Trinity factor, p.24
Trinity Factor, page 24
But then she remembered poor Harvey Dansig. And she remembered their War Department contact, and the hotel clerk, and the two MPs. Alek had told her about them. He was a murderer.
She stared hard at the front door, willing Alek to come home, to open the door and take her into his arms this instant. But nothing happened. The door remained closed.
With her right hand on her distended belly, she turned finally and went into the bedroom, her movements rigid, mechanical. From the closet shelf she pulled out a small suitcase, and laid it open on the bed. Then she went to the bureau and took out her nightgown and some clean underwear, which she packed in the suitcase. From the closet she took down a pair of lightweight slacks and a blouse that she had worn before she was pregnant, and packed them as well.
When she had the suitcase closed, she picked it up, grabbed her purse from the coffee table in the living room, and opened the front door.
The radio was still playing, but she ignored it as she debated for a moment whether to leave Alek a note. She was sure she would be back before he returned, so she went out, carefully locked the door behind her, and then trudged slowly the two blocks to the bus stop.
The day was bright and warm, but to her it seemed dark and cold, and somehow hopeless.
The city bus came a few minutes later, and she climbed up, paid her fare, and sat in one of the back seats for the ride downtown.
For a while, as she watched the houses out the window, she thought about Brighton, and the beach, and for that time she felt calm, and unafraid. If her father were alive now, he would know what to do. She could call him and he would tell her what was necessary.
She could almost hear him now, his voice clearly recognizable, but she couldn’t quite make out the words he was saying. She strained to listen, but it was no use, and gradually the image faded.
Alek loved this baby as much as she did. In some respects, even more. But she would have to make him understand that as much as she loved their baby, she loved Alek even more.
She got off the bus at Second and Silver across from the Trailways Bus Depot, crossed the street, and went inside to one of the ticket counters.
An old man, thin, with a bald head and thick glasses, looked up. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“I’d like a ticket to Juárez,” Jada said softly. Her knees felt like rubber.
The clerk took a blank ticket from a slot, and began writing on it. “Round trip?”
“Yes.”
“When will you be returning?”
“Sunday,” she said. “Sunday afternoon.”
BOOK FIVE
JULY 12–16, 1945
32
MOSCOW
Sergei Dmitrevich Runkov stood by the barred window in a small room on the second floor of the Lubyanka Compound looking across the cobblestoned courtyard. From where he stood he could just make out the edge of the black statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky, the founder of the State Secret Police, and over the wall the Polytechnic Museum a few blocks away.
He was confused in some ways. He had served his country well during and since the Revolution, and was willing to continue serving his country in any capacity.
But there was something else happening, something much larger than him and the project, and as frightening as the prospect seemed, perhaps even larger and more powerful than Stalin himself.
The gates opened below in the courtyard, and a canvas-topped lend-lease truck pulled through the opening. It swung around and stopped so that its tailgate was facing the outer wall about fifteen meters away.
The Berias and Merkulovs of the world were the true survivors, he thought, as he watched two soldiers jump down from the cab of the truck. He was merely a fighter.
He had only two real regrets at the moment—for Sergeant Doronkin, who had chosen to be loyal to the wrong master, and for the fact that he would never know the real reason they were being executed.
The project, which was nearing its final hours, was only a small part of some other much larger scheme … he was almost certain of that now. But what was confusing was the apparent fact that Stalin was only a pawn. The supreme Soviet leader himself did not have all the answers.
Who did, then? And what was the larger scheme?
He focused again on the truck. The stage was set, he thought grimly, as he turned away from the window. The tray of food they had brought him an hour ago sat untouched on the low stool next to his cot. He had not been hungry, even though his stomach had rumbled all morning.
He crossed the small room to the tray, opened the bottle of vodka, and half-filled the metal cup with it.
There were no sheets or blankets on the bed. They had taken his belt and tie. The overhead lightbulb was encased in a sturdy wire mesh. They had given him no utensils with which to eat his food, and had given him a metal cup out of which to drink his liquor.
He smiled. Yet they had forgotten the glass bottle of vodka, although how anyone could break the bottle and then cut his own throat or wrist was beyond him. It was a distinct possibility, however, which despite their supposed meticulous attention to detail had completely escaped them.
He turned, drink in hand, to stare at his reflection in the polished metal mirror on the wall across the room.
His shirt collar was open, exposing a large, angry red welt on the side of his neck where the soldier had hit him with the butt of his rifle.
He toasted his reflection, drinking deeply, the vodka smelling and tasting faintly metallic from the cup.
Six days ago it had begun, he thought now, trying to make some sense of what had happened.
Doronkin had come into his office flustered. A series of files on the project were missing.
Runkov had immediately alerted Center Security, but no search had been ordered.
Next he had tried to get an audience with Stalin, but he was denied the request. Nor would Beria or Merkulov speak with him.
That night General Yenikeev was found dead, an apparent suicide, in his apartment on Kutuzovsky Prospekt.
