“But, Com—”
She didn’t finish what she started to say, and as he looked at her, she
averted her eyes downward, her long-fingered hands with the plain nails
clutching the steno pad in front of her at the waistline of her skirt.
“You mean well—to help me. It is more than you do your duty; you are a
friend, Catherine. And that is too valuable a commodity to waste. Sleep—I
order you that. You will obey me.”
She stood very straightly—too straight to be comfortable, Varakov
thought—then answered him. “Yes, Comrade General.”
“You are a good person—go.” He looked down at his desk, hearing her
too-low heels clicking across the museum floor. He looked up after her
once; her skirt was still too long. He would mention it again to Natalia
to tell the girl. It would be better for a woman to mention such a thing.
“Natalia,” he whispered.
Was she alive?
As best he could piece together from the fragmentary reports of the
Florida evacuation, Natalia had been with Rourke, working to save the last
of the refugees near Miami. The last Soviet report had indicated seeing
Natalia and Rourke on the field with a group of older American men and
women. Minutes after that, according to high-altitude observation planes,
the final shock wave had apparently taken place, the Florida peninsula had
broken up and—
Varakov hammered his fist down on the desk, stood
up, awkwardly leaned across the desk in his office-without-walls, and
stuffed his white-stockinged feet into his shoes.
His uniform blouse still open, he walked toward the main hall of the
museum, his feet hurting as they always did when he walked. “The soldier’s
curse,” he murmured, stopping not quite halfway across the main hall to
look at the figures of the mastodons, fighting. He watched them.
How huge they were, how powerful—all once, long ago.
He snorted, shaking his head, still standing there, not walking. She
should be safe—she had been with—
“Comrade General!”
Varakov turned, staring. A man was standing on the mezzanine balcony,
staring down either at him or at the figures of the mastodons. “Comrade
General!”
The man was already starting down the gently winding staircase to
Varakov’s left, starting toward him, moving with the grace of an athlete,
taking the stairs effortlessly in his comparative youth.
Varakov heard his own lips murmur, “Colonel Nehe-miah
Rozhdestvenskiy—aagh—”
“I was looking for you, Comrade General!”
Varakov did not answer; the man was still halfway across the length of the
natural history museum’s great hall and Varakov would not shout.
Rozhdestvenskiy slowed his easy jog, stopping and standing at attention, a
boyish smile across his lips, his blond hair tousled, a lock of it falling
across his forehead. Varakov thought the man looked as though he had
himself sewed into his uniform each morning.
“You did not think, perhaps, to search for me in my
office? Or is that not covered in the KGB training school?”
Rozhdestvenskiy smiled, still standing more or less at attention, saying,
“Comrade General—you are as noted for your wit as you are for your
brilliant stratagems.”
“That was not an answer to my question,” Varakov said flatly, then turned
to study the figures of the mastodons. “You have come to replace
Karamatsov as head of the American branch of KGB. Arid you have come to
tell me where the military and the KGB will draw the proverbial line.
That is correct?”
He heard the voice behind him. “Yes, Comrade General—that is correct. The
Politburo has decided—”
“I know what the Politburo has decided,” Varakov told him evenly. “That
the KGB should have greater authority here, and that you, as Karamatsov’s
best friend in life should be his successor in death. That KGB will have
the final word—not the military.”
‘That is correct, Comrade General.”
Varakov turned around, slowly, facing the vastly younger and slightly
taller man.
Rozhdestvenskiy continued speaking. “In matters that strictly involve the
military, of course, yours will be the final word, Comrade General. But in
matters where the KGB-”
“In any matters,” Varakov interrupted, “I am sure there will be KGB
involvement, will there not?”
“So many incidents have unforeseen political ramifications, Comrade
General—it may be difficult to avoid. May I smoke?”
“Yes—you may burn if you wish.” Varakov nodded, half-wishing the man
would. He watched as Rozhdestvenskiy took from under his uniform tunic a
silver cigarette
case, the^ cigarettes in it looking more American than Russian; then a
lighter that perfectly matched the case, and Ht the cigarette in its
steady flame. The new KGB colonel—the new Karamatsov, Varakov thought—like
the man he replaced, was too reminiscent of a Nazi for Varakov to feel
remotely comfortable around him. SS—the perfect physical specimen, the
blond-haired superman—only this one was a Marxist rather than a National
Socialist. “And what is your first order of business, Colonel?”
“Two matters are pressing, Comrade General. Perhaps not of the greatest
importance, but something which must be accomplished. We do not know,”
“I thought the KGB knew everything.” Varako\ smiled, starting to walk
around the figures of the mastodons, still inspecting them as if they
were his troops.
Rozhdestvenskiy smiled when Varakov glanced at him “Hardly, Comrade
General—but to know everything is our goal. No—this is a rather esoteric
matter, perhaps; one with which you are conversant, I am sure. It is the
matter of the mysterious Eden Project and what il actually was or is.
Shortly before leaving our headquar ters in Moscow, I learned of the
efforts of a heroic Soviel agent. He had stolen some information regarding
th