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Finn　walked　slowly；　avoiding　the　shards　of　glass　from　windows　shot　out　of　parked　cars。　The
counter　barely　clicked；　registering　less　than　normal　radiation。　The　sandy　sediment　that　lined　the
gutters　and　filled　the　potholes　did　not　set　off　the　counter。
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Suddenly；　Finn　bent　over　and　fished　in　the　gutter　between　a　parked　car　and　the　curb。
“Find　something？”　said　Riley。
Finn　tossed　a　shell　casing　to　Riley；　ent　of　his　hand。
“Check　the　gun　with　the　silencer。”
In　a　moment；　Riley　called　out。　“Nope。　It’s　a　9　millimeter。　Must　be　a　。38　somewhere。”
“Yeah。　Pretty　big　gun　for　a　woman；　though。”
“What　woman？”　demanded　Riley。
“None　of　the　dead　men　was　small　enough　to　make　that　print；”　said　Finn　pointing　at　the　muddy
street；　“except　the　Chinese　driver；　and　he　was　already　dead。　Masarek　was　traveling　with　a
woman。　An　Englishwoman　called　Vanessa　Lyons。”
Riley　looked；　and　then　bent　down　and　looked　again。　There　in　the　gritty　mud　was　a　small
footprint。
“Are　you　really　an　Indian　scout？”　said　Riley；　halfway　between　sarcasm　and　awe。
“She　probably　crouched　half　in　and　half　out　of　the　gutter；”　said　Finn；　“laid　the　。38　across　the
hood；　and　fired。”　He　stood　in　the　empty　parking　space　and　squinted　along　an　imaginary　line
leading　to　the　van。　“Not　a　bad　shot。　She　nailed　the　van’s　side　mirror。　Probably　covered　her
escape。”
Riley　looked　at　the　empty　parking　place　and　shrugged。　“Whatever　you　say。”
“Only　one　problem　with　my　theory；”　Finn　continued；　walking　up　the　street。　“The　tread　patterns
don’t　match。”
Riley　looked　first　at　the　tread　impressions　in　the　gutter；　then　at　the　potholes　in　the　street　next　to
the　van。　The　damp　soil　in　the　potholes　had　taken　clear　impressions　of　the　tires　that　last　rolled
over　the　holes。　The　tread　pattern　next　to　the　curb　did　not　match　that　in　the　potholes。
“Footprints　don’t　match；　either；”　said　Finn。
Superimposed　on　a　pothole　treadmark　were　two　footprints；　side　by　side。　The　footprint　on　the
left　was　half　the　size　of　the　footprint　on　the　right。　The　pattern　on　the　soles　was　also　different。
“Either　a　woman　or　a　small　man　on　the　left；”　said　Finn；　“and　a　man　on　the　right。”　He　measured
the　distance　from　the　van。　“I’ll　bet　the　man　was　injured。　The　woman　parked　next　to　the　van；
helped　him　into　her　truck　and　drove　off。”
“Truck？　I　thought　she　was　driving　a　car；”　said　Riley；　waving　his　hand　toward　the　empty　curb。
“And　why　was　she　shooting　at　him　earlier？”
“There　were　two　women。　The　one　doing　the　shooting　drove　a　car。　That；”　said　Finn；　pointing　to
the　clear　tread　in　the　pothole；　“was　left　by　a　truck　–　wide　tire；　diamond　tread　–　driven　by　the
second　woman。　See　how　deep　her　shoe　went？　As　deep　as　his；　so　he　was　leaning　on　her　pretty
hard。　She　loaded　him　into　her　truck　and　got　the　hell　out　of　here　before　those　blind　guards　saw
anything　but　their　cataracts。”
Riley　shrugged　again。　“Yeah。　Right。”
“You　don’t　follow　it；”　said　Finn。　“Fine。　Take　my　word　for　it。”　He　stared　at　the　footprints；
wondering　aloud　if　it　had　been　Refugio　who　was　shot。
Riley　held　up　both　hands；　surrendering。　“o’s　grandson？”　he　said。
“How’d　you　know　about　my　granddaddy？”　Riley　stood；　watching　Finn　and　wondering　if　he　was
joking。
Finn　moved　off；　checking　distances；　treads；　footprints　and　angles；　trying　to　decipher　the　pattern
that　was　there。　Three　people。　One　man；　probably　hurt；　and　two　different　women　–　one　shooting
and　one　helping　the　man。　Was　it　a　case　of　thieves　stealing　from　each　other？　If　so；　who　were　the
betrayers　and　who　were　the　betrayed？
Refugio　could　have　double…crossed　Masarek　or　vice　versa。　Masarek’s　blonde　was　probably　one
of　the　women；　but　where　did　the　other　woman　come　from？　The　only　woman　who　worked　for
Refugio　were　whores；　and　it　was　doubtful　that　Refugio　would　use　a　whore　for　anything　more
demanding　than　sex。
And　Kestrel　–　was　he　involved；　despite　being　a　thousand　miles　away；　watching　the　sun　rise　twice
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over　a　place　called　Trinity？
Questions　and　facts　circled　in　Finn’s　mind。　Four　dead　men　–　two　Mexicans；　one　Chinese　and
