Rozhdestvenskiy won the race—the captain a stride behind him, Rozhdestvenskiy turning his eyes to the corporal. The pale-faced boy stiffened, saluting, “Comrade Colonel—coffin-shaped objects are located inside this laboratory.”
Rozhdestvenskiy gave the boy a salute, despite his own civilian clothes. It would be the boy’s last salute.
He shoved through the doors, stepping inside.
“Lights—all lights in here!” He commanded it, playing his own flashlight across the littered floor to the far side of the laboratory.
He counted them—twelve coffin-shaped objects—crates. They were stacked neatly near twelve smaller crates. The larger ones would be the chambers, the smaller ones the monitoring equipment.
He walked across the laboratory floor, footsteps loudly shuffling behind him, lights from flashlight beams silhouetting him against the crates now as he moved.
Rozhdestvenskiy stopped beside them.
Inside a wire cage were wooden containers, smaller still than either the chambers or the monitoring equipment. There were at least three dozen of them—perhaps more.
He drew his Colt, stepping back from the locking mechanism of the door of the wire grating enclosure. He fired the revolver, aiming for the lock.
The blast made his ears ring as it reverberated off the concrete walls.
He turned half left, kicking out with the sole of his right shoe against the lock—the door swung out, bouncing away from the cage as the locking mechanism clattered in pieces to the floor.
He crossed the threshold to the interior of the cage, the Single Action Army in his right fist, the flashlight in his left.
“More light—”
Between splits in the wooden packing cases, when he shone the light at the right angles, he could see inside—glass containers, perhaps three litres in capacity. Inside them a clear liquid with a slightly greenish tinge—reminiscent of Rhine wine.
He stepped back from the containers—the marking numbers on them stenciled in worn black paint.
“The Eden Project,” he whispered—only to himself.
He turned, finding the GRU captain with his eyes, then raised the muzzle of his Colt .45. His right thumb jerked back the hammer, the captain turning to stare at him. “Comrade Colonel—but!”
Rozhdestvenskiy tripped the trigger, the top of the Captain’s face exploding in chunks as the body seemed immobilized there for an instant.
Gunfire all around him now, Rozhdestvenskiy stepping back into the cage—shielding the containers with his body.
The gunfire stopped.
On the floor, at the center of the laboratory, his own men with guns drawn inspecting bodies, was the young corporal who had found the chambers, the monitoring equipment—and the precious liquid. The young corporal had sealed his own doom.
The body still moved, and Rozhdestvenskiy cocked the revolver again, firing it into the boy’s head. The body stopped thrashing.
His ears ringing, the smell still fresh on the air in the dusty beams of the flashlight, he looked at his men. “Radio the surface—the others are to be eliminated. These crates—the large ones and the small ones, are to be carefully taken to The Womb by the most expeditious manner possible. These very small crates contain jars of liquid—it is the highest priority they reach The Womb immediately. If one is dropped and the contents damaged, one drop of the liquid lost—that man shall pay with his life—these are my orders.”
Among the faces—some registering shock, he supposed—he found that of Lieutenant Gronstein—a good officer. “Lieutenant!”
“Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy!”
Rozhdestvenskiy looked at the younger man—then after an instant said, “This message goes to the bunker outside the Kremlin—to the command bunker—you have my codes—”
“Yes, comrade colonel.”
“The Womb—The Womb shall receive its life.”
He walked from the laboratory, stepping over
the body of the dead GRU corporal. He felt mildly sick—but he would live now.
Chapter Twenty-seven
After extinguishing her last cigarette of the morning, Natalia had decided that whether she wanted it or not, she needed sleep, and a shower would only serve to keep sleep further out of reach. So instead she had removed her boots and stretched out on the couch underneath her fur coat—one of the few luxuries packed in the things she had brought with her from Chicago.
But a fur coat wasn’t really a luxury—and after all, she had told herself, falling asleep under it, it was her uncle’s secretary who had packed her things.
Paul Rubenstein still slept—and it was nearly evening. She marveled at his kidneys.
