Ahern, Jerry - The Web

"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 Rozhdestvenskiy 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 decided. 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,