The Trinity Paradox (10 page)
Read The Trinity Paradox Online
Authors: Doug Beason Kevin J Anderson
No one government should have an upper hand, an ace in the hole it could use to dominate anyone else. It would be like two men standing in a room with loaded pistols aimed at each other. No sane person would pull the trigger, for fear that both might die. But if only
one
man held a gun, he might be tempted to take a preemptive action. He would feel superior, with nothing to worry about....
How could the U.S. be trusted with a doomsday weapon such as the atomic bomb, when no other country could?
Fox feared the pace the American program was setting. Did the Germans know that Enrico Fermi’s reactor, constructed in secret under the squash court at the University of Chicago, had achieved a self-sustaining nuclear reaction? It had never been done before, and marked a true milestone in the history of physics—but the results had remained a tight secret. Such breakthroughs were not to be kept under lock and key!
Fermi had used a common substance—graphite of all things!—as a moderator to slow the neutrons down in natural uranium, making it possible for them to split the uranium-235 isotope and create more neutrons to keep the reaction going. Some nuclei of the overwhelming majority of uranium-238 absorbed a neutron, thereby transmuting into a new element, one step higher in the periodic table.
Thanks to the efforts of Leo Szilard, and his constant harping for secrecy from the Germans, the news that would ordinarily be reported in
Physical Review
now was shared among only a few scientists whose political views were considered acceptable. What trash! German scientists like Esau might never know the simple technique, and the warring countries would continue to threaten each other with nearly completed “secret weapons.”
He had been strongly tempted to write Esau then, to tell him of Fermi’s chain reaction. He had sweated for days, changing his mind over and over again, until finally his own fear had won. But the innocuous remark that woman Elizabeth Devane had made set him to thinking again. What if Werner Heisenberg had somehow mucked up the data? What if he had miscalculated cross-sections? It was certainly possible, even for a Nobel Prize winner. Normally the physics and experimental data would be checked and cross-checked at every point when such an important application hinged on the results. But when the most respected of all German physicists, the creator of the quantum Uncertainty relation himself, stood by his results, no one chose to question him in the secrecy of war.
Fox snorted. Elizabeth Devane would have had no way
of
knowing ... yet she had struck him as odd, the carefully prepared and trained person, so cleverly disguised that no one would suspect. Wasn’t that the way spies worked? In an undertaking as huge as the Manhattan Project, Fox thought it unrealistic that the Nazis had planted no informant. And what better cover than as an unobtrusive filing clerk who happened to have a physics background much more extensive than seemed reasonable for a simple woman? Elizabeth could quietly keep track of everything going on at Los Alamos and report back to Berlin at her convenience.
He mused about what she had said. What if Heisenberg
was
working for the Allies, sabotaging his research to keep Hitler’s work far behind what the others could accomplish? What if Elizabeth’s information went to the wrong people, the true Nazi warmongers, not trusted scientists like Abraham Esau?
The whole idea was preposterous. But yet ... how had Elizabeth even imagined such a thing? What did she know?
That image of two men with loaded pistols seemed dangerously stabilizing when compared with a monopoly of power on either side. Equally matched, the two sides would be forced toward peace; given a bigger stick than anyone else in the world, even the most democratic nation would turn into a playground bully.
Fox knew it was dangerous to contact Esau at all, but this new insight was just too important not to pass on. The news of Fermi’s reaction had almost been enough incentive,
almost,
and Elizabeth’s comment had added the extra bit to tip the scales. He tucked the letter back in his jacket pocket.
The bus jarred Fox as it hit a pothole. The windows rattled and the springs creaked. Santa Fe spread out in front of him in all its historical aplomb. Brown adobe buildings lined the street, splashed with color from bundles of red chili pepper hung by doorways. Colorful Mexican tiles encircled the round-cornered windows. As stark decoration, black wrought-iron gates and bars adorned some of the houses.
