Augustino had joined the group. “They certainly are alive. Can we talk, Dr. Oppenheimer? You and me and Sergeant Peña?”

The parking lot was an oat field beaten into dust. More cars were coming than leaving. Augustino’s jeep was next to the gray Army sedan in which Joe had brought Oppy. He still couldn’t find Fuchs’ Buick.

Augustino asked, “The ones in the black and white greasepaint, Sergeant—are they idiots or traitors?”

“The clowns?”

“Whatever,” Augustino said, “that was a serious breach of security. They singled out Dr. Oppenheimer here in public view and identified him with explosives. Any outsider with a background in physics had to notice him and Teller. The imitation of the general was in the worst possible taste. What is the religious purpose behind that?”

“You’d have to ask them, sir.”

“I’d love to. Who are they?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“A tribal secret?”

“I guess so, sir.”

“There’s a great deal you’re not telling me these days, Sergeant. Do they dance again?”

“This afternoon, sir.”

“Same clowns, same people?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I think it would be wise for you to drive the Director back to the Hill now, before there’s another incident. You do agree, Dr. Oppenheimer?”

Oppy stared back at the plaza. “I thought we had good relations with these people. I thought we were friends.”

“What other incident, sir?” Joe asked Augustino.

“Just drive the Director to the Hill. Follow me,” the captain said after a pause.

Augustino led the way in his jeep, but all traffic leaving the lot for the highway had to pass over a narrow cattle guard. Joe stopped for incoming cars while the jeep went ahead. As always when they were alone, Oppy sat up front with Joe. He tapped on the dash impatiently, as if a herd of morons were holding him back. Word of the dance had spread. From Santa Fe, open buses dropped off tourists, who hurried on foot across the cattle guard. Joe recognized a short figure with a camera and binoculars around his neck from the bar of the La Fonda, the New Yorker named Harry Gold.

Joe dug into his pocket and gave Oppy what looked like a wire-mesh button. “That’s a microphone Augustino put in your house while you were gone. It’s time you knew what’s going on around you.”

Oppy held the microphone up to the light of the windshield as if he were examining some curious artifact.

“It was hidden,” Joe said. “It wasn’t put there for your protection. He’s watching you, he’s after you.”

“I know.” Oppy’s voice had fallen to a whisper. He turned the tiny microphone over and over.

“Tell General Groves,” Joe said. “Tell the general that his head of intelligence thinks you’re a Red spy.”