Oppenheimer fretted and paced, checking and rechecking that everything was in place, asking over again for circuit tests to be re-run. His nerves weren’t helped by the fact that he’d run out of cigarettes. When his agitation began to affect the nerves of the others in the shelter, General Groves led him outside for a stroll in the damp of the desert night – the rain had stopped only an hour or so earlier at 04:00 hours. At 05:10, twenty minutes before zero, the countdown began. Groves drove back to the base camp sited seven thousand yards further back from the weapon – known as “The Gadget” – obeying his orders that he and his deputy, Brigadier General Farrell, were not to be in the same spot in case anything went wrong.
The time interval booming from the loudspeaker changed from minutes to seconds and the tension became unbearable. Oppenheimer held on to a post in the dug-out to steady himself. No one dared breathe.
The physicist Sam Allison’s amplified voice tolled relentlessly ‘…four, three, two, one, Now!’ The surrounding mountains were lit up bright as day by an explosion equivalent to twenty thousand tons of TNT. The blinding, all-consuming light was followed by a deep roaring that was felt more than heard and almost simultaneously, a blast wave that knocked several of the more unwary observers off their feet, and a pulse of heat, that even at six miles, felt like the blast from a thousand oven doors. For a moment no one spoke – words were inadequate in the presence of such power. Then George Kistiakowsky broke the spell with an almighty whoop. ‘Oppie, you owe me ten dollars,’ he shouted: Oppenheimer had bet him that the test would fail. Then, seizing Oppenheimer in his arms he waltzed him around the dug-out; next he grabbed hold of Max Standfluss and planted a smacking kiss on each of his cheeks.
At base camp, despite a disapproving look from General Groves, the physicist Isidor Rabi produced a bottle of whisky from his coat and started passing it around. Outside, the boiling maelstrom of the fireball had been transformed into a towering mushroom cloud that looked as though it would go on growing for ever. Oppenheimer spoke for all of them. ‘It worked, but what the hell have we created?’ he said.
Later that morning, President Truman, who was attending the Potsdam conference, received an encrypted telegram informing him that the Trinity had been a total success. The risk had paid off: Operation Faustus had surpassed the late FDR’s wildest expectations.
Chapter Eleven
South Dakota, 8 May 1945. This place is worse than prison. Being kept alive like zoo animals in a cage because one day it will amuse them to put us on display in front of the gawping masses. Guarded day and night – fat, vulgar men with guns, worse than the Russians. A. going out of his mind with worry. One post-card per week is all we are allowed and they censor it. Forgot to use Pauli name last time. No reply from either R. or S. – A. says that once the Americans have got what they want then they will kill us all.
News: 9 May 1945. The war is over. A. says the Americans are lying but suspect not. Reds in Berlin and our armies have surrendered. Betrayed by the Jews again, just like 1918. Talked of suicide but A. insists we fight on. That remains our oath - Meine Ehre heißt Treue.
*
With the war in the Pacific over and the West’s new foe clear for all to see, work at Los Alamos turned to the development of weapons relying on nuclear fusion to yield even higher destructive power than those which had brought about Japan’s surrender. Edward Teller emerged from his year-long sulk at not being appointed head of the Theoretical Division and Standfluss, along with the rest of his Implosion Department colleagues, began work on what would come to be known as the hydrogen bomb. Robert Oppenheimer returned to academic life in California and Norris Bradbury took over as director of Site Y.
The early hints of spring that March 1946 offered the inhabitants of Site Y were dashed by an intense cold snap and several feet of snow. Max Standfluss opened the door in response to the knock. His visitor kicked the snow off his boots and shook his hat to get rid of the flakes that had settled in its brim. Standfluss showed Oppenheimer into the living room where they both sat down by the fire.
Oppie had returned to give an update on his attempts to create a United Nations Atomic Energy Commission and had only planned to stay three days: now, like everybody else at Los Alamos, he was snowed in. The look on the American’s face told Standfluss all he needed to know, but he put the question just the same. ‘Still no news?’ he asked.