A young man stood up at the front of the bus. Although dressed in typical civilian attire of white shirt, baggy gray pants, and a thin dark tie, the man seemed out of place. His mannerisms gave off an invisible signal that said “military,” G-2—not just another Nice Young Man who seemed anxious to help the scientists feel at ease on their R-and-R outing. This was, after all, the American celebration of Independence Day. Independence from Britain—Fox found that ironic. The G-2 man would probably have every person on the bus watched all day. The man cleared his throat and tried to speak over the grumbling of the bus’s engine.
“We’ll stop at 109 East Palace, Mrs. McKibbin’s place, where you all checked in before coming to the Hill. The bus will head back at 1900—that’s seven o’clock tonight, for you civilians.”
Or for anyone not used to European time, Fox thought.
“If you need assistance,” the man continued, “Mrs. McKibbin can help you. Remember not to talk with strangers about who you are or what you do. Have your new name ready in case you’re asked. Don’t reveal a whit—not even if you get arrested. We’ll take care of everything. Remember, German agents have probably infiltrated Santa Fe, and we don’t want to give them any more information than they already have. Any questions?”
Fox fingered his letter to Abraham Esau through his pocket; the note seemed to burn a hole in the material. What if they searched him? He tried to breathe normally, not to give a clue that anything was the matter.
This must be the last of it, he vowed to himself.
No more. If I’m found even holding this letter, my head will be on the chopping block.
He had thought about getting to Albuquerque to mail the message, but transportation there was very limited. He couldn’t slip away for so long, not with badge checks and accountability back on Project. Military G-2 types were probably stashed away at the bus depot and the train station, just watching. Any attempt to leave Santa Fe would no doubt bring them running.
Fox fidgeted in the cold sweat of fear. Through the briefings and cautions he had received, the seriousness of the situation had never seemed real. It had been like a child’s game of I’ve Got a Secret—keep quiet and tell no one what you’re doing, then everything should turn out all right.
But now, faced with the possibility of getting caught, he felt a knot in his stomach. Was this worth the trouble? Yes, Fox thought. The balance of the world is at stake.
He forced himself to look out the dusty window as the other scientists and Army workers filed off the bus. Fox ignored the smiling young man standing at the front, still waiting for anyone to ask him a question.
The bus had pulled up to 109 East Palace. Fox had been there only a week before. Departing from the train that had taken him cross-country, he had asked directions until he found the quaint adobe house. At that address he had introduced himself to a Mrs. McKibbin; though the woman didn’t know him from Adam, she had made him feel at home. She hadn’t been expecting him in particular, she said, but so many people came and went, with her as their contact point, that she couldn’t keep track anymore. And everybody traveled under false identities anyway.
Fox stepped off the bus in the middle of the crowd. He avoided the other people’s eyes—particularly the Nice Young Man who watched the scientists disperse into the Santa Fe streets. Most of them would be going to cafes, or shopping trips, or to spend some time in an approved club drinking to the Stars and Stripes or arguing about the continuing American assault on the Solomon Islands.
Dust swirled through the air, kicked up by a summer wind that tumbled down from the mountains. The stinging dust forced people to duck their heads and keep the dirt out of their eyes. A newspaper skittered by. Fox held a hand up to his face. The bus was virtually invisible in the sudden storm.
He took advantage of the cover and strolled away from the activity. Narrow unpaved streets ran at crooked angles to East Palace. He turned at the second street—an alley—and quickened his pace. He could ask directions and find his way back later. Now he just wanted to be out of sight.
He pushed through a throng of Indians heading up the alley. They were loaded down with blankets, silver and turquoise jewelry, probably on their way to the plaza. The Indians moved aside without comment, looking to the ground. One of the women stared at him with such fierce intensity that Fox had to hurry his step. He saw no young men among them.
