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,
hovering low, too low over the road where it widened. He could see
uniformed troopers in the massive open doors of the formerly U.S. machine.
He heard the Russian voice again on the loudspeaker. “Paul Rubenstein.
This is by order of General Varakov; you are to stop immediately and lay
down your arms.”
Rubenstein spotted what Rourke had told him once was a deer trail; it
looked the same. He wrenched the bike into a hard left, onto the deer
trail, the branches cracking against his face and body as he forced the
machine through. The path was bumpier than the dirt road he had just left.
“Paul Rubenstein . . . you are ordered to—”
He looked up, cursing under his breath, then looked ahead of him. A
deadfall tree lay across the path. He started to brake, and the Harley
skidded from under him. Rubenstein threw himself clear, hitting the ground
hard.
He pushed himself to his feet, the Harley lost somewhere in the trees. He
started to run, snatching at the battered High Power under his jacket. He
stopped at the tree line, snapping off two fast shots toward the nearest
helicopter; the machine backed off. He had lost sight of the other one
after heading onto the deer path.
Machine-gun fire was coming at him, hammering into the ground and the
trees ten yards behind him as he ran, swatting away the tree branches that
snapped at his face. Pine boughs still laden with snow pelted him, washing
wet snow across his face. The machine-gun fire was edging closer and he
dropped to his knees, wheeling, firing the High Power in rapid, two-shot
semiautomatic bursts.
The helicopter backed off.
“Son of a gun.” He smiled, pushing himself to his feet,
turning to run again.
Three Russian soldiers blocked the path. The other helicopter, he
realized, had landed its men.
Rubenstein started to bring the pistol on line to fire, but something
hammered at the back of his neck and he fell forward, the gun dropping
from his grip.
Hands reached down to him; voices spoke to him in Russian. Rubenstein
rolled onto his back, his left foot snapping up and out, into the crotch
of one of the Russians; the man doubled over.
Rubenstein reached up, snatching hold of a fistful of uniform, hauling
himself up to his knees as he dragged the soldier down, his left fist
smashing upward, into the face. Then he was on his feet, running. Someone
tackled him; he went down, the ground slapping hard against him.
Another man was on top of him, holding him. Rubenstein snapped his left
elbow back, found something hard against it, and heard a moan and what
sounded like a curse despite the language barrier.
He pushed himself up, wheeling, his left swinging out, catching the tip of
a chin. A man. fell back under his blow.
Rubenstein wheeled again. He saw the two bunched-together fists swinging
toward him like a baseball bat, felt the pain against the side of his
neck, then there was nothing but darkness and a warm feeling.
John Rourke squinted against the light, his belly aching, a sudden
stabbing pain in his left upper arm. The pain was familiar—the arm aching
like a bad tooth. He moved that arm, but it wouldn’t move well. And when
he opened his eyes, his vision was blurred. His other limbs didn’t work
when he told them to. He fell, feeling something tight around bis neck,
choking him, feeling bands on his shoulders, moving him.
A voice. “John . . . John. I told you the last time, don’t try to stand
up. You can’t walk; don’t you know that by now? Thanksgiving’s almost
past. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you any turkey; you’ve been throwing up
everything I give you. But tomorrow’s Christmas and then it’ll all be
over.”
Rourke shook his head, murmuring, “I like turkey— Thanksgi— Christmas?”
“I’ll help you onto the cot.” Above him a woman’s face smiled.
“Strong,” he muttered, feeling her hands under his armpits. He wanted to
help her, very badly because the floor was cold under him. Naked? His
hands—he squinted to look at them. Tied together. So were his
ankles. The thing around his neck choked him again.
“Vm sorry, John. That rope around your neck—it got caught on the edge of
the cot. I’ll fix it.” The pressure around his neck subsided.
“Thanks—Martha,” he murmured. Martha? Martha Bogen? “Coffee,” he shouted,
his own voice sounding odd to him, his tongue feeling dry and thick and
hot.
“Yes. You asked the same question the last two times I gave you an
injection. I drugged the coffee with chloral hydrates—I just had to give
you so much of it it made you sick. And I gave myself an apomo.rphine shot
after I drank the first cup. I just threw it up. So it didn’t bother me. I
just made myself throw up. You are very forgetful, John.” The voice cooed,