The two knives in his hands, Rourke started forward—Natalia called softly behind him, “Let me do it—”
She was better with a knife than he was—he knew that. He ignored what she said.
The little Sting IA was palmed in his left hand, invisible in the darkness he hoped—he moved the Gerber—to draw attention to it, make it the focal point.
Rourke stopped, two yards or so from the man in the center of the walkway.
“Past you or over you?” Rourke asked. “Question still stands.” The man wore a gun—some kind of revolver in a shoulder holster over his sweater.
“I oughta shoot you, man,” the man challenged.
Rourke shrugged his shoulders. “You’re better off with a knife—I’m very good with a knife, so maybe you have a little bit of a chance. With guns, you’d be outclassed. Stick to the knife.”
And now the man shouted to his friends, “This sucker thinks he’s so good—shit—” he drawled.
“What’s your strategy—you gonna bore me to death talkin’ or start fighting?”
The man lunged, a switchblade flicking audibly open, the blade catching a glint of moonlight, Rourke feigning with the big Gerber, the man sidestepping, Rourke’s left hand punching out, the Sting IA clenched tight in his left fist, the spear-point blade stabbing into the carotid artery on the right side of the neck.
There was a scream, Rourke feeling blood squirt onto his hand as he backstepped, the man going down in a heap.
Rourke stepped back, making the big Gerber disappear into its sheath, his right fist now swinging the M-16 forward, the thumb flicking off the safety.
The men from the trees on both sides were edging in, Rourke stooping to wipe clean his little knife on the dead man’s sweater.
Rourke stood up, sheathing the knife.
He took his cigar in his left hand, studying the glowing tip a minute, then replaced it between his teeth.
“This has gotten awful tedious,” Rourke called in a loud whisper. “I mean, a real drag. Now fight and die or run and hide—doesn’t matter shit to me.”
Searchlights lit the ground—from above, Rourke thought, but he wasn’t certain.
“Commies,” one of the figures shouted, all of them breaking and running, Rourke starting to move.
“Major Tiemerovna!”
The voice, English but Russian-accented, from beyond the edge of the light, down the walkway. “Major! Please—I beg of you, stop—”
Natalia was running, swinging her M-16 toward the lights to fire, Rourke wheeling, in a crouch, the muzzle of his M-16 coming up—
“It is Captain Vladov—major!”
Natalia’s voice—
“John—it is all right, I think—he is my uncle’s friend— “
Rourke didn’t move the rifle’s muzzle for an instant, the searchlight going out—its origin was ahead of them, not from above—
The Russian voice again. “I have come to find you—we travel the park here each night in hopes you are coming, major—and this man is Rourke?”
Rourke didn’t move his weapon.
“John—” It was Natalia.
Rourke lowered the M-16—thinking it might be the last stupid thing he would ever do.
Chapter Forty-nine
They walked in total silence, in darkness save for the bright moon, through the park. Captain Vladov led the way with his three men, Vladov and his men in black camouflaged-pattern fatigues, their faces and hands blackened as well.
They reached what Rourke recognized as Columbus Drive, the street running parallel to the lakefront and Lake Shore Drive itself. The fountain at the middle of the square now seemed odd—no lights, no water—stillness.
Vladov waited behind bushes near the street, signaling silently to one of his men—the man ran to the curb, then signalling. Vladov whispered hoarsely- “Hurry!”
Vladov ran ahead, Rourke and Natalia running abreast behind him, the two other men following, Rourke recognizing their rifles as the new 5.45 mm AKS 74s—Vladov and his men were paratroopers—he could tell from the stylized berets, and likely the Soviet equivalent of Special Forces.
They halted in dead underbrush—but in the moonlight Rourke could see sprigs of pale green—new life.
Vladov, a pistol in his right hand—he had carried it since Rourke had first set eyes on him—turned, still crouched, saying, “Your uncle, major—my men and I have been patrolling the park each night, a similar patrol on the far side of the museum—he almost despaired, comrade,” and the man smiled at her—warmly.
“So had I,” she laughed softly. “Almost despaired.”
“There’s no need to speak in English—I speak Russian,” Rourke advised Vladov.