Oppenheimer shook his head and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m afraid not. Believe me, Groves’s people have been turning Munich upside-down and there’s no trace of them. The house at the address you gave us is still standing but it’s empty – they’ve vanished into thin air.’
Standfluss stood up and resumed his nervous pacing. ‘I suppose they’ve done the obvious things like asking the neighbours?’
‘I’m sure they have, but if it helps put your mind at rest, I’ll check again with Groves. You’ve got to understand that even southern Germany is one hell of a mess and there are literally millions of DPs – displaced persons – trying to get home and to find their families. I know it probably doesn’t help, Max, but you’re not alone.’
‘Thanks, Oppie, it’s a kind thought,’ he replied, gazing into the white, swirling landscape outside the cabin. ‘But it doesn’t get me any nearer finding them.’
‘I’ll tell you what. If it stops snowing tomorrow, why don’t we go skiing? You need some exercise and sitting in here fretting won’t do anyone any good, least of all you.’
Standfluss shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t feel like it at the moment and besides I’ve got work to do.’
‘But tomorrow’s Sunday. Come on, you need a break – get some fresh air. And if you’re not there, who’s going to teach me? How am I going to improve my turns?’
He gave a half-hearted smile. ‘Oppie, you’re beyond teaching – you ski like an octopus falling out of a window. Even I can’t help you.’
Oppenheimer threw his head back and roared with laughter. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, still chuckling at the description of himself. ‘Maybe Enrico will give me a lesson. But, hey, if you change your mind, you will let me know, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
As forecast, the following day dawned bright and clear but Standfluss stuck to his resolve and at 10 am crunched his way through knee-deep snow to the two-storey building on the technical site which housed the implosion laboratory. So lost in thought was he that he failed to notice the two sets of fresh tracks which led to the front door.
Unlocking the door to the team’s office he hung his coat on the rack and was about to open the secure document safe when he heard a sound from the adjoining room – a faint but distinctly audible click. He opened the door in the partition and the sight that met his eyes rooted him to the spot. The safe was open, the table strewn with documents and, standing over them, camera in hand was Klaus Fuchs.
He addressed the young man in German. ‘What are you doing, Fuchs?’ he said. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’
Fuchs lowered the camera and swung round to look at the intruder, his face red with anger. ‘This is none of your business, Max. Get the hell out of here and I’ll tell you all about it on Monday. I’m acting on Dr Bradbury’s orders.’
Standfluss strode towards the table to look more closely at the documents that Fuchs had been photographing. He turned to him in amazement and said, ‘But this is my work. If Bradbury had wanted it copied he’d have come to me and had it done through the proper channels.’
‘Just leave it, Max.’ Fuchs’ tone became threatening and he took a pace towards him. ‘You’re sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you. I told you I’ll explain everything on Monday. Now leave.’
Standfluss looked him up and down and gave a wry smile. ‘Are you trying to threaten me, boy? I’ll eat you for breakfast, you – ’
Those were the last words Max Standfluss ever uttered. From behind, and unseen to the German, Fuchs’ accomplice Theodore “Ted” Hall felled him with a
single blow from a length of steel tubing. To make sure he was dead, the two men then throttled him using Hall’s tie before dragging the body behind the building and concealing it hastily in a snowdrift.
The disappearance of Max Standfluss caused pandemonium. During the forty-eight hours between his death and his disappearance being noticed, a further two feet of snow fell on the high mesa and the Los Alamos site remained cut off from the outside world. President Truman treated Oppenheimer, Bradbury and Groves to long, one-sided phone calls, making it clear what would happen to their careers if the scientist wasn’t found.
Oppenheimer and Truman had met for the first time in October 1945. First meetings with Oppie left no one indifferent. Unfortunately for him, the concerns he voiced about military use of nuclear weapons, particularly his comments about having blood on his hands, infuriated the President who later spoke of him as a “cry-baby” and told Undersecretary of State, Dean Acheson, “I don’t want to see that son of a bitch in this office ever again”.
