The pilot smiled, taking the offered hand, then his eyes hardened, his hand drew back and swept down to the small submachine gun slung diagonally across the front of his body. Chambers spun on his heel, as rough hands smashed him against the side of the aircraft fuselage, then a coughing sound, once, twice, and splotches of blood appeared almost magically on the pilot’s forehead and he fell back against one of the wing flaps.
Chambers pushed himself away from the fuselage and started to run from the plane, away from the circle of lights. Looming up ahead of him were several men, all clad like those by the plane, in military fatigues. From behind him, he heard a voice, the English perfect, but odd-sounding when he heard the name the voice spoke. “I am Major Vladmir Karamatsov, Mr. President, of the Committee for State Security of the Soviet—you are under arrest. You are surrounded. You cannot escape. If you attempt to resist, you may only become unavoidably injured.”
Chambers stopped running, his breathing hard. He smoked too much, he told himself. He wondered if getting to the pistol under his windbreaker would do any good.
“I assume, sir, you may be armed—I would advise against any attempt to use a weapon against yourself or any of my men. It would only result in needless bloodshed.”
“Needless bloodshed?” Chambers shouted angrily. “What about that boy—the pilot? What about him— major?”
“He was armed with a submachine gun and would have used it—we were protecting your life as well. Since he likely had orders to prevent your falling into our hands.”
“Bullshit!”
“Perhaps—but that is unimportant—now, your weapon. You will hand it over—please!”
Chambers surveyed the dark faces beyond the edge of the light, then shrugging his shoulders reached slowly under his windbreaker. He heard the sound of a rifle bolt, he thought, then heard Karamatsov shouting something in Russian. Chambers produced the gun and held it out from his body. The major was walking across the lighted area toward him, left hand extended, in the right hand a strange-looking handgun with a very long, awkward-looking barrel. The major was saying, “Please do not attempt any useless heroics, Mr. President. You can be of greater value to the American people alive rather than dead—we mean you no physical harm.”
Chambers closed his eyes and felt the pistol being taken gently from his hand.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Soviet forces had landed two of their helicopters on the plateau, the others still hovering overhead, their floodlights illuminating the rain-soaked ground in a white glare that Rourke was almost getting used to as he knelt in the mud, using the pressure of his right hand to stem the bleeding from the gunshot wounds in Rubenstein’s abdomen.
The girl had ignored the Soviet commander’s directive to stay beside the vehicles and approached the nearest helicopter, shouting something in Russian which Rourke had been unable to catch with all the noise and confusion. He could hear gunfire from the ground level below the plateau and assumed the paramils were making a run for it, trying to use the darkness to hide their retreat. Rourke also assumed they were getting cut to pieces from the air.
The shirt Rourke was holding against Rubenstein’s open wound was saturated with blood now and Rourke pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over the shirt to absorb more of the blood.
He looked down to Rubenstein’s face—the younger man was pale, the circles under his eyes bluish in the harsh light. The pulse was weak and the breathing labored.
Rourke looked up as he heard boots sloshing across the mud toward him. It was Natalie, holding a Kalashnikov pattern assault rifle in her right hand, a Soviet officer and two enlisted men with her. She stopped, standing in front of Rourke where he knelt in the mud, holding Rubenstein. “John—I’ve identified myself to the commander—Captain Machenkov. I had to tell him both of you were my prisoners. But don’t worry. I’ll straighten everything out with Karamatsov. Paul will get the best medical care we can give him and you and Paul and I will be flown out of here in a few minutes to Galveston where we have a small base already operational. I know there’s a field hospital there and between what you can do and our own doctors, I know Paul will be all right. Don’t worry.”
“What now?” Rourke said, looking up at her.
“I’m going to have to take your guns—the .45s. I told them you were my prisoners, but you have saved my life and because of the situation here on the ground I’d let you remain armed. It was the best thing I could think of—they don’t speak English. This officer is a doctor.”
Rourke glanced around the camp. Mentally and physically he shrugged, looking back up at Natalie, saying, “I can’t move my right hand until we get a better bandage worked up for Paul—explain that to the doctor. If you need my guns now, you’ll have to take them yourself.”
“John—please don’t try anything—I know you, remember. And I promised, everything will be all right. After Paul is well, you and Paul can leave— with your weapons and everything. I’ve even arranged for your motorcycles to be taken along.”
“You really believe that?” Rourke said in a low whisper.
“Karamatsov is my husband, John—I really believe you’ll go free. He’ll do as I ask.”
“Mrs. Karamatsov, huh? Any kids?”
“Don’t be funny,” she snapped. “No one knows about it—except for you, now.”
With his left hand, Rourke opened his leather jacket, exposing one of the twin .45s under his arms. “Go ahead—without the right facilities, Paul’s going to bleed to death. Go ahead—take them,” and Rourke held open his coat. Natalie reached down, grasping one of his pistols, her face inches from his.
She whispered, “There wasn’t any other way— believe me.”
Rourke said nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rourke ran his hands through his hair and stood under the steaming hot water. It was the first real shower he had had since the war had started and he was mildly surprised that he hadn’t contracted head lice or something worse. He had washed his hair and his body at least four times and now stood under the steaming water, letting it work itself across his aching muscles and joints—he had been more tired than he had realized. Rubenstein was in surgery and Natalie had convinced Rourke that the doctors would do all they could. Rourke doubted little the efficacy of Russian medicine—they had pioneered a great deal since the close of World War II and he respected their methods. There was an armed guard standing outside the shower room, and after Rourke was finished and dressed, the next step would be actually meeting Karamatsov—and then the whole thing would start, Rourke knew. He closed his eyes and let the water splash across his face…
Wearing clean clothes—they had been washed for him—and his boots, he walked along the corridor between the four armed uniformed men toward the door at the far end. The complex was entirely underground, and Rourke supposed it had once been used by American forces. Above it was a small air base where the Soviet helicopter had landed. After Natalie had given some instructions to the KGB squad that had met them on the ground, Rubenstein had been whisked away by medics already waiting, and Rourke had been taken below then as well. He had been treated well, even given hot food—but all under the eye of armed guards. He assumed that by now Natalie had rejoined her husband—he had suspected the marriage—and Rourke also assumed that if the girl had been sincere in her promise, she had by now realized that it had been a promise she would be unable to keep.
No plan of escape had yet presented itself and Rourke realized he could do nothing really until Rubenstein’s condition stabilized. He hoped he could stall until then, but he doubted it. Karamatsov would assume that he was still active with the CIA and act accordingly. Rourke absently wondered if, were the shoe on the other foot, he would do any differently.
The guards stopped, the lead man on the right knocking on the single light gray door. Rourke heard something in Russian, then the door opened. Karamatsov stood in the doorway. Rourke had seen the man before. He said, “Major—haven’t seen you since Latin America—how many years ago?”
“John Rourke—the middle name is Thomas—you have a wife—”
Rourke interrupted. “Many men have wives, major.” Rourke’s eyes were smiling but his voice was level, even.
As if he hadn’t taken note of Rourke’s comment, Karamatsov continued, “Yes—a wife and two children—a boy and girl, if I remember your file correctly. I see you are still active in the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Where do you see that, major?”
“Let us talk inside.” As the guards started into the office, Karamatsov waved them away, saying in Russian, “He cannot escape—wait at the end of the corridor.” Then, turning to Rourke, he said in English, “You speak our language, don’t you?”