“Is this about Robertson?” Goodbrother asked.

  “Not precisely, no,” said Fleming. “We’re looking for a connection—if there is one. Krandall was murdered and there appears to be some question as to why it happened.”

  “Krandall,” said the private as he thumbed through a large binder. “That’s with a C or a K?”

  “K,” Fleming answered. “And Geoffrey spelled the English way—G-E-O, not J-E-F.”

  “Thanks,” said the private sincerely.

  “My pleasure,” said Fleming, determined to be polite. He glanced at Goodbrother.

  “I’m afraid this could take some time,” said the private as he thumbed through the pages in the binder.

  “I’m prepared to wait,” said Fleming and, out of habit, turned to Goodbrother and asked, “What brings you to Los Alamos. It seems an unusual place for you, if you’ll forgive me for saying it.”

  “Oh, I agree.” He chuckled, a rich, plummy sound that made Goodbrother sound like the perfect confidant. “I’m doing a program about the work they do here, trying to reassure our fighting men that we know how to control The Bomb. After all, we invented it. You know how that reassures the public.”

  “Best of luck,” said Fleming, his sarcasm not sufficient to offend the other two men.

  “Exactly,” said Goodbrother, reaching out and snagging Fleming’s elbow. “The private’s right: this could take some time. Why not come into the hospitality room? There’s coffee and doughnuts, and booze, if you’re not adverse to a nip in the morning.” He indicated a door about ten feet away. “Benton, we’ll be in there when you have a report for Mister Fleming.”

  “Thanks,” said Fleming, at once flattered and wary.

  The hospitality room was a large, draughty hall, kept a bit cool by open windows on the east wall. There were a number of couches covered in worn Naugahyde, and a collection of chairs, most of them wooden with wheels under them, but a few in ancient upholstery. At the far end was an array of tables with food set out on them, along with two coffee urns, smelling just now of fairly fresh-made American blend, and an oaken bar. No one was in sight.

  Chapter 20

  GOODBROTHER STEPPED up to the bar with the ease of one long accustomed to military installations. “What’s your pleasure, Fleming? I’m having a wee bit of Scotch. We’ve got Bourbon, Gin, Brandy, in fact everything but Vodka.” He chuckled again. “Can’t have suspect drinks about at a secured research lab, now can we?” He reached for a glass and poured out two fingers of a single malt whiskey. “Join me.”

  Fleming hesitated only a moment. “Very well. I’ll have what you’re having, only one finger, not two.”

  “As you like,” said Goodbrother with a shrug, and poured a drink for Fleming.

  “Thanks,” he said as Goodbrother handed him his Scotch. “Chin-chin.”

  “Bottoms up,” Goodbrother agreed, and drank. “How’d you get here?”

  “How do you mean?” Fleming asked.

  “Did you come in from Albuquerque? And how did you get there? It’s not the sort of place you wander into by accident, I wouldn’t have thought.” He favored Fleming with a pleasant smile as he took out a Camel and lit up with a gold lighter. “I’m always curious how newspeople get around.”

  “Much the same way you do, I suspect,” said Fleming. “I flew to New Orleans, then to Texas and drove the rest of the way.” He deliberately kept some of the details to himself.

  “Quite a drive,” said Goodbrother.

  “That it was. I don’t look forward to making it again.” He took another sip of Scotch and thought it might be prudent to eat something. He ambled over to the tables where the food was, picked up a salad-sized plate, and proceeded to select three sweet rolls and a cake doughnut.

  Goodbrother followed along, selecting crullers and cheese puffs. “Quite a combination.”

  “Scotch and pastry?” Fleming nodded. “But eggs and sausage wouldn’t be any stranger.”

  Goodbrother was beaming with amusement. “So how long do you figure to be here? The accommodations are a bit Spartan, but I’ve had worse.”

