“Could I stop you?”
“Is there anything in the briefcase you wouldn’t want the Germans to see?”
Oppenheimer considered. “Yes.”
“But you brought it out anyway?”
“I doubt we’re going to be attacked by the Nazis on the road to Albuquerque. It’s a long drive, and I’ve got a lot of paperwork to do. It seemed worth the risk.”
“But strictly speaking, it’s against regulations? Do the other bodyguards know this?”
Oppenheimer smiled a checkmate grin. “Of course. Why do you think I requested you?”
They had lunch at Roy’s in Belen, a designated project stop, and Connolly found himself sweating under the punishing sun. After the cold air of Los Alamos, the desert here was a furnace, hot and almost empty all the way to Mexico. Even the stunted pinons of the rolling high plateau had now given way to cactus and scorpions. In his gray suit and porkpie hat, Oppenheimer seemed unnaturally cool, dabbing the back of his neck with a handkerchief while Connolly dripped large patches of sweat through his shirt. But afterward, as the dust blew through the windows on a constant wind, scratchy and irritating, he gave up too, abandoning his work and staring listlessly at the wavy glare that stretched for miles.
“Yes, Virginia, there is a hell and we’re in it,” he said to the air. “All this to win the war.” He pulled his hat to shield his eyes and slumped down in the seat, pretending to sleep but continuing to talk. “The Spaniards called it the Jornada del Muerto, and for once they weren’t exaggerating. If your wagon broke down here, there wasn’t much you could do but bring out the rosary beads.”
“Then let’s hope we don’t run out of gas. We’re pretty low.”
“That’s poor planning, I must say. There’s a station up ahead in San Antonio. Keep an eye out-if you blink, you’ll miss it. There’s a bar there too. We’re not supposed to stop, but everyone does, and you’ve already broken all the rules.”
Incredibly, the bar was crowded. Connolly wondered where, in all this barren emptiness, they could have come from. The room was dark-he had to squint when he walked through the door-and one wall at the end was entirely lined with bottles, a trophy wall to past conviviality. When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that at least part of the crowd had come from the Hill. They made an elaborate show of pretending not to notice Oppenheimer, as if one security violation could be redeemed by obeying another, but Oppenheimer ignored the charade and went over to talk to them. Connolly saw Eisler and Pawlowski, and he smiled to himself at the irony of discovering Pawlowski’s destination after all. It was a small world in the middle of the desert. While Emma sat alone, both the men who wanted her faced each other over beer in a Mexican bar. It was an irony Oppenheimer would appreciate, Connolly thought, absurd and elegant at the same time. A young Mexican bartender went busily back and forth, popping caps off beer bottles, his eyes shining at what must have been unexpected traffic. Eisler, his pale skin gleaming in the half-light, managed to look formal even with his short-sleeved cowboy shirt and Coca-Cola, like someone who had stepped into the wrong advertisement.
But Oppenheimer didn’t want to stay-they had miles to go-and his leaving broke up the party for all of them.
“So this is what you meant by off-site,” Connolly said to Pawlowski as they left together.
“We’re not supposed to say,” he said simply. He glanced at Connolly’s gun, confused, as if he were still trying to place him. “I didn’t know you were coming here.”
“I’m driving Oppenheimer. Is there someone with you?”
He smiled shyly. “No, I’m not that important. The only danger to me is from Friedrich’s driving.”
“We haven’t done so badly so far,” Eisler said pleasantly. Connolly noticed that one of his forearms was sunburned, bright pink against the short sleeve, and he imagined him driving with it hanging rakishly out the window, his fingers light on the wheel, an old schoolmaster free on the open road. He wondered what they talked about and knew instinctively it would be serious, the arcane mechanics of the gadget that Oppenheimer believed constituted its own security. “Shall we follow you? It’s a comfort to have another car. In case of a breakdown, you know.”
And so, with a third car Connolly hadn’t seen before, they set out in caravan across the flat desert. Oppenheimer resumed his slumped-down position, angling his hat to avoid the blazing afternoon sun.
“You could nap in the back,” Connolly offered.
“I could nap in the front if it were quiet,” Oppenheimer said. He sighed and took out a cigarette. “Which somehow I feel it won’t be. What else is on your mind?”
Connolly grinned. “Nothing. What’s Pawlowski like?”
“Don’t tell me you suspect him too?”
“No, idle curiosity. It passes the time.”
