by Jerry Ahern
"I shall be with you, then," she said, softly, noncommittally. It was a game she had played before, and sincerely wished she would not have to play to the ending.
She walked away from the table, through the dining room and to the double oak doors. She stopped, turning around, noticing Santiago's eyes on her— and Miklov's as well. She did nothing, standing there a moment, as if hesitant, then turned and walked through the open door and toward the circular staircase. Santiago could perhaps still see her, she thought. She stopped at the base of the stairs, her left hand catching up the ankle-length skirt of her black dress just above the knee, raising it to help her walk the stairs, her right hand touching lightly at the railing of the banister. She ascended the stairs, hoping Santiago were watching; she wanted him to have a good show.
She looked down behind her a moment, then continued her ascent to the upper landing, dropping her skirt as she walked toward her room.
There was no need for a key, and none had been provided for her. She turned the knob on the door and entered the room. She had determined earlier it was not video-monitored and assumed nothing had been added to it since her absence. She closed the door behind her and leaned hard against it, staring down at the blue carpet beneath her black shoes, sighing, breathing hard. "Pig," she muttered, but so that only she could hear it, in case there were indeed microphones hidden in the room which she had not detected.
Natalia closed the deadbolt from the inside and walked across the room, tossing her black purse with the COP derringer on the bed.
She stopped in front of the full length mirror. "A midnight swim," she muttered.
She stood in front of the mirror. Behind it, she thought, there might be a camera, so she began to undress as if for some unseen audience. She raised her hands to her hair, pulling the pins that bound it up at the nape of her neck, letting it fall, then shaking it to her shoulders and past that. She hunched her shoulders forward, her arms behind her as she fumbled for the zipper at the back of the black dress, getting the hook and eye closure open.
She pulled the zipper all the way past her waist, then hunched her shoulders again as she slipped the strap that had held the dress up around her neck over her head, letting the front of the dress drop forward, dropping the dress to the floor. She wore no bra, and as the dress fell, she moved her hands up, cupping her breasts in them, then shifting her body to let the dress fall around her ankles. She pushed the slit, lace-trimmed black slip down from her waist, past her hips, and down her thighs to around her ankles. She stared at herself in the mirror. She wore black, lace-trimmed bikini panties, and these she pushed down with her thumbs, after removing the knife on the garter. She bent over, her thumbs hooked on each side of the stocking on her right leg.
She pushed the left stocking down to her ankle, then the right, then stepped out of the dress, the slip, and the panties and pulled her left leg up, rolling the dark nylon from her feet. She stood in front of the mirror, as if surveying herself, turning, looking at her legs, cupping her hands under her breasts.
Natalia decided enough was enough. She turned abruptly away from the mirror, then walked into the bathroom. She assumed that if anything were fixed to provide a picture— short of fiber optics, evidence of which she had seen none— it was the mirror. She sat on the toilet, feeling relatively safe.
Finished, she did what she normally would, then stood, walking back into the bedroom, to her suitcase. There were two bathing suits there— both one-piece. She picked the black one rather than the tan, flesh-colored one. She walked back toward the mirror, holding the suit up in front of her. She turned, flashing her rear end toward the mirror, then walked back toward the bed, sitting on its edge. She put the suit on ducking her head under the strap which would support the front of the suit from her neck.
She walked back to the mirror, adjusting the suit, intentionally cupping her hands under her breasts as she fitted the suit to her body. She did a full turn in the mirror, then walked away from it, again feeling enough was enough.
She took a white, hip-length beach jacket from her suitcase— she hadn't had the time to unpack. Slipping it on, she belted it too tightly about her waist. There was a pair of black, high-heeled sandals in the other suitcase; and, barefoot, she walked across the carpet, found the shoes and put them on.
She walked back to the mirror again. She pulled the earrings off, unclasped the necklace, then looked at the gold Rolex on her wrist. Her timing was perfect— five minutes late.
As she started across the room, she stopped, pausing beside the dresser, taking up a bottle of Chanel No. 9. She used it on her neck and behind her left ear, then picked up the black bag she had tossed on the bed. She opened the bag, took the COP pistol and broke it open, checking the four, 125-grain jacketed hollow points there, then closed the pistol. She replaced it in the bag, then clutched the bag to herself as she started toward the doorway. She sighed. It promised to be a long night, she thought.
Chapter 21
Sarah Rourke slipped down from the rough wooden pier and into the icy water. She pushed her dark hair back from her eyes, looking around her, listening for sounds other than the lapping of the water against the pylons supporting the wooden walkway above.
She'd considered carrying the boning knife in her teeth— aside from pirates in movies, she'd seen John do that once, years ago. They'd been swimming with friends, and a child's foot had gotten entangled in something below the surface. John Rourke, seemingly without considering what to do at all, had simply snatched a knife from somewhere, clamped it between his teeth, and jumped overboard, moments later surfacing with the child— saving the little boy's life.
But she decided against carrying the knife in her teeth, reasoning that if she accidentally dropped it, the knife would fall to the bottom and be lost.
