Part 11 (1/2)
”Into Rozhdestvenskiy's private office. Walk with me and we shall discuss it.”
Her palms sweated as she stubbed out tbe cigarette in a pedestal ashtray, then followed him slowly-because his feet;hurt, she could tell-down the steps.
As he leaned back in his chair, the telephone cradled beside his left ear, against his shoulder, Nehemiah Rozh-destvenskiy studied his face in the reflection of the mirror opposite his desk. He studied the toes of his shoes; they sparkled.
”Yes,” he answered into the receiver. ”Yes, Comrade. ... I cannot hear you. . . . The connection is ... yes-now. Work goes ahead on the Womb construction. ... I have already begun martialing forces to restart the factories needed. . . . No, Comrade, I have not made copies of the Eden Project doc.u.ments. Should they fall into the wrong hands . . .” He coughed, covering up, he hoped, the fact that he had been about to interrupt Anatol Tporich, the supreme head of the KGB. ”No, Comrade. A courier even now brings to your offices a copy of the abstract and my initial report of the findings. There can be no mistake. The factories will work four six-hour s.h.i.+fts to keep the laborers and technicians fresh.
They will be housed in the factories and not allowed outside contact... .
. And-” He coughed again, to cover another interruption. ”Yes, Comrade-only KGB personnel . . . No, Comrade-not Major Tiemerovna. I agree that-her loyalties may lie-** Tporich was lecturing him about security and Rozhdestvenskiy disliked anyone lecturing him on a subject at which he himself was so expert. ”I will be constantly vigilant, Comrade.
... am losing your voice, Comrade!” There was much static. High-att.i.tude bombers were being used as communications relays for overseas radio transmissions with all satellites down or out of service since the Night of the War. ”There ... I hear you. Yes, Comrade.” Rozhdestvenskiy lit a cigarette, studying his gleaming teeth in the mirror for a moment as he did. ”Yes. ... I realize, Comrade, how little time remains. The Womb will be ready. . . . This I swear as a loyal member of the party.”
The line clicked off, dead.
Rozhdestvenskiy studied the abstract of the Eden Project again. It was clear, concise, but incomplete. He needed more information. But he had not told Tporich that. He would find out what he needed to know in time. He had to, in order to live.
And to live-he had always felt-was all. After life, there was nothing.
Rubenstein felt better. He was making better time. The weather was almost warm again as he moved through Kentucky, nearing the Tennessee line, the Harley eating the miles since he had made the stop near the strategic fuel reserve of which Rourke had told him.
There was slush, heavy slush at the higher elevations. And in case the temperature dropped with evening, he wanted to get as far south as possible. If he pressed, he could get near the Georgia line and be well toward Savannah by nightfall. By now, Rourke should be crisscrossing the upper portion of the state and into the Carolinas, looking for Sarah and the children. Perhaps-Rubenstein fell himself smile at the thought-perhaps Rourke had already found them. Should he, Rubenstein, start for the Retreat?
He should follow the plan, he decided. If Rourke had designed it, it was-Rubenstein looked up; a helicopter, American but with a Soviet star stenciled over it, was pa.s.sing low along the highway, coming up fast behind him.
”Holy s.h.i.+t!” Rubenstein bent low over the machine, running out the Harley to full throttle. He had almost forgotten about the Russians; and what .were they doing? ”Joy riding,” he snapped, releasing the handlebar a moment to push his wire-rimmed gla.s.ses back off his nose. ”d.a.m.n it!”
The helicopter was directly above him, hovering. Rubenstein started to reach for his pistol to fire, but the machine pulled away, vanis.h.i.+ng up ahead of him.
Rubenstein braked the Harley, glancmg to his right; there was a dirt road, little more than a track. He wondered if he could take it. Should he? The helicopter was coming back, toward him, and Rubenstein had no choice. He wrenched the bike into a hard right, sliding across the slushy highway toward the dirt road beyond, jumping the bike over a broad flat low rock.
As his hands worked the controls, the bike came down hard under him, and throttled up to take the incline with some speed as he started up the dirt track.
There was a loudspeaker sounding Behind him. ”Paul Rubenstein. You are ordered to stop your machine. You are ordered to stop and lay down your arms. You will not be harmed.”
Rubenstein glanced skyward, at the helicopter almost directly over him.
He bounced the bright blue Harley up over a ridge of dirt and onto a board bridge. There was a second helicopter now, joining the pursuit.
The loudspeaker again. ”You will injure yourself if you pursue this course of action. We mean you no harm.” The voice was heavily accented. ”You are ordered to surrender!”
”Eat it!” Rubenstein shouted up to the helicopter, the downdraft of the rotor blades making his voice come back to him. Ahead of him he could see the second helicopter, hovering low, too low over the road where it widened. He could see uniformed troopers in the ma.s.sive open doors of the formerly U.S. machine.
