with which John Rourke's infrequent life at home had provided her.
She watched the valley, the impromptu-appearing Brigand encampment there,
pickup trucks sheltered with tarps, and motorcycles, these, too,
covered—covered better than her children.
The sleet had begun to stream down from thegray-blue skies more than two
hours earlier. Sarah had quickly led the horses—the children mounted on
her husband's horse, Sam—up and away from the low valley now below her.
For she had seen the Brigands already, heard their vehicles, their
laughter and shouts, felt the fear they always made her feel. She had
tethered Sam and Tildie, then wrapped the children in their blankets and
in hersas well. Now she sat, huddled in an incongruously feminine woolen
jacket, on two saddle blankets spread over the bare rock. She was freezing
with the cold.
She looked away from the Brigand camp below. There were perhaps a dozen of
them, a small force by comparison to some she had seen, almost
encountered. She looked instead at the faces of Michael and Annie, trying
to remember the last time she had seen either child really play. Not on
the offshore island where they had hidden from the Soviet troops in
Savannah. But at the Mulliner farm. The children had played there. Mary
Mulliner had ...
Sarah looked down at herself, the rifle across her blue-jeaned thighs. She
had worn a dress at the Mulliner farm much of the time, slept in a warm
bed at night, worn a nightgown. The children—they had run with the dog
Mary kept, forgetting the times they'd run from wild dogs.
There was Mary's son; he fought with the Resistance against the Soviet
Army. And the Resistance would have ways of reaching Army Intelligence. If
John had gone to Texas near the Louisiana border, as the intelligence man
in Savannah had told her, then Mary's son would have a way of contacting
John, of letting him know. . . .
She hugged her knees close to her chin, watching the faces of her
children; there was little happines in them. But there would be happiness
again.
Suddenly, desperately, she wanted to be rid oi her rifle, rid of her war
of nerves with every strange sound in the night, rid of the worry.
Her eyes closed, she imagined herself, in her borrowed dress, living at
the Mulliner farm, living like a person again.
She opened her eyes, gazing down at the valley. The Brigands—they would
rob, kill, rape her if they guessed her presence. But they would leave
eventually. If she
turned north, despite the storm, she could reach Mt, Eagle, Tennessee in a
matter of days. Texas was farther away than that—farther away. Sarah
Rourke closed her eyes again, trying to forget
the Brigands and see the faces of her children, playing.
But instead, in her mind all she could see was the face of
her husband, John Thomas Rourke.
"These are all the reports, Catherine; there is nothing fresh from the
radio room?"
"There is nothing fresh from the communications center, Comrade General,"
the young woman answered him.
Varakov looked up from the sheaves of open file folders littering his
desk, into Catherine's young eyes. "I love the way, girl, that you correct
me—communications center it is, then." He slammed his fist—heavily and
slowly—down on the last of the file folders he'd opened, then stared at
the desk. Nothing concretely showed that Natalia, his niece, was safe.
"Comrade General?"
Ishmael Varakov looked up at the young secretary again. "Yes, I worry over
Major Tiemerovna. I would worry over you, too, I think because I tend to
feel like everyone's father. When one reaches my age, girl, he feels that
way. You may, too, someday. Now leave me. You have,"—he looked at the
watch on his tree limb-sized wrist—"you have gone with little sleep for
three days, I think. Each time that I call you, you are here— and that is
impossible if you go off duty to sleep. You will
be of no use as my secretary in the hospital. You are off duty for
twenty-four hours. Go and sleep, Catherine." Varakov felt mildly proud of
himself for remembering her name.
"But, Com—"
She didn't finish what she started to say, and as he looked at her, she
averted her eyes downward, her long-fingered hands with the plain nails
clutching the steno pad in front of her at the waistline of her skirt.
"You mean well—to help me. It is more than you do your duty; you are a
friend, Catherine. And that is too valuable a commodity to waste. Sleep—I
order you that. You will obey me."
She stood very straightly—too straight to be comfortable, Varakov
thought—then answered him. "Yes, Comrade General."
"You are a good person—go." He looked down at his desk, hearing her
too-low heels clicking across the museum floor. He looked up after her
once; her skirt was still too long. He would mention it again to Natalia
to tell the girl. It would be better for a woman to mention such a thing.
"Natalia," he whispered.
Was she alive?
As best he could piece together from the fragmentary reports of the
Florida evacuation, Natalia had been with Rourke, working to save the last
of the refugees near Miami. The last Soviet report had indicated seeing
Natalia and Rourke on the field with a group of older American men and
women. Minutes after that, according to high-altitude observation planes,
the final shock wave had apparently taken place, the Florida peninsula had
broken up and—
Varakov hammered his fist down on the desk, stood
up, awkwardly leaned across the desk in his office-without-walls, and
stuffed his white-stockinged feet into his shoes.