one　Caucasian　had　died　on　the　waterfront　this　morning。　Until　he　identified　the　bodies；　he　would
not　know　which　players　were　alive　and　which　were　out　of　the　deadly　game　of　hide…and…seek　that
had　begun　at　Hunters　Point。　Until　he　used　the　radiation　counter　on　the　bodies；　he　would　not
know　who　had　warmed　himself　in　the　forbidden　fires　of　an　earthbound　sun。
“Riley。”
Riley；　crouched　over　the　footprints　and　treadmarks；　looked　up　almost　guiltily。　“Yes？”
“Let’s　go。　I　have　an　idea。”
El　Paso；　Texas
5　Hours　35　Minutes　After　Trinity
The　subtle　echo　of　distance　told　Kestrel　that　his　telephone　call　had　gone　through。　He　wiped
away　the　sweat　that　gathered　at　his　hairline　and　looked　around　the　greasy　little　café　again。　Only
an　old　wino　was　close　enough　to　hear　what　he　was　saying。　There　was　a　click；　a　subdued　crackle
of　static；　then　Takagura　Omi’s　precise　Japanese　inflections　came　over　the　line。　Though　both
Kestrel　and　Takagura　spoke　Japanese；　they　still　spoke　circumspectly。
“I　have　two　letters　from　home　for　you；”　began　Takagura　the　moment　he　recognized　Kestrel’s
voice。　“Your　honored　father　regretfully　informs　you　that　he　cannot　accept　your　suggestion。
What　you　described　is　impossible　at　the　time　and　place　you　described　it。　Even　the　most　hopeful
estimates　agree　that　the　event　you　described　could　not　take　place　for　at　least　three　years。　Your
father　suggests　that　as　it　is　1945　rather　than　1948；　you　may　have　been　only　a　mile　away　from　what
you　saw；　rather　than　ten。”
Takagura　paused；　giving　Kestrel　time　to　digest　the　unpalatable　message。　The　Emperor　–　or　his
militarist　advisors　–　did　not　believe　that　America　had　made　an　atomic　bomb　in　less　than　three
years。　Because　the　bomb　was　an　impossibility；　therefore；　Japan　had　no　need　to　surrender
unconditionally。
It　was　insane。
“Were　you　quite　sure　of　the　reception　and　translation　of　the　message？”
“Yes；”　said　Takagura。　“I　am　most　scrupulous　in　these　matters。”
Kestrel　held　the　receiver　and　wondered　desperately　how　he　could　convince　the　militant　leaders
of　his　country　that　Japan　had　lost　the　war　just　before　dawn　on　a　desolate　stretch　of　New　Mexican
desert。　A　feeling　of　despair　unfolded　inside　him　like　a　black　flower。　He　knew　that　if　he　had　not
seen　the　explosion　himself；　he　would　not　believe　it　had　ever　occurred。　He　had　read　the　same
scientific　estimates　that　they　had；　the　confident　statements　that　the　uranium　isotope　was　so
difficult　to　collect　that　it　would　be　1948　before　the　Americans　gathered　enough　for　even　a　small
bomb。
Obviously　his　superiors　had　rejected　the　reality　of　America’s　atomic　capability。　Unfortunately；
what　Japan　believed　or　did　not　believe　did　not　lessen　the　force　of　the　atomic　bomb　by　a　single
erg。
Suddenly　he　felt　deeply　tired。　“The　second　letter？”　he　asked　indifferently。　“What　did　it　say？”
“I’ll　read　it；　although　I　want　you　to　know　I　don’t　approve　of　its　source；”　Takagura　said。
Kestrel　knew　then　that　the　second　message　came　from　Minowara；　his　patron　in　the　Japanese　war
cabinet　and　the　leader　of　the　moderate　faction　that　was　despised　by　militants　like　Takagura。
“Your　honored　brother　agrees　with　your　description　of　the　events；”　said　Takagura。　“Our
comrades　from　the　enormous　mainland　confirmed　your　description　in　every　detail。”　Takagura’s
voice　was　dry；　precise。　“Even　so；　your　brother　does　not　agree　with　your　conclusion　that　your…
family…　must　lose　all　face　in　an　unnecessary　abasement　that　will　last　as　long　as　there　are　Japanese
to　feel　shame。”
Kestrel　pressed　the　phone　against　his　ear　as　though　by　hearing　better　he　could　change　the
meaning　of　what　he　heard。　His　“brother”　Minowara　believed　that　Kestrel　had　indeed　seen　the
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atomic　bomb　exploded；　because　the　Russians　had　confirmed　it。　Despite　that；　Minowara　still
maintained　that　unconditional　surrender　was　“unnecessary。”　That　was　even　more　irrational　a
position　than　the　militants’　refusal　to　believe　an　atomic　bomb　existed。
“Does　he　say　why　abasement　is　unnecessary？”　asked　Kestrel；　his　voice　raw　with　the　effort　of
concealing　his　anger　and　exhaustion。
“The　event　you　described　can’t　be　repeated　for　several　months。”
“Why？”
“Our…　c