And at that point Runkov began to become seriously concerned about his own safety. It seemed as if someone was closing all the doors on him, and he wanted to know why.
Two days ago he had gone into NKVD archives on a routine file search, but instead had begun looking through cross-references to the Trinity project. One name popped up from time to time in the supporting documents that made absolutely no sense to him.
In the signature block for the orders transferring the captured German submarine they had used on the project to the GRU was the name Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev, who was the chief of political administration for the Eighteenth Army.
Why was an army party hack involved with a highly sensitive secret service operation?
Later that day he had made some quiet inquiries about the man, but just yesterday an NKVD captain with four enlisted men, all of them armed, had come to Runkov’s office and arrested him and Doronkin. The signature on the arresting orders had been Brezhnev’s.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and he looked toward the heavy metal door. A moment later a key grated in the lock and the door swung open, two soldiers entering the room, while four others remained out in the hall, rifles at the ready.
“Dyee tyeh!” one of the men snapped nervously.
Runkov managed a slight smile. “It is time, comrade?” he asked in a clear voice.
A lieutenant also standing in the corridor poked his head through the doorway. “We wish no trouble, Major Runkov.”
“It is you offering me the trouble, lieutenant,” Runkov said, but he immediately tired of the little game. “If you are to shoot me, I’d rather it be with my sergeant out in the courtyard than in here. I’ll come peacefully.”
The soldiers were obviously relieved. Now, Runkov thought for just an instant, while their nerves were settling. But he just sighed, set his cup down on the stool, and stepped out into the corridor, three guards ahead of him, the three other with the lieutenant falling in behind.
As they walked down the long corridor, past the rows of cell doors, he thought about all that had happened since he had recalled Badim from Germany.
Most of all, at this moment, he thought about the men aboard the submarine, now lying dead at the bottom of the Atlantic somewhere off the coast of the United States.
Officially his and Doronkin’s deaths had been ordered for the conspiracy to murder seventeen of their fellow officers and men aboard the sub. A measure that had caused Runkov great pain, but one that had nevertheless been authorized by Stalin himself as a necessity of war.
It had worked beautifully. Everything had worked except for the business with Groves’ and Oppenheimer’s assassination in New Mexico. That had been the only blot on the entire mission, and yet it had been a stroke of fortuitous luck.
Sabotage, not assassination, Stalin had ordered, and he and Doronkin had complied. Even now it was too late to recall Badim. Two weeks ago they had received the final word from Yakovlev in New York: the test shot was set for sometime in the early morning hours of Monday, July sixteenth.
One week ago Runkov had sent a terse message to Yakovlev that Badim was to be informed of the date and time, and then all further contact was to be eliminated until Badim and Jada requested a way home.
They came to the end of the corridor, turned left, and went down the stairs that led to the courtyard.
Everything was set. Badim could not fail.
At this moment the new American President, Harry Truman, was aboard the Augusta steaming across the Atlantic for Antwerp, where he would continue on to Potsdam to meet with Churchill and Marshal Stalin.
At Tinian, a tiny speck of coral in the Pacific, the men and aircraft of the 509th Composite Group were waiting for the arrival of the first atomic bombs, which they would drop on Japan.
From the latest intelligence reports Runkov had seen, four Japanese cities had been selected as possible targets—Hiroshima, Kokura, Niigata, and Nagasaki—two of which would be bombed.
Plans for the invasion of the Japanese mainland, code-named Downfall, had been drawn up by the American military establishment, which was still almost completely unaware of what was happening in the New Mexican desert.
If Badim was successful, and the test shot was a failure, then Downfall would be carried out with the Soviet Union waiting in the wings to grab off her share of the Japanese empire, as they were doing in Europe.
All was going well. Very well. And yet …
They had come to the ground floor, where the guards opened a door and stepped outside, Runkov following.
Sergeant Doronkin had already been escorted out into the courtyard, and he stood near the wall, facing the truck’s tailgate, smoking a cigarette. When he saw Runkov he threw the cigarette aside and stiffened to attention.
The day was bright, a warm breeze smelling of the river pleasant against Runkov’s face. He hesitated a moment just outside the door and turned to the lieutenant.
“What time is it?”
The lieutenant, a young man with pockmarks on his face, looked sharply at Runkov for a moment, and then, evidently deciding it was not some kind of a trick, looked at his watch. “Two minutes before noon, comrade major.”
Runkov breathed deeply of the fresh air, and then he and his guards continued across the courtyard to where Doronkin stood, his back barely a half-meter from the already bullet-scarred wall.
“Good morning, Vladimir Nikhailovich,” Runkov said, as if this was nothing more than a chance meeting of an old friend.
Doronkin nodded, but did not speak, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Runkov moved closer to him, then reached out and hugged him, and then kissed him on the lips.
When they parted there were tears in Doronkin’s eyes. “I am sorry, major …”
“Not to be sorry, Vladimir. We have done our job well. The mission will come out. And maybe after all is said and done, we will end up knowing more than the rest of them put together.”