His uniform blouse still open, he walked toward the main hall of the
museum, his feet hurting as they always did when he walked. "The soldier's
curse," he murmured, stopping not quite halfway across the main hall to
look at the figures of the mastodons, fighting. He watched them.
How huge they were, how powerful—all once, long ago.
He snorted, shaking his head, still standing there, not walking. She
should be safe—she had been with—
"Comrade General!"
Varakov turned, staring. A man was standing on the mezzanine balcony,
staring down either at him or at the figures of the mastodons. "Comrade
General!"
The man was already starting down the gently winding staircase to
Varakov's left, starting toward him, moving with the grace of an athlete,
taking the stairs effortlessly in his comparative youth.
Varakov heard his own lips murmur, "Colonel Nehe-miah
Rozhdestvenskiy—aagh—"
"I was looking for you, Comrade General!"
Varakov did not answer; the man was still halfway across the length of the
natural history museum's great hall and Varakov would not shout.
Rozhdestvenskiy slowed his easy jog, stopping and standing at attention, a
boyish smile across his lips, his blond hair tousled, a lock of it falling
across his forehead. Varakov thought the man looked as though he had
himself sewed into his
uniform each morning.
"You did not think, perhaps, to search for me in my
office? Or is that not covered in the KGB training school?"
Rozhdestvenskiy smiled, still standing more or less at attention, saying,
"Comrade General—you are as noted for your wit as you are for your
brilliant stratagems."
"That was not an answer to my question," Varakov said flatly, then turned
to study the figures of the mastodons. "You have come to replace
Karamatsov as head of the American branch of KGB. Arid you have come to
tell me where the military and the KGB will draw the proverbial line.
That is correct?"
He heard the voice behind him. "Yes, Comrade General—that is correct. The
Politburo has decided—"
"I know what the Politburo has decided," Varakov told him evenly. "That
the KGB should have greater authority here, and that you, as Karamatsov's
best friend in life should be his successor in death. That KGB will have
the final word—not the military."
'That is correct, Comrade General."
Varakov turned around, slowly, facing the vastly younger and slightly
taller man.
Rozhdestvenskiy continued speaking. "In matters that strictly involve the
military, of course, yours will be the final word, Comrade General. But in
matters where the KGB-"
"In any matters," Varakov interrupted, "I am sure there will be KGB
involvement, will there not?"
"So many incidents have unforeseen political ramifications, Comrade
General—it may be difficult to avoid. May I smoke?"
"Yes—you may burn if you wish." Varakov nodded, half-wishing the man
would. He watched as Rozhdestvenskiy took from under his uniform tunic a
silver cigarette
case, the^ cigarettes in it looking more American than Russian; then a
lighter that perfectly matched the case, and Ht the cigarette in its
steady flame. The new KGB colonel—the new Karamatsov, Varakov thought—like
the man he replaced, was too reminiscent of a Nazi for Varakov to feel
remotely comfortable around him. SS—the perfect physical specimen, the
blond-haired superman—only this one was a Marxist rather than a National
Socialist. "And what is your first order of business, Colonel?"
"Two matters are pressing, Comrade General. Perhaps not of the greatest
importance, but something which must be accomplished. We do not know,"
"I thought the KGB knew everything." Varako smiled, starting to walk
around the figures of the mastodons, still inspecting them as if they
were his troops.
Rozhdestvenskiy smiled when Varakov glanced at him "Hardly, Comrade
General—but to know everything is our goal. No—this is a rather esoteric
matter, perhaps; one with which you are conversant, I am sure. It is the
matter of the mysterious Eden Project and what il actually was or is.
Shortly before leaving our headquar ters in Moscow, I learned of the
efforts of a heroic Soviel agent. He had stolen some information regarding
th< Eden Project and information regarding other matters a; well, things
which were held at the highest security levels in what was the United
States. Because of the sensitive nature of the information, he was
bringing it to Moscov personally. When the war broke out—"
"Yes—do you recall? I believe it was Napoleon, wasn'i it? A messenger
reportedly came to him. Napoleon reac the message and proclaimed something
to the effect: rM) God, peace has broken out!' It was something like
that.'
office? Or is that not covered in the KGB training school?"
Rozhdestvenskiy smiled, still standing more or less at attention, saying,
"Comrade General—you are as noted for your wit as you are for your
brilliant stratagems."
