Joseph Kanon - Los Alamos

Emma stared at him, her face sober and quiet. She had stopped pacing and was crossing her arms and holding herself as if she were huddling against a chill. “Is that true?”

“It’s how Corporal Waters would see it.”

“The scientists, I mean. Do they really want everyone to know?”

“They will. Right now all they can think about is getting it to work. They think it’s theirs. They don’t realize they’re just doing piecework for the army.”

“Do you believe it, though? Or is it all just part of the story?”

“It doesn’t matter. But I think if you’re the only guy holding a gun, a lot of people will feel like Corporal Waters. Maybe they’d be right.”

“But you want to stop them. Even if they’re right.”

“I don’t believe in handing someone else a gun either. He might shoot. People usually do.”

“Like cowboys.”

“No, like countries. Like show trials and wars and killing lots of people, not just one. I don’t trust them with a gun. I’m not an idealist.”

“Yes, you are,” she said quietly. “You’re the worst kind. You want to do it yourself.” She dropped her arms and slowly moved toward him. “I know. I run to type.”

He stood now, facing her, afraid to touch. “I won’t ask. If you don’t want to.”

She shook her head, placing her hand on his arm. “No. Ask me. Nobody ever did before.”

“You’d have to be careful. Remember Karl.”

“Careful. If I were careful, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

“Then you will.”

“You want me to, don’t you?”

He nodded.

“You’ll come with me?”

“I have to. You’re my cover,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I told you, nobody knows. If I leave the Hill, our friends in G-2 will follow me. They’ll wonder where I’m going. They won’t wonder after they see you.”

“You think of everything, don’t you? And what’s our story? Are we supposed to be having an affair?”

“We could be,” he said, smiling.

“Do you think anybody would believe that?”

“Anybody.”

She was silent for a moment. “But no harm to Matthew. What if you’re wrong? What if he won’t do it? What if he sends me packing?”

“Then we’ll have a weekend in New York. He won’t, though. The stuff’s real. They won’t be able to resist.”

“But no harm.”

“No,” he said, reaching for her. “You’re awfully loyal to your husband.”

“Mm,” she said. “All of them. But think what I do for you.”

He kissed her, holding her close to him now. “I just appeal to your better instincts.”

“You’re a bastard. You’d even use this to get your way, wouldn’t you?”

“If it would work,” he said, kissing her again. “Would it?”

“Ask me later.”

“I thought they canceled all leaves,” Mills said.

“Civilians get special privileges,” Connolly said. “It’s only four days. Don’t you think I’m entitled to one, listening to you all day?”

“Two leaves were arranged,” Mills said, handing him the papers. “Maybe you’d better take both.”

“I don’t think so. I only need one,” Connolly said, taking it. “Are you being cute, or is it just my imagination?”

“Anything special you want me to do while you’re gone?”

“No. Check in with Holliday, though, just to be nice. See if anybody’s gone to church. Tell him I still haven’t got a goddamn thing. Not even an idea. Maybe I’ll think of something while I’m away.”

“You intend to do a lot of thinking, huh?”

“You know, in security you get to know all kinds of things. The trick’s not to leap to any conclusions. Of course, I don’t have to tell you-you’re a professional.”

“Right,” Mills said, then grinned. “Have fun anyway.”

Connolly smiled back. “Do me one favor, though, will you? When you talk to whoever it is you talk to, would you leave her name out of it? I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. People get upset.”

“You’re lucky you don’t get shot. You going to leave a number? It’s procedure.”

“Make one up. I’d only leave a phony.”

“And I’d find out. That’s procedure too.”

Oppenheimer had pulled strings for a Pullman, an oasis of privilege on the crowded train, but even so the trip was hot and dusty. After the high New Mexican plateau, they went down into the flat bottomland of America, where the heat was oppressive, a furnace of hot air that left grit on the skin as it blew through the car, drying sweat and scattering paper. A group of servicemen, rowdy and insistent, had taken over the club car, and their singing as they crossed the empty plains had the disruptive sound of a brawl. Chattanooga Choo-Choo, Connolly thought irritably. Maybe the musicians who had written the happy train songs had been drunk in the club car too, seeing the dingy interiors glow with a boozy shine. Dinner was chewy lamb chops and canned peas, slapped down by harried waiters with an eye to the line already forming at the door for the next sitting. They drank cold beer and went to bed, exhausted without being tired, waiting for the clicking of the rails to lull them to sleep. Instead Connolly lay on top of the hot sheets, squirming in the dark, and finally dreamed of Eisler standing at the blackboard, studying his fate.

The next day was better. Emma sat leafing through magazines, her skirt hiked up around her thighs to catch the breeze. The landscape was green now and moist, and Connolly watched it lazily, ignoring the magazine in his lap. A GI’s account of Okinawa, filtered through another Connolly at OWI for the right polish. No incontinence and night fears. Wounds to the abdomen, never lower. No one was ever hit in the genitals. Corpses in photographs were whole. Connolly had heard stories of loose body parts being removed from the ground so that the picture could be shot. But that had been before, when morale had been an issue. Now there was a new brutality to the layouts. GIs stared out from the slick pages, glazed and slack-jawed, stunned by the fanaticism of the enemy. The hills were pockmarked with thousands of hand-dug caves. Even at the end, the war meant to go on and on. There was still time for the gadget. Outside the window, farms and wooded hills slipped by, sleepy and unknowing.

A quick thunderstorm sent streaks of rain along the dining car windows during lunch, blocking the view. Emma, preoccupied, picked at her chicken salad, too listless to look out.

“You all right?” Connolly said.

She nodded.

“You’re not sorry you came?”

“I was sorry before I came. Now I’m curious.”

“About Matthew?”

She nodded again. “What’s he like, do you think? Do you know, actually? Did they tell you?”

“An address. He works in Union Square. He still does some kind of work for the party. I don’t know what.”

“Do you mind? About him, I mean.”

“I haven’t seen him yet,” he said lightly. “Is he good-looking?”

“He was. Maybe he just seemed that way because the comrades were so dreary.” She caught his look. “Yes, he’s good-looking. Fair. Thin-he never ate. Cheese and a biscuit, that would do. He liked-You don’t really want to know all this, do you?”

“No.”

“No,” she agreed. “Anyway, that was then. People change.” She turned her fork, thinking. “If he’s still working for the party, why is he allowed to stay?”

“It’s not illegal.”

“But they keep an eye out.”

“I guess.”

“Do they know about me?”

“No, you don’t exist.”

“I like that. Like riding on trains, isn’t it? No one knows who you are. You’re just a ticket. I’ve always liked that. Even now. I shouldn’t, I know, but I’m rather enjoying this.”