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  sergeant, the older man with the smile, turned and looked.

  A tall officer, perhaps in his late thirties. Good-looking. She knew the

  face.

  "Major—" she gasped, feeling like a fool—and feeling trapped.

  "Comrade Major Borozeni, I stopped this truck to request papers of this

  woman. She apparently has no travel permit."

  "I, ah—" She started to lie, but saw the look of recog­nition in the

  major's eyes—and the eyes, the face, they were all familiar. She had last

  seen him, hatless, wei, swearing after her in the rain outside of

  Savannah, after she had held him at gunpoint and forced him to help her

  effect the release of the Resistance fighters.

  "I will handle this, Krasny," the major said. "Take your men aside."

  The major approached the truck cab. Standing just a yard or so from (he

  side of the door, his height was such

  that she knew he could watch her every move—if she went for her gun.

  "Sarah, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, Major—Sarah," she nodded, feeling somehow more tired than she had

  ever felt. "You caught me," she said, looking at his face.

  "I think about you—a great deal. They are lovely children. They are

  yours?"

  "Yes. They are. They had nothing to do with—"

  "Have you a husband, Sarah? I was curious."

  "Yes. I'm trying to reach a friend's farm and maybe he'll find me there."

  "Does he love you—to let you go around the country­side like this?"

  "He was away the Night of the War. He must have tried to get back. I know

  he's searching for us. I've met a man who told me—that John was still

  alive—was looking for us."

  "John—a sturdy name." He smiled. "It is my name— in Russian, of course.

  Ivan. This John—you love him?"

  "Yes," she answered.

  "Then there is nothing I can do." He smiled.

  "Major, I didn't—"

  "You have a gun under your right thigh. You would shoot me?"

  "If I had to," she said, surprised at the firmness of her voice.

  "Then you are stronger than I am. I could bring you no harm. What is the

  Americanism—weare even, now?" He turned and called out something Russian.

  Almost immediately, the ranks of men in front of her blocking the truck,

  blocking her escape, began to fan apart.

  "You're letting me—"

  "Yes. Am I not stupid, though?" He smiled.

  "I don't even know your na—"

  "Maj. Ivan Borozeni, madam . . . Sarah. Literally, at your service." He

  stepped farther back from the truck and saluted her. "One fighter to

  another, then. And what is the expression? Godspeed—you and the children."

  Sarah looked at him a moment, then whispered, so that only he could hear

  it, "I'll pray for you."

  Borozeni nodded, then smiled. "And I, you, madam."

  Sarah popped the clutch and started the truck ahead; she was crying.

  Ishmael Varakov stepped from the back of hi; limousine to walk across the

  airport runway surface. The V-STOL aircraft's engines were maddeningly

  loud, his feet ached and his belly felt constrained with his uniform

  blouse buttoned.

  &#;He walked toward a dark blue Cadillac, stopping for an instant to glance

  once again at the V-STOL aircraft. He watched as the remainder of the

  cargo was put aboard— Natalia's things.

  He started walking again, stopping beside the rear door of the Cadillac,

  the driver—an Army corporal—saluting, Varakov returning it. The driver

  opened the rear door on the driver's side and as Varakov stepped inside,

  he looked at the man. "Go talk with my driver—about women or something."

  Varakov slammed the door shut behind him.

  In the far corner of the back seat, looking frightened for the first time

  since he had seen her last as a little girl, sat Natalia Tiemerovna. Next

  to her—between himself and her—sat a young man, about Natalia's own age,

  but already with dark thinning hair above a high forehead. He wore

  glasses, wire-rimmed, and as Varakov settled his

  bulk in the seat beside him, the young man pushed the glasses off the

  bridge o( his nose.

  "What the hell do you want with me?"

  "Impertinent young man, aren't you?" Varakov smiled. "Here—if you promise

  not to shoot me with it yet.' Varakov reached into his briefcase and took

  out the worn Browning High Power that belonged toRubenstein. He rammed the

  magazine up the magazine well, then snapped back the slide of the pistol.

  He lowered the hammer over the loaded chamber and handed the pistol into

  Rubenstein's hands, which were opening and closing, balling in and out of

  fists.

  "I told you," Natalia murmured. "My uncle is a man to trust . . . not to—"

  Rubenstein looked at her and she fell silent. Then he turned to Varakov.

  "What do you want—General?" The younger man almost spat the word.

  "You don't like Russians—let me guess. But you like Natalia, my niece.

  Doesn't that strike you as odd, young man?"

  "I know her and—"

  "You would be a terrible debater. It would then follow that once you got

  to know me, you would like me, wouldn't it? Logically, I mean?" Varakov

  felt himself smile.

  Natalia laughed, a little laugh. Varakov liked her voice. It reminded him

  at times of that of her mother. "Well, will you listen to me, young man?

  For I need your help. Natalia needs your help; she doesn't know it yet.

  She is leaving here—for an extended stay."

  "Uncle?"

