Shaman Winter (21 page)

He shook his head to clear the thoughts. This was too easy, too obvious. “He put that there for you to find.”

“We know that!” Stewart interrupted, his voice rising. He was the impetuous one, the one that didn't think PIs were worth a cent. Paiz held up his hand. “Okay, it's planted by Raven. But we have to follow up on it. So we checked Eric's phone record. There are calls to a Dr. Alexandr Chernenko at Sandia Labs.”

Sonny shrugged. So Eric calls everyone at Sandia. It's his business.

“Who's Chernenko?”

“Chernenko is a top scientist at Arzamas-Sixteen, one of Russia's two top nuclear weapons laboratories.”

“The nerds at Los Alamos call it Los Arzamas.” Martínez smiled. “Get it?”

“I get it,” Sonny replied. Arzamas-Sixteen, the little he knew, was the biggest nuclear facility the Russians had. Now one of their physicists was at Sandia Labs, working as part of the post-Cold War relationship, and he was in daily contact with Eric. What was Paiz driving at?

Paiz leaned forward. “Last year Eric took a team from Los Alamos to Arzamas to install a high-tech accounting system to keep track of the Russkies' nuclear materials. I mean, that's the reason they gave the Pentagon. We know that while they were there, they
bought
some of their scientists. One or two. We suspect they did another job on the computer system, but we don't know what.”

“So Eric met Chernenko,” Sonny filled in.

“They worked together. The CIA has a file on Chernenko. The most interesting thing I found is that Chernenko is Ukrainian. His parents were killed during one of Stalin's purges. He hates the Russians. He was a CIA operative at one time. It gets complicated. Do you follow?”

Yeah, Sonny thought. Without revealing what was in the FBI file, Paiz was laying out a case. Chernenko hates the Russians, he's recruited by the CIA, and just recently by Eric. Chernenko is in charge of the nuclear materials tracking system in Ukraine, and that's where Raven picked up the plutonium pit.

“Are you saying—”

“I'm not saying anything,” Paiz interrupted. “We are now observing Chernenko's lab at Sandia. We have to move carefully; the man is protected by exchange protocols. Ostensibly, he's here to learn our expertise in dismantling nuclear warheads. But he brings a lot of
stuff
with him—”

“Russian warheads at Kirtland?” Even Sonny was surprised.

Paiz shook his head to indicate he hadn't said that. “I talked to Doyle, and he expressly said to keep our hands off Chernenko.”

Doyle's protecting Chernenko, Sonny thought. Lord, but Paiz was developing a complex plot.

“We can't share any of this with Eric, not yet.”

“Why me?” Sonny asked. The local FBI office was tapping Eric's phone line, and Paiz didn't trust Doyle as far as he could throw him, and still Paiz was revealing pieces of the puzzle.

“I told you, we need your help. You know Raven.” Again he glanced at Stewart and Martínez. “We need to know if Raven and Chernenko are related. Are they working together?”

“But Chernenko's at Sandia Labs? He works in the open.”

“Not really,” Paiz replied. “He's been assigned a lab right near the nuclear reactor they have up there. The man is working in absolute secrecy.”

“In other words,” Stewart added, “he can come and go as he pleases. Without revealing anything, we talked to Jack Ward, director at Sandia. He didn't appear concerned about security. We'd need a court order to go in and look around.”

“And of course we won't get that court order,” Paiz finished. “We don't want to spook anyone, especially Raven. I have to clear everything I do with Doyle in Washington, and he said hands off. Chernenko is free to continue his work, and no one seems to know what in the hell he's up to.”

“The question is, what do you know about the Raven/Chernenko connection?” Martínez asked.

“Nada. All this is new to me.”

“We don't have much time,” Paiz said.

“Me either,” Sonny said. “Look, I need to find Raven worse than you. In the meantime, I need protection for Rita.”

Consuelo and Catalina had disappeared, and in some way they were connected to Sonny's dream, to a relationship he had to the families. Rita, too, was related to him: she was to become his wife. Raven had kidnapped her and Diego's girl in the fall, and there was no telling what he might try now. The FBI wanted his help—okay, they should guard Rita while he was out running around the state.

“The woman at the restaurant?” Paiz said, looking at Stewart and Martínez.