  “I’ll be on my way as soon as I get the report on Krandall. I’ll look for anything that might tie him to Robertson.” Fleming chose a Victorian chair, and sat down, paying no attention to the lumpy seat. “This could be a wild goose chase, but it’s the assignment, so—”

  “I know the feeling,” said Goodbrother, sinking onto the nearest sofa. “Tell me about Krandall.”

  “I don’t know very much about him. He worked here during the War, doing something with codes and maths. Then he retired to Jamaica where he was found murdered.” He knew Goodbrother could find this much out in a matter of an hour or so, and decided there was no reason not to provide the basic information. “There’s so much worry about Robertson that it’s an angle we have to check out.” He smiled. “I got a twelve-hour head-start on the rest of the press.”

  “Sounds like your editor’s a clever bastard,” Goodbrother observed through a mouthful of cheese puff.

  “That he is,” said Fleming.

  “Kind of a mixed blessing, I should think,” said Goodbrother. “I mean, there’s no telling what he might set you up for.”

  Fleming cringed at this typically American mangling of the language, but he answered, “At least a clever editor has a reason for what he asks—a foolish one simply makes demands.”

  “You got that right,” said Goodbrother, and finished off his Scotch. “So is there a Missus Krandall?”

  “No family in Jamaica, and none that we’ve traced so far,” said Fleming, aware that he was being pumped for information. “It could be he lost family in the War; so many did.”

  “That’s so,” Goodbrother agreed solemnly as he dropped the Camel butt onto the floor and ground it with his heel. “And a phone call should get you answers about that, shouldn’t it?”

  “If the information isn’t classified in some way, very likely.” Fleming got up and went to draw a cup of coffee from the urn, adding sugar and a touch of what was surely cream and not the milk he preferred. He went back to his chair. “Not very busy around here, are they?”

  “No, at least the press isn’t. The scientists are working pretty much round the clock.” Goodbrother sighed. “Just after the War, this place hummed like a dynamo. But in the last year or so, with the security clamp-down, there’s been a lot less press.” He yawned suddenly. “Sorry.”

  Fleming caught the yawn. “Hendley and Robertson, you mean.” He took a Players from his diminishing supply and lit up without offering one to Goodbrother; he was beginning to run low.

  “Yep, and a real scare about Communists,” said Goodbrother, apparently unconcerned about the unintentional slight. “No one trusts the Russians, and the brass is making sure all the leaks are plugged. A little late, but isn’t that always the way?”

  “You’re right,” said Fleming. “Like it or not, we’re stuck with the aftermath.”

  “Hard on the press,” said Goodbrother, and had another cheese puff.

  While he sipped his coffee, Fleming began to wonder about how he would get back to Jamaica from here. His plan to go through Albuquerque seemed risky, since anyone pursuing him was likely to wait for him there. But if not Albuquerque, where should he go? Denver was a possibility. He could return to Texas, but that made him uneasy. He wished he could consult his map, but that would be too obvious.

  “Say, Fleming,” Goodbrother cut into his thoughts, “d’you have time for any sight-seeing? Taos is pretty interesting. I bet you’ve never seen an Indian pueblo before.”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Fleming. “Except in films, of course.”

  “Not the same thing. Go up to Taos. Get a good look at the mountains. You’ll see what I mean,” Goodbrother assured him.

  “It is an interesting notion,” said Fleming, trying to figure out what Goodbrother was telling him.

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t mention it, okay?” He went to the bar and refreshed his drink. “Want any more?”

  “Not just at present, thanks,” said Fleming, nibbling on the pastry he had selected. “This is very good.”

  “Better than the usual army grub,” Goodbrother agreed. “They take good care of us.”

  “But so much,” Fleming said. “With just the two of us to eat it.”

  “The brass ordered the spread, and that’s what they put out every morning, rain or shine, no one here or fifty.”

  “That seems a thought wasteful,” said Fleming, thinking of the on-going shortages in England.

  “If this is the worst the army does, we should be grateful,” said Goodbrother. “I don’t think this is gonna put a dent in the budget.” He strolled about the room. “There’s nothing much to do but sit around and wait for bulletins, or, if you get an interview, to go into one of the side-offices and try to get information.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing?” Fleming asked, putting out his Players.

