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handful　of　seconds。
Hecht。　Hecht　had　asked　Mullen　to　run　a　license　plate。　Hecht　was　dead；　probably　murdered　by
the　same　woman　who　had　asked　him　to　trace　the　license。
“That　license　plate　–　did　it　lead　back　to　the　Rincón　brothers？”　asked　Finn。
“No；”　said　Mullen。　He　pulled　a　piece　of　paper　out　of　his　pocket。　“It’s　a　commercial　vehicle
owned　by　the　Fragrant　Petal。　The　purchaser　is　listed　as　Takeo　Oshiga。　The　Rincons　just　rented
it。”
Finn’s　exhaustion　gave　way　to　adrenaline。　Takeo　Oshiga；　father　of　Ana　Oshiga。　Ana；　secretary
and　confidante　to　Takagura　Omi。　Takagura；　who　was　Refugio’s　partner。
Suddenly　the　tracks　Finn　had　seen　along　the　Oakland　waterfront　made　sense。　A　man　and　two
women　–　Refugio；　helped　by　Ana　and　pursued　by　Masarek’s　blonde。　Refugio；　hired　by　the
Russians　to　steal　or　smuggle　the　uranium　out　of　the　United　States。　Refugio；　selling　the　Russians
and　the　uranium　to　Japan。　To　Kestrel。
But　something　must　have　gone　wrong　on　the　waterfront。　Instead　of　killing　the　Russians　and
fleeing　to　Mexico　with　the　uranium；　Refugio　had　lost　two　men；　been　wounded　himself　and
allowed　Masarek’s　woman　to　escape。　He　had　kept　the　uranium；　though；　with　Ana　Oshiga’s　help。
Ana；　whose　father　had　owned　a　flower　shop　in　San　Francisco　before　Pearl　Harbor；　a　flower
shop　now　owned　by　Refugio’s　cousins。
Then　there　was　Kestrel；　shrewd　enough　to　steal　the　prize。　He　had　come　into　America　wearing
the　uniform　of　a　Nisei　captain　–　how　he　must　have　savored　wearing　the　battalion　patch　whose
motto　was　“Remember　Pearl　Harbor。”
But　even　Kestrel　had　not　foreseen　hot　uranium　and　a　dead　Refugio。　Ketrel　must　be　getting
desperate。　With　Refugio　dead；　there　were　no　more　Mexican　contacts　in　America　to　abet　the
Japanese。　Kestrel　and　Ana　were　isolated　now；　two　Japanese　adrift　on　a　sea　of　Western　faces。
Nor　could　they　find　others　of　their　race　to　hide　behind　while　they　made　new　plans　to　smuggle
the　uranium　out　of　America。　From　Seattle　to　San　Diego；　the　Little　Tokyos　of　America　had　been
closed　down；　boarded　up；　sold　and　abandoned。　By　the　hundreds　and　the　thousands；　the
Japanese　had　been　transported　to　“relocation　camps”　well　away　from　the　Pacific　Coast。
The　camps！　That　was　where　Kestrel　would　hide。　It　was　not　only　a　sea　of　like　faces；　it　was　safe　–
who　but　a　Japanese　would　think　of　hiding　in　his　enemy’s　jail？　But　there　were　many　camps。　Which
one　would　Kestrel　choose？　He　would　need　some　assurance　that　he　would　be　welcome　or　at　least
tolerated。
“Mullen。　Where　is　Takeo　Oshiga　now？”　asked　Finn。
“The　registration　forms　were　forwarded　to　Manzanar。　You　know　the　place？　A　relocation　camp
on　the　other　side　of　the　Sierras。”
Finn　did　not　know　the　place；　but　he　soon　would。　“Coughlan；　call　the　people　at　Manzanar。　Tell
them　to　open　the　inbound　gates。　Anybody　wants　in；　let　him　in。”
Page　132
“And　then　tell　them　that　I’ll　personally　execute　the　guard　who　lets　anyone　out。”
Manzanar；　California
36　Hours　28　Minutes　After　Trinity
From　the　road；　the　car　was　invisible；　concealed　in　a　dry　ravine。　A　wind　moaned　over　the　desert；
leaving　enigmatic　patterns　in　the　sand。　The　car　was　quiet　but　for　the　rustle　of　newspaper　when
Kestrel　turned　a　page。　Beside　him　on　the　front　seat　was　a　pile　of　unread　periodicals。
Kestrel　folded　up　the　section　he　had　read　and　put　it　on　the　floor。　The　noise　startled　Ana；　who
had　been　dozing　in　the　back　seat。　She　sat　up。
“Is　it　time？”
“It’s　only　five　o’clock；”　said　Kestrel；　glancing　at　his　watch。　“It　won’t　be　dark　for　several　hours。
Go　back　to　sleep。”
“I　can’t。　I　keep　thinking　about　Manzanar。”
“Don’t　worry　about　getting　into　the　camp；”　said　Kestrel。　“Manzanar　won’t　be　well　guarded。
Why　should　it　be？　Where　would　an　escaping　Japanese　go？”　He　waved　a　hand　at　the　desolation
surrounding　them。　“Only　the　gate　has　soldiers；　and　we　won’t　use　the　gate。”
Ana　looked　at　the　stack　of　newspapers　and　magazines　on　the　front　seat。　Kestrel　had　bought　one
or　two　in　each　little　hamlet　he　had　driven　through　on　the　way　down　the　east　side　of　the　Sierras。
“There’s　nothing　in　those　but　propaganda；”　said　Ana。　“Lies　and　more　lies　about　what　a
