“They will. Right now all they can think about is getting it to work. They think it’s theirs. They don’t realize they’re just doing piecework for the army.”
“Do you believe it, though? Or is it all just part of the story?”
“It doesn’t matter. But I think if you’re the only guy holding a gun, a lot of people will feel like Corporal Waters. Maybe they’d be right.”
“But you want to stop them. Even if they’re right.”
“I don’t believe in handing someone else a gun either. He might shoot. People usually do.”
“Like cowboys.”
“No, like countries. Like show trials and wars and killing lots of people, not just one. I don’t trust them with a gun. I’m not an idealist.”
“Yes, you are,” she said quietly. “You’re the worst kind. You want to do it yourself.” She dropped her arms and slowly moved toward him. “I know. I run to type.”
He stood now, facing her, afraid to touch. “I won’t ask. If you don’t want to.”
She shook her head, placing her hand on his arm. “No. Ask me. Nobody ever did before.”
“You’d have to be careful. Remember Karl.”
“Careful. If I were careful, I wouldn’t be here at all.”
“Then you will.”
“You want me to, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“You’ll come with me?”
“I have to. You’re my cover,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I told you, nobody knows. If I leave the Hill, our friends in G-2 will follow me. They’ll wonder where I’m going. They won’t wonder after they see you.”
“You think of everything, don’t you? And what’s our story? Are we supposed to be having an affair?”
“We could be,” he said, smiling.
“Do you think anybody would believe that?”
“Anybody.”
She was silent for a moment. “But no harm to Matthew. What if you’re wrong? What if he won’t do it? What if he sends me packing?”
“Then we’ll have a weekend in New York. He won’t, though. The stuff’s real. They won’t be able to resist.”
“But no harm.”
“No,” he said, reaching for her. “You’re awfully loyal to your husband.”
“Mm,” she said. “All of them. But think what I do for you.”
He kissed her, holding her close to him now. “I just appeal to your better instincts.”
“You’re a bastard. You’d even use this to get your way, wouldn’t you?”
“If it would work,” he said, kissing her again. “Would it?”
“Ask me later.”
“I thought they canceled all leaves,” Mills said.
“Civilians get special privileges,” Connolly said. “It’s only four days. Don’t you think I’m entitled to one, listening to you all day?”
“Two leaves were arranged,” Mills said, handing him the papers. “Maybe you’d better take both.”
“I don’t think so. I only need one,” Connolly said, taking it. “Are you being cute, or is it just my imagination?”
“Anything special you want me to do while you’re gone?”
“No. Check in with Holliday, though, just to be nice. See if anybody’s gone to church. Tell him I still haven’t got a goddamn thing. Not even an idea. Maybe I’ll think of something while I’m away.”
“You intend to do a lot of thinking, huh?”
“You know, in security you get to know all kinds of things. The trick’s not to leap to any conclusions. Of course, I don’t have to tell you-you’re a professional.”
“Right,” Mills said, then grinned. “Have fun anyway.”
Connolly smiled back. “Do me one favor, though, will you? When you talk to whoever it is you talk to, would you leave her name out of it? I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. People get upset.”
“You’re lucky you don’t get shot. You going to leave a number? It’s procedure.”
“Make one up. I’d only leave a phony.”
“And I’d find out. That’s procedure too.”
Oppenheimer had pulled strings for a Pullman, an oasis of privilege on the crowded train, but even so the trip was hot and dusty. After the high New Mexican plateau, they went down into the flat bottomland of America, where the heat was oppressive, a furnace of hot air that left grit on the skin as it blew through the car, drying sweat and scattering paper. A group of servicemen, rowdy and insistent, had taken over the club car, and their singing as they crossed the empty plains had the disruptive sound of a brawl. Chattanooga Choo-Choo, Connolly thought irritably. Maybe the musicians who had written the happy train songs had been drunk in the club car too, seeing the dingy interiors glow with a boozy shine. Dinner was chewy lamb chops and canned peas, slapped down by harried waiters with an eye to the line already forming at the door for the next sitting. They drank cold beer and went to bed, exhausted without being tired, waiting for the clicking of the rails to lull them to sleep. Instead Connolly lay on top of the hot sheets, squirming in the dark, and finally dreamed of Eisler standing at the blackboard, studying his fate.