“
My
woman at the restaurant,” Sonny corrected him.

“You think Raven might go after her again?”

“I don't want her exposed.”

“Can't blame you. I can spare agent Martínez for a few days, until we get this cleared up. And I can put a tail on you.”

“We're okay,” Sonny said, and looked at Lorenza. “It's Rita I'm worried about. I'll call her and tell her you'll be showing up,” he said to the agent Martínez. “I don't want her to be frightened.”

Martínez nodded. “I've eaten at Rita's Cocina. Great food. I may be gaining weight in the next few days.”

“Not if you stay out of the kitchen,” Sonny said, his double entendre clear. “If something breaks on Chernenko, call me.”

“I will,” Paiz said, coming around the desk and shaking Sonny's hand. “And if you find anything, call me.” He handed Sonny his card.

Sonny glanced at it. Beneath the address and phone number was scrawled a message: “Trust no one.”

10

“Interesting,” Lorenza said as they rode down the elevator.

“Very,” Sonny agreed.

“Why can't they just bust into Chernenko's lab? Get a search warrant? Or have the director of the labs authorize a ‘visit'?”

“Doyle is protecting Chernenko, and Paiz doesn't trust Doyle. They're walking on eggshells around each other. Paiz can't go over Doyle's head and authorize a search, and Doyle won't.”

“Who do we trust?” Lorenza asked.

“No one,” Sonny replied, memorizing the phone number on Paiz's card and then tearing it in pieces and dropping it in a trash can. “Chernenko has immunity, like a diplomat, so they can't just bust in his lab. After all, they invited him to do his magic, and his thing is dismantling bombs. Secondly, who could invent such a wild plot? Would he be building a bomb right inside the lab? I mean, they wouldn't be that dumb, would they?”

“Would they?” Lorenza repeated.

“Chingao!” Sonny exclaimed. “Building a bomb inside Sandia Labs? Right under the tightest security in the world? What a blast, huh.”

“Quite a blast,” Lorenza agreed.

“If,
and only if
, people as highly placed as Eric are involved, would it be possible. It's ironic, but if terrorists really wanted to build a bomb, inside the labs would be the perfect place. Think of all the equipment available there. Raven's plutonium pit can be carried in by one person, the people they need can be brought in by Chernenko one at a time, then boom!”

“It would wipe out the city.”

“More than that. It would create a chain reaction. It would blow up all the other nuclear cores they have stored there.”

“A megabomb? That's fin del mundo.”

“Yeah. Paiz needs to catch Raven before he delivers the pit. He knows that. It would be quite a feather in his cap if he does.”

“But things don't sit too well with Chicanos in the FBI.”

“Not really. A group of Hispanic agents sued the agency for discriminatory practices a few years back, and a judge ruled for the agents. Paiz was the instigator,” Sonny said as they left the building.

“Do you trust him?”

Sonny thought a moment. The Bureau had been used as a political tool to destroy a lot of good people during the Hoover years, so had anything changed?

“Don't know. Come on, race you!” He pushed the button on his chair and sped down the sidewalk. Lorenza took up the chase. People on the walk jumped out of their way.

When they arrived at the van, she was breathing hard and Sonny was grinning. “You win, I buy lunch.”

Lorenza drove them north on I-25 to Taos. Sonny used the opportunity to read the book on top of the stack: Kearny's entry into New Mexico in 1846. What was called in some history books a peaceful invasion by the Army of the West had not been so peaceful. In various communities the Nuevo Mexicanos revolted against the new American rulers. One reason the Nuevo Mexicanos had been so poorly organized for resistance was that their governor, Manuel Armijo, ran out on them.

“Governor Manuel Armijo was the only turncoat the manitos of New Mexico ever produced,” Sonny said, making a note. “Sold out and retreated to El Paso.”

He was reading interesting passages aloud to Lorenza.

“Surrendered?”

“He didn't even surrender to the gringos, he just took the money and headed for México.”

“Well, there are bad apples in every barrel. Think of all the Chicanos who have gotten medals for bravery in the wars since then.”

“A lot,” Sonny acknowledged.

The Hispanic population was one of the most decorated ethnic groups in the country. They had more than proven their loyalty to the U.S.A., and yet as late as World War II, a Mexican American soldier killed in combat could not be buried in a national cemetery in Three Rivers, Texas. You were good enough to die, but not good enough to share the earth you fought for.

