Los Alamos (31 page)

“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

“H
AVE 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?”

“Meetings?”

“Where Karl saw you.”

Eisler smiled slightly. “What makes you think that?”

“Karl had a good memory. He recognized someone else from the meetings in Berlin. He recognized you too.”

“You interest me. I wonder whom he saw.” Connolly didn’t answer. “But for once your method has failed you. I never attended meetings. I was in a secret chapter. From the start.”

“Then where did you meet Karl?”

“He was a messenger. Just once, but he remembered.”

“A messenger? For you?”

“Yes, he did some work for us. A good Communist. He must have been sent to meetings to—well, to observe.”

Connolly looked at him in surprise. So Karl had had his secret too. “Karl was a Communist? I thought the Nazis had made a mistake.”

“The Nazis rarely made that kind of mistake, Mr. Connolly. I told you, it was always a war between us. That’s why many of us had to work in secret. Otherwise, they always knew. A mistake—is that what he told your people?” He seemed almost amused.

“But later, in Russia—”

“Yes, that was unfortunate,” Eisler said seriously. “A terrible time. He was foolish to go.”

“As a good Communist?”

“As a Jew. Do you think it was only the Germans—” He stopped, his eyes moving away to the past. “The revolution doesn’t always move in a straight line. It moves and then there are dark times. It was madness then. Shootings. Thousands of people, maybe more. Friends. People informed on their own friends. Yes. You’re surprised I would tell you this?”

“Yet you did all this for them.”

“The idea is right. The country is sometimes flawed. Do you not feel this about your own country?”

“You’re not Russian.”

“The idea lives there now. It doesn’t matter where.”

“So you want them to have the bomb.”

“Don’t you? Have you thought what it will mean to be the only one? Do you trust yourself that much?” He paused. “But, I admit, that is in the future. A philosophical point. I was thinking of this war, nothing more.”

“The war’s over.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “So, we were wrong? That’s for you to say. My work is over too.”

Connolly stood up, annoyed. “Your work,” he said heavily. “Murder. That’s what we’re talking about. My God, how can you live with yourself?”

Eisler looked up at him, not answering.

“Why?” Connolly said, his voice almost plaintive.

“Mr. Connolly,” Eisler said, “may I suggest we confine our discussion to what—how, if you prefer. The why is my concern. I make no apologies. I did what was asked of me. I could not do anything else. Not now. I was—useful. I don’t think you can know what that means. An obligation. No, even more than that. I would never have refused. But my motives are irrelevant now, so let’s speak of something else.”

His tone, soft and reasonable, seemed a reproach.

“Why tell me anything at all?” Connolly said.

“Why? Perhaps I want to explain myself. Perhaps I am curious.”

“Curious?”

“Yes. To see if the Oppenheimer Principle works. To see what you know.” He paused again, gathering his thoughts. “I like you, Mr. Connolly. Such a passion for truth. You want to
know
everything. But to understand? I’m not so sure. They’re not the same thing. So this time maybe it’s different. I’ll make you understand. My last student.”

Connolly looked at him, thinking of Emma at Bandelier, then turned to pace in the room, as if he had a pointer in his hand. “So let’s start at the beginning, wherever that is. Your wife, I think. She didn’t just walk down the street. There was fighting all right, but she was part of it. I assume she was a Communist too?”

Eisler nodded. “That is correct.”

“Possibly even before you were,” Connolly said, a question, but Eisler didn’t answer. “Possibly not. But afterward—you were committed then. You had to carry on the fight, or anyway carry on the memory.”

“Mr. Connolly, please. This is psychology, not facts. What is the point? Let us stay with what you know.”

“But you want me to understand it. What was she like?”

Eisler grimaced, looking straight ahead. “She was young. She believed. In what? A better world. In me. Everything. Does that sound foolish now? Yes, to me too. But then it seemed perfectly natural to believe in things. I loved her,” he said, then paused. “It’s too simple, Mr. Connolly, your psychology. She may have been the beginning, yes, but she was not the cause. For that you had to be alive in Germany then, to see the Nazis come. It was bad and then worse and worse. How was it possible that no one stopped them? Did you even know about those things here? What were you, a boy? Can you remember Nuremberg? There must have been newsreels. I remember it very well. The Cathedral of Light. Even the sky was full of them. So much power. They would kill everybody, I knew it even then. And no one to stop them, no one. What would you have done?”