"That was not an answer to niy question," Varakov said flatly, then turned
to study the figures of the mastodons. "You have come to replace
Karamatsov as head of the American branch of KGB. Anti you have come to
tell me where the military and the KGB will draw the proverbial line.
That is correct?"
He heard the voice behind him. "Yes, Comrade General—that is correct. The
Politburo has decided—"
" know what the Politburo has decided,' Varakov told him evenly. "That
the KGB should have greater authority here, and that you, as Karamatsov's
best friend in life should be his successor in death. That KGB will have
the final word—not the military."
"That is correct, Comrade General."
Varakov turned around, slowly, facing the vastly younger and slightly
taller man.
Rozhdestvenskiy continued speaking. "In matters that strictly involve the
military, of course, yours will be the final word, Comrade General. But in
matters where the KGB—"
"In any matters," Varakov interrupted, ctI am sure there will be KGB
involvement, will there not?"
"So many incidents have unforeseen political ramifications, Comrade
General—it may be difficult to avoid. May I smoke?"
"Yes—you may burn if you wish." Varakov nodded, half-wishing the man
would. He watched as Rozhdestvenskiy took from under his uniform tunic a
silver cigarette
lighter that perfectly matched the case, and lit the cigarette in its
steady flame. The new KGB colonel—the new Karamatsov, Varakov thought—like
the man he replaced, was too reminiscent of a Nazi for Varakov to feel
remotely comfortable around him. SS—the perfect physical specimen, the
blond-haired superman—only this one was a Marxist rather than a National
Socialist. "And what is your first order of business, Colonel?"
"Two matters are pressing, Comrade General. Perhaps not of the greatest
importance, but something which must be accomplished. We do not know."
"I thought the KGB knew everything." Varako smiled, starting to walk
around the figures of the mastodons, stil] inspecting them as if they
were his troops.
Rozhdestvenskiy smiled when Varakov glanced at him "Hardly, Comrade
General—but to know everything is our goal. No—this is a rather esoteric
matter, perhaps; one with which you are conversant, I am sure. It is the
matter of the mysterious Eden Project and what ii actually was or is.
Shortly before leaving our headquar ters in Moscow, I learned of the
efforts of a heroic Soviel agent. He had stolen some information regarding
th« Eden Project and information regarding other matters as well, things
which were held at the highest security levels in what was the United
States. Because of the sensitive nature of the information, he was
bringing it to Moscow personally. When the war broke out—"
"Yes—do you recall? I believe it was Napoleon, wasn'i it? A messenger
reportedly came to him. Napoleon reac the message and proclaimed something
to the effect: rM) God, peace has broken out!' It was something like
that.'
"Yes, something like that, Comrade General." Rozh-destvenskiy nodded.
"This agent—what word did he bring you?" Varakov felt himself smile.
"Surely not that peace had broken out.
"He brough
t word of precisely where duplicate files on
the Eden Project were hidden, in addition to the first
.copy files which were destroyed during the bombing oi
the Johnson Space Center in Texas. There is now
renewed hope that—"
"You hope for that then. I have more pressing matters than some American
defense project so obscure that—"
"I know what you hope." Rozhdestvenskiy nodded. "As the wife of my
lifelong friend Colonel Karamatsov, the life of Major Tiemerovna is my
concern as well. Surely in all the troop movements from the East Coast of
the continent there has been some word—"
"Nothing," Varakov answered sincerely. "She was last seen helping in the
evacuation of Florida at an airfield, only moments before the major
earthquake struck and a high-altitude observation plane photographed the
beginning of the Florida peninsula's collapse into the ocean."
"She was with the American agent, Rourke, was she not, Comrade General?"
Rozhdestvenskiy asked. Is he trying to sound innocent, Varakov asked
himself, realizing that for an instant the charming, handsome, blond
officer had penetrated his defenses, made him feel there was something of
a genuine concern for Natalia's welfare.
"I believe so—but that is only from a—" he began defensively.
Rozhdestvenskiy cut him off. "A reliable report, I
believe, Comrade General? This other matter to which I hope to attend—I
confess both a personal and professional interest in the safe return of
your niece. The major may be able to aid me in locating the war criminal
Rourke—"
"War criminal?" Varakov repeated, without really thinking.
"Surely, the assassination of the head of the American KGB by this Rourke
is a war crime, Comrade General. I understand he was a physician before
going into the employ of the American Central Intelligence Agency."
Varakov picked his words—carefully—for the first time realizing what kind
of man he truly dealt with. "It is my understanding that this Dr. Rourke
had left the CIA sometime before the war. I do not really concern myself
with him. I belive his major preoccupation is searching for his wife and