inspect the lagoon and we must use them to cross it. This was a service
entrance and the most direct route to the presidential suite is—”
“I know, Voskavich; I, too, have read these plans until they were
something I dreamed about. We shall take one of the boats—Charon.”
Rozhdestvenskiy laughed at his own joke—the boatman to take him across the
river Styx.
But Voskavich was not the boatman; another KGB man, a sergeant, was
running the small outboard. Rozhdestvenskiy climbed aboard from the lagoon
shoreline, reassessing his nomenclature in terms of the American
language. This would not be a lagoon, but rather a lake because of its
progressively greater depth. A man-made lake? he wondered. None of his
readings of intelligence reports dealing with Mt. Lincoln had ever
indicated the origin of the waters there.
There was a small spotlight jury-rigged to (he helm of the large rowboat;
and between that and the flashlights both Rozhdestvenskiy and Voskavich
held, there was ample light to see the even surface of the waters. At its
widest, Rozhdestvenskiy judged the lake to be perhaps three-quarters of a
mile across. He leaned back as best he could; he liked boat rides, despite
wearing the gas mask, despite the lighting. When he someday returned a
hero to the Soviet Union, he had decided, he would get a boat and a house
on the Black Sea. There were many beautiful women there, and somehow
beautiful women seemed especially fond of influential KGB officers.
And influential he would be if he were able to solidify all the
speculations regarding the Eden Project, and thereby eliminate this last
potential U.S. threat. He favored the most popular theory—that the Eden
Project was a doomsday device. The Americans had always been kind and
careful people so if they had a doomsday device encircling the globe now,
there would be some way of deactivating it in the event it had been
launched by mistake. He would find that way of deactivating it, then be
the hero.
It was simple.
He even knew where to look for the plans for the device. Part of Mt.
Lincoln held a filing room containing duplicates of the most highly
classified war-related documents, for the reference of the president. It
was there that this most classified of documents would be kept— there that
he would find his answer.
Rozhdestvenskiy felt the motorized rowboat bump
against the far shore of the lake. The ride was over. . . .
Rozhdestvenskiy felt like a graverobber, like an unscrupulous archeologist
invading the tomb of a once-great Pharaoh—and perhaps it was a Pharaoh’s
tomb, the tomb of the last real president of the United States. He
discounted this Chambers; he had taken the power, but by all reports from
the late quisling Randan Soames, Chambers had taken the power reluctantly.
The power had not been given him as it was to other American
presidents—such a strange custom, Rozhdestvenskiy thought as he shone the
light of the torch across the gaping mouth of a partially decomposed U.S.
Marine. To hold free elections and trust the mass of the people to select
a leader who was accountable to them.
“No wonder they didn’t prevail,” Rozhdestvenskiy murmured.
Voskavich asked, “Comrade Colonel?”
“The Americans—their absurd ideas of doing things— it accounts handily for
their failure.” The thought crossed his mind, though, that Soviet troops
were now retreading to regroup for the fight against American Resistance
on the eastern seaboard. Their failure had not yet been completely
recognized.
Voskavich stepped across the body of the dead Marine, saying, “These men
were trapped here—perhaps locked inside.”
“That is not the American way. They were probably happy to have died in
the service of their country. Give the devihhis due, Voskavich.”
Rozhdestvenskiy picked his way over the bodies, seeing ahead of him at the
end of a long corridor what he thought was the room.
It recalled the Egyptian tomb analogy to his mind— fhese Marines, priests
of the order, guardians of the Pharaoh, who was their high priest. The
priests of De-
mocracy—an outmoded religion, Rozhdestvenskiy thought. But he did not
smile. Despite himself, he was saddened to see the death masks o[ these
priests, the anguish, the sorrow, the shock. He wondered what loved ones
they had left behind, what dreams they had held dear. They were young, all
of them, these priests.
He stopped before the “temple.” There was a combination lock on the vault
like doors, “I shall need experts in this sort of thing—immediately,”
Rozhdestvenskiy ordered.
“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” Voskavich answered, starting to leave. The
younger man paused, turning to Rozhdestvenskiy. “Should I leave you here,
Comrade?”