“We’ve been over this before.”

“Yes,” Eisler said, stopping.

“So you worked for the Communists. That must have been lucky for them. A prominent scientist.”

“I was not so prominent then. But it was useful, yes. I knew many people. Heisenberg. Many.”

“So your bosses knew them too. Then you had to get out. And you kept doing the same thing in England.”

“In Manchester, yes.”

“How did it work there?”

“Mr. Connolly. Do you really expect me to tell you that? I made reports. I met with people, I don’t know who.”

“And you told them about Tube Alloys.”

“Yes, of course. Mr. Connolly, would you please sit down? You’re making me anxious, all this back and forth. You can smoke if you like.”

“Sorry.” Connolly sat down, feeling reprimanded, and lit a cigarette. “You don’t mind?”

“It’s Robert’s hospital,” Eisler said with a small smile.

“Then you came to the Hill early last fall,” Connolly continued. “Karl would have known right away. He’s probably the one who got your file—he took an interest in that. But there wasn’t anything there. It’s what isn’t there,” he said aloud to himself. “And Karl knew. You’d done some work together in the good old days. So he asked you about it—he couldn’t resist that—but he kept it to himself. Why, I wonder. Or was Karl still a Communist too? That Russian jail just another story?”

“You are too suspicious. The mirror in a mirror? No, the jail was real. You had only to see his hands. He was never the same after that—certainly not a Communist. He renounced everything. It was not so much—” He stopped, searching. “Not so much what they did to him there, as perhaps the feeling—how can I say it?—that they had renounced
him.”

“And the pain didn’t help. A disillusioning experience all around.”

Eisler glanced up at his sarcasm, then looked away again. “Yes, it must have been.”

“So you made him think you felt the same way.”

“Yes, that was very easily done,” he said with a hint of pride. “A matter of the past. You know, Mr. Connolly, when you stop loving a woman you can’t imagine what anyone else might see in her.”

Connolly was jarred by his tone. In the lamp’s small circle he felt, absurdly, that they might be swapping stories around a fire.

“So you’d both seen the light. But nothing in the file—he wouldn’t like that. That’s the sort of thing that would worry Karl.”

“You forget there was nothing in his file either. He could understand not making a point of it here. In a place like this. People are not so understanding—they don’t know what it was like there. Would he have kept his job? It would be natural to let the sleeping dog lie. For both of us. I assure you, he was—sympathetic.”

“Sympathetic enough to put the bite on you.”

Eisler looked at him, puzzled.

“You gave him money, didn’t you? What was that for, old times’ sake?”

“Oh, I see. You think he threatened to expose me? No, no, it was not like that. Karl was an opportunist, but not a traitor. If he had really thought I was still—active, nothing would have stopped him. Certainly not a little money.”

“But you gave him money. Not a little. And he kept your secret. And it wasn’t blackmail.”

Eisler waved his hand. “You insist on this term. It’s not precise. What do you think he said to me? Thirty pieces of silver for my silence? This is a fantasy, Mr. Connolly. Be precise.”

“Well, why did you give it to him? Six hundred dollars, wasn’t it?”

Eisler looked up, pleased. “Very good. A little more, but that is close. How did you know?”

“What did he say it was for?” Connolly said, ignoring his question.

“He appealed to me. He had the chance to buy members of his family out. There are such cases, you know. How much for a life? And he had very little.”

“His family’s dead.”

“Yes, of course. It was much too late for such arrangements. That was all in the past, when they were letting people out. But that is what he said. I did not contradict. I knew it was—an opportunity for him.”

“Did he know you thought that?”

Eisler shrugged. “I can’t say. I didn’t question him. I was generous. Perhaps he felt our past was a bond between us, that he could approach me this way. Perhaps he enjoyed seeing how far he could go. A game. He could trust me not to say anything. It was very strange. I think, you know, he felt I was the only person he
could
trust.”

“Maybe the first time,” Connolly said, picking up the story. “But after—it was too easy. He asked for more money and you gave it to him. And then again. Why? He’d be suspicious. So he started following you—where you went. Especially off the Hill. He liked driving around. Were you aware that he was tailing you?”

“No.”

“So you never saw him at any of your meetings?”

“There was only one other. He wasn’t there.”

“How did you set them up?”