Another street; he passed it by, as well as the next, then stepped into a maze of side alleys. He stopped, expecting pursuit, but no one came chasing after him. The wind blew small bursts of dust around the corner. Fox caught his breath. It had been so easy. Had he been imagining pursuit in the first place? Nothing breeds paranoia better than fear. And nothing would draw attention to himself more than acting suspicious.
A door slammed behind him. Fox whirled. Two dark-haired boys ran from a house. Tattered curtains covered one of the windows; inside the house a dog yipped. The boys ran across the narrow street, laughing and barefoot. The door continued to bang as an inner spring bounced it back against the frame.
Fox wet his lips; they felt so chapped in the desert dryness. His whole situation seemed suddenly out of hand, unfolding as quickly and as uncontrolled as one of Fermi’s chain reactions. Fox tried to calm his breathing, slow his heart rate.
Looking down the street, he saw no one following him. Except for the two boys bouncing a ball against an old mud wall, the narrow alley was deserted.
Then he noticed the mailbox.
It hung by a single nail on the side of a house. Painted black with rust showing around the edges, the container held two letters sticking up from the inside.
Fox’s eyes grew wide. He clutched the letter in his pocket and took an unsteady step toward the mailbox. The boys ignored him—the mailbox seemed to recede from him with each step he took.
If he could only get to the damned box, get this poison letter out of his pocket... it all seemed a challenge now, narrowed down to just getting the letter mailed, into the post office where it would be swallowed up in an anonymous pile of similar letters.
Fox reached out and placed the envelope into the box with the other two outgoing letters, then stepped away.
Still no one came running down the street.
A ball bounced against a wall. Muted voices drifted from the buildings on either side of the street.
Fox stared at the black mailbox. He had placed an innocuous return address on the envelope—1953 Rodeo Road—an address he had made up, yet he felt sure it would draw no attention. If he had neglected to add some return address, the letter might have aroused suspicion. All mail entering and leaving the Hill was opened, inspected by the censors; Fox had no doubt that suspicious items from Santa Fe would be detained as well.
A letter to Williamsburg, Virginia, should draw no attention, though. Sitting with two other letters, his final communiqué with Esau waited in the warm desert sun. Fox felt the weight lifted from his shoulders. He had done everything he could, just a small thing. Now Abraham Esau would have to make use of it. Graham Fox had done his part.
Fox spent the rest of the afternoon walking around, poking his head into the shops that peppered the Plaza. Around the plaza groups of Indians sat on colorfully woven blankets, watching in silence as white people shopped for jewelry, picking over the silver and turquoise creations scattered in front of them. Santa Fe’s pace seemed so serene compared to the frenzy on the Hill. Fox caught himself daydreaming, actually wishing that his life could be as uncomplicated as the locals’.
He spotted the bus parked at the end of the avenue. With an hour and a half remaining before it departed, Fox turned into the La Posada Hotel and sought out the bar. Even in the low light he recognized several clusters of men from the bus.
No one invited him to their table, but he didn’t feel like socializing anyway; nor did anyone else, it seemed. Each one seemed to want a last few minutes of refuge before heading back to the Project. Fox still felt his own body trembling from the tension he had just put it through.
For all his paranoia, he had seen no indication of G-2 representatives in his wanderings. Maybe the ubiquitous intelligence force was not as thorough as had been rumored. It had been easy to mail the letter. This time.
He could not afford to do it again. He had already done enough. Or perhaps too much. For a moment he thought about running back to the mailbox, snatching the letter away—but he did not have enough time. The wheels had been set in motion.
A waiter took his order for a gin and tonic as Fox relaxed in his chair. He would have to do his Project work now. He had nothing else he could do, and he would have to try his best. He just wished the war would be over before the question of using the atomic bomb—if they managed to develop it—ever came up.
Fox swallowed a mouthful of his gin and tonic. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light in the club, he spotted another person with the same out-of-place aura as the Nice Young Man from the bus, sitting in a corner and looking over the crowd. How long had he been there? Had he followed Fox all afternoon?