Stealing Trinity (26 page)

Braun stood still. Watching, listening. Stunned.

After what seemed like an eternity, the sounds dampened and were lost. Silence gradually returned, and the tremendous ball of fire ebbed, taking with it the light. In the end there was only one thing -- a gigantic column of smoke, a cylinder capped on top by an even wider ball of tumultuous, roiling dust. In the muted dawn it rose up as if trying to black out the heavens. He stared in raw astonishment, and a single number came to Braun's mind. Forty. He was forty miles away.

His lips parted, and the words came in a hoarse whisper.

"Mein Gott!"

Chapter 32.

Lydia looked out the window as the train pulled into the station at Albuquerque. The place looked like something straight out of a western movie. The building was a skeleton of heavy wood beams supporting some kind of earthen material. Most of the men on the platform wore cowboy hats, and there was actually a horse tied to a rail in the dirt street.

The women, at least, were a mix. The Indians, with uniformly long, silky black hair, were wrapped in colorful robes, while the white women generally dressed in a more contemporary manner. A few wore skirts and blouses, but most seemed to prefer pants, a few even sporting denim blue jeans of the kind Lydia had only seen men wear. Stepping off the train through a mist of steam, she realized that there was a time in her life when these local fashion trends might have tipped her into the first clothing store. Now, however, she had far greater concerns.

She scanned the platform but saw no sign of Thatcher. She had kept in touch with him by telephone during her journey and he'd promised to meet her. He'd been scouring hotels and hospitals in both Santa Fe and Albuquerque, looking for any trace of a man who had survived a plane crash a week ago. So far he'd come up with nothing, but Lydia had brought her secret weapon -- a photograph of Alex Braun. She'd nearly forgotten about it, a group picture of Alex and four other students acting silly on the beach. Her father had taken the negative and had it enlarged, and Lydia hoped it would jog someone's memory.

A look at the station clock told her why Thatcher wasn't here -- the train had arrived early. Lydia flagged down a porter, a wide-shouldered Indian boy, and arranged for her trunk to be taken off the train.

She walked into the terminal. The place was busy, but nothing on the order of the big stations back east. Hers was the only train, resting on the only rail. People milled about, but none seemed in a hurry, perhaps slowed by the heavy heat that hung on the breeze. Lydia decided she should go out front, collect her trunk, and wait for Thatcher. As she steered through the light crowd, a hallway took her left, then right, and finally deposited her at the front of the station near the ticket booths. There, the first person she saw was Alex Braun.

He was in a fog. It had taken much of the morning to get back to Albuquerque, paying the innkeeper's brother twenty dollars for a ride to the station. Braun remembered none of it. His mind was completely absorbed by the enormity of what he had seen. It was an image of fire, a wave of destruction rolling across the landscape. A sight he would never forget.

He carried one bag. A change of clothes, a jacket, a razor -- and the files Karl Heinrich had left on the hill. There were fewer than a hundred pages, yet the bag seemed heavy in his hand, a wonderful weight. He found himself gripping so hard that his fingers were numb. Of course, this was only a sample of what Die Wespe possessed. How heavy would the fat little scientist's suitcase seem? Braun wondered. How much could the world's greatest secret weigh?

He stood in the ticket line, one man in front of him. Braun had only discovered his destination five minutes ago, the third coin and third telephone operator having provided the answer.

The man in front of him disappeared and Braun edged forward, forcing his attention to the girl behind the window. She was very attractive, and met his eyes directly. Then she smiled. He tried to remember if she had smiled for the last man. He usually noticed such things.

"Where to, sir?"

"San Francisco. I'd like a sleeping compartment."

"We have roomettes in first class -- its not much extra."

"That will be fine."

"One way or round trip?"

"One way, please."

Her hands worked, but her eyes darted between the papers and her customer. "So ... you won't be coming back?"

He smiled engagingly. She was young, flirtatious. For the first time since this morning Braun entertained a thought other than Trinity. But the notion was fleeting. Carnal lust was an impulse he could control, switched on and off like a light. His impatience, he knew, lay elsewhere. "I'm afraid not. Not anytime soon."

