Trinity factor, p.19
Trinity Factor, page 19
“Lovelace hadn’t been shot?” Mahoney asked.
“Yes, in the arm, but that didn’t stop him. We very nearly didn’t escape.”
“How about Badim?”
She smiled wistfully. “Alek was a mass of scrapes, cuts, and bruises, but he hadn’t broken anything and even managed to help me that night,” she said. “We hiked back to Springer, stole a car from a ranch house, and drove to Oklahoma City. From there I rented a car and then we drove directly to New York.”
“To your contact?”
“Yes,” she said. “We were going to tell him that there had been a leak in our plans, but the man was frantic. Wouldn’t listen to a word Alek said to him. Kept asking if Groves and Oppenheimer were still alive. Alek wanted to try again, but our contact said there had been a change in plans. We were to assume new identities and lay low.”
“Because of the information Klaus Fuchs was supplying your government?”
Jada nodded. “That and the fact our scientists were having a tough time catching up with the bomb processes. More time was needed for us. Stalin wanted to let the bomb be developed, with Fuchs sending us back information. At the last minute we would be assigned to somehow sabotage the test.”
“Would Badim have been able to kill Groves and Oppenheimer that night on the train had Lovelace not shown up?” Mahoney asked. “I mean, did you think it was possible?”
Jada nodded again. “Yes,” she said. “It would have been easy. Alek was very good, you see.”
“So what happened after you escaped and then contacted your man in New York?”
“That was the late summer of 1944. Our orders were to keep out of sight until the date of the first bomb test was set …”
In the comfortable and familiar surroundings of the Holiday Inn, Mahoney heard the rest of Jada’s incredible story.
BOOK FOUR
JANUARY–JUNE 1945
23
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
It was early evening and a cold wind blew plumes of snow up Western Avenue as Klaus Fuchs, driving a battered Buick sedan, pulled over to the curb just north of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
Despite the chill winter wind, Fuchs was sweating, a thin sheen of perspiration on his pale face, and his hand shook as he reached across the front seat to open the passenger door for his contact, Raymond.
Gold, bundled up in a heavy coat, wore his green gloves and in his left hand carried the novel with a green binding. When he got into the car and closed the door, Fuchs plucked a tennis ball from the pocket of his brown leather coat and held it up. Both men laughed nervously.
“I knew you would contact my sister,” Fuchs said. His voice held a German accent. “That’s why I left the message with her. There was no time to try to contact you. Besides, it would have been too dangerous … I think.”
Gold patted the scientist on the arm. “You did the right thing, Klaus, believe me.”
Fuchs shut off the car’s headlights, but left the windshield wipers flapping, clearing the blowing snow from the glass as he stared down the nearly deserted avenue. “It’s cold here. A lot colder than in Santa Fe.”
“Is that where you’ve been keeping yourself these days, Klaus?” Gold asked, careful to keep the excitement out of his voice.
Fuchs turned back to him, his eyes behind his tortoiseshell glasses enlarged by the lenses. “The laboratory is northwest of Santa Fe at a place called Los Alamos. It’s designated Site Y.”
“And what is happening at this Site Y that has you so excited?” Gold asked. His voice was soothing.
“We’re doing it, Raymond. We’re actually doing it. We’ll have the first gadget ready for testing sometime after March, but no later than July.”
“Where is the test site—surely nowhere around Santa Fe?”
Fuchs shook his head. “No, of course not. It’s somewhere to the south of us in the desert. I’m not sure yet of the exact location, but the place is being called Trinity.”
A car passed them slowly and both men stiffened until it was out of sight, then Gold turned to the scientist, his heart racing. “Trinity?” he asked.
“Dr. Oppenheimer named it.”
“You will be going back to the laboratory soon?”
“Yes. I’ve only got the rest of this week for my holiday, then I have to be back to work. But I get into Santa Fe and even Albuquerque from time to time.”
“Fine,” Gold said, thinking ahead. “Listen now. Before I get the details of your work I want to set up a meeting with you for sometime late in the spring, in Santa Fe. It’s far enough away from Los Alamos and large enough so we won’t create any suspicion. Is that all right?”
Fuchs nodded again. “Certainly,” he said.
24
MOSCOW
The wind raged like a wounded beast through the city of Moscow as Runkov drove across the Krimskiy Bridge and passed through Gorky Park, turning right finally onto Kaluzhskaya Street.
His mind spun with a thousand technical details, many of which he could only guess the meaning of, which had come in a few days ago from the United States. Beria, as great a fool as he was, had put together an effective organization there. An organization that was getting results.
It was four in the afternoon, but already it was dark, the lights shining from apartment windows and the occasional street lamp throwing its feeble illumination only a few yards in the blowing snow.
To the west a whistle blew, and Runkov shuddered, the action involuntary, with the mournful sound. It came from one of the trains moving up the river on tracks laid over the ice. At this moment it struck him as a particularly lonely sound.