  “Something like that, yeah,” said Goodbrother. He glanced toward the door. “That Krandall guy you want to find out about—is there any reason they might want to stall you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Fleming, alert now. “I suppose if there is a connection to Robertson, they might want to avoid embarrassment.”

  “That’s a civilized word for it: embarrassment,” said Goodbrother with a sour chuckle that not even his rich voice could disguise. “No one here wants any questions asked about anything.”

  “Who can blame them, considering,” said Fleming, wanting to sound reasonable in case they were being overheard.

  “I think it’s pretty obvious that they’ll do their best to keep things under wraps as long as they can.”

  “Are you saying I might not get anything out of this visit?” Fleming asked.

  “I’m saying it wouldn’t surprise me if you didn’t,” Goodbrother answered. He peered at his wristwatch. “I’m going to make a call, to see what’s holding things up.” He turned and headed for a corridor leading back into the building.

  Fleming watched him go, and pondered their conversation, looking for clues in Goodbrother’s remarks. He might have been less sanguine had he been able to listen to what Goodbrother had to say once his call was placed to a number in Baton Rouge.

  “I tell you, he’s here,” Goodbrother insisted. “I’ve been talking to him.” He listened to the blistering burst of French and English invectives, then said, “I don’t care what you were told. He’s here.” He listened to another outburst. “Look. He got here. I don’t know how, and I can’t very well ask why his bug dropped off the map, can I?” He snapped his mouth closed as another outburst began. “I wouldn’t be talking to him if he hadn’t, would I?” This time he listened a little longer. “He’s checking up on a guy named Krandall. Apparently he was murdered. He worked here during the War, and Fleming’s supposed to get information on him.” He listened. “He didn’t mention any other connection.” He listened again. “Yeah. Fleming’s been assigned to get the goods on Krandall’s work here: that’s what he said.” He listened to the man on the other end. “I don’t know what he suspects. He hasn’t said anything much about it. Why should he, if he’s suspicious about—” Another pause, and he said, “He didn’t say anything about being followed, or—” He shut his mouth. “And how am I supposed to do that without revealing more than I should know about him?” He frowned. “I tried to nudge him toward Taos, so we can get back on his track, but I don’t think it’ll do much good.” He listened briefly. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m warning you he might cotton onto what I’m up to. He is a reporter, remember, and no dummy.” He listened. “All right, all right: I’ll do what I can, but I don’t know how much—” He stopped, stifling his indignation. “I said I’d do my best. But I don’t want to put him on his guard. You don’t want me to do that, do you? I didn’t think so.” There was a longer silence. “Okay. I’ll call back after he leaves.”

  He returned to the main room to find Fleming on his second cup of coffee. “How’s it going?”

  “Nothing yet,” said Fleming.

  “Par for the course,” said Goodbrother. “I couldn’t find out anything much. Sorry.”

  “As you say—par for the course.” Fleming took his plate back to the table and set it down.

  “Have you set up to get away from here?” Goodbrother smiled awkwardly.

  “I drove in, I’ll probably drive out,” said Fleming lightly. He did his best not to show the discomfort he felt being asked this question.

  “Well, of course,” said Goodbrother.

  Fleming studied the other man. “Do you mean there could be trouble getting a reservation?”

  “That’s a possibility,” said Goodbrother. “And you may end up staying here late into the afternoon.”

  “Why? Because they don’t want to give me the information I want?” Fleming kept his voice level while his thoughts whirled. What was going on here? He didn’t like the turn of events but couldn’t think how to change it. “Why don’t they just say no and tell me to go away.”

  “Because they don’t work that way,” said Goodbrother.

  “Trying to show me who’s boss?” Fleming said, doing his best to do an American gangster’s accent.

  “That’s part of it. They’re also making sure their asses are covered.” Goodbrother laughed aloud. “And this way, it looks like they’re doing something more than passing the buck.”

  “According to President Truman, buck passing isn’t acceptable,” said Fleming.