“Do you wish a cigarette, comrade major?” the lieutenant asked, his voice shaking.
Runkov turned calmly to the man. “No, you little faggot, I do not wish a cigarette.”
“Bind them,” the lieutenant snapped, red-faced.
Two guards came forward and quickly tied Runkov’s and Doronkin’s hands behind their backs.
“Do either of you wish blindfolds?”
Runkov shook his head, and a moment later so did Doronkin.
“You know, Vladimir,” Runkov began conversationally, “I have been doing some thinking, now that the war is nearly over, that a vacation on the Caspian would be pleasant.”
The tailgate on the truck clanged open and Doronkin flinched, but his eyes never left Runkov’s. “Why are they really executing us?” he asked.
“It is simple,” Runkov said, as he heard the slide snap back on the machine gun mounted in the rear of the truck. “But it is something I only recently figured out …”
The .50-caliber bullets tore into Doronkin, killing him instantly, and a fraction of a second later Runkov felt the wind being knocked out of him as something hard and very hot slammed into his stomach, his chest, and then his neck, and his last conscious thought was about the soldier whose nose he had broken when the man had tried to arrest him yesterday … .
33
ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
Now that they were so close to going home, Jada had lost all of her fear. An icy calmness had descended over her, settling her nerves, making her less jumpy and taking away some of the sorrow for the thing she had done in Juárez five weeks ago.
She was in the kitchen making up a large packet of sandwiches, but she stopped a moment and looked out the window at the neighborhood children playing baseball in the sandlot next door.
Most of the pain from the induced labor had stopped by the first week, and the soreness had gradually faded as well over the following days. Yet she and Alek had not made love since then.
It had been a stunning blow to him, and at this moment she could still see the expression on his face and hear his first words when she had returned to their apartment that Sunday evening.
He had been waiting for her in the dark, and she had not seen him until she had closed and locked the door behind her and turned on the light.
The color had instantly drained from his face, and he had stood up. “My god,” he said, “you’ve killed our baby.”
“Alek,” she said, taking a step closer. “I had to,” she cried. “They have our pictures. They know we’re here. I had to do it. It was for you.”
Badim looked at her for a long moment, every muscle in his body tense, but he made no move to come to her, nor did he say anything. Instead he turned away, went into the kitchen, and poured himself a half-tumbler of brandy, which he drank in one swallow.
She came to the kitchen door, her insides on fire, her head buzzing, and her knees weak. “I love you,” she said.
He turned to her. “Why, Larissa? Why did you do such a thing?”
“There was a man at the doctor’s office with sketches of our faces. He was from the army. They know we’re here in Albuquerque.”
Badim seemed to think for a moment. “How did you see the sketches?”
“The man was in the doctor’s office when I came in. I saw the sketches there.”
“Did the man see you?” Badim asked, absolutely no inflection in his voice. “I mean, did he get a clear look at your face?”
She nodded weakly, but suddenly understanding flashed into her mind like a bright explosion. The man had seen her face and yet he had not recognized her. And looking at Alek, she could see that his beard and long gray hair made him nearly unrecognizable.
It had been for nothing. She had killed their baby for nothing. “No,” she had cried weakly, and she’d fallen to the floor in a faint.
Today was the fifteenth of July, and in five days, she thought with sadness, she would have had their baby.
“How’s it coming in there?” Badim called from the bedroom, and she looked up.
“Just about finished,” she said loudly enough for him to hear. “What time do we have to leave?” She looked over at the kitchen clock on top of the icebox. It was 3:00 P.M.
“Not for another two hours,” Badim said. He had come to the doorway from the living room, and she snapped around with a start.
“I … I’m just about done with your lunch,” she said.
His eyes flickered to the counter, where the four meat and cheese sandwiches she had made were wrapped in waxed paper. “Wait,” he said, and he turned and left the kitchen.
A moment later she could hear cloth tearing, and then he was back with a large, ragged piece from one of their bed sheets. He handed it to her.
“Wrap the sandwiches in this. Waxed paper makes too much noise.”
She managed a slight smile. “They’ll dry out,” she said.
“I want to live long enough to eat them. No waxed paper.”
“Yes, Alek,” she said, averting her eyes.
He sighed deeply. “When you’re finished in here, Larissa, come into the other room. There’s something I have to say to you.”
It was the first time he had used that name in five weeks, and she looked up, but he had already turned and was going into the other room.
“Alek …” she said.
“Finish what you were doing first,” he said without looking back, and then he was around the corner.
She stared at the doorway for a moment, and through it into the living room. The radio was turned to a news broadcast, and she heard the words Potsdam, and the names Truman, Churchill, and Stalin, but she paid no attention to it as she turned back to the counter, unwrapped the sandwiches from the waxed paper, and bundled them up as best she could in the cloth.
When she was finished, she took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then turned and marched resolutely out of the kitchen, around the corner, and into their bedroom, where Alek was just reassembling his Luger.