"Pity," she said, sliding a ticket through the window. "That's twenty-six dollars and twenty cents."

Braun didn't even flinch. He paid and walked to the platform. His train was waiting.

Lydia stood behind a column and watched him leave the ticket counter. Fortunately, he turned away and headed toward the train. She looked out to the street, hoping to spot Thatcher. He was nowhere in sight.

She didn't know what to do. There were no policemen around. And if she went to one of the rail officials, what could she say? Would you please detain this customer -- he killed my husband. Alex would know how to handle that. He'd smile his disarming smile. Lydia had once been vulnerable to it. But now, much too late, she knew his act for what it was -- a simple tool. If confronted, Alex would exercise his charm until he was either turned loose or forced to kill again. No, Lydia thought, he was too dangerous to simply plead for help from a stranger. And the only other person to appreciate that risk was Thatcher. She looked desperately toward the street again, willing him to appear.

Alex walked to one of the forward cars, presented his ticket to the attendant, and disappeared into the coach. The big schedule board said the train would be leaving in five minutes. Lydia had to do something. She rushed to the ticket counter. A man was talking to the girl behind the window. Lydia couldn't wait.

"I'm terribly sorry," she said, elbowing in. She tried to give the fellow an attractive smile. "Would you mind? I'm in a terrible predicament."

The man eased back, annoyed, but trying to be polite.

Lydia turned to the attendant, whose jaw was working furiously on a piece of chewing gum. "A tall blond man just bought a ticket from you. Where was he going?"

The girl looked suspicious. "Is he a friend of yours, miss?"

Lydia blurted out the first thing that came to her head. "He's my husband."

The girl frowned. She said, "He's going to San Francisco. One way."

"Oh. I see."

The girl's face turned sympathetic. "It leaves in five minutes," she said.

Lydia stared at the first car. Inside, the man who had killed Edward was now settling in comfortably. She opened her purse. "Give me a ticket to San Francisco."

"Are you sure, miss?"

Lydia answered by widening her eyes severely and cocking her head.

"All right. What class?"

"Well --where is he?"

"He has a roomette in first class."

It was the same car she had come in on. "I'll take the day coach."

Lydia paid and walked quickly to the train. She would be in the open for a few seconds, and she kept her face turned away from the front passenger car. Lydia wished she'd worn a hat, something modest to pull down over her eyes.

She passed three sleeper Pullmans and stepped up onto the last car, boarding the same train she'd gotten off twenty minutes earlier, though much farther back. For as long as Lydia could remember, she and her family had taken the train to their winter home in Florida each year. In all that time, she had never ventured farther back than the dining car. After all, her father would say as he admonished her to keep her station, I hold a considerable interest in the Atlantic Coast Line. I know who rides back there, and I know that we make more money for each cow we carry.

Inside the coach, a worn wooden aisle separated two rows of bench seats that stretched all the way to the rear door. The seats had no cushions, and the air was still and hot. The mix of faces here was far less homogenous than what she was accustomed to -- brown and white, dirty and clean, happy and miserable. All seemed to ignore her.

She shuffled and stumbled down the center aisle, a strange setting for a former Newport debutante. Lydia had been deeply heeled in the importance of making entrances. Dress well, eyes forward. Keep the chin high but don't overdo -- regal as opposed to overbearing. Now she fumbled her way to the back of the last grimy train car, ducking her head desperately to see out the station-side window. What if Alex had gotten back off? Lydia wondered. Was it possible he'd seen her?

There were no seats open at the windows along her left, but Lydia spotted a soldier, clean cut and very young, with a single aisle seat open next to him. She recognized the uniform as Army, but struggled for anything more. Judging by the lone stripe on his shoulder and a complete lack of decorations, she decided he must be a new recruit. Lydia tried to wipe away the worry that had to be chiseled into her face.

"Is this seat taken?"

The boy looked up and smiled like he'd won a trifecta at Pimlico.

"No, ma'am."

Her voice was sugar, "I hate to be a bother, but do you think I might take the window?"

The young man slid over like he'd been parked on a hotplate.

"Thank you," she said, sliding demurely into the seat. She instantly surveyed the station for any sign of Alexander Braun. Or even better, Michael Thatcher. She saw neither.

