Free Stallion Gate by Martin Cruz Smith Page B

inside with Oppy and the woman who had been in Oppy’s car that morning. Kitty sat on the hearth and the new arrival stood at the far end of the fireplace while, between them, Oppy leaned, almost contorted, at an angle across the mantel. The toe of his Wellington touched Kitty’s knee and his long fingers stroked the glass that the younger woman hadset on the corner of the mantel. He looked like a poet dictating. Kitty looked like a toughened muse. The younger woman seemed both wary and fascinated. The azalea was no longer in her hair.
    “One grenade here could change the history of physics, couldn’t it, Sergeant?”
    Captain Augustino had rolled up to the garden gate and stopped his jeep behind Joe’s.
    Joe saluted. “Yes, sir.”
    “What in the world are they doing now?”
    A radio was being handed out a window. The sound of a piano drifted across the garden to the cars. Joe hadn’t realized until now that the mesa crickets were chirping away, vying now with Beethoven. A sonata with insects luring the entire party outside, except for Oppy and the two women.
    “I think that’s the Hill station, sir. I think that’s Teller playing.”
    Los Alamos transmitted a signal that died before it reached the valley. Teller was sloppy on technique, but his playing had a lot of momentum.
    “Sergeant, what would you say if I told you that Mrs. Augustino is dead? That she was shot by an intruder back in Texas and that the intruder escaped?”
    The Beethoven was coming to a crescendo. No one in the garden could hear what was said by a captain and sergeant at the gate.
    “I’d say you were lying, sir. Why would you kill her when you can make her pay for the rest of her life?”
    “Sergeant, you show real promise. Come closer.”
    The music was followed by light static, and there was a hush of anticipation as people stood around the radio. Cigarettes glowed in the shadows.
    “Sir?”
    “Wait,” Augustino said.
    “Once upon a time in a dark wood there lived three little pigs”
—a deep voice with a Middle European accent issued from the radio in the grass. Teller again, reading bedtime stories.
“The first little pig was a poet. The second little pig was an artist. But the third little pig was a practical pig who enjoyed working with hammers and saws.”
    “Go on,” Augustino urged Joe.
    “I didn’t drive Oppy today, so I have nothing to report.”
    “With Dr. Oppenheimer, there’s always something to report. He went all the way to the railroad station to pick up a Dr. Weiss. They came by Santiago. You met them. What did they say?”
    “Nothing. Their car went off the road, I helped them out, and that was it.”
    “Sergeant, it wasn’t the grace of God that got you out of the stockade; it was me. I can send you back to that hole anytime.”
    “But they didn’t say anything, sir.”
    “The poet was a lazy pig and made himself a house out of nothing but straw. Straw walls, straw tables and chairs and a straw door he always left open—”
    “I have an FBI report that a Soviet courier is on the way to the Hill. Suddenly Dr. Oppenheimer takes thetime to meet this Dr. Weiss and personally escort her here. It doesn’t make sense. You’ve seen her?”
    “It was dark this morning.”
    “She’s in there with the Oppenheimers right now. It could be a regular Communist cell meeting. Wouldn’t it be interesting to hear what they’re saying right now, to hear whatever they say when they think they’re alone?” Augustino pondered the possibility. He looked up at Joe. “I want you to keep an eye on Dr. Weiss. I want you to get close to her. Use your Indian charm. Next time we talk, have something for me.”
    The captain started his jeep, reversed and U-turned back toward the Lodge. There were laughs in the garden.
    “Or I’ll huff”
—Teller’s voice rose dramatically—
“and I’ll puff. And I’ll huff. And I’ll puff—”

9
    Santa Fe was an hour away, but it was the shopping and social center of the