Los Alamos

by Joseph Kanon

  “Not this time.”

  They had reached the turnoff for Connolly’s building. Emma stared down at the drying mud in the road. “I wish you hadn’t told me. It’s so—unhappy. All alone like that. Oh, Michael,” she said, looking up, “don’t let’s—Why shouldn’t we be happy? When I heard this morning—”

  “Are you happy now?” he said, taking her arm again.

  She nodded.

  “All right.”

  “And miserable. Happy. Miserable. Scared. Everything.”

  “All that?”

  “Don’t tease. Anyway, it’s your fault.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. Just come tonight, that’s all,” she said, looking at him.

  “That’ll make it better?”

  “No. But come anyway.” Then, in broad daylight, she took his hand and put it against her face for a second before she walked off.

  He showered and changed and headed for Eisler’s apartment. The office, Mills’s smug discretion, could wait. Eisler lived in one of the Sundt units, a modest one-bedroom that was nevertheless several steps up from Connolly’s spartan room. There was a fireplace, with a Morris chair and a floor lamp to one side and Indian carpets scattered over the hardwood floor. It was clean without being really tidy—old coffee cups still in the sink, a tie flung over the edge of the couch. There were books everywhere, a pipe near the chair, another on the nightstand, and rows of shelves lining the wall, full of German books, some bound in leather, others with the yellowing paper of European books whose edges you sliced as you read. Connolly ran his finger along the shelves, recognizing a few names. Which would you take to a desert island? Goethe? Mann? He took out a title, then stopped, sliding it back. It was too long. There would never be enough time to finish it.

  He went into the bedroom to get the clothes. The bed was made but lumpy. Next to it was the photograph of a young woman, her hair bobbed—presumably his wife. A girl. What had he said about how she died? You just turned down the wrong street, that’s all it took.

  He was in the bathroom, filling the old leather shaving kit, when he heard the door open. He looked up into the mirror, waiting for someone to appear, but the steps went to the kitchen. He heard water running. He stepped out of the bedroom and peered around the corner, surprising Johanna Weber. She was busy at the sink, washing the cups, and she jumped when she saw him. “Oh,” she said, grabbing the saucers with two hands before they could rattle. “Mr. Connolly.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I was just getting a few things.”

  “You? Oh, yes, you were with him, weren’t you? Terrible.” But she was busy again, putting the cups on the drying rack, wiping her hands. “Such mess. A bachelor. Always the same. You found the satchel?”

  He held up his palms, a helpless gesture.

  “Under the bed,” she said, smiling. “Here, I’ll show you. You sit, and let me pack. A man can’t do it. Look at this.” She picked up the tie. “Clothes everywhere.”

  In the bedroom, she scurried around, opening drawers, rolling socks, talking to herself as she worked, drawing the air into her circle of activity like a whirl of dust. She picked up the photograph by the bed and held it for a minute before she put it in the satchel.

  “His wife?” Connolly said.

  She nodded. “He never forgot her. All these years. Such a long time.” She shook her head and Connolly saw her at one of her parties, a frustrated matchmaker. Or had she been in love with him herself, checked by a memory? Nobody knew anything.

  He retreated to the living room and ran his eye again along the shelves. You could tell a man by his books, but the language made these meaningless. There was no visible order. All Connolly could tell was that he’d never left Germany. He thought of Karl’s modest shelf, all new, the dictionary, the Westerns. But these had the depth of a culture remembered. He bent down, searching the lower shelf for a Bible. Heine. Das Leben von Beethoven. Principia Mathematica. Historic Santa Fe. His eye paused, intrigued by the English. He took out the book, with a glossy photograph of the cathedral on the cover, and flipped through the pages. One of the corners had been turned down and the book opened to it, a black-and-white picture of San Isidro. His heart stopped. No. The picture seemed to blur, as if Connolly had moved it out of focus, and when he stood up it swam back again. A paragraph of history, the reredos dates marked in boldface, the church with its belltower, the smooth adobe walls, the alley parking lot to the side. No. The corner turned down, bent. To remind him? No, he would never violate a book that way. Someone else had marked the page, a message. Why hadn’t he turned it back? But who would look?

  Connolly stared at the book, his face growing warm. This wasn’t what he’d wanted to find. Just a Bible. Why hadn’t Eisler thrown it away? But he never threw books away. Look at the room. The parking lot was easy, no problem there, everything straight. Had he gone into the church at all? What had they said to each other? Connolly drew in a breath, still staring at the picture. He heard the voices in his head, crossword clues falling into place, until they came to a blue flash. An eye for an eye. But not for the gadget. Something else.

  “Mr. Connolly?” He looked up. “Is something wrong? I’ve been calling you.”

  “No, nothing.” He stood there, startled, holding the book in front of him.

  “Are you sure? You look—”

  “I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Just like Hans. Once he puts his head in a book—”

  She glanced toward it, and for a second Connolly wanted to snap it shut, before anyone else could know. He looked down. It was absurd. A tourist guide. There could be any number of explanations. But he knew there wouldn’t be. Eisler. But how? The head had been smashed in.

  “You were reading?” Frau Weber said, drawing him back.

