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Do what we may, by your unfathomable folly, you and I are linked together in a cloudy legend, which nothing, no fact, no explanation, no truth will ever unmake or unravel.
—Haakon Chevalier
“Hoke!” said Oppenheimer warmly. “So good to see you! And Barb, you look lovely!”
“Thank you,” Haakon Chevalier replied, but Oppie detected a subtle edge in his old friend’s voice. Although the Oppenheimers’ principal residence had been at the I.A.S. for eight months now, Robert had come back to Berkeley ostensibly to confer with Ernest Lawrence, and Kitty had tagged along while Pat Sherr, back in Princeton, looked after Peter and Toni. Kitty and Oppie had decided to keep this house on Eagle Hill for just such trips, and today they were throwing a party there in order to see their Bay Area friends.
Barb gave Oppie a hug and a peck on the cheek, and she and Kitty headed off to the living room. They’d asked the Chevaliers to come over an hour before the festivities were to begin so they could have a little private time together. But, as usual, the Chevaliers were late.
“I’m willing to bet,” Oppie said, “that you haven’t had a martini as good as mine since 1943. Let me fix you one.” He headed for the kitchen, and Hoke followed, but as soon as the door was closed behind them, he put a hand on Robert’s arm. “My God, Opje, the F.B.I. hauled me into their offices. They grilled me for six hours!”
Robert’s heart jumped, and he had a flash of memory from this very room three and a half years previously: him, Hoke, the cocktail shaker, more. He held up a silencing finger and motioned for Haakon to follow him. They walked through the Spanish-style villa and came out the rear entrance—and words from that earlier meeting flashed into Oppie’s mind: “I do not feel friendly to the idea of moving information out the back door.” After passing through the garden—Kitty paid for it to be tended when they were not here—they entered a wooded area with ground covered by ivy and oak leaves. “Sorry,” said Oppie. Of course he couldn’t tell Chevalier about the Arbor Project, but there was no doubt that his clandestine activities, despite everyone’s best efforts, were attracting attention. “I suspect the house is bugged.”
“The Russians?” asked Haakon, eyes wide.
“Hoover.”
“Well, the F.B.I. is definitely concerned about something. They hauled me in, as I said. While I was there, the agents kept phoning somebody else—I couldn’t figure out who. But I recently ran into George Eltenton—you know, the chemical engineer from Shell Development—and I’ll be damned if he hadn’t been interrogated by F.B.I. agents the same day I was, and the agents he was with kept taking calls. We figured they were phoning each other to see if my story jibed with his.”
Oppie looked back at the garden flowers, everything neatly arranged. “And did it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And”—there was still a shred of hope—“what was that story about?”
“Oh, with all you’ve been up to—all that stuff in New Mexico—I doubt you’d even remember, but ...”
“Try me.”
“Well, just before you left Berkeley for there, I was—well, I was here.” He pointed back at the whitewashed villa. “Your going-away party. I asked if you happened to know Eltenton and I, well, I passed on his suggestion—his, notion, really; just a thought—that you might, you know, see your way clear to sharing some information with the Russians.”
Oppie closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I remember.”
“Well, of course, I wasn’t keen on mentioning my conversation with Eltenton, but the agents kept pressing, and so I told them.”
Oppie’s heart jumped. “I see.”
“And then they brought up your name, and, well, I had to admit I’d let you know—that is, that I’d reported to you—the idea Eltenton had mooted.”
“You told the F.B.I. that?”
“Yes. I’m sorry if—”
Oppie took a deep breath. Overhead, birds were circling. “No, no. It was the right thing to do, surely.”
“Well, good. But they just wouldn’t let up. Hour after hour. Mountain out of a molehill, if you ask me.”
Robert frowned. “I had to report that conversation we’d had in my kitchen, you know. I mean, the sort of thing Eltenton was suggesting ... well, it might have had serious implications.”
“I was just keeping you informed,” said Hoke, his tone innocent.
“Still. Of course, I kept your name out of things.”
Haakon tilted his head as if weighing this. “Funny, though. They kept insisting I’d approached three—”
“Robert!” Kitty was calling to him; she’d come out to the edge of the garden. Oppie looked back at her, scowling. “Darling,” she shouted, “the other guests are arriving! You’d better come in!”
“In a minute!” he snapped and turned back to Chevalier.
Hoke went on: “As I was saying, they kept insisting I’d approached three scientists, not just one.”
Oppie swallowed. “Really?”
“Said they had affidavits from all three of them.”
Robert was taken aback. “Did you see the affidavits?”
“Well, no.”
“Ah.”
Hoke’s voice was tentative. “But you say you kept my name out of things?”
“Yes, yes,” replied Oppie. “For many months, but ...”
“But what?”
“Well, eventually my old boss—General Groves, you must have heard his name in the news—he ordered me to tell him who it was who had approached me, and so—”
“Jesus, Robert! And you didn’t think I should know you’d done that?”
“All mail to and from the mesa—from our lab—was censored. I couldn’t possibly get word out about a sensitive matter.”
“I wrote you,” Haakon said. “I told you I couldn’t get a job because of some security bullshit. Did you get that letter?”
“Sure,” said Oppie simply.
“I didn’t have any on-going work until the Nuremberg trials, and only then because they were desperate for translators.”
“Yes, that must have been fascinating! I wanted to ask you—”
“And, for fuck’s sake, now that I’m back here, Berkeley has denied me tenure.”
“I’m—”
“Robert!” Kitty again. “You really must come in now! All the guests have arrived!”
Oppie was aware that his voice had taken on a sharp edge. “I’ll be in shortly!”
“Really, it’s rude to—”
“Christ’s sake, you miserable bitch, I said I’ll be in soon! Just mind your own goddamn fucking business!”
Even at this distance, Kitty’s shocked expression was obvious. She’d closed the door behind herself before calling out, so hopefully none of the guests had heard him just now. Oppie turned to Chevalier, but Haakon, red in the face, just shook his head and headed back toward the house.
Oppenheimer stood alone among the trees, their perfectly vertical trunks living monuments to rectitude. He patted his pockets, looking for his pipe, hoping to calm himself, but he’d left the damn thing inside.