Joseph Kanon - Los Alamos

They joined the others drifting toward the Admin Building, drawn home like children after dark. It was only when he saw Oppenheimer appear on the steps that he realized why they had come. There was a different White House here, and the plain army-green building was as central and reassuring as the one across from Lafayette Square. There were no loudspeakers and Oppenheimer barely raised his voice, so that Connolly missed most of what he said. There would be a service on Sunday. He knew everyone must be shocked. He knew they would carry on the President’s ideals. The words faded even as he spoke them. But no one looked anywhere else. His face visibly troubled, Oppenheimer held them all with the force of his caring. In Washington there had been the rakish glint of Roosevelt’s eyes, his generous celebration of worldliness, but here the center was held by Oppie’s almost luminous intelligence. It was his town. When something went wrong-the water supply, a death in the larger family-they didn’t have to hear what he said. It was enough to have him here.

Connolly looked around the crowd of his new town. Scientists in jeans. Nurses and WACs and young typists with vivid red nails. MPs. Fresh-faced graduate students in sweater vests and ties-you could almost see them raising their hands in class, eager to impress. Some were openly weeping, but most people simply stood there, sober after a party. And then Oppenheimer was finished, coming down the few steps to join the crowd, and people began drifting back, not wanting to burden him further.

Connolly couldn’t stop watching him, and Oppenheimer, glancing up, caught his stare and looked puzzled for a moment, until he placed him. He was walking toward them, and Connolly felt oddly pleased to be singled out, then embarrassed when he saw that Oppie had been headed for Professor Weber all along.

“Well, Hans,” he said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “a sad day.”

Weber, always in motion, now seemed to bubble over. “Terrible, terrible. A gift to the Nazis. A gift.”

Oppenheimer looked at his watch. “It’s already tomorrow there. Friday the thirteenth. Dr. Goebbels won’t even have to consult his astrologer. For once, a clear sign, eh?”

“But Robert, the music. What should we do? Should we cancel this evening? It seems not respectful.”

“No, by all means let’s have the music,” Oppenheimer said softly. “Let the Nazis look at their entrails-we’ll take our signs from the music.”

Weber nodded. Oppenheimer, in a gesture of remembering his manners, turned to include Connolly. “You know Mr. Connolly?”

“Yes, forgive me. I didn’t see you. We met at the dancing.”

“How are you getting on?” Oppenheimer said.

“All right, I guess.”

“Good. You must invite him to your evening, Hans.” Then, to Connolly, “All work and no play-it can be a disease here. They’re really quite good.”

“But I have invited him. Yes? You remember? So come.”

“I’m planning on it. If there’s room.”

“Oh, there’s always room,” Oppenheimer said. “And the cakes are even better than the music.”

“Vays mir,” Weber said, putting his hand to his head. “Johanna. You’ll excuse me, please?” But he went off before anyone could answer.

Oppenheimer lit a cigarette and sucked the smoke deeply, like opium. “He likes to help. Schnecken. Seed cake. I think the music is an excuse. How are you getting on?”

“Slowly. Thanks for running interference on the files.”

“I hope they’re worth it. They say bad things run in threes-maybe you’ll find something yet.”

“Would that make three? Has something else happened?”

“No, I’m anticipating. It’s been just the opposite. Today Otto Frisch finished the critical assembly experiments with metallic U-235.” He paused, looking at Connolly. “You haven’t the faintest idea what I’m talking about, have you? Well, so much the better. I probably shouldn’t be talking about it in any case. Suffice it to say, it’s a significant step-best news in a week. And now this. No doubt there’s some philosophical message in it all, but I’m damned if I see it.”

“Did you know him well?”

“The President? No, not very well. I’ve met him, of course, but I can’t say I knew him. He was charming. But that’s beside the point.”

“Which is?”

“It was his project. He okayed it. Now it’s anybody’s guess—”

“Truman opposed it?”

“He doesn’t know about it.”

“What?”

Oppenheimer smiled. “You know, I’m constantly surprised at security’s being surprised when something secret is kept secret. No, he doesn’t know. Nobody there knew except Roosevelt and the committee. And I expect he’ll be furious when Stimson tells him what he didn’t know.”

“Touchy, anyway,” Connolly agreed. “But he’s not going to pull the plug at this point.”

“How well do you really know Washington? This project has cost nearly two billion dollars.” He watched Connolly’s eyes widen. “None of the men you sent to Washington to spend your money knows a thing about it.”

“That’s a lot of money to hide,” Connolly said, thinking about his own paltry search.

“Only Roosevelt could have ordered it,” Oppenheimer said. “It had to come from the top. Still does.”

“So you’re off to Washington, hat in hand?”

“No,” Oppenheimer said, “nothing that drastic. General Groves will take care of it-he knows his way around those land mines better than anybody. But it’s—” He hesitated, grinding out his cigarette. “A complication. We were always racing against time, and now it’s worse. It’s a bad time to get a new boss.”

“It always is.”

“This is a particularly bad time.”

“Can I ask you a question? What if it doesn’t work?”

“I never ask myself that. It will.”

“Because it has to?”

“Because the science is there. It will work. The question now is what happens after that. The generals will want to own it. We’ll need a whole new kind of civilian control. Otherwise, all our work here—” He looked away, rehearsing some talk with himself. “Otherwise, it will be a tragedy. Roosevelt saw that. Now we have-who? Some politician nobody ever heard of. How can he be expected to make such a decision? For all I know, he’ll think it’s just a giant hand grenade.” He stopped, catching himself. “Well, let’s hope for the best,” he said, looking back at Connolly. “A little music for the soul. Seven o’clock. Weber’s on Bathtub Row-just ask anyone. By the way, I hope you’re not looking too closely at my bank account. It feels like someone’s going through my laundry.”

When Connolly got back to the office, there was a message to call Holliday.

“I have something for you,” he said, not even bothering to mention Roosevelt. Most people on the Hill had taken an unofficial holiday and left early. “We found out where your boy went that night. Or at least where his car went.”

“You found the bar?”

“He wasn’t drinking. He went to church.”

“Church?”

“San Isidro, out on the Cerrillos Road. A Mex place.”

“What would he be doing in church? He was a Jew.”

“I didn’t say he was praying. I just said his car was parked there. An alley next to the church. Not a parking lot, exactly, but people park there.”

“What’s around?”

“Houses. A gas station. No bars. Quiet.”

“And one of the neighbors saw him?”

“No. Actually, one of my men. You were right, put out the word and you always haul something in. The night of the killing, he was driving past on his way to some complaint and noticed the car there. Didn’t think anything of it until I put out the description of the car.”