Coming so shortly after the meeting, for Truman, the disappearance of Max Standfluss was the last straw. Despite having no evidence, it only took a single phone call from the Oval Office to FBI headquarters for J Edgar Hoover, the Bureau’s director, to order the restarting the surveillance operation against Oppenheimer. The process grew and festered over the years until enough carefully filtered and concocted evidence could be passed to his political enemies who, nearly ten years later, would engineer his downfall.
The following week a slight thaw rendered the road to Santa Fe passable once more. It took the Military Police ten days to find the body and General Leslie Groves was now faced with the unwelcome prospect of launching a murder enquiry. The cast of suspects was relatively small, but what worried him most was the motive.
Oppenheimer broke the news to Reiss in person. The room in which they met at Oak Ridge was badly lit and glacially cold. Both men wore their coats indoors and Oppenheimer’s breath condensed into clouds of vapour as he spoke. ‘It’s not good news, Georg.’
‘I didn’t think it would be. Why are there two armed sentries outside? What am I supposed to have done?’
Oppenheimer inhaled on his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the air, resting his arms on the bare wooden table between them. ‘Nothing. It’s not you, it’s Max.’
‘He’s not been answering my letters,’ Reiss said.
‘I know. That’s why I’m here.’
Reiss shot Oppenheimer a look of panic. Both German scientists had been briefed many times on the penalty for loose talk. ‘But there’s been nothing in our letters that anyone could object to. We both know they’re censored and we’ve always kept our side of the bargain, you know that, Oppie. You have to believe me.’
Oppenheimer grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, Georg. It’s not the letters. Max is dead.’
‘But that’s not… he can’t be. But how?’
‘He was murdered. Someone hit him over the head and then strangled him.’
Reiss stared at him in disbelief. ‘But who would do a thing like that?’
Behind Oppenheimer’s head, the condensation on the grimy window-panes had started to freeze. ‘We thought you might be able to help us with that.’
Reiss fell silent, looking at Oppenheimer intently as though trying to read his thoughts. ‘Why me?’
‘When did you last speak to him?’
His patience snapped. ‘Why are you asking me all these stupid questions? Am I really a suspect in a murder that happened over a thousand miles from here?’
‘It’s not that…’
‘A dear friend has been murdered, my life could be in danger too for all I know and all you can do is ask me silly questions. Why do you think that I of all people can help you, for God’s sake?’
Oppenheimer looked at him intently. ‘Listen, Georg. We both know what’s at stake here. I’ve moved heaven and earth to be allowed to talk to you first because the next set of people who come to question you aren’t going to be particularly gentle about it and – ’ he paused, trying to find the right words. ‘If there’s even the vaguest suspicion that the circumstances of your arrival in this country could be revealed, you’ll die too.’
The colour drained from Reiss’s face. ‘So are you telling me the American government killed Georg?’
‘No,’ said Oppenheimer, shaking his head. ‘It’s exactly the opposite. The people I used to work for, Groves in particular, are worried that he was murdered by someone who knows about you two.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel any safer, Oppie.’
‘It wasn’t supposed to. When you’re questioned, all you have to do is to stick to the script you were given when you came here. Answer the questions and no more: above all, do not volunteer any information, particularly about your arrival.’
Reiss looked down at the ground. ‘Very well.’ His voice was barely audible.
‘And if anyone, anything at work, anything you see or hear gives you the slightest cause for concern, you must contact Groves directly. Now do you understand?’
‘I think I do.’
***
General Leslie Groves slammed his fist down on the desk in fury. ‘What do you mean, he’s disappeared?’
Reiss’s supervisor had never been on the receiving end of one of Groves’ tirades before and was thankful it was happening over the phone rather than face-to-face. ‘He asked to take a few days’ leave, General, but he hasn’t come back. We thought he might have missed his train but he’s three days overdue.’
