The agents waited in the plaza because the Army bus from the Hill let the “longhairs” off just half a block away on Palace Avenue, and all the shops were around the plaza. At the end of shopping everyone always headed to the La Fonda for cocktails.

Joe relieved Ray Stingo, who was so excited to hear the fight was on that he didn’t want to leave for the airport to meet the VIPs arriving for the Trinity test. Only small planes could land at Santa Fe, and the ride over the mountains was so rough it was commonly called the Vomit Comet. Oppy was at the La Fonda with some psychiatrists and people from the Office of War Information who had already arrived at Lamy on the morning train.

Instead of shooting the cows, Joe had chased them up Santiago Creek and hoped they’d find their way back up the canyon. Sweaty, dirty and tired, he strolled to the shadow of the obelisk in the center of the plaza, where he could watch the La Fonda. He took out a cigarette, then put it back in the pack. No more smoking. He thought he’d hated boxing. Even exhausted, though, he felt his body lift at the prospect of a fight, as if he’d deprived it of worthy adversaries. The first few tourists were up, making their way to the portal. No soldiers yet. Joe saw Hilario drop Harry Gold in front of the La Fonda, then drive on as Gold went into the hotel. In the plaza the creeps concentrated on their newspapers; the morning headline was that Truman had arrived in Berlin.

A spy? After all this time a real spy? It took more evidence than a few hairs from a hot cow.

A man with an aureole of silver hair approached the obelisk. It took Joe a moment to recognize Santa because the Hill psychiatrist was covered with white blisters and his hands were in cotton gloves.

“Hives,” he explained to Joe. “Purely psychosomatic, nothing contagious. Ever since we took that ride through the mountains with the you-know-what.”

“You’re sure? You had the doctors check you out?” Joe had felt guilty ever since the ride.