Karamatsov's head and tossing the little Chief's Special into his hip pocket.
Rourke slung the CAR-15 to his right shoulder—he'd had Karamatsov chamber a
round—then flicked off the safety. He slipped the two-inch Lawman into his belt.
"Forgot my knife—where is it?" Rourke asked.
"In my desk." Karamatsov said.
"Let's go get it—and my wallet and lighter, hmm?"
Never moving the muzzle of the Python from Karamatsov's head, Rourke walked
slowly beside the Russian to the desk. The Russian started to open the top
drawer and Rourke pushed him away, then opened the drawer himself. There was his
wallet, and the black chrome Sting IA and his Zippo—and a Pachmayr-gripped Model
59 Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic. "I would have killed you, Vladmir. Hey—what do
people call you for short—Vladey? I like that—I'll call you Vladey," Rourke
said, smiling. "Now Vladey, we're gonna walk down that hallway, you're gonna
carry my Steyr in that nice padded rifle case—be real careful with it. Fantastic
gun—come up my neck of the woods sometime and I'll show it to you. Great
shooter. Now, you carry it, walk real slow and don't try to get so you can't
feel this—" and Rourke gestured with the muzzle of the Metalifed Python—"against
your head. 'Cause if you stop feeling it there, I'll pull the trigger." Rourke
thumb-cocked the hammer on the Python, his first finger against the grooved
trigger. "All right—let's go."
Karamatsov didn't move, saying, "Kill me now."
Natalie was blown, she would be fingered for helping him escape, Rourke knew
that, and he said, "I promised your wife I wouldn't unless I had to— your
choice. You want to be a dead hero, or you want to live again to fight another
day—which is it?"
The Russian started walking toward his office door. Rourke switched the Python
into his left hand, his right fist wrapped around the pistol grip of the CAR-15,
his finger against the trigger. They entered the corridor and Rourke spotted at
least a dozen Russian soldiers halfway along its length. "Shout to them," Rourke
whispered.
In Russian, Karamatsov almost screamed, "I gave an order—it is to be obeyed—let
us pass and stay out of sight. That is my order!"
The soldiers, some slowly, vanished from the corridor. Rourke started walking
faster, saying to the KGB man, "Let's pick up the pace a little—I'm runnin' a
little late. Where's the radio room?" Karamatsov said nothing for a moment, then
Rourke repeated the question. "Where's the radio room, Vladmir? Hmm?" and Rourke
punched the muzzle of the Python harder against the back of Karamatsov's head.
"By the aircraft maintenance section—at the far end of the corridor and to the
right. But you'll never make it."
Rourke pushed a little harder with the muzzle of the Python, "You better hope I
do, pal—it's us, remember. I don't make it, you don't make it. Move."
Rourke started walking faster, Karamatsov just ahead of him. They were halfway
down the corridor, and ahead of him, Rourke could see more of the Russian
soldiers, and as he started to say something to Karamatsov, the Russian shouted,
"Get away from here! That is an order!"
"Good," Rourke whispered, glancing around the hallway. There was no one behind
him, but he knew that as soon as they reached the end of the hall and turned
right, the corridor would fill with Russian soldiers, just waiting for their
move.
"What do you want in the radio room?"
"You're going to call off the air strike with the neutron device," Rourke told
him.
Karamatsov stopped, not moving. "She told you that?"
"I'm a psychic," Rourke said. "Now move unless you want your brains decorating
the ceiling tiles— come on."
Karamatsov started walking again, saying to Rourke, "Why would I call off the
air strike, and even if I did, why would they listen to me?"
"You'd better hope they do," Rourke said. "Because when I get out of here—with
Chambers—I'm going to try and save your tails and get the assault force called
back, if I can. We're in the same spot, friend. 'Cause I'm leaving here through
the elevators onto the air field, and if I'm reading this place right, this
all you guys would get fried. You tell your bosses that," Rourke concluded. He
knew nothing about the construction of the underground complex and had no reason
to suppose that the site would be vulnerable with the access doors to the
elevator section opened, but he was gambling that Karamatsov and his superiors
wouldn't be sure of that, either.
They reached the end of the corridor and turned right. Behind him, Rourke could
hear the shuffling of boots, but there was no one ahead of him. "How far's the
radio room, Vladmir?"
"There," and the Russian raised his hand, slowly, gesturing toward a door
perhaps a hundred yards down. "That is it."
"Good," Rourke said. "Now, when we get there, you knock on the door and they
bring the radio microphone out to you—got it? We don't go in." Rourke could see
the KGB man's shoulders sag slightly. "And when it comes up, they can use
alligator clips to make the connection if the microphone cord's too short."
The Russian started to turn his head and Rourke gave the Python a little nudge
and the movement stopped. "You will never make it out of here alive, and if by
some chance you do and you do not kill me, I will find you, if I have to search
this entire dung pile of a country. I will look and look until I find you."
"Because of this," Rourke said, nudging the gun slightly, "or because of her?"
"What do you think?" the Russian snapped.
"Nothing happened—it could have, but nothing did. I think all you've got is a
very lonely girl. You were already married to your job when you married her. It
happens to a lot of guys in a lot more prosaic jobs. She's a hell of a good
woman—you're lucky. I guess that's maybe the real reason I don't want to kill
you."
Karamatsov stopped and turned, ignoring the muzzle of the gun at his head,
staring at Rourke. Rourke whispered, "I almost envy you—with her. If you're fool
enough to lose her, I should shoot you," and Rourke pushed the muzzle of the
Python against Karamatsov's head again and they walked the last few yards to the
door of the radio room. "Now knock—be polite," Rourke whispered.
Karamatsov knocked on the door, shouting in Russian, "It is Major
Karamatsov—open the door— immediately."
