with sweat, though the building was comfortably air-conditioned.
‘According to this guy,’ Bicks went on, ‘a Red Army intelligence colonel got the plans from one of the scientists on the Manhattan Project team.’
‘Did he say who?’
‘He doesn’t know which scientist. That’s why I called you in. We need to find the traitor.’
‘The FBI checked them all out at the time.’
‘And most of them were security risks! There was nothing we could do. But you knew them personally.’
‘Who was the Red Army colonel?’
‘I was coming to that. You know him. His name is Vladimir Peshkov.’
‘My half-brother!’
‘Yes.’
‘If I were you, I’d suspect me.’ Greg said it with a laugh, but he was very uneasy.
‘Oh, we did, believe me,’ Bicks said. ‘You’ve been subjected to the most thorough investigation I have seen in twenty years with the Bureau.’
Greg gave him a sceptical look. ‘No kidding.’
‘Your kid’s doing well in school, isn’t he?’
Greg was shocked. Who could have told the FBI about Georgy? ‘You mean my godson?’ he said.
‘Greg, I said
Greg was annoyed, but he suppressed the feeling. He had probed the personal secrets of numerous suspects during his time in Army security. He had no right to object.
‘You’re clean,’ Bicks went on.
‘I’m relieved to hear it.’
‘Anyway, our defector insisted the plans came from a scientist, rather than any of the normal army personnel working on the project.’
Greg said thoughtfully: ‘When I met Volodya in Moscow, he told me he had never been to the United States.’
‘He lied,’ said Bicks. ‘He came here in September 1945. He spent a week in New York. Then we lost him for eight days. He resurfaced briefly then went home.’
‘Eight days?’
‘Yeah. We’re embarrassed.’
‘It’s enough time to go to Santa Fe, stay a couple of days, and come back.’
‘Right.’ Bicks leaned forward across his desk. ‘But think. If the scientist had already been recruited as a spy, why wasn’t he contacted by his regular controller? Why bring someone from Moscow to talk to him?’
‘You think the traitor was recruited on this two-day visit? It seems too quick.’
‘Possibly he had worked for them before but lapsed. Either way, we’re guessing the Soviets needed to send
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Go through them.’
‘Isn’t that your job?’
‘We’ve already done it. We didn’t find anything. We’re hoping you’ll spot something we’ve missed. I’ll sit here and keep you company, do some paperwork.’
‘It’s a long job.’
‘You’ve got all day.’
Greg frowned. Did they know . . . ?
Bicks said confidently: ‘You have no plans for the rest of the day.’
Greg shrugged. ‘Got any coffee?’
He had coffee and doughnuts, then more coffee, then a sandwich at lunchtime, then a banana mid-afternoon. He read every known detail about the lives of the scientists, their wives and families: childhood, education, career, love and marriage, achievements and eccentricities and sins.
He was eating the last bite of banana when he said: ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’
‘What?’ said Bicks.
‘Willi Frunze went to the Berlin Boys’ Academy.’ Greg slapped the file triumphantly down on the desk.
‘And . . . ?’