  “No, just looking for something to take him. I’m afraid I don’t know German.”

  She smiled. “I’ll find something for him. I know what he likes. Go to work now—I’ll take the valise. You’ve been very kind.”

  “Isn’t it heavy?”

  “This? A feather. Wet laundry is heavy. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

  He started to turn away, the book still in his hand, and she looked at him strangely, as if he were stealing.

  “I thought I might borrow this,” he said, closing it. “I don’t think Professor Eisler would mind. It’s just what I’ve been looking for.”

  “Sightseeing?” Mills said when he saw the book in Connolly’s hand.

  “You still have those bank files?”

  “Boy, you never stop, do you? Who’s the suspect this time?”

  “Let me see Eisler’s.”

  “Now what? What are you going to do, cuff him in his bed?”

  “Do you have the file?”

  “No, but I can tell you. It’s all up here.” He placed a finger by his temple. “There’s nothing in it.”

  “But he opened one?”

  Mills nodded, now curious. “When he got here. One deposit, the first month. Nothing after that. Guess he kept it himself.”

  Karl had recognized Emma right away. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Let me see it anyway.”

  “What’s all this about, Mike?” Mills said, but Connolly just looked at him until he backed away from the desk, holding up his hand. “Okay, okay. I’ll get it.” He went over to rifle through the stack on his desk.

  Connolly sat looking at the book. Adobe Press, something local; copyrighted before the war. Glossy paper, but thin, photographs darker than they should be. He took out the Santa Fe directory and when he couldn’t find a listing called Holliday instead.

  “Ever hear of something called the Adobe Press?”

  “Sure. Now what made you think of that?”

  “Where are they?”

  “Well, ‘they’ is a he. It’s just old Art Perkins. Made that guidebook. I guess that’s what
you mean. Not bad either. But the tourists just kinda dried up during the war, so he closed the shop. Well, shop. Garage was more like it. What’s the interest?”

  “Where can you buy them?”

  “Anywhere. Art had a nice little business with that. I’ve got one myself if you need it, but they’re still around in the stores.”

  “He do any mail business?”

  “Not now. Art died about a year ago.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “In a day or two, Doc. Some things I want to check out first.”

  Mills had slid the account sheet in front of him, an empty column with one deposit, just as he’d promised.

  “Don’t forget to call, now,” Doc said, hanging up. “The suspense’ll kill me.”

  Connolly pushed the sheet aside and looked at the book. You could buy it anywhere. So Eisler had walked into a store, maybe one of those near the plaza, and bought—no, it was too elaborate. How would he know where to mark? If it was a message, it had to be sent. But not by the Adobe Press.

  “Mills, the mail censor’s off-site, right?”

  “Right. The envelope goes unsealed. They check it out, then seal it and send it on its way so no one out there’s the wiser. Or it comes back here if they’ve got a problem with it.”

  “What about incoming?”

  “That just goes to the post office here. Problem’s in the other direction.”

  “But the top scientists. Somebody must look.”

  Mills shifted in his chair. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said carefully. Again Connolly just stared at him. “Check with Bailey, two doors down,” he said finally. “And don’t mention my name.”

  Bailey had no such scruples. He was sitting in front of a pile of unread mail, glad of the interruption. “We don’t keep a record,” he said. “No point. But what are you looking for?”

  He was small and delicate, not quite filling the neatly pressed uniform, and when he took off his glasses he looked no older than fifteen.

  “Dr. Eisler.”

  “That’s easy. He doesn’t get any. No letters. Nothing.”

  “Ever?”

  “Not since I’ve been here.” He noticed the book in Connolly’s hand. “Well, there was that,” he said nervously, as if he’d been caught in a lie.

  Connolly, unaware that he was still carrying it, held the book up. “You remember this?” he said skeptically.

  “Well, he never got anything, so it stuck out.”

  “Any letter with it?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” he said, slightly prissy, a craftsman challenged in his work.

  “When was this?”

  Bailey looked at the book again, then closed his eyes, concentrating. “April,” he said, opening them.

  “You’re wasted here,” Connolly said, impressed. “And nothing with it. Just the envelope.”

  “Right. I figured it was something he sent for.”

  “What about a return address?”

  Again he closed his eyes. Connolly waited.

  “No. Nothing.”

  Connolly sighed. “Okay. Thanks,” he said, turning to leave.

  “But it was from Santa Fe,” Bailey said, eager to help.

  “How do you know?”

  “The postmark. Santa Fe.”

  “You remember a postmark?” Connolly said, amazed. The boy nodded. “Christ. You are wasted here.”

  “No, I enjoy it. It’s interesting.”

  Connolly looked at his open young face, imagining him reading Oppenheimer’s correspondence, witnessing history. Another Hill story. But now there wasn’t time. “Thanks,” he said, “I appreciate it.”

  When he got back to his desk he lit a cigarette and took out Eisler’s security file, leaning back in his chair to read. He wasn’t looking for anything specific; the trick was to look at the same information differently, like turning a prism. Wasn’t the money enough? Why not, all of a sudden? The book arrived in April, a meeting notice. But Karl had been there too.

