Even General Varakov would have no other choice, Rourke realized.
And Maus was risking his entire operation now—he had provided Rourke with medical credentials, and Natalia as well, medical credentials that would serve as travel permits. And he had loaned them an automobile, the kind of loan Rourke knew Maus had realized would never be returned.
Rourke’s false identity listed him as “Peter Masters,” a dead Resistance fighter in reality, but on paper a hospital volunteer with little medical background. To have listed Rourke as an M.D. would have been suicidal—all medical doctors were registered with Soviet headquarters, Maus had said, and Natalia confirmed it. Natalia was listed as “Mary Ann Klein,” another volunteer.
The travel request—Maus had signed it as administrator of the de facto hospital—indicated they were en route to the Soviet Mobile Surgical Unit stationed at Soldier’s Field Stadium to request a fresh supply of hypodermic syringes. Maus had used the system before, for the actual procurement of medical supplies, and to cover covert operations of his Resistance command.
Somewhat the statistician, Maus had predicted odds of three to one that the travel documents would get them through, at least as far as the stadium.
And medical emergency was the only even remotely justified purpose for nighttime travel.
They had passed the Belvedere Road checkpoint leaving Waukegan—no difficulties there, Rourke driving. They had passed two checkpoints along what had been the Illinois Tollway, no difficulties either. The checkpoint on the Edens Expressway had been something both Rourke and Natalia had sweated, Rourke watching her eyes as the Soviet officer in charge of the checkpoint had been summoned to examine their travel documents. But they had been allowed to move on their way.
Their risk was doubly great—concealed in a hidden compartment of what had been the gas tank, accessible by going through the firewall from the inside or outside of the trunk of the vintage Ford LTD, were their weapons and gear. Should these be discovered, it would mean instant death. To compensate for the Ford’s reduced gasoline tank, an auxiliary tank had been rigged partially under the rear seat—Rourke wouldn’t have wanted to have been in the car in case of high-speed impact, he had decided.
The checkpoint leaving the Edens and entering the Kennedy Expressway had been almost too simple.
They had proceeded.
There was a long line of military vehicles ahead of them as they came within the boundaries of what had been the Chicago Loop, the downtown shopping and business district. As they drove, Natalia had described to him what it had been like there after The Night of The War—wild dog packs which had come in from outside the neutron bomb area, roving gangs of thugs who lived like rats beneath the once great department stores and in the abandoned subway tunnels. Soviet troops would chase after them, but for the most part—this urban equivalent of Brigands would vanish before the soldiers could close with them. The urban Brigands were armed with everything from stolen
Soviet assault rifles to clubs, some of the bands resorting to the behavior of beasts, Natalia had told him.
She had not amplified.
They sat now, the engine running, the LTD advancing a car length at a time toward the checkpoint. Natalia spoke. “This checkpoint is staffed by KGB—and the army too, but the main staffing is a KGB unit.”
“You think they’ll recognize you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I could only do so much—putting my hair up under this,” and Rourke looked at her as she gestured to the scarf covering her hair, “and these glasses—” Maus had given her the glasses of a dead woman who had expired at the hospital—the woman had been farsighted and Natalia had had trouble walking when she wore them to the car. It was the reason Rourke drove and had not shared the long run with her. “And your face—it is known to many of the KGB.”
Rourke wore a hat borrowed from the supply of old clothing kept at the Resistance headquarters, an old fedora, gray, stained. It matched the overcoat he wore.
“What are you getting at?” Rourke finally asked her, beginning to worry the car might overheat—the engine was already stalling a little as he advanced another car length toward the checkpoint. He had spent a good amount of time in Chicago before The Night of The War, learned the streets. The checkpoint was at the near side of the tunnel near Hubbard Street.
“I don’t know—but maybe we should make a break for it.”
Rourke looked around them, not answering Natalia’s question. A troop truck flanked them on the left, an M-72 motorcycle/sidecar combination on the right. “Where do you suggest we go—up?”
“I wish that we could,” she answered, lighting a cigarette—she was nervous, he realized.
Perhaps it was, in part, just the very fact of being in Chicago, Soviet headquarters so near. KGB everywhere. He said to her, “If they spot us at all, it won’t be until we reach the checkpoint gate—and if it happens there, we can make a break for it then. If we do, ditch those glasses so you can see and rip out the back seat so you can get to that panel inside the truck and get at the weapons.” And then Rourke smiled, looking at her with the scarf covering her hair and the tattered raincoat that all but obscured her figure. “And if we do make a break for it, get rid of that scarf and that coat—if we wind up dying, I wanna at least have something pretty to look at while I can still look.”
She smiled, then very quickly, as if someone might see, leaned across the front seat, across the space separating them, kissing him on the cheek.
Chapter Forty-two
The checkpoint was at what, before the war, had sometimes been called Hubbard’s Cave.
Rourke eased the old LTD to the gate that blocked his lane.
A green-shouldered, bearded KGB noncom approached the car, Rourke rolling down his window. In poor English, the man stated, “Civilian traffic is expressly forbidden after sunset—”
Rourke smiled his warmest smile, interrupting the man, “Except for medical emergencies, right?” Rourke passed the man his papers.
The man unfolded the letter Maus had signed as director of the civilian hospital in the converted gunshop and shooting range. “Hippoder mineed—”
“Hypodermic needles,” Rourke corrected. “Can’t give shots with dirty needles—hepatitis, stuff like that.”
The man unfolded Rourke’s identity papers, looking at Rourke—apparently trying to match the physical description with the face—it should match, Rourke thought. The forger had been looking at his face while counterfeiting the identity papers.
“And her?” the man said.
Rourke turned to look at Natalia—fear was written across her face so that a blind man could have almost known it, he thought. She handed him her papers from the battered brown vinyl purse that had come with the old raincoat.
Rourke passed them over to the KGB noncom. “Here you go,” he smiled. “Say look—we got a lot of sick people up there—need those needles. The hypodermics.”
There had been one other risk for Maus—that if they were discovered and traced back to the hospital, there would be a raid, and the Resistance headquarters destroyed. Rourke considered that now as he watched the man, studying Natalia’s forged documents, peering into the car, a flashlight in his right hand, the beam high, trained on Natalia’s face.
Rourke made a decision.
“Major Tiemerovna!”
As the man gasped her name, Rourke wrenched the LTD’s door handle—he had prepared to do it, and he slammed the door hard outward, against the abdomen of the KGB noncom, hammering the man back.
Rourke reached out of the car, stepping half out of the driver’s seat, his left hand grabbing for the military flap holster on the man’s belt, his right grabbing for the papers—he had them all.
The pistol—Rourke stuffed the papers into the pocket of his borrowed overcoat, worked the slide of the pistol in case a round hadn’t been chambered—none had. He pointed the pistol at the KGB noncom’s face—the mouth was open to shout for aid. Rourke emptied the pistol into the man’s mouth, then threw it down to the pavement, the door not closed as he stomped the accelerator, the door slamming as it whacked against the side of the barricade, Rourke throwing the hat out the window as he ducked, shouting to Natalia, “Down!”
Gunfire shattered the rear window, bullet holes spiderwebbing the windshield in front of him, the accelerator already flat to the floor, the speedometer needle passing fifty and climbing fast—he’d always liked eight cylinder Fords.
Chapter Forty-three
“I’m going for the guns,” Natalia shouted, Rourke shooting a glance toward her—he smiled. She had ripped away the scarf that had covered her hair, shaking her head now, freeing her hair like a wild animal, something untamed, might shake itself at the first taste of freedom. She smiled at him—they both understood what she had done. Death might be imminent.