'll still make it."

The captain looked at the wall calendar. "I've got some bad news for you, Jones."

"What?"

"It happens all the time -- we Americans aren't exactly a worldly lot. You see, there's this thing called the International Date Line."

"The what?"

"The International Date Line. You crossed it yesterday. Here in the Marshalls -- or I guess more importantly for you, in Guam -- it's already the 27th."

An apoplectic Tomas Jones rushed to look outside. "Can't I catch a break!" he shouted.

At that very moment, the two mechanics dove out from under the C-47 as it wobbled, then fell off the jack. The airplane crunched down on a wingtip and sat precariously balanced for a few seconds. Then, with an audible crack, the wing snapped in half at the midpoint, and the entire machine collapsed into a lopsided heap.

Jones threw a roundhouse punch at the tent, his hand striking the hidden metal frame. "Shit!"

Chapter 41.

At four o'clock in the morning Indianapolis was like a tomb, the air still and strangely cool. Karl Heinrich heard snoring as he made his way past compartments where crewmen were racked, and the ship's plumbing and ventilators murmured occasionally. Otherwise the place was silent. He imagined how much different it must be when the big ship was engaged in combat -- shouting, explosions, the huge guns above spewing their massive shells. Heinrich was happy to have fought the war on his own terms.

He passed only one crewman, a sleepy junior officer who had not bothered to challenge Heinrich's cause for walking around at this hour with a suitcase tucked under his arm. It was a good thing, because Heinrich only been able to prepare one weak response -- that he was lost.

Approaching the gangway, he kept to the shadows. He saw a sentry on duty, another Marine, this one smaller and less imposing than the man who'd been on duty earlier. This guard looked drowsy, slumped on a metal chair with his feet propped on a rail. Heinrich heard the slightest sound and he turned. Rainer beckoned him toward a passageway. He scurried to follow.

Rainer said nothing, but walked at a quick pace. After five minutes of turning and twisting, he led through a heavy, watertight door. Heinrich was greeted by darkness and a light breeze that was not strong enough to overcome the most unmistakable scent -- rotting garbage. They were on a platform at the fantail of the ship, perhaps two levels above the waterline. Heinrich knew the kitchen was near, and he calculated that this was where the ship's garbage was dumped overboard. Rainer began digging through a large wooden box mounted on the deck.