  "I had Catherine pack your things; they are aboard

  that aircraft out there." Varakov gestured behind him. "Everything."

  Varakov looked at Rubenstein, then past him at Natalia. "You are both so

  young. It is the young who always risk for the errors of the old—like me.

  I have learned something of paramount importance—to your friend John

  Rourke, something which I must discuss with John Rourke in person. It is

  of importance to him and—"

  "Tm not bringing John into a trap," Rubenstein snapped, his right fist

  tightening on the butt of the pistol he held.

  "Two questions. Would Natalia knowingly do Rourke harm?"

  "Of course not," Rubenstein told him.

  "And would I, if I were planning to deceive both my niece and Rourke,

  entrust Natalia to him, through you? Obviously not. That is why she goes

  with you—for that reason and for her own safety."

  "My safety . . ." Natalia began. "But—"

  "You asked no questions when I sent you to explore Rozhdestvenskiy's

  office."

  "Roz—what?" Rubenstein asked.

  "Rozhdestvenskiy, a singularly good-looking fellow, yet singularly

  unpleasant, I am afraid." Varakov looked outside the window, watching his

  driver and the driver who had brought Natalia and Rubenstein, talking; he

  wondered about what. "I need you, Mr. Rubenstein, to take Natalia, my

  niece, to wherever it is John Rourke lives—"

  "The Re—"

  "The Retreat? Yes. I believe that's the place. Then,"— and Varakov fished

  inside his case—"you will give him

  this message. I am also giving you papers of safe conduct, for yourself

  and for Rourke, but I cannot guar­antee how long my orders in such matters

  will be strictl
y enforced."

  "Uncle," Natalia began.

  "Silence, child." He looked at Rubensfein. "Can I entrust to you, sir, the

  one thing in my own life I hold most dear—her life?" Varakov extended his

  hand.

  Rubenstein hesitated a moment, glanced at Natalia, then took Varakov's

  hand. "What the hell is going on here?"

  "See? I told you you would like me, young man; I told you."

  He started out of the back seat, opening the door, hearing Natalia's voice

  behind him as he exited the car.

  "Uncle!"

  She ran around the back of the car, then came into his arms. " would not

  have let you go without saying good-by, child. I will see you again. Do

  not fear."

  "What is happening, Uncle Ishmael? What is ... that report of

  Rozhdestvenskiy, the Eden Project abstract?"

  "Be thankful you read no more of it. You will learn the details when you

  come back here with John Rourke. There is no other way."

  "Come back here with—"

  "You must, child—and when Rourke reads the letter I have sent him, he will

  want to come. If he is the man I think he is—that you think he is ... he

  is the only one." Varakov stepped back, holding his niece at arms' length.

  "You look lovely—a beautiful dress; that coat—real fur?"

  "Yes." She looked down.

  "I fear where you are going you'll have to change

  aboard the aircraft. I know little about survival retreats,

  but I don't imagine one reaches them in high heels and

  silk stockings."

  'They are nylon—silk stockings are—"

  "Yes. Nylon. Be careful." He folded his arms around

  her. There was a possibility, he knew, that he would

  never see her again.

  The noise of the rotor blades was uncomfortable, despite the protective

  muffs on his ears, and there was always the distraction of the radio

  chatter coming from other ships in the squadron. But he didn't wish lo

  lurn it off.

  Rozhdestvenskiy looked at the ground beneath him, the shadows there. Could

  Bevington, Kentucky, be far away? Could glory be much farther?

  He reviewed the plan. Land the small armada in Bev­ington, Kentucky.

  Ground troops from . . . The name of the officer? Major Borozeni. Ground

  troops from Borozeni close into the valley. Locate Morris Industries.

  Empty the factory and load the equipment aboard the cargo helicopters

  coming from the west.

  "Pilot, how long until we reach the staging area for the rendezvous with

  ground forces?"

  "Twenty-three minutes, Comrade Major Rozhdest­venskiy."

  "Twenly-three minutes," Rozhdestvenskiy repeated. The staging area, then

  Bevington, then glory—and then life, all but eternal.

  He leaned slightly back in his seat. He was perfect for the role, he

  thought; he had always looked the part of a hero of the Soviet Union.

  Rourke opened his eyes, his breathing easier, his muscles aching, his body

  tired.

  When he tried to move his arms, he could feel the aches in his forearm

  muscles. "Muscle relaxant," he whispered.

  ' He tried to move his head; it raised, and he felt the dizziness, the

  light-headedness. "Morphine," he rasped, coughing. He remembered. Martha

  Bogen had given him the muscle-relaxant block, and reduced the shot of

  morphine. Death—because he couldn't have breathed.

  He assumed he had awakened earlier than the other times—had he? He doubted

  his own ability to gauge time. He started to move his feet, his bound

  ankles, to flex his knees up. There was pain in his muscles, stiffness; he

  needed the pain and he moved his legs more, twisting his aching head from

  side to side, his neck hurting as he did. He breathed deeply—but not too

  deeply. He couldn't afford to pass out again, not with this his only

  chance.