  “Mike,” Mills said, interrupting him. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’m trying to figure it out.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me. Look, if you don’t think you can trust me, you should—”

  “I trust you,” he said, stopping him. “I just don’t trust myself. Not yet.”

  Mills shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m going to get some air.” He headed toward the door. “One thing.” Connolly looked up. “Karl liked to work alone too.”

  When he was gone, Connolly didn’t turn back to the file but looked at the wall instead. Karl did like to work alone. Nobody planned to kill him. A snake would attack if surprised. But the meeting was planned, and he was there. Connolly pictured the road down from the mesa. The alley. The car in the box canyon. All the lines were there, waiting to be connected. You just turned down the wrong street, that’s all it took.

  He didn’t notice it was beginning to get dark, and when Mills came back and flipped on the light, it startled him. He got up without a word and started for the infirmary. Lights had gone on everywhere; the hive still busy. The thin air, as always, carried gasoline fumes and coal smoke, but he was oblivious, his mind still on the blackboard. When he got to the room, he found Eisler dressed, sitting up to read. He looked over the top of his glasses when he saw Connolly standing in the door, holding the guidebook. His eyes moved from the book to Connolly’s face and stayed there, calm and bold. For a minute neither of them said a word. Then, gravely, he sighed and slowly took off the glasses.

  “Mr. Connolly,” he said.

  “I’ve finished my map.”

  13

  “HAVE YOU EVER killed a man, Mr. Connolly? So quick. And then the responsibility, that goes on forever.” Eisler paused. “Well, as long as life. Not very long.”

  The room was dim, the dark shadows broken only by the small reading lamp near his chair. Outside, the nurse was quiet, so that Connolly felt they wre lying side by side again, talking into the night. Eisler was rambling, as if in a fitful sleep, and Connolly let him lead, not knowing where to begin, afraid he would stop. “Have you come to arrest me?” he had said before, and Connolly hadn’t known how to answer. Now that he’d got what he wanted, he was dismayed. He’d imagined the scene so many times, his list of questions as orderly as a deposition, and now suddenly he felt powerless. What threat could possibly matter? He would hear what Eisler wanted to tell him, and that gentle voice came out of a depression so profound that each statement seemed a favor, one last tentative offering before it would stop altogether and stay silent. What punishment was left? So Connolly sat in the opposite chair, waiting, afraid to interrupt, as Eisler moved from Karl to Göttingen and back again, randomly stepping between remorse and cool reflection.

  “I knew when I saw you at the board,” he was saying. “It was a relief. Do you understand that? But I thought I would have time—before you knew.”

  “How much did you get out about the bomb?” Connolly said, trying to steer the conversation back.

  Eisler paused, and for a moment Connolly thought he had lost him. Then he sighed. “Yes, the bomb. That’s the important thing, isn’t it? Not Karl, not even now. How did you know?”

  “You said there was nothing to steal on the Hill. But there was always one thing to steal here.”

  “Is that how you see it? Stealing?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Prometheus stole the fire,” Eisler said quietly, “but not for himself. Scientific knowledge—do you think that belongs only to you?”

  “It does for now. How much did you tell them?”

  “I am familiar with all the principles involved in our work here,” he said formally. “Surely you already know that.”

  “And now the Russians know them too.”

  “My friend,” Eisler said, gentle again, “the Russians have known
them for some time. These are not secrets. The mechanics, yes, but that is simply a matter of time. They will know them.”

  “And now they’ll know just a little bit sooner.”

  “Yes. Mr. Connolly, do you expect me to apologize for sharing this knowledge? About Karl—” He hesitated. “That was a great wrong. I accept the guilt. But the fire belongs to everybody. The bomb is only the beginning, you know. All this money—” He swept his hand to indicate the entire mesa. “It took the bomb to get this money. And since America is rich, it can afford to pay. But what we will have here, when we’re finished, is something new. Energy. Not just for bombs. Such a thing cannot be owned. Would you keep electricity to yourself? It’s not possible, even if it were right.”

  “The fact remains, it wasn’t yours to give. The fact is, you took classified information and passed it on. That’s treason.”

  “So many facts. I came with the Tube Alloys group. Was it treason to work with the English?”

  “We’re not at war with England.”

  “My friend, we are not at war with Russia either. Germany is at war with Russia. More than you can know. The real war. America is a factory and she is getting rich. England—” He waved his hand. “England is a dream. The war is Russia and Germany. It has always been. That is the great struggle. To the death. And what have you done to help? The second front? That had to wait. Tube Alloys committees for Russia? No, not for that ally. For them, the great secret. Not my knowledge to give? To defeat the Nazis, I would give anything.”

  Connolly listened to his voice gathering speed, feeling the rhythm of a lecture, and looked at him in fascination: the kind face, the austere ideology. But why answer? The debate was old, and the war was over. He looked away.

  “So you have,” he said quietly. “The Nazis. And who will give you permission now?”

  Eisler’s cheek moved in a small tic, as if he’d been struck. “A good pupil, Mr. Connolly. You listen well.”

  “Not that well. I didn’t know you were a Communist.”

  “You weren’t supposed to know.”

  “But Karl knew. Did you give the same speech at the meetings?”