generous　victor　America　is。　All　lies！”
Kestrel　shook　out　the　July　17th　edition　of　the　San　Francisco　Chronicle。　“American　newspapers
are　naive；　malicious　and　often　trivial；　but　they　aren’t　echoes　of　their　government。　They　tell　more
about　the　war　than　my　own　government　does；　and　tell　it　more　accurately。”
“For　example？”
“Your　newspapers　tell　me　Russia　is　more　America’s　enemy　than　her　ally。　That　would　be　useful　to
Japan；　if　Russia　weren’t　also　our　enemy。”　Kestrel　turned　the　page。　“Russia　is　a　sword　with　every
edge　honed　and　no　handle　–　whoever　uses　it　risks　cutting　himself　more　deeply　than　his
opponent。”
“Where　does　the　Chronicle　say　that？”　Ana　asked。
“Where　are　the　pictures　of　smiling　Russian　soldiers　playing　poker　with　American　GIs　in　Berlin？”
countered　Kestrel；　pointing　to　a　feature　story。
“Those　are　British　soldiers；”　said　Ana；　reading　over　his　shoulder。
“Exactly。　Not　a　single　Russian　smiling　for　the　camera。”
A　wave　of　nausea　rippled　through　him。　He　breathed　slowly；　deeply；　until　it　passed。　Sweat
suddenly　covered　his　skin。　Another　surge　of　nausea　gripped　him。　Deliberately；　he　folded　the
newspaper　and　put　it　back　on　the　pile　beside　him。
“Where　are　you　going？”　Ana　asked　as　Kestrel　opened　the　car　door。
Her　only　answer　was　the　sound　of　the　wind　scouring　the　land。　The　car　door　closed；　leaving　her
alone　with　the　taste　of　dust　on　her　tongue。
Manzanar
38　Hours　37　Minutes　After　Trinity
The　wind　blew　unhindered　across　the　desert；　sweeping　up　dust　and　grit；　shaping　and　reshaping
the　land　with　careless　power。　Inside　the　squat；　fieldstone　guardhouse；　the　wind’s　restless　howl
was　reduced　to　a　low　cry　of　anomie。
The　private　turned　over　another　card；　yawned；　and　stuck　the　card　back　into　the　deck。　He
rejected　the　next　three　cards；　cheating　at　solitaire　with　bored　indifference。　Occasionally　he
looked　at　the　utilitarian　clock　on　the　wall　or　leaned　forward　to　get　a　better　view　of　the　dirt　road
leading　up　to　Manzanar。
The　sound　of　the　car’s　approach　was　masked　by　the　wind。　When　the　guard　saw　the　dark　green
sedan　slide　to　a　stop　and　glimpsed　the　blond　woman　at　the　wheel；　he　hurriedly　gathered　up　the
Page　133
cards　and　straightened　his　uniform。
“Vanessa　Lyons；　BBC；”　said　the　woman；　coming　up　to　him　and　holding　out　her　credentials　in　a
slim　white　hand。
The　guard　took　the　credentials；　gave　them　a　cursory　inspection　and　returned　them　to　Vanessa。
“I’ll　call　Captain　Anderson。　He’ll　give　you　a　tour　of　the　facilities　and　answer　whatever　questions
you　have。”　The　private　spoke　carefully；　like　someone　reciting　from　memory。　“It　will　be　the
captain’s　pleasure　to　entertain　you　at　dinner　at　1900。”
“I　really　wouldn’t　want　to　put　you　to　that　much　trouble；”　began　Vanessa　earnestly。
“Our　pleasure；　ma’am；”　said　the　private　in　fervent　tones。　“It’s　a　welcome　break　in　the　routine。”
Vanessa　looked　at　the　empty　land；　the　cramped　stone　guardhouse；　and　the　windblown　sand。
Ugly　rows　of　barracks　sat　back　from　a　wire　fence　clotted　with　tumbleweeds　and　miscellaneous
debris。　She　could　well　imagine　the　boredom　of　the　men　assigned　to　guard　a　well…behaved　group
of　Japanese　in　the　middle　of　desolation。
“It’s　necessary　for　my　research　that　I　go　without　an　escort；”　Vanessa　said。
“Of　course；　ma’am。　After　dinner；　you’ll　be　on　your　own。　The　Japs　here　are　very　polite。　You
shouldn’t　have　any　trouble　after　the　captain　introduces　you　around。”
Vanessa　agreed　to　the　inevitable。　She　smiled　warmly。　“Would　you　be　so　kind　as　to　call　Captain
Anderson　right　away；　then。　I’m　very　anxious　to　look　around。”
“Yes；　ma’am！”
The　private　turned　away　too　quickly　to　see　Vanessa’s　beguiling　smile　condense　into　a　hard　line。
Outside　of　Manzanar
39　Hours　21　Minutes　After　Trinity
Darkness　gathered　like　a　tide；　pooling　in　nameless　ravines；　spilling　out　across　sand　and
sagebrush；　lapping　at　the　awesome　Sierras。　Kestrel　ations　of
light　with　a　poet’s　eyes；　knowing　that　each　day’s　end　was　a　beauty　never　before　revealed。
“Wait　here；”　he　told　Ana；　“until　I　come　back　for　you。”
Ana　watched　him　walk　around　to　the　back　of　the　car。　The　raised　tr