“The dead cannot hurt me,” Rozhdestvenskiy told him. Voskavich left then
and Rozhdestvenskiy stood amid the bodies, by the sealed doors, studying
the faces.
In not one of them could he find disillusionment. They had died for
something important—what was it? Rozhdestvenskiy wondered. . . .
A sergeant, a corporal and two lieutenants had labored over the locking
system ofthedoors,formorelhanahalf hour, and now Voskavich turned to him,
saying, “Comrade Colonel—they are ready.”
Rozhdestvenskiy only nodded, then touched his black-gloved right hand to
the door handle, twisting it. Pulling it open toward him, he shone his
light inside. He felt like Carter at the discovery of Tutankhamen. No
golden idols were here, but file cabinets, unopened, unlike the ones in
other parts of the complex. There was no pile of charred papers and
microfilm rolls in the center of the floor.
“No tomb robbers have beaten us»” he remarked,
then stepped inside. He walked quickly through thedark-ness, the light of
his torch showing across the yellow indexes on the file drawers.
He found the one he wanted—the ones. There were six file drawers marked
“Project ,-C/RS.” He opened the top drawer to pull out the abstract
sheets at the front of the file. He read them, then closed his eyes,
suddenly very tired.
“Voskavich, these drawers are not to be looked in. I will need carts for
removing the contents after they have been boxed. Bring the cartons here
and I will do that personally.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy,’ Voskavich answered.
“Leave me here—alone.” And Rozhdestvenskiy, when the last one of them had
left, switched off his torch and stood in the darkness beside the file
drawers. He knew now what the Eden Project was. The Americans never ceased
to amaze him.
“I wasn’t born here. Most of the rest of them were, and their parents were
born here, too, and before that,” the woman told him.
“What the hell does that mean, lady?” Rourke asked her, exasperated,
smiling as he spoke through tightly clenched teeth while the men and women
and children of the town who had made up the knot of humanity in the town
square were now breaking up, going home.
“My name’s Martha Bogen.” She smiled.
“My question wasn’t about your name. Don’t these people—”
‘That’s right, Abe.” She smiled, saying the last words loudly, a knot of
people coining up to them, stopping. She looked at a pretty older woman at
the center of a group of people roughly in their sixties, Rourke judged.
She said, “Marion—this is my brother, Abe Collins. He finally made it here
to join me!”
“Ohh,” the older woman cooed. “Martha, we’re so happy for you—to have your
brother with you. Ohh— Abe,” she said, extending a hand Rourke took. The
hand was clammy and cold. “It’s so wonderful to meet you after all this
time. Martha’s younger brother. I hope we’ll
see you in church tomorrow.”
“Well, I had a hard ride____I’ll try though.” Rourke
smiled.
“Good! I know you and Martha have so much to talk about.” The older woman
smiled again.
Rourke was busy shaking hands with the others, and as they left, he smiled
broadly at Martha Bogen, his right hand clamping on her upper left arm,
the fingers boring tightly into her flesh. “You give me some answers—
now.”
“Walk me home, Abe, and I’ll try.” She smiled, the smile genuine, Rourke
thought.
“I’ll get my bike; it’s at the corner.” He gestured toward it, half-expect
ing that in the instant since he’d last looked for it someone had taken
it. But it was there, untouched. “I suppose you’ve got a fully operational
gas station, too?”
“Yes. You can fill up tomorrow. You should stay here tonight—at my house.
Everyone will expect it.”
“Why?” Rourke rasped.
“I told them you were my brother—of course.” She smiled again, taking his
arm and starting with him through the ever-thinning crowd.
“Why did you tell them that?”
“If they knew you were a stranger, then they’d have to do something.” She
smiled, nodding to another old lady as they passed her.
Rourke smiled and nodded, too, then rasped, “Do what?”
“The strangers—most of them didn’t want to stay.”
“Nobody’s going to think I’m your brother. That was so damned
transparent—”
“My brother was coming. He’s probably dead out there
like everybody else. God knows how you survived.”