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  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

  case, the^ cigarettes in it looking more American than Russian; then a

  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