As he drove, taking care because of the ice and snow on the pavement, he thought about the past—about the friends he had never made, about his wife dead and gone now three years, and about his accomplishments.
At first he had been a dedicated man, fighting fiercely for the Party and the State. But lately over the past years, and especially over the past months, Runkov had begun to discover that he had a conscience. And it was a bothersome thing.
The war with Germany would be over soon, probably in the spring or early summer. So why were the Americans still going ahead with production of the atomic bomb? What reason was there for the fearful device, if not to stop the Nazis?
He smiled to himself as Gorky Park became Lenin Park out his right window. Besides having a conscience, he told himself, he was becoming maudlin in his old age.
Power. That was the name of the game. If the bomb was not to be used on Germany, perhaps it would be dropped on Japan. If not Japan, perhaps Moscow?
Kaluzhskaya Street curved to the right, turning into Vorobyevskoye Road, which followed the bend in the river. Three army trucks passed him in the opposite direction. A moment later he could just pick out the dim lights of Moscow State University in the distance.
For the past four months Runkov had worried about Stalin’s orders that the test of the first atomic bomb be sabotaged. Although he had felt that such a task was impossible, he had not argued with the man. No one argued with Stalin and lived.
Instead he had gone back to his office, outlined the new problem to Sergeant Doronkin, and then had sent off a quick message to Badim: GO UNDERGROUND. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
Together, then, he and Doronkin began to break the impossible task into its much smaller and conceivably possible components.
First and foremost among them would be learning the exact time and date of the test, as well as its precise location and the layout of the test site.
That information was coming to them from the British scientist Klaus Fuchs through Harry Gold, who in turn passed the details on to NKVD agent Anatoli Yakovlev, who was working under the code name John.
The test site, called Trinity, had not yet been pinpointed beyond the generality that it was somewhere in the southern New Mexico desert. The exact information, however, was expected soon.
Second among the priorities was the exact method of sabotage. In this Badim and Jada would be severely handicapped.
No matter what happened or did not happen, they would have to maintain their secondary cover as Germans. But once the war with Germany was over, that cover would no longer be useful, which meant they would have to carry out the operation in total secrecy.
Still, those obstacles had not presented any absolute stumbling blocks. The operation would be difficult, but up to that point not impossible.
The problem did come, however, in the actual physical details of the sabotage itself. Undoubtedly the bomb, as well as its control mechanisms, would be highly complicated. Any little thing going wrong could possibly throw the test off. But what little thing? And would it be possible to sabotage the test in such a fashion that no one knew it had been sabotaged?
It was this last that most intrigued Runkov. Interested him to the point that he had forgotten all about his earlier dismal predictions for the outcome of the operation.
But until a couple of days ago when they had received the latest information from Fuchs, and then the technical report from Army Corporal David Greenglass, who worked in the machine shop at Los Alamos, Runkov had had no earthly idea how such a thing could be accomplished.
The reports had been passed on to the Special Physics Wing at Moscow State University, where much of the theoretical work on atomic bomb research was being done. Earlier this afternoon Runkov had made an appointment to speak with Dr. Leonid Yushenko, whose complicated position was one of liaison between the theoreticians, the industrial designers, and the military.
Yushenko had been somewhat cool on the phone, but had nevertheless agreed to the meeting in his office at 4:15 P.M.
The guards had been notified of his visit, and merely checked his GRU identification before waving him on. He drove through the gate and about a kilometer into the university grounds, then turned left to the physics building, parking his car around back.
One of the sentries just inside the door escorted him immediately down the busy corridor, knocked once at an office door, and then ushered him in. A tall, balding man with a pale white face and thick glasses was hunched over a drafting table. No one else was in the office.
“Dr. Yushenko,” the guard said softly.
The scientist looked up, then came across the room, holding his hand out. “Major Runkov, is it?” he asked.
Runkov shook the man’s hand. “Yes,” he said. “It was good of you to see me on such short notice.”
Yushenko’s gaze flickered to the guard, who had remained by the open door, and the man flinched almost as if he had been struck, then quickly backed out into the corridor, quietly closing the door behind him.
“Now, what can I do for you this afternoon, major? You were not quite clear on the telephone as to the nature of your business with me.”
“I need some information, comrade doctor.”
A pinched smile briefly crossed the scientist’s face. “You could have saved us both the trouble of your visit, major. Such requests must come through channels in writing for consideration. Then in a week or so, once the necessary clearances have been obtained, I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Runkov had anticipated just such a reaction, and he withdrew Stalin’s letter from his breast pocket and handed it to the man. “If you’ll just look at this.”
Yushenko took the letter, scanned it quickly, then looked up at Runkov with new respect in his eyes. He read the letter again, this time more slowly, and finally handed it back.
“Quite an extraordinary document, major,” he said softly. “In effect it makes you the second most important man in the Soviet Union.”
“I’ll need your complete cooperation,” Runkov said.
“You have it, of course,” the scientist replied.
“And whatever is discussed here this afternoon, between us, will not be mentioned to anyone, for any reason.”