He heard the Russian voice again on the loudspeaker. ”Paul Rubenstein.
This is by order of General Varakov; you are to stop immediately and lay down your arms.”
Rubenstein spotted what Rourke had told him once was a deer trail; it looked the same. He wrenched the bike into a hard left, onto the deer trail, the branches cracking against his face and body as he forced the machine through. The path was b.u.mpier than the dirt road he had just left.
”Paul Rubenstein . . . you are ordered to-”
He looked up, cursing under his breath, then looked ahead of him. A deadfall tree lay across the path. He started to brake, and the Harley skidded from under him. Rubenstein threw himself clear, hitting the ground hard.
He pushed himself to his feet, the Harley lost somewhere in the trees. He started to run, s.n.a.t.c.hing at the battered High Power under his jacket. He stopped at the tree line, snapping off two fast shots toward the nearest helicopter; the machine backed off. He had lost sight of the other one after heading onto the deer path.
Machine-gun fire was coming at him, hammering into the ground and the trees ten yards behind him as he ran, swatting away the tree branches that snapped at his face. Pine boughs still laden with snow pelted him, was.h.i.+ng wet snow across his face. The machine-gun fire was edging closer and he dropped to his knees, wheeling, firing the High Power in rapid, two-shot semiautomatic bursts.
The helicopter backed off.
”Son of a gun.” He smiled, pus.h.i.+ng himself to his feet, turning to run again.
Three Russian soldiers blocked the path. The other helicopter, he realized, had landed its men.
Rubenstein started to bring the pistol on line to fire, but something hammered at the back of his neck and he fell forward, the gun dropping from his grip.
Hands reached down to him; voices spoke to him in Russian. Rubenstein rolled onto his back, his left foot snapping up and out, into the crotch of one of the Russians; the man doubled over.
Rubenstein reached up, s.n.a.t.c.hing hold of a fistful of uniform, hauling himself up to his knees as he dragged the soldier down, his left fist smas.h.i.+ng upward, into the face. Then he was on his feet, running. Someone tackled him; he went down, the ground slapping hard against him.
Another man was on top of him, holding him. Rubenstein snapped his left elbow back, found something hard against it, and heard a moan and what sounded like a curse despite the language barrier.
He pushed himself up, wheeling, his left swinging out, catching the tip of a chin. A man. fell back under his blow.
Rubenstein wheeled again. He saw the two bunched-together fists swinging toward him like a baseball bat, felt the pain against the side of his neck, then there was nothing but darkness and a warm feeling.
John Rourke squinted against the light, his belly aching, a sudden stabbing pain in his left upper arm. The pain was familiar-the arm aching like a bad tooth. He moved that arm, but it wouldn't move well. And when he opened his eyes, his vision was blurred. His other limbs didn't work when he told them to. He fell, feeling something tight around bis neck, choking him, feeling bands on his shoulders, moving him.
A voice. ”John . . . John. I told you the last time, don't try to stand up. You can't walk; don't you know that by now? Thanksgiving's almost past. I'm sorry I couldn't give you any turkey; you've been throwing up everything I give you. But tomorrow's Christmas and then it'll all be over.”
Rourke shook his head, murmuring, ”I like turkey- Thanksgi- Christmas?”
”I'll help you onto the cot.” Above him a woman's face smiled.
”Strong,” he muttered, feeling her hands under his armpits. He wanted to help her, very badly because the floor was cold under him. Naked? His hands-he squinted to look at them. Tied together. So were his ankles. The thing around his neck choked him again.
”Vm sorry, John. That rope around your neck-it got caught on the edge of the cot. I'll fix it.” The pressure around his neck subsided.
”Thanks-Martha,” he murmured. Martha? Martha Bogen? ”Coffee,” he shouted, his own voice sounding odd to him, his tongue feeling dry and thick and hot.
”Yes. You asked the same question the last two times I gave you an injection. I drugged the coffee with chloral hydrates-I just had to give you so much of it it made you sick. And I gave myself an apomo.rphine shot after I drank the first cup. I just threw it up. So it didn't bother me. I just made myself throw up. You are very forgetful, John.” The voice cooed, good-naturedly.
”Sor-” Why was he sorry? he wondered. Because he was forgetful? He couldn't remember why he was sorry.
There was another needle plunged into his arm, and the pain was there again.
Why was she giving him two shots? He tried to think- if he could think.
The nausea-from the chloral hydrate she had said. But not the shots. ”Not the shots,” he verbalized.
”It'll be all right, John. I'll give you the antidote and when I do in thirty seconds you'll be just fine-honestly. And then we can hold each other's hands maybe and watch when the fireworks start and the mountains start to crash down on us. We'll die together. Neither one of us will ever be alone again, John.” He saw her face; it looked distorted to him, like something seen through a tube with the lighting wrong. She was smiling.