Ahern, Jerry - The Web

"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

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.