Bomb (16 page)

Hall got the sample into place, and Rossi's machine bombarded it with neutrons. They figured out how many of the neutrons hit uranium atoms and caused fission. This was part of the process of determining exactly how much U-235 would be needed to make a uranium bomb.

Impressed with his youngest team member, Rossi recommended Hall for even more important work. And in the summer of 1944, Oppenheimer needed all the help he could get.

*   *   *

T
HE CRISIS BEGAN THAT SPRING,
remembered the mathematician Stanislaw Ulam. Ulam was working in his office when he heard footsteps and turned toward his open door.

“I saw Robert Oppenheimer running excitedly down a corridor holding a small vial in his hand,” Ulam said. “Doors opened, people were summoned, whispered conversations ensued, there was great excitement.”

Ulam ran into the hall and was told that Oppenheimer was holding the first samples of plutonium to arrive at Los Alamos. It was just a few grams, but it was enough to start some important experiments.

The plan for the uranium bomb was to fire one lump of uranium at another inside a gun barrel. Oppenheimer's scientists assumed this same gun assembly method would work for plutonium. But experiments proved them wrong.

Fission occurred even faster than expected in plutonium, causing a chain reaction to begin more quickly than in uranium. So, in a gun assembly bomb, the chain reaction would start even
before
the two lumps of plutonium came completely together. Enough energy would be released to blow the plutonium apart—but only with about as much force as a normal bomb. The critical mass of plutonium would not stay together long enough to create a massive atomic explosion.

“The terrible shock, and an inescapable one, was that the gun assembly method could not be used for plutonium,” John Manley remembered. “A gun just would not assemble plutonium fast enough.”

What made this such a serious crisis was that Oak Ridge
might
be able to produce enough U-235 for one atomic bomb by the middle of 1945. If Oppenheimer was going to make more than one bomb—and Groves was
demanding
that he do so—the bombs would have to be made with plutonium, which was easier to produce that U-235. The bottom line: Oppenheimer now had to figure out a whole new design for an atomic bomb.

The timing only added to the pressure. Allied forces landed in France in June 1944 and began battling east across French territory toward Germany. The Allies were finally winning the war—but Hitler could still turn it around by winning the race for the atomic bomb.

“The only way we could lose the war,” said physicist Philip Morrison, “was if we failed in our jobs.”

*   *   *

S
TILL EIGHTEEN,
Ted Hall was the youngest scientist at Los Alamos. By summer he'd learned the basics of the uranium bomb. Then Bruno Rossi put him to work experimenting with components of the new plutonium bomb.

The challenge of the top-secret work was thrilling. “Living conditions are still poor here and will remain so,” Hall wrote to his family, “but I would be willing to live on whale blubber alone in an igloo at the South Pole for a crack at the same job.”

Hall felt relaxed enough at Los Alamos to be himself, which meant doing things his own way. Once, late at night, a fellow physicist came into Hall's office to look for some papers. He saw a ten-foot high stack of crates in the middle of the room. On top of the leaning tower sat Hall, cross-legged, lost in thought.

“He was interested in tweaking the system,” said one scientist. “He was a natural-born rebel.”

On Sundays, Hall sometimes went on hikes or played a little Ping-Pong. But he spent most of his time off lying on the bed in his tiny room, listening to classical music and thinking. And not about science.

“I shared the general sympathy for our allies, the Soviet Union,” Hall explained. “After they were attacked, everybody knew that they were bearing the main load in the fight against Nazi Germany.”

It looked like the Germans would be defeated, but what then? Hall tried to imagine what the post-war world would be like.

“I shared a common belief that the horrors of war would bring our various leaders to their senses and usher in a period of peace and harmony,” Hall said. But what if this didn't happen? What if Americans succeeded in building atomic bombs and they were the only ones to have them? Would the United States be more likely to use atomic bombs, knowing no one else could strike back? Wouldn't the world be safer if a second major power also knew how to build atomic bombs? That way, neither country would use the bomb—knowing they'd have the bomb used on them.

“It seemed to me,” Hall said, “that an American monopoly was dangerous and should be prevented.”

