"Scheiss!" he muttered under his breath.
He scraped his plate clean. Should he push it away? Order something else? He'd never been good at this game. In the labs of Los Alamos he was on familiar ground — there, stealing secrets had become second nature. But Santa Fe was different. It was the only place where The Hill's scientists and workers were able to mingle with the general populace. Given this, the Army Intelligence G-2 men were on every corner. They were agonizingly obvious in their pin-striped suits and wing-tip shoes, against the locals who were partial to blue jeans, Stetson hats, and bolo ties. Heinrich had decided that the disparity was intentional, a message of intimidation. He was also convinced that some of the bolos were watching as well. It all made him feel like a fish washed up on the beach — flopping around and trying to breathe in an unnatural element, praying for a wave to come and sweep him away.
The chime on the front door jingled, and Heinrich looked up hopefully. He was disappointed. A skinny Spanish-American boy scurried in. The lad walked quickly, pointing at each empty table he passed, as if counting. When he reached Heinrichs table he stopped.
"Cinco!" The boy dropped a piece of paper next to Heinrich's empty plate. "Para usted, senor." He then held out his hand.
Heinrich was stunned to inaction. No, he thought, this is not the plan. This is not the way it is supposed to happen. He collected himself enough to fish a few coins from his pocket and drop them in the boy's hand. He smiled and scurried away.
Heinrich looked around the room expecting all eyes to be on him. In fact, none were. He took the note, undid one fold, and palmed it like a poker player with a tight hand. It read: Petroglyphs, fifteen minutes. End of southern path. There was no signature.
Karl Heinrich's spirits soared. His wave had come.
He tried to walk slowly so as not to draw attention. Heinrich ignored the Indians hawking trinkets from their blankets on the sidewalk, and tried to ignore two G-2 men who were chatting near a lamppost. His pace quickened as he passed La Fonda, the town's main boardinghouse, and continued east toward the foothills.
The petroglyphs were a local curiosity, situated near the terminus of the Santa Fe trail. The topography altered slightly just outside of town, the crusty hardpan soil giving way to clusters of boulders. Here the vegetation, scant to begin with, almost disappeared, a few desperate weeds fighting for survival amid the cracks between rocks. A thousand years ago the indigenous people, the Anasazi, had used the sides of the boulders as their canvases, engraving human and animal figures, along with more elaborate, artistic designs. A handful of these images remained with remarkable resolution, and the petroglyphs had become a mildly popular side trip for the scientists of Los Alamos. Today, however, at noon on the cusp of summer, Karl Heinrich was alone as he trudged across the informal walking path toward the southern end of the outcropping.
He'd been here once before, a year earlier with Bostich. Then, he had thought the petroglyphs indeed remarkable, but less so than the fact that the Anasazi had chosen to live in such a godforsaken place. Today these thoughts were completely lost to exhilaration — the possibility of reconnecting with the Fatherland.
The final segment of the path climbed a moderate rise. Combined with the altitude and excitement, it had Heinrich panting like a dog. A vulture turned lazy circles in the sky above. Heinrich spied it with defiance. Not today, you bastard. The path ended near an unusually large formation, a red-brown boulder the size of a truck. Heinrich stopped and bent over, his hands on his knees, his open mouth gasping for air.
"Guten Morgeriy Herr Wespe"
Stunned, he turned to see a man behind him. He was tall and blond, Aryan in appearance. He also looked like he'd taken a recent beating. There was a large bruise on his forehead, and he carried one arm close to his chest, bent at the elbow as if injured.
"We should use English, no?" Heinrich suggested.
His contact shrugged and smiled easily. "I've been watching closely. We are alone here, and the approaches are easily seen. But if you prefer—"
"No, no. I would like to use our native tongue. It has been a very long time for me."
The man came forward and extended his good hand. "My name is Rainer. It is good to finally meet you."
Relief swept across Heinrich. He lunged ahead and took the hand with both of his. "I am Karl. Dr. Karl Heinrich." He had to suppress tears as he held the man close. A hundred questions rushed to his excited head. "It has been very difficult to be isolated for so long — to hear only the American's view of the war. Surely it cannot be as dire as what I see in the newsreels and papers. What has come of our Reich?"
The man whose name was almost certainly not Rainer smiled confidently. "The Reich… it endures, Karl. It endures."
Heinrich was overwhelmed. He stood back and eased his bulk down on a rock, smiling as those words played in his mind. Even if Germany's situation had seemed bleak, Heinrich had never lost faith. And now here was the reward for his confidence. "What about our Fuhrer? Is it true that he is dead? No one has produced a body, so I suspected it might be a ruse."
"No, Karl, it is true. Hitler is dead. But the Reich remains strong. If we have lost the battle for Germany, the greater struggle will go forward."
"This I have never doubted," Heinrich insisted. "The next time the world will fall not to our sword, but to our cause, our logic. The impure races are a scourge on humanity, weighing the world down."
"Yes, without doubt," Rainer replied. "But it will take time for us to rebuild that cause."
"Yes, yes. Where will we go? I have guessed South America — Brazil."
There was a pause. Rainer smiled. "A good guess, Karl. Very close. It will be Argentina."
"Yes! Argentina!" Heinrich had been to Buenos Aires many years ago for a conference. It was a comfortable place. No dust. No wind.
"The military there will work with us," Rainer said as he took a seat on a nearby rock.
Heinrich watched the man. Even with his injured arm he moved languidly, like a strong cat. His eyes regularly checked the path that led back toward town, searchlights scanning for any possible threat. The Reich had chosen well, Heinrich decided. A dangerous man for a dangerous mission. And he would know what to do. Rainer would get him out of here. He said, "Have you seen the level of security in town? Army Security — G-2 they call it — is very busy here."
"Yes, they are everywhere indeed. Which is why I brought you here using that note. But the G2s, as you call them, they are easily seen."
Heinrich looked at Rainer's shoulder. "You have been injured?"
The man shrugged dismissively. "A minor accident. It will heal soon."
Heinrich bent forward and put a hand on Rainer's good shoulder, wanting again to feel the strength of a compatriot. He could no longer hold back his most important question.
" When? When can we go? My work here is nearly complete. It is critical that we provide it to the Fatherland."
"Yes, our mission is most vital. The specific arrangements for the journey have been left to me." His eyes skimmed up to the horizon, yet this time it seemed more in contemplation than watchfulness. "But I must tell you, Karl, when I was given this assignment I was told little about your work. This was a protective measure for you, in the event that I might be — intercepted. From here we will work together until arriving in Argentina, and it would be helpful for me to know something about this Manhattan Project."
It made sense to Heinrich. "Yes, you must know the importance of our mission." He organized his thoughts, beginning with his own story. He explained how the Jews had infiltrated the world of academe to spoil many great careers, including his own. He proudly covered his conversion to the National Socialist Party, and how easily the Americans had taken him into the center of their great secret. Finally, he took an instructional tone, a vestige of his days at the university.