“Very good,” Vladov nodded, slipping into Russian then. “The comrade general—he is watched by some of the residual forces of the KGB—but Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy is no longer here—it is rumored he has gone to a place in Colorado called The Womb. Our forces mass for an attack against United States II, but this is senseless commitment of troops—these are your uncle’s words, comrade major—there is something afoot.”
Rourke studied the man’s gun as he listened to him. “What are you doing with a Smith & Wesson automatic and the AKS-74 assault rifle?”
“You are observant, Dr. Rourke—we are the Soviet equivalent of your—” and he said the next two words in English— “Special Forces. Officers are allowed to choose their own personal weapons, and we are all issued the AKS-74—it is more efficient. Now,” and he seemed to dismiss the subject, “we shall make all good speed to the museum—the guard posted at the main entrance is friendly to our cause—but we must hurry,” and he rolled back the cuff of his black and dark green night jacket—the watch was a Rolex. “The guard will change in less than forty-five minutes.” “My uncle,” Natalia asked. “He is well?” “The comrade general is well—yes, comrade major,” Vladov grinned, adding, “and as tough a man as ever. It will gladden his heart that you are well.” And he looked at Rourke, “But we must hurry—there will be no need for shooting—you see, I have looked at your guns.”
“I hope you’re right,” Rourke only told him. And then, Vladov in the lead, they began to run again.
Chapter Fifty
They had reached the main entrance to the museum from the side, by circling behind the structure—and the guard there, a young, florid-faced man who looked very tired, had pretended they were invisible, never acknowledging their presence, never following with his eyes as they had gone up the steps toward the heavy doors.
Vladov used a key—two of the men went through first, the third in a guard position in the shadow beside a pillar at the head of the stone steps.
Vladov was checking his watch—then he said in English, “Hurry—inside.” Natalia went through, Rourke behind her, Vladov after them, closing the door as his men came through, then locking it from the inside.
Vladov rasped, “That way—hurry!”
The figures of two fighting mastodons dominated the central hallway, Rourke running past them waved on by the two Special Forces men who had gone through first, toward mezzanine stairways, Natalia taking the stairs three at a time in a run, Rourke behind her, doing the same, Vladov and the third trooper behind him.
At the head of the stairs, the two Soviet SF men waved them down a left-hand corridor, Natalia following, Rourke beside her now, Vladov giving an order in Russian to the third trooper to stand guard by the mezzanine and stay out of sight.
They slowed their run, walking in dark shadows, a golden light ahead of them. The two Soviet SF men turned right into a side chamber, Rourke and Natalia after them—Rourke stopped.
At the far side of the chamber—perhaps some sixty feet away, was a man, huge in his bulk, but of average height and not more. His face was a combination of sternness and the warmth of a homeless dog, his uniform tunic open, his feet moving as though it hurt him to stand.
Natalia ran into his arms, the man seeming to smother her.
“That is Comrade General Varakov,” Vladov said with obvious pride. “I am sure that as the friend of the major you will not, but should you attempt to harm the comrade general, I would willingly—even gladly—die in his defense.”
Rourke studied Vladov’s eyes, saying, “You know—I think you would.”
Chapter Fifty-one
They had moved—silently but slowly because of Varakov—Rourke, had circumstances been different, would have liked to have examined the old man’s feet to see if perhaps some remedy for the man’s obvious pain would suggest itself. They were deep within the museum now, in what was apparently part of an Egyptian wing, glass cases dominating the high-ceilinged chamber, inside the cases ranks of mummies and sarcophagi, and about the hall various items of antiquity of Egyptian origin.
The third Soviet SF-er had rejoined them, and now all three men stood guard at the entrance-ways, Varakov seated on a backless low wooden bench, Natalia huddled beside him—for all the world looking like an overly tall little girl. Rourke smiled.
Rourke stood, and beside him stood Captain Vladov.
General Varakov at last spoke. “There is little time—perhaps no time at all, but only God—if indeed there is one—can determine that now.” A woman joined them—slightly built, what most men would call plain, but a prettiness about her. She walked over to stand beside and slightly behind Varakov, the bench separating them.