Looking back at his younger self, Hall would later call himself a “rather arrogant” teenager. That helps explain why he decided to change the course of history.

“My decision about contacting the Soviets was a gradual one,” he said, “and it was entirely my own.”

TWO INSIDE

IN MID-OCTOBER 1944,
Ted Hall left Los Alamos and took the train home for two weeks of leave. He celebrated his nineteenth birthday with his parents in New York City.

The next day, October 21, Hall went to visit Saville Sax, his former college roommate. Ted found Sax at Sax's mother's small Manhattan apartment. While his mother ironed in one room, Sax led Hall to another and closed the door. In hushed voices, Hall told his friend about his decision. But, Hall wondered, how does one go about handing military secrets to the Soviet Union?

Sax had no idea. They talked over options and made a plan.

Later that day, Hall walked to the offices of a company called Amtorg, a Soviet import/export business. This was the company KGB agent Semyon Semyonov had worked for; many of the Amtorg employees doubled as Soviet spies. Hall didn't know this. It just seemed like a good place to start.

Hall entered the building and found himself in a warehouse. He saw a worker stacking boxes and approached him.

“I want to speak to someone about an important military issue,” Hall said.

The worker knew the FBI kept watch on the building. He told Hall to leave immediately.

Hall persisted, asking if there was someone else he could talk to.

The man quickly gave Hall a name, Sergei Kurnakov, along with a phone number. Then he turned back to his boxes.

Hall recognized Kurnakov's name—he was a Soviet journalist based in New York. Hall had read his articles. Was he also a secret agent for the KGB? Hall didn't know, but at least it was a lead.

Hall called the number. Kurnakov invited the young man to drop by his apartment.

*   *   *

T
HE NEXT DAY
Hall and Kurnakov sat in the Soviet journalist's living room. As soon as Hall began talking, Kurnakov realized his young guest had “an exceptionally keen mind.”

The young man was also clearly nervous, making aimless small talk and biting his nails. Kurnakov filled two small glasses with vodka. Hall downed his drink. Kurnakov poured him another.

“T. H. is nineteen years old,” Kurnakov reported to his KGB contact in New York—Kurnakov was, in fact, a spy. “Pale and slightly pimply face, carelessly dressed; you can tell his boots haven't been cleaned in a long time; his socks are bunched up around the ankles.”

Beginning to relax, Hall turned the conversation to Los Alamos. He was working there, he told Kurnakov, alongside some of the world's most famous scientists. They were trying to build a secret weapon.

Kurnakov listened, asking himself:
Can this pimply kid really be a physicist? Does he really have access to top-secret information?

Reaching for a pile of newspaper clippings, Kurnakov showed Hall an article about a new type of missile being developed by the United States. He asked if this is what Hall was working on.

“No,” Hall said. “It's much worse than that.”

Kurnakov told him to continue.

Hall said he was helping to build an atomic bomb. He was starting to explain its destructive power when Kurnakov cut him off.

“Do you understand what you are doing?” Kurnakov demanded. “What makes you think you should reveal the USA's secrets for the USSR's sake?”

“The Soviet Union is the only country that can be trusted with such a terrible thing,” said Hall. “But since we can't take it away from other countries, the USSR ought to be aware of its existence and stay abreast of the progress of experiments and construction.”

“Well,” said Kurnakov, “how do we know that you're not just an agent of the U.S. government trying to trap me?”

“You don't.”

“Why don't you just write your ideas, or whatever you want to tell us, and give it to me.”

“I've already done that.”

Hall pulled out a folder and handed it to Kurnakov. Inside was what Kurnakov described as a “neatly written report” outlining the basic scientific principles of the atomic bomb.

“Show this to any physicist,” Hall said, pointing to the papers. “He'll understand what it's about.”

Kurnakov still couldn't figure out if he was being set up by the FBI or handed the gift of a lifetime. He stepped into the next room and asked his wife to go outside and check for signs that the building was being watched. She walked around the block, seeing nothing to make her suspicious.

