Gold worked his way past the last blankets and out of the portal to the corner, where he checked his wrist-watch again. An open tour bus was there and the guide was saying something unintelligible through a megaphone. Cameras leaned out of the bus. If Gold took the tour, there was no way Joe could stay near without being seen. At the same time, he was wondering about Augustino. The captain was supposed to be two hundred miles south at Trinity.

The tour bus pulled away without Gold. He was walking fast, trousers flapping around short legs. Joe looked back. Augustino had disappeared from the portal. Joe had to trot across the plaza flagstones to see Gold head toward Woolworth’s, where he’d started out, then make a right past the Rexall Drugs and left on Don Gaspar Street, which wasn’t much larger than an alley, and hurry past the bars and the pawnshops. Joe stayed a block behind, but Gold seemed unconscious of the possibility that he was being followed.

Two blocks from the plaza, along the avenue called the Alameda, the Santa Fe River resembled either a dried-up open sewer or a creek. Rocks, brambles and rusted cans filled the bed, although cottonwoods grew luxuriantly on the near bank, tapping the dampness below. A concrete span called the Castillo Bridge led to an opposite bank of poplars and, beyond, the white dome of the state capitol in the distance. In the middle of the bridge’s walkway, Klaus Fuchs smoked a cigarette and contemplated a scooter abandoned or carried along by some past flood that had filled the river. The tires were gone, perhaps stripped in one of the war’s rubber drives. Fuchs rested his foot on the middle of the three iron pipes that served as guardrails. A folded newspaper was tucked under an arm. Joe stopped in the shadows of the cottonwoods to watch.

As Gold walked onto the bridge he began feeling his jacket pockets, pants pockets, shirt. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. He reached Fuchs. Fuchs fumbled through his own pockets, found a match, lit Gold’s cigarette and didn’t wait for a thank-you before leaving, a grim Kewpie doll marching off the bridge and up the Alameda. Gold assumed Fuchs’ stance on the bridge, foot on the rail, gazing at the scooter on the dry rocks underneath the span.