She began to swim, having treaded water sufficiently long enough to get her body accustomed to the cold. She'd swum in high school and kept it up as a sport over the years until she could almost outswim John. As she moved as soundlessly as possible through the water, she thought about that. She could almost do it as well as John, her husband. Was that the problem?
She'd once been sitting in her studio at the farm house, John drinking coffee, watching her work. She'd asked him to trade places with her, to sit at her work table and try his hand at a sketch. He'd been reluctant, but she'd insisted and he had finally agreed. He hadn't wanted to draw from imagination, but she'd insisted on that too. After ten minutes she looked— against his protests—
at the sketch. It was of two men, fighting in some jungle. The detail of their muscles, limbs, the expressions on their faces, the detail of the foliage around them— all of it had been almost photographically perfect, as far as he'd gone. But he hadn't finished it.
She'd begun to wonder then if there were anything John Rourke couldn't do when he half tried. But she realized Rourke never half tried. It was always one hundred per cent with him.
She stopped, treading water again. The boat she wanted to steal was just ahead of her and, except for the distant and shadowy form of a Soviet guard at the far end of the pier, there was no one in sight. She tucked down under the water, swimming toward the boat. The owner had a sense of humor, she thought. The name on the boat was Ta-ob, "boat" spelled backwards.
With Michael and little Annie helping, she had gotten Harmon Kleinschmidt out of the farmhouse and on Sam, John's horse. Michael had ridden with him, to alert her if the wounded Resistance fighter began to pass out or fall from the saddle.
There was a farm some ten miles off where Kleinschmidt had friends— a man in his seventies and his wife, the woman perhaps in her late sixties. The man, Arlo Coin, had agreed to keep the horses and agreed to use his pickup truck to get Sarah and the others near Savannah. He had converted the engine to run on pure alcohol, this distilled from weeds and grass on his farm. He had told Sarah he had been doing it for years before the War and saw no problems with keeping it up. Coin had insisted on helping them once they'd
hidden the truck, stating flatly that Kleinschmidt was too weak to walk unaided and too heavy for Sarah or the children to handle. Sarah had agreed, but reluctantly. Then Kleinschmidt had told her not to worry. Reaching under his coat he'd pulled a revolver. She remembered, as he showed it to her, Coin saying, "Smith & Wesson .38/44 Heavy Duty— one of the best guns anybody ever made. Had her since 1937. Never needed another."
Sarah stopped now, touching the hull of the Ta-ob under the water, then surfacing, taking in air. Despite the swim, she was cold with just the shorts and T-shirt on. She waited in the water, listening for any sign of someone on deck or in the cabin; there were no lights. She swam toward the bow, stopping, finding a small ladder along the starboard side. She reached out, grabbing the first rung, then started up, the boning knife secure in a plastic bag tied at her waist. As she stepped out of the water and stood crouched on the ladder, the air temperature and the night wind chilled her even more.
She ripped the knife from the bag with her left hand; her right grasped to the railing on the side of the ladder.
Then, the knife clenched in her left fist, she peered up over the side and into the boat. Nothing.
Sarah went up the rest of the ladder and swung onto the deck, the knife transferred to her right hand now. Still in a crouch to stay below the level of the sides of the boat, she moved aft, finding the angular, ladder-like steps leading below. The transom was not locked. She assumed that was some Soviet edict, allowing for easier inspection of the boats at the pier. She started down the steps, into the darkness, leaving the transom open a crack above her.
As she reached the below deck cabin, Sarah Rourke froze. Clearly she heard footsteps on the deck just above her head. She shivered, but it wasn't the cold and the wetness of her improvised swimsuit. The transom lid was opening.
Chapter 22
Rourke, his coat off, his pistol belt and rifle on the floor beside him, leaned back in the leather easy chair and looked down into the fireplace.
"Do you always wear those guns in that shoulder holster? I'd think they would feel just so heavy." Sissy remarked.
Rourke didn't look away from the fire. "It feels uncomfortable when you're first getting used to it, but I've been wearing a double holster for a long time. I don't really notice it anymore. It feels more uncomfortable to be unarmed," Rourke added.
He lit a cigar with his Zippo, then stood up, feeling like a caged animal. He wanted Chambers to show up; he wanted Chambers to comprehend the magnitude of the impending Florida disaster; he wanted Chambers to take the ball. Rourke would then get air transport to Florida, attempt to find Paul if there was time, help Paul find his parents, then get out. There were still Sarah and the children to locate, somewhere in northern or east-central Georgia.
Rourke studied the flickering of the fire's flames. He knew what had to be done, but wondered if Chambers would have the sense to do it. It was the only reason Rourke had decided to take the offered flight to U.S. II headquarters near the Louisiana-Texas border.
There was a highly polished, twelve-inch Bowie knife on a plaque over the mantle. Rourke studied it intently. Double quillon guard of brass, this, too, highly polished. He reached up, feeling the false edge—
it was sharp.
"Rourke— is it Doctor Rourke or Mr. Rourke?—! can never decide what I should call you, sir!"