But she had watched the even rising and falling of his chest—he was well. She had been able to view the bandage—the wound to his left arm had not bled through.
She let him sleep—rest would help to cure him.
She had gone into the bathroom, brushed and flossed her teeth, brushed out her hair.
She had stripped away her black jumpsuit, her bra, her panties—Natalia stood now under the warm water of the shower, hair washed, washed again, conditioned, rinsed, rinsed again, re-rinsed, her body washed—soaking in the warmth.
She looked at the scar over her abdomen—like scars she had seen on other people, but never herself. It was a long, very thin scar—and she smiled, thinking Rourke, his hands on her, his scalpel cutting her, must have tried to make the scar as small as he could. It was reddish purple, and when it was completely healed, it would be like a tracing—of his fingertips.
And then she heard the noise from beyond the closed bathroom door. “Paul?”
No one answered her.
Naked, she stepped out of the shower and onto the bath mat, turning down the shower head with her right hand. “Paul?”
No one answered her.
She took the towel down—she had brought a fresh change of clothes into the bathroom and not a robe. There was no time to get dressed.
The first towel wrapped around her, barely covering her crotch when it was up enough to cover her breasts, she grabbed a second towel, ducking her head, wrapping the towel around her soaking wet hair turban fashion.
She raised her head, barefoot, stepping to the toilet, grabbing the two Metalife Custom L-Frame .357 Magnum Smiths from the lid of the flush tank—the stainless steel guns were moist from condensation in the steamy air.
She stepped to the bathroom doorway, listening.
More sounds.
Holding one pistol under her left arm, she put her right hand to the doorknob, twisting it open.
But she left the door only slightly ajar.
The sounds of the inner door of the Retreat being opened or closed—she wasn’t sure which.
Both revolvers in her hands, she stepped back from the door and kicked her bare right foot against the door, swinging it outward, fast.
As her right foot came down, she stepped a half-step forward on it, a wide, full step forward on her left leg, dropping down onto her right knee, the towel loosening as she moved, starting to slip, both pistols leveled, at eye level, in her clenched tight fists.
She moved her eyes.
A woman. A tall, handsome little boy. A pretty little girl with honey-colored hair.
John Rourke was visible coming from the storage area to the left of the main entrance and off the great room.
“Sarah—” Natalia whispered.
She suddenly realized the towel was going, reaching up her left hand, the revolver still in it, holding the gun across her breasts to keep the towel from falling.
The woman—about her own height, pleasant of figure, dark brown hair half obscured by a blue and white bandanna. The woman smiled, but a funny smile. She said, “You must be the Russian woman I’ve heard so much about—” and she started forward, down the three steps, across the Great Room as if she didn’t see it, slowing, then coming up the three steps to the level of the bathroom. “I’m Sarah—John’s wife,” she smiled, taking the three steps quickly then, standing in front of Natalia. Natalia got to her feet, her left thigh pressed against her right, slightly ahead of it, her left hand with the revolver still holding the towel against gravity and her breathing. “So you are Natalia.”
Sarah Rourke still smiled.
Natalia, her voice odd-sounding to her, answered. “Sarah—I wanted so to meet you. The children are beautiful.”
“So are you.”
Natalia didn’t know what to say.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Michael and Annie had adopted Paul—he had awakened and appeared in the doorway of his bedroom a moment after Natalia and Sarah had met—Rourke had almost felt like kissing him, the distraction of his appearance breaking the tension between the two women. And the children had liked Natalia, as well.
With three bedrooms, the addition of three people had represented a logistical problem at the Retreat.
But Natalia had solved that. “Annie can sleep with me in my room, and Michael can sleep with Paul. That way, you and Sarah will have privacy—it’s the best solution,” and she had lit a cigarette.
Sarah had said nothing, only nodded agreement.
Annie had been ecstatic, and Michael—a more mature, more low-key child than Rourke had remembered him—had seemed enthused as well.
After they had explored the Retreat and