Ahern, Jerry - The Web

"I—I don't—"

"What is the problem, Sergeant?"

She looked away from the sergeant's face, in the same direction the 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 strictly 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?"