“Maybe Governor Armijo had a point,” Sonny said. “The New Mexicans were farmers, not soldiers. To have resisted Kearny would have been a bloodbath. A lot of manitos would have been killed.”

He leaned over the counter and made a note: “The New Mexican army, what was left of it, did not confront the Army of the West, and Kearny was free to march through Las Vegas, Tecolote, and San Miguel del Vado and into Santa Fé on August 18.”

Then he laboriously added Kearny's route to the map he was drawing, a star for the capital, Santa Fé, La Villa Real de la Santa Fé.

Outside, the gray clouds of the storm front swept in from the west, their shadows mottling the landscape. The juniper-covered hills on the way to Santa Fé took on a deeper hue. The winter earth was the color of skin, pink fading into brown, a tawny color of the sere grass, the soft curves of the hills. Like the soft curves of a woman.

At La Bajada red Triassic sandstone and shale ran like a gash up the mesa. The same red rock stratum, Sonny guessed, which north of Jemez Pueblo formed a spectacular small canyon. He had often driven past Jemez Pueblo to the Red Cliffs, where pueblo women sold horno bread to hungry weekend tourists. There the red was crimson, not bright but imbued with light, a light emanating from within the earth. Bright in summer and snow splotched in winter. A sight that always took the breath away.

To the north the blue Sangre de Cristo Mountains loomed more massive and closer to the earth as the clouds hugged the tall peaks, especially snow-covered Baldy. Last night's storm had left a fresh coat of white on the side of the mountain, so the snowy outline of a greyhound was well defined.

They drove through Santa Fé without stopping and headed north to Española, where they turned toward Chimayó. Sonny knew the Jaramillos, a family that owned the Ranchos de Chimayó Restaurant, so they stopped to eat. The restaurant was gaily decorated for Christmas: a tree sat in the corner of the lobby, and under it a nacimiento. The owner pleasantly greeted Sonny and Lorenza and sat them at a table by the fireplace.

The aroma from the kitchen and the cedar burning in the fireplace created a feeling of well-being, a feeling of home. Sonny sniffed the pleasant food fragrances and thought of his mother. He had called her that morning, trying to assure her he was well, just busy. She worried about him. Armando had told her about the van and she wanted to know why he needed a van. You need to stay home and rest, she said. This Christmas I want all of us to be together. Sonny assured her it would be so, but he wondered if any Christmas would ever be the same again.

He tried to dispel the mood by drinking a beer and attacking the blue corn enchiladas simmering with cheese and red chile. He tore apart the hot, fluffy sopaipillas and scooped up the red chile, rice, and beans.

“Sabroso.” Sonny smiled as he ate, feeling the need for energy. In his bones he still felt the cold from yesterday's dip in the Río de los Frijoles.

“It is delicious,” Lorenza agreed.

“Panza llena, corazón contento,” he sighed when they had finished eating.

“Y 'hora?”

“Feed the body, feed the soul,” he replied. “You feel like stopping by the Santuario?”

“Why not,” she replied.

The Santuario was timeless. It was the mecca of New Mexican Catholics, the Wailing Wall and the Temple on the Mount all rolled into one. A small, simple church constructed of adobe bricks made from the earth of the valley, it was a holy place of prayer and miracles. Pilgrimages to the Santuario were common. People in need promised a visit, and promesas made had to be kept. People came from all over the world to fulfill their promises.

Here, in the valley of Chimayó, the natives believed that the Santo Niño de Atocha walked at night, caring for the old residents of the valley and ensuring the fertility of their fields. The women who took care of the church changed the shoes on the statue of the Santo Niño often because they claimed he got his boots muddy in the fields.

The deities of the Indians who had lived in the hills before the Spaniards settled the valley also imbued the land. Yes, in these sacred places the kachinas and santos walked the earth, as long ago the gods of the Greeks had walked in bowers near sacred springs.

In the valley of Chimayó the kachinas offered protection, bringing rain for the crops in summer.

Here one could feel harmonious with the land, restore ones energy, heal oneself. Beneath the surface of the Catholic faith ran the abiding belief in the spirits of the place.