  “And if you asked for information from the President, he just might order it given to you, but you can bet your socks that the brass would take their sweet time getting around to giving it to you.” Goodbrother stared at the far door as if he expected someone to arrive.

  “Then you recommend I drop the matter?” Fleming asked.

  “No, nothing like that,” said Goodbrother. “Just be prepared for frustration and delay. These people are masters at dragging their feet. That’s their way, so you’ll be satisfied with as little information as they can get away with giving you.”

  “My, how cynical,” said Fleming.

  “Realistic,” said Goodbrother.

  “Well, you’ve dealt with them more than I. I’ll take your word for it. Hendley and Robertson have already done their damage; withholding information now won’t change that, will it,” said Fleming, hating the notion of remaining in New Mexico for another night. He filled his coffee-cup a third time, using more cream than before. “Is there anything I might do around here while I wait?”

  Goodbrother shrugged. “Most of Los Alamos is restricted to visitors, especially foreign visitors. If you leave and come back, you might have to wait twice as long.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Fleming said sarcastically.

  “Hey, you asked. I’m just answering.” He held up one hand as if to deflect Fleming’s attack.

  “Sorry,” said Fleming, not wanting to alienate Goodbrother.

  “No problem,” said Goodbrother, who suddenly brightened. “I just remembered. There’s a basic press book on Los Alamos, very complete and handsomely presented. It gives all kinds of background. And it’s all unclassified.” He rushed out of the room and came back with a large, slick magazine-like publication. “Here.”

  Fleming took the book he was handed: Los Alamos: The Race for the Atomic Bomb was blazoned across the photographic dust jacket showing a distant, brilliant mushroom cloud. The work was published by the University of California Press, and was privately distributed by Los Alamos Laboratories.

  “It means the army hands out the copies,” said Goodbrother, noticing what had held Fleming’s attention.

  “I’ll have a look at it,” said Fleming, nodding his thanks and sitting down once again in the aged Victorian chair, propping the oversized book on his crossed knees and beginning to read while Goodbrother poured himself another two fingers of Scotch.

  Chapter 21

  IT WAS almost three hours later, and Fleming was about halfway through the book, when the private came in from the front desk, a greenish file in his hands.

  “Mister Fleming?”

  Fleming closed the book and rose. “Yes?”

  “This is as much as we can give you about Krandall. My commanding officer suggests that you ask your MI5 about Krandall. They should have more material than we do.” He held out the file. “These are copies. You may take them with you.”

  Fleming flipped open the file and saw six sheets, obviously much-reduced, four standard American 8½ X 11s to the page, photostatic copies of reports on Geoffrey Krandall. “Is this all?” he asked, thumbing through them.

  “It’s all we can release,” said the private in a tone that suggested he had said that many times before.

  “I see,” said Fleming. “Well, if that’s the way of it—” He closed the file. “I suppose my editor will have to be content.”

  “Sorry, sir,” said the private, and turned to leave.

  “Is there anyone I could speak to about this? Can someone tell me anything about whose reports these are? I see the names are blacked out; is there someone who could tell me why?” Fleming called after him; he ignored Goodbrother’s snort of laughter.

  “Not at this time, sir. If you’ll come back in two days, you can talk to the security director. Maybe he’ll be able to give you a little more.”

  “Told you,” Goodbrother muttered from where he reclined on a couch.

  “No, never mind,” said Fleming, waving the private away. “Yes, you did warn me. I have to admit, I hoped you were wrong.”

  Goodbrother offered a mirthless grin. “If you stick around, you might get a little more, but it probably won’t be worth the hassle. The more you push, the less they give.”

  Fleming nodded. “I shall have to do my poor best with this.” He tapped the file with his free hand.

  “Oh, by the way,” Goodbrother said, dropping his voice to a stage-whisper. “I’d lose that file-cover as soon as possible. Stash the pages somewhere safe and inconspicuous. You don’t want the MPs busting in and saying you’ve taken official government files.”