Rourke turned around, noticing that the woman was already standing. Slowly, eyeing Chambers, Rourke said, "Mr. President, it's good to see you again.
"And you must be Sissy Wiznewski. the seismologist who has some alarming news for us," Chambers said, taking a few steps toward the girl. He shook her hand warmly.
Rourke watched, listened— he decided Samuel Chambers was a somewhat different man, perhaps now more used to being President. But President of what, Rourke wondered?
"Tell the President the alarming news, Sissy," Rourke said, echoing Chambers's tone.
"I don't know where to begin."
"I do," Rourke interrupted, resenting the time being wasted. "She belonged to a group of scientists studying fault lines and earthquake activity in the Appalachian chain, part of a comparative survey with the San Andreas fault line on the Continental and Pacific plates. Most of their instruments kept working after the Night of the War. Correct me if I screw up anything," Rourke said to Sissy, then continued to address Chambers. "They began picking up readings on what appears to be a massive artificially created fault line— probably a result of the bombing on the Night of the War. Anytime now, certainly within the next few days, there will be a massive quake, similar to the one along the San Andreas line that caused California to separate from the Continental plate and fall into the sea. The Florida Peninsula will separate from the Florida Panhandle. It's a lead-pipe cinch according to her instruments.
"That cover it?" Rourke concluded.
"More or less."
"Mother of God!" Chambers sank down into the leather easy chair Rourke had vacated moments earlier.
Rourke lit a cigar, snapping the butt of the old one into the fireplace after firing the fresh one with it.
"That just— just can't be," Chambers sighed, his voice a stammering monotone.
"Here, Mr. President." Sissy Wiznewski handed Chambers the one seismograph printout that she'd carried under her coat when Rourke had rescued her from the Brigands. "If you have a science advisor available, he could certainly confirm the readings. He might interpret them differently, but I don't see where there's any choice really."
"What do you mean?" Chambers looked up at her, the lines in his face deepened.
"Well, I mean, I don't want to presume—"
"Evacuate as much of Florida as you can while there's still time, if there's still time," Rourke interjected.
"Yes, that's it, really— we have to—"
"Wait," Chambers interrupted. "Evacuate? Florida? The Cuban Communists control it, how could we?"
"There's a way, to do something at least," Rourke began, stepping away from the mantle, standing in front of Chambers's chair.
"I don't—"
"You don't have the airpower, and even if you did, you need a truce with the Communist Cubans. You probably need their help."
"Their help!"
"I think I know a way we can get it— from the Russians."
"You're crazy, Rourke. They want to see us dead."
"Maybe they do," Rourke told him. "Maybe there's an advantage in this for them, too, though. If we don't get some sort of truce for the duration of this thing— this should be the greatest loss of life in recorded history, with the exception of the Night of the War itself."
Chambers, his eyes glassy and hard-set, stared up at Rourke. "What do we do?"
"Has Captain Reed told you there's a traitor in U.S. II?"
"A traitor? What do you mean?"
"I'll explain, but right now in order to contact General Varakov, I've got to find the traitor— fast."
Rourke turned around, faced the hearth a moment. Then he snapped the glowing cigar butt into the fire. The fire was undisturbed. Rourke hoped what he had said to Chambers had greater impact.
Chapter 23
Sarah Rourke clutched the boning knife, drawing back as tightly as possible against the starboard bulkhead at the base of the steps. She could hear the transom lid creaking open above her at the head of the steps. There was a cold rush of air as the transom opened. A beam of light followed— not natural light, she thought, but a flashlight. She watched, hardly daring to breathe, feeling the water dripping down from her hair, her blue T-shirt, her pink shorts.
Her eyes opened wider as the flashlight beam stopped, the light unwavering on a puddle of water on the floor where she had just stood. She heard a voice from the top of the steps, a man's voice; but the words were unintelligible to her— Russian. She didn't move.
The voice came again, but this time in halting English. "Who is ever down here, come out or I shoot you!"
She pressed her wet shoulder blades back harder against t
he bulkhead, wishing she'd brought a gun, perhaps wrapped the .45 automatic in plastic or something. "Who is ever here, come out. Now!"
Again, she remained motionless. She heard the voice— in Russian this time— grunt a word. She was happy she didn't know what the word meant. She could hear footsteps starting down the steps, toward her.
Sarah raised the knife, not really thinking about it, but suddenly aware that she was holding it up, ready to drive it down.
The footsteps stopped; she could see a uniformed back, a Russian soldier's cap, the profile of a rifle in the hands. She tried to move the knife downward, but couldn't. The man's back was within inches of her. She held her breath.
She watched, feeling as though she were witnessing a scene unfolding in a movie. He was turning around, now facing her. The light was in her eyes, and in the gray area beyond the light she could barely discern the features of the man belonging to the Russian voice. "Your hands up!"
"No!" She screamed, hammering the knife down out of the shadow beyond the light. The knife drove into the front of the uniformed body, her right wrist feeling as though it would break as the knife stopped.
