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fist against the window.

  Looking behind her, seeing the angry eyes of the man who held on, Sarah

  worked the transmission into

  reverse. She accelerated, the rear end of the Ford smashing into the

  motorcycles, her body lurching as she stomped on the brakes. She forgot

  the clutch; the engine died. The man still hung on, hammering against the

  window. She depressed the clutch with her left foot, working the key

  again. The engine wasn't catching. She could hear gunfire, shots pinging

  against the hood of the truck. She sucked in her breath, almost screaming;

  there was a smashing sound, of glass. She saw what the bullet had hit—the

  right-hand outside mirror was gone.

  She tried the key again, murmuring, "Please—start— please!"

  The engine rumbled to life and she put the stick into first; then as she

  started downward pressure on the gas, she popped the clutch, the truck

  lurching ahead under her. She glanced into the rear-view—the bikes were a

  mass of twisted metal behind her, jammed into the trees like paper clips

  into a box.

  The man clinging beside her was still hammering on the glass. Another of

  the Brigands threw himself toward the hood. Sarah cut the wheel hard

  right, and the man slid away.

  There was more gunfire, the window behind her head spider-webbing with a

  bullet hole, but not shattering.

  She kept driving, the man behind her hammering on the glass with his head

  now, screaming at her. She had to gel away. A stray bullet could hit the

  gasoline in the back of the truck, could kill her—and what would happen to

  Michael and Annie.

  She couldn't roll down the window to shoot the man. Instead, she

  sideswiped the Ford into the trees, and the man screamed so loudly she

  could hear it distinctly.

  There was red blood smeared against the driver's-side

  window now as she upshifted and started away; men, visible in the outside

  mirror on the driver's side, were running behind her, firing. But she

  didn't think they would catch her. ,

  After leading the Brigands off, she returned for Michael and Annie. Then

  she checked the gasoline. It would be enough to get them to Tennessee, to

  the Mulliner farm, or close enough at least, she judged.

  The children, for the last ten minutes, had been wrapped in the blankets

  found in the back of the truck. They were sitting in the truck cab, naked

  under the blankets, the heat running full.

  She picked up Sam's saddle and tossed it inside the truck bed, then did

  the same with Tildie's saddle.

  She walked over to the animals, hugged Tildie at the neck, and stroked

  Sam's forehead between the dark eyes. "I love you guys," she whispered,

  kissing Tildie's muzzle, then slipping her bridle. She slipped Sam's

  bridle, then swatted both horses on the rumps, sending them off aiong the

  shoreline. She looked after them for an instant, manes cutting the wind,

  tails high. She turned away and cried.

  The air felt almost warm to her. The wind lashed back her hair as the

  borrowed motorcycle rumbled between her legs, her body leaning into it as

  she navigated a tight turn, and read a sign, water-stained and half

  knocked down. There had been a museum there; it was now a barracks.

  Natalia gunned the Kawasaki ahead. The response didn't seem like that of

  Rourke's bike. Rourke, she thought.

  She wondered if he had found them yet. Were they back in the Retreat,

  picking up their lives together? And Paul—she smiled. He was a good man, a

  good friend to them both.

  "Both," she repeated into the wind, not hearing it because of the

  slipstream. Words like both, or us—they were meaningless to her now.

  The shore of Lake Michigan seemed remarkably peace­ful to her—she watched

  the smallish whitecaps far off beyond the parkways, liking her view, but

  sorry for it. She squinted her eyes tight shut, then opened them,

  realizing how tired she was. She had not wanted to stay with the Soviet

  troops who had found her with Paul. She had driven with them toward Gary,

  Indiana, then

  borrowed the motorcycle, taking something called "Sky­way" and winding her

  way toward South Lake Shore Drive through what remained of Chicago. The

  buildings stood, but not a tree grew, not a blade of grass; not a dog

  yelped in the streets. There were no children. The neutron bombing had

  seen to that.

  She followed the drive north, toward the museum that Varakov so

  religiously preserved, despite the fact that her uncle used it as his

  headquarters. And the KGB head­quarters were there as well. She wondered,

  almost absently, if Rozhdestvenskiy had arrived yet from the Soviet Union,

  to replace her late husband. There had been rumors that he had, and

  unconfirmed though they had been, she hadn't doubted them.

  She almost missed the turnoff, left into the small drive past the museum;

  not bothering to stop, she slowed so the guards could identify her.

  She made a left onto the southbound drive, then a fast left into the

  museum parking lot, past more guards. The guards saluted, Natalia only

  nodding.

  She parked the bike at the foot of the museum steps, dismounting as she

  let down the stand. She ran her hands across her face, through her hair.

  "Major Tiemerovna . . . you are—"

  "Alive." She smiled, looking at the face that belonged to the voice. It

  was that of a young corporal, a frequent sentry at the museum. "Thank you

  for caring." She smiled again. "Please, make arrangements to return this

  motorcycle to Captain Konstantin with the forces in Gary, Indiana; it was

  a loan."