A distant voice disrupted her thoughts." -- I said, where are you headed?"

She turned to find the young soldier eagerly awaiting her reply. Smoke billowed from the front of the train and she heard the conductor make his last call.

"Ah, San Francisco." Not wanting to be rude, she added, "And you?"

"Los Angeles. My unit is going to ship out soon. I can't tell you exactly where, you know."

Lydia kept searching outside. "Of course." The train began to move.

"My name's Tommy. Tommy Moore."

Lydia nodded and offered a light handshake. "Lydia Murray. Nice to meet you, Tommy."

Tommy began to talk nonstop, and Lydia gave back an occasional nod in return. Trying to analyze her muddled situation, she suddenly realized that she carried nothing more than her purse -- her trunk was sitting out on the curb waiting to be claimed. I should have stayed, she thought. Thatcher will turn up soon. Together they might have convinced the police. Alex could have been arrested at the next station. Instead, she was alone. There were rail employees and a few soldiers, but Lydia had never been good at authority, at badgering people. And Alex? She knew better than anyone how convincing Alex could be -- engaging, confident, persuasive. God, how she knew.

The station disappeared and the train built up speed as it headed into a vast desert. Lydia's heart raced. What on earth have I done?

Thatcher parked his new car along the street in front of the station. It wasn't actually new, but a decent ride. The owner hadn't bothered with any paperwork once Thatcher had forked over four hundred in cash. He only wished Sargent Cole's money could procure Alexander Braun so easily.

Santa Fe had been a dead end. Knowing Braun had certainly been injured in the airplane crash, Thatcher's first stop had been to the only hospital in town. No one there remembered a tall, blond man. They'd even checked the logs to confirm that there was no record of a patient with suspicious injuries on the days in question. Thatcher had next tracked down every private doctor and nurse he could find. Nothing. He'd then tried the hotels and boardinghouses, coming up empty. To top it all off, the investigation back in Newport had gone equally cold.

Thatcher also noticed that the FBI men in Santa Fe -- they seemed to be on every corner -- paid him no attention whatsoever. Tomas Jones knew that Braun's stolen airplane had gone down nearby, yet there didn't seem to be any official search. Not for the first time, Thatcher thought the Americans seemed terribly confident in their security arrangements.

He walked across the front platform of the station, searching for Lydia. When Sargent Cole had told him she was coming, there was a sense of conveyance in his announcement -- as if to suggest it was Thatcher's turn to hold her hand for a while. He'd do nothing of the sort. In fact, he expected she'd be quite useful. Lydia knew Alexander Braun better than anyone, and had strong reasons for wanting to find him.

A cloud of dust washed into the station from the street, blurring everything in a haze of red. Thatcher sneezed. He had thankfully recovered from his head cold, but something in the desert air was playing havoc on his sinuses. He spotted a sturdy young porter who was standing at the curb next to a large steamer trunk.

"I beg your pardon, but I'm here to meet a friend. Has the three o'clock from Amarillo arrived yet?"

"Yes, sir. Came in thirty minutes ago and she's just gone back out."

The man pointed and Thatcher saw a trail of black smoke to the southwest. He thanked the porter and entered the station. The crowd was modest, and everyone moved slowly in the heat. It took less than a minute to cover the entire place -- Lydia was definitely not here. There were few remaining possibilities. She could be in the ladies room, or she might have walked down the street for a bite to eat. Thatcher took a seat on a long, empty bench. There was nothing to do but wait.

Lydia watched the desert drift past her window. It seemed endless, particularly at the tops of the hills where she could see mountains that must have been a hundred miles away. The openness was a comfort, daylight against the dark shadow of Alexander Braun.

The more Lydia thought through the situation, the more she calmed. Even if Alex were to come back, she was safe here, surrounded by dozens of people, half of them strong young men. He was a killer, but not a stupid, reckless one. She had certainly erred by getting on the train, but now the way out seemed clear. She would simply sit here in coach until the next station, a place called Winslow, Arizona. They were scheduled to arrive in an hour, and at the station she'd get off and call her father. It would work perfectly as long as Alex didn't see her.