  It was as though, he realized, he were watching him­self from a distance.

  His mind was clear enough—though holding a long train of thought was

  difficult. But his body was what seemed drunk, uncoordinated. He had

  stepped

  '

  outside of himself, he felt. He started moving his arms up from his

  abdomen and chest and into the airspace above his head.

  He heard the door, the key being turned, the woman coming.

  "No—too soon," he rasped, thick-tongued, his voice sounding odd to him.

  He could see her, coming toward him, the little black leather case in her

  hands.

  "John, looking much better. I think I'll have to give you the full shot of

  the morphine this time or else you'll get out of hand. We wouldn't want

  that." She smiled as she bent over him, the needle in her right hand.

  She squirted a little into the air, then lowered the needle toward him.

  He slammed up his knees toward her stomach, both his fists bunched

  together and hammering against the right side of her head.

  There was a short gasp like a scream and she disap­peared below the level

  of the cot. He rolled over, half-falling on top of her. He raised his

  hands to break her exposed neck; but sank forward instead, across her

  body, the rope tightening around his neck.

  He closed his eyes. . . .

  He had to urinate. He opened his eyes. She would have been evacuating him,

  he realized. She? He looked under him; Martha Bogen was stirring but still

  unconscious.

  Now able to remove the clothesline wrapped tightly around his neck, Rourke

  rolled away, pushing himself up on his hands to his knees. He rocked on

  his haunches for a long moment. He shook his head. "Morphine," he rasped.

  He tried pushing against the floor to get his feet

  under him, but fell flat onto the concrete.

  He couldn't stand.

  He looked up. There was a paper cutter in the far end of (he library

  basement. Using his hands to pull himself, and his knees to push, he

  crawled toward it.

  It seemed too far; he wanted to close his eyes. "Narcan,' he murmured

  again. The morphine was taking hold.

  She would have the Narcan to counteract it. "Antag­onist," he murmured.

  Narcan was the antagonist for morphine.

  "Paper cutter." He looked up. It was on thesmall table above him. He

  rolled the full weight of his body against it; the table turned over, the

  paper cutter clanging to the floor, the blade partially opened. He dragged

  himself toward it. Rourke reached out his wrists toward the blade and

  began to saw at the ropes. . . .

  Naked, he sat on the floor; his body smelled of soap. She had apparently

  bathed him, he realized. He tried standing, getting to his feet, falling

  forward but catching himself on the end of the cot. Martha Bogen was

  mur­muring something now, starting to come around. The basement door was

  unlocked; he remembered that it should be.

  Where was the key? He could lock her inside.

  He dropped to his knees, picking up the small leather case in his

  thick-feeling fingers. "Narcan," he murmured seeing the hypodermic needle.

  He hoped it was Narcan— not something else.

  He took the syringe; he wanted a vein for the fastest action possible. He

  plunged the needle into his flesh. He started counting the seconds. It

  should take—how<
br />
  many? He tried to remember. Thirty—thirty seconds or so before he felt it.

  Rourke dropped the needle and slumped back on the cot, nausea and cold

  flooding over him as he closed his eyes. . . .

  Rourke opened his eyes to see Martha Bogen, her hair mussed, her face

  bruised, standing over him, a needle in her right hand held like a dagger.

  "No!" Rourke punched his right fist upward into her jaw. He sat up, his

  back aching, but his hands reaching out to catch the unconscious woman

  before she hit the concrete floor.

  He swept her up into his arms, staggering for a moment under the added

  weight.

  He walked the step toward the cot and, heavily, set her down.

  "Martha," he murmured. He still had to urinate. He looked around the

  basement. There was a small door and he walked toward it, opened it—a

  bathroom. He stepped inside and relieved himself.

  He felt the cold and the nausea coming. "Narcan— more Narcan," he

  murmured, already staggering. He reached the cot, found the package of

  syringes, opened the small leather case and took a fresh syringe.

  He squatted on the floor, controlling his breathing so the Narcan wouldn't

  make him pass out. It shouldn't have been that way, he realized. It wasn^t

  theNarcan, hut the build-up of morphine in his system. He carefully found

  a spot and gave himself the injection, watching as the liquid dropped

  along the scale markings beneath the finger flange. Removing the needle,

  he sat quietly fora moment, feeling the dizziness start to subside.

  He waited what he judged to be a full five minutes,

  then tried getting to his feet.

  Unsteady—but he could stand. He walked over to the small kit. There was

  one more syringe of Narcan. He closed the kit and took it with him as he

  started— shakily—toward the basement door. The thought occur­red to

  him—break the blade off the paper cutter, in case more crazies were

  outside, waiting.

  He didn't.

  Rourke opened the door, then stepped through. The stairs were dimly lit, a

  stronger light glowing from the top. He leaned heavily against the wall of