  "Yes, Comrade Major." The younger man saluted. She nodded, gesturing

  toward her clothes, then started up the steps, two at a time, the pistols

  shaking in the holsters

  against her hips; the gun barrels with the American Eagles on them had

  elicited raised eyebrows on her comrades in Indiana. She smiled thinking

  about that. A gift given in friendship—she would use them from now on.

  She stopped at the height of the steps to look at the sun, appearing

  reddish orange over the lake.

  How long would from now on be? she wondered. She thought of Rourke, and

  she shook her head, tossing her hair back as she moved through the

  brass-looking doors into the museum; then she started across the vast main

  hall. She saw the figures of the mastodons that her uncle seemed so

  obsessed with watching, studying. And beyond them, on the small mezzanine,

  where she had thought she would find him, he stood, staring—at the

  mastodons.

  There were men and women moving about the main hall, office workers,

  messengers. Ignoring them, she shouted, running now, past the mastodons,

  "Uncle Ishmael!"

  The face turned toward her as she called again "Uncle!" She saw his thick

  lips forming into a smile, his arms outstretching, his uniform blouse

  opening. And as his arms expanded toward her and she took the mez­zanine

  steps two at a time, running, his jacket opened wider, revealing the

  potbelly he had always had ever since her first remembrance of him—like a

  father. And like a daughter, she c
ame into his arms, hugging his neck,

  feeling the strength of his arms around her.

  "Natalia Anastasia," he murmured.

  "Uncle." And she held him tightly.

  "You are well, child?" he asked, folding her in his right arm, turning to

  stare across the museum's

  great hall.

  She stood beside him. "Yes, Uncle—I am well."

  "The storm—when I heard that our troops found you, my heart—if an old

  man's heart can sing, then mine did," he said, not looking at her.

  She studied his face.

  "When I did not receive word from Chambers, the American president, I was

  frightened. For you."

  "John Rourke flew all of us out of Florida, Uncle; he helped Paul

  Rubenstein find his parents. We took off just as—"

  "Just as the final tremor hit. Thank—" He looked at her and laughed. "Yes,

  thank Lenin's ghost, child." And he laughed again. "That man, the mole

  agent who accompanied you when our troops found you, I assume he was Paul

  Rubenstein, the young Jew?"

  "Yes, Uncle," she answered, her voice low, looking away. "I couldn't—"

  "Betray a friend? I would not have expected you to, child. But I need to

  know. It is important. Is it the young—"

  "Yes. It was Paul Rubenstein," she told him, fishing in her bag for her

  cigarettes, finding one, then a lighter, working the lighter, and then

  inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs.

  "Such a bad habit—this smoking. You do it more since the death of

  Karamatsov."

  "I know." She smiled, exhaling the smoke through her nostrils, watching it

  hang on the air for a moment, then begin to dissipate.

  "You may see Rourke again—soon. Does this distress your

  "He's been captur—"

  "Captured? Hardly. I think he is more ghost than man, sometimes. No. But I

  must speak with this man of yours."

  She felt her hand trembling as she touched the end of the cigarette to her

  lips, inhaling the smoke. "He is not—"

  "The wrong phrase, then." Varakov smiled. "Can you find Rourke for me?"

  "Uncle, I—"

  "I would not ask if it were not of vital importance. I need someone who

  has honor, someone who—I will explain it all to you later, Natalia. You

  cannot find him?"

  "I do not know where to look, Uncle," she answered. "The storm—he went

  into it, to search for his wife and children—"

  "Alone. And he sent this Rubenstein with you, to care for-you?"

  "Yes. I tried to tell him I could—"

  "It matters little, child, to a man who loves a woman, that she can care

  for herself, perhaps better under some circumstances than he could care

  for her^ or have her cared for. He did what I would have done. He has two

  lives, and is loyal to them both. He pursued one while he sent the other

  of his two lives under the care of this man who seems to be his best

  friend. He should be Russian, this Rourke."

  "I wish he were." She smiled, then looked away.

  Her uncle, Natalia not looking at him as he spoke, said, "You will give me

  as complete a description as possible of Rubenstein, of the vehicle he

  drove—"

  "A motorcycle—like Rourke's, only blue."

  "A motorcycle—only blue, yes. And the direction in which he would be

  traveling. Even now Rozhdestvenskiy

  is rerouting my retreating troops, forming a strike force. I must talk

  with this Rubenstein in order to find Rourke. He has a place where he

  operates from—and this Jew can find it for me. I must talk with Rourke."

  "Why?" She looked at her uncle then.

  "You must trust me—that Rubenstein will not be harmed, nor will Rourke.

  And while my men search for this young man, I have a job for you. It is

  perhaps the most dangerous mission you have ever had."

  "Where must I go, Uncle?"

  "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 documents. 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 shifts 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-attitude

  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 de
cided. If Rourke had designed it, it

  was—Rubenstein looked up; a helicopter, American but with a Soviet star

  stenciled over it, was passing low along the highway, coming up fast

  behind him.

  "Holy shit!" 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 glasses

  back off his nose. "Damn it!"

  The helicopter was directly above him, hovering. Rubenstein started to

  reach for his pistol to fire, but the machine pulled away, vanishing 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 massive open doors of the formerly U.S. machine.