‘You let him go on leave?’
‘Sure. He was due some so why not?’
‘Did nobody tell you he was to be confined to quarters?’
‘No, General, they didn’t.’ He heard another crash as Groves brought his hand down on the desk again.
‘Jesus H Christ, do I have to do everything myself? Right, now tell me where he went on leave. Moscow by any chance?’
‘We issued him with a train ticket to Los Angeles. He’s crazy about westerns and he wanted to visit the film studios.’ The supervisor held the phone several inches away from his ear in preparation for Groves’ next salvo. ‘We’ve got the address of the hotel where he was staying.’
‘Have you checked with them that he stayed there?’
‘We thought it best to let the police handle the enquiries, General, given the circumstances.’
‘And?’
‘He checked out after three nights.’
‘So you’re telling me he’s effectively been missing for ten days.’
‘Er, you could look at it that way I suppose.’
‘Well, I damn well do look at it that way. Search his accommodation, read all his mail, take the place apart if you have to. I want to know where he’s gone. Find out whether he’s made any big cash withdrawals. I want results, you got that?’
‘Yes, General.’
They were too late. At the very moment the conversation was taking place, Georg Reiss was enjoying a German beer in Argentina and looking forward to the next leg of his journey home. In his pocket was a Swiss passport in the name of Wolfgang Schmidt, provided by the German expat community of Buenos Aires: with it was a steamer ticket, third-class, for Genoa. In his briefcase were his life savings – all in fifty dollar notes. Most of the human traffic on this particular ratline flowed from Europe to Latin America – but organising a passage in the opposite direction was just as easy, given the sympathetic attitude of the Argentinean government, particularly its vice president, Juan Perón.
Just before the sailing Reiss sent a postcard to Robert Oppenheimer at his home in California:
Dear Oppie,
Sorry I couldn’t stay longer but have decided to leave Tennessee for health reasons. Climate here more conducive to a long life. Don’t worry, I won’t mention our gadgets or your other house guests to anyone! Hope to see you again some day.
All best wishes
Georg
By the time it reached its destination, the ship
was passing through the straits of Gibraltar and Georg Reiss was nearly home.
Chapter Twelve
Weather improving but wolves howling again. Horrible noise and closer than last night. Cooking on wood stove not easy – keeping it alight has become an obsession. Shack uncomfortable but habitable. Other buildings nearby being used by American soldiers who guard us. Am trying to learn English from them. Visit from same German-speaking Captain – says all the words they’ve taught me are rude ones. Have asked for more bedding, curtains and other comforts. Not hopeful. Still no news on how long we must stay here.
*
Washington DC. The present day
The first man to arrive checked to make sure he wasn’t being watched and sat down on the usual bench in West Potomac Park. The trees were still bare, giving an uninterrupted view over the Tidal Basin to the Jefferson memorial. The ice on which a handful of ducks were miserably huddled, the grass, the whole landscape in fact, was bleached into a monochrome steel-grey by the cold. In this weather and at this time of year, tourists were few and far between. They’d have the place to themselves.
Placing his black briefcase next to his feet, he checked his watch and settled down to wait, stamping his feet to keep warm. Five minutes later he was joined by a larger man, wearing a Russian-style fur hat on his shaven head and sporting well-cut navy-blue overcoat. Despite his bulk, he moved with a purposeful, athletic grace that hinted at muscle rather than fat. The new arrival was also carrying a briefcase. He set it down next to the other one and nodded a cursory greeting. The first man nodded in return. ‘You’re late again, Ronnie,’ he said as the visitor took a seat.
‘Yeah, sorry about that. Couldn’t find a cab. Goddam weather.’
‘You did a good job I hear,’ he said, not looking at Ronnie. ‘Take the case. It’s all there. You can count it if you like.’
The Manhattan Deception Page 10