“You have my word on it,” Yushenko said.
“Good,” Runkov said ominously, “because your life will depend upon it.”
Yushenko blanched, but said nothing.
“You have studied the latest information the NKVD has provided you about the explosive lens designs the Americans have come up with?”
“Yes, quite ingenious. I would have thought such a technical feat would be years in the future.”
Runkov looked beyond the scientist toward the drafting table, then took the man by the arm and led him to it. He picked up a pencil and pinned a clean sheet of paper to the board.
“I want you to draw me a diagram,” he said, handing the pencil to the scientist.
“Of what?”
“The American atomic bomb design. Exactly how it works … to the best of your knowledge … and how it could be sabotaged in such a fashion that no one would know.”
25
NEWPORT NEWS, VIRGINIA
Alek Badim got to his car and was about to open the door when he spotted the crumpled cigarette pack on the front seat. For a moment he just stood there, oblivious to everything except his heart thumping against his ribs and the butterflies in his stomach.
It had finally come. After six months the message had finally come.
Around him hundreds of women, and a scattering of men, were streaming to their cars and to the bus stops outside the Newport News shipyards and dry docks. It was shortly past 11:30 P.M., and across the vast parking lot a few stragglers were still coming in for the greatly reduced graveyard shift.
Over the past months the workload had been severely cut back because of the way the war was going. In Europe, Soviet troops were within seventy or eighty kilometers of Berlin, while the Americans, British, and Free French were closing in on Cologne. When Berlin fell, which was expected sometime in late March or early April, it would be finished. In the South Pacific, the war with Japan was still at least a year away from completion, but no longer were as many ships coming into the Hampton Roads Harbor for repairs. And no longer were the Victory-class ships being built.
The war was finally winding down. Very soon now there would be peace. The mission would be scrubbed.
With a shaking hand Badim opened the door and slipped in behind the wheel. He dug his keys out and started the battered old Ford coupe, but before he switched on the headlights and pulled out of the parking lot, he reached over and picked up the crumpled pack of Chesterfields, and immediately felt something hard inside it.
He looked up to make sure no one was watching him, and then tore open the pack. Inside was a key with a large head. Holding it up to the parking lot lights, he was able to read the numbers 357 stamped in the metal beneath the words PORTSMOUTH R.R. STA.
Instructions for bringing them home? It had to be. Once the war with Germany was over with, his and Jada’s secondary cover as German agents would be ruined. And in New Mexico they had nearly been caught. These would have to be their orders bringing them home. Anything else would be too risky.
He pocketed the key, switched on his headlights, and pulled away from his parking spot into the long line of cars heading out to Jefferson Avenue.
Jada would be happy. Over the past month or so she had become increasingly irascible, apparently anxious for something to happen one way or the other, although he had supposed all along that she had been happy playing house.
Until a few days ago, too, she had seemed to thrive on their new lifestyle. They had managed to rent a small house just north of Newport News in Grafton. They had the car, a large Stromberg Carlson upright to listen to the radio shows at night, and an electric fridge.
It had been quite a change for her from the old days in Brighton, and even more of a change from the austerity of Moscow, and at first she had been like a deprived child in a toy shop.
Hanging over them, however, during the past six months, was the knowledge that their life here was a temporary one; the new mission, whatever it would be, was waiting for them, and after that it would be back to Moscow.
Months ago he had come to realize that Jada did not want to go back, although he had said nothing to her, and in fact had played along with her little game of “Let’s Pretend,” just like on the Saturday morning radio show.
“Let’s pretend,” she would start the game, “that in July we’ll go up to Long Island and spend a week. Or maybe take the train all the way down to Florida. Or maybe even down to Arizona. Neither of us has ever seen the Grand Canyon, you know.”
“Long Island is for snobs. Florida is too hot in the summer. And who wants to look at a great hole in the ground, anyway,” he would tease her.
“You’re a big bore, Peter Bradley,” she would say. She hardly ever used his real name anymore, not even when they made love. “I suppose you’ll be suggesting we go to New York to see the big buildings, or maybe even to Louisville so you can lose our savings on the horse races.”
A mock serious expression would cross his face then, and he would say something like. “If you’re not careful, toots, I’ll do just that, only I’ll leave you home, and find some good-lookin’ dish at the track.”
She would smile, loving every moment of it. “Mr. Bradley, have I ever told you that I love you?”
“Nope,” he would say.
He found himself smiling as someone behind him beeped a horn, and he looked up to see that the traffic had cleared in front of him, and he pulled out onto Jefferson Avenue and headed toward the James River Bridge, which led across to Portsmouth.
Jada’s feelings were perfectly obvious, or at least they had been until very recently. And more than once he had found it necessary to bring her harshly out of her little game when it threatened to become too serious.
She had invented parents for them in Chicago, and once she had even suggested they spend their summer vacation visiting them.
But even more dangerous than that gentle delusion was her longing to make friends. Someone to come over on Saturday nights for cards and a few beers. Maybe a girlfriend to go shopping with.