Kurnakov decided the potential payoff was worth the risk. He took Hall's folder, promising to check into everything and get back to Hall very soon.

Hall explained he'd be leaving in three days for Los Alamos, and, once there, would be nearly impossible to reach. Army censors read the mail and listened to the phone calls. Maybe they could use his friend Saville Sax as a courier, Hall suggested. Then he left.

Kurnakov handed Hall's folder to his wife. He put on his coat, stepped into the street, and started to walk. If American agents
were
watching the building, he figured, they'd follow him.

A few minutes later his wife walked out of the building with Hall's folder in her purse.

*   *   *

O
N HIS LAST DAY IN
N
EW
Y
ORK,
Hall went to lunch with his father and then on to Penn Station to catch his train. He was standing in the busy station, chatting with his dad, when he noticed someone watching him. It was Sergei Kurnakov.

He walked to Kurnakov. Their lowered voices were drowned out by surrounding conversations and the echo of footsteps on marble floors.

Hall's offer to provide information had been accepted by the KGB, Kurnakov said. Saville Sax would act as courier between Hall and the Soviets.

Hall boarded his train and headed west. His “neatly written report” headed east, to Moscow.

The KGB's chief of foreign intelligence, Pavel Fitin, said Hall's information “is of great interest to us.” That was a massive understatement. Top Soviet officials like Fitin lived in terror of Joseph Stalin. Anyone who angered or disappointed the Soviet dictator could wind up in a Siberian prison camp—or with a bullet in the brain. Now, after years of agonizing frustration, Fitin could boast of having a physicist not just inside the Manhattan Project, but inside Los Alamos itself.

It was pure luck, but he'd take it.

*   *   *

M
EANWHILE,
Harry Gold and his KGB contact Anatoly Yatzkov were still looking for Klaus Fuchs.

“Our principle trouble,” Gold later said, “was to decide whether Klaus, for some reason, was unable to keep the meetings if he was still in New York, or whether he had actually left New York.”

From the KGB offices in Moscow, Yatzkov learned that Fuchs had a sister named Kristel Heineman living in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She was a Communist and knew her brother was in touch with the Soviets. If a Soviet agent ever needed to reach Fuchs, secret passwords had been arranged by which the agent could make himself known to Heineman.

In early November, Gold took the bus to Cambridge and found Heineman's house. He rang the front door bell. The door was opened, Gold recalled, by “an exceedingly beautiful woman.”

“I bring you greetings from Max,” said Gold.

“Oh,” Kristel Heineman responded, “I heard Max had twins.”

“Yes, seven days ago.”

Now Heineman knew her visitor had come from the Soviets. She invited Gold inside and introduced him to her three young children. Gold asked if she knew where her brother was.

Yes, she said, he had been transferred somewhere in the Southwest United States. He'd be in Cambridge for a visit sometime around Christmas.

“So I can see him then,” Gold reported to Yatzkov. “I was so overjoyed that I stayed for lunch.”

*   *   *

T
HE MOMENT HE'D HEARD
“Southwest United States,” Gold figured Fuchs must be at Los Alamos. He was right.

When Oppenheimer realized he needed to design a new type of plutonium bomb, he'd called for extra help. Fuchs and the British team had moved from New York to Los Alamos in August 1944. Once there, Fuchs was unable to contact Gold, knowing the army listened to phone calls and read the mail. But he knew the Soviets. He knew they would find him.

Fuchs got to work and quickly became a valuable member of the Los Alamos team. “He worked days and nights,” Hans Bethe would later say. “He contributed very greatly to the success of the Los Alamos project.”

Fuchs was given a tiny Tech Area office overlooking a pond. He got there before eight every morning and stayed late into the night. At lunchtime, he stood at the pond feeding ducks, alone.

“He's all ears and no mouth,” a fellow Los Alamos physicist complained. “You talk about your work to him, but you never feel he's giving you anything back.”

After work, Fuchs walked back to his room in Bachelor Dormitory Number 102. The wife of an Italian physicist used to watch him march slowly past their window, his pale, owlish face turned down toward the muddy path. She named him “Poverino”—the pitiful one.