The door opened and there was a soldier there with a gun in his hand and Rourke,
in Russian, said, "Put it away or you've got a dead major—you want to be
responsible, go ahead and be a hero of the Soviet Union." The soldier hesitated
a moment, then stepped back into the room. "Call for the radio hookup," Rourke
rasped to Karamatsov in English.
The Russian hesitated, then shouted into the radio room. In a moment, the same
young Russian who had appeared at the door with a rifle appeared with the
microphone, passing it to Karamatsov. Rourke jockeyed Karamatsov into position,
so he could see the inside of the radio room over the Ru
ssian's shoulder. He
glanced down the hallway, saw a face peering around the corridor, then the face
withdrew. Rourke said to the KGB man, "Now, get on the radio and make it
good—call off the neutron strike. Remember, my Russian's just fine."
Karamatsov pushed the button on the microphone and began speaking into it, then
from the speaker inside there was heavy static, then a guttural voice, coming
back to him. Rourke listened to the voice on the speaker and Karamatsov arguing,
Karamatsov finally admitting the situation he was in. There was a long silence,
then the voice was replaced by another voice, speaking in English.
"This is General Varakov—your name is Rourke, no? I do not want Karamatsov
killed, at least not yet. He was too proud, perhaps this will be good for his—
what is it—the Latin word, the ego. Yes. I have called off the neutron weapon
strike. I will meet you some day. It is hard for me to believe you are acting
alone, though."
Karamatsov glanced toward Rourke, and for a moment Rourke could read his eyes,
then Rourke took the microphone from Karamatsov, saying, "General—I wasn't
acting alone. I freed President Chambers and he helped me—you've got a tough
adversary in him. I'll give you some advice—don't underestimate him."
"And some of the advice for you, my young friend," the voice on the loudspeaker
came back. "You have just used all the nine lives of a cat this night. Do tell
this to your President Chambers—do not underestimate me." And the radio went
dead.
Rourke ripped the microphone free of the cord and tossed it down the empty
corridor, saying to Karamatsov, "Now let's get out of here so I can call off the
attack before it gets started." Running in a slow lope beside the KGB man, the
gun still trained on the Russian's head, Rourke started down the hallway toward
the aircraft maintenance section. Behind him, he could hear the shuffling of the
Russian boots on the corridor floor, but he didn't bother to turn around.
Chapter Forty-Three
The elevator section of the underground hangar and maintenance complex was huge,
more vast in size than Rourke had ever imagined. The twin engine prop plane was
ready, the bikes loaded aboard, Chambers—Rourke had breathed a sigh of relief
finding that the new president knew how to fly—was at the copilot's controls. At
gunpoint, Natalie had moved Rubenstein, complete with the I.V. and the stomach
tube, from the hospital section, and had him already loaded aboard. She had said
nothing to her husband as Rourke had brought Karamatsov in still at gunpoint.
The doors leading to the elevator section were closed behind them, massive steel
doors that effectively sealed the compound.
"How are the RPMs, Mr. President?" Rourke shouted in through the hatch in the
port side of the fuselage. The president gave a thumbs-up signal and Rourke
turned back to Karamatsov, saying, "Well, major—looks like we take off. Do I
have to cold cock you—that's slang for knock you out—or will you just stay here
and wait?"
Karamatsov said nothing, then Natalie spoke. "I will guard him, John—you don't
need to knock him out."
Rourke looked at her, saying, "I can't leave you here—you'll be—"
"If I go with you, I am still a KGB agent. Your people won't welcome me with
open arms. Besides—" and she left the word hanging.
"I can let you off between here and there," Rourke suggested, his voice low.
"If the entrance doors are opened, they will be able to scramble some of the
captured American fighter planes and pursue you—they'll shoot you down."
"I can't let you stay here," Rourke said. "What about what you've done?"
The girl looked at her husband, saying to Rourke, "I don't think Vladmir will
admit to what I've done—he'll find a way to cover it up. Varakov doesn't want
him dead, and Varakov would not kill me and leave Vladmir alive. Perhaps I'll
just retire as an agent."
Karamatsov spoke, saying to Rourke, "I will not kill her."
Natalie cut in, saying, "No—he'll let me live. He'll remind me of it each time I
look at him, with everything he doesn't say. Vladmir and I have been comrades
together much longer than we have been husband and wife—I know his secrets,
too."
"We've wound up in the middle of a soap opera, haven't we," Rourke said, smiling
at the girl.
There was confusion in Karamatsov's eyes, and the girl laughed then, saying,
"That was a class at the Chicago school you did not have to take Vladmir,
darling. The female agents were briefed on the story lines of the dramatic
programs shown on television here during the afternoons—so we could convince
another American woman that we were just like they were." Then she turned to
Rourke, saying, "Does your Sarah watch these soap operas, John—or did she?"
"No," Rourke said, smiling at the girl.
"I didn't think she would," Natalie laughed.
Rourke reached into his hip pocket and handed her husband's revolver, the
Chief's Special he'd pocketed earlier. He wanted to say that he hoped he'd see
her again, he wanted to kiss her good-bye, but he stuck out his right hand,
saying, "Good-bye?"
The woman smiled, the corners of her mouth raised slightly, her lips parted, and
she leaned toward him and kissed him on his lips, almost whispering,
"Dasvidanya."
"Yeah," Rourke said, stepping into the plane. "Hit the button for the elevator
then and dasvidanya." Rourke started forward to the cockpit, and as he strapped
himself into the pilot's seat and put on the headphones he thought of the
woman—dasvidanya was like the German auf wiedersehen, he recalled. '"Til we meet
again.' "
The elevator was rising, the doors above them parting, and through the open
cockpit wing window Rourke could smell the night air. Rourke glanced over his
shoulder at the sedated Rubenstein, sleeping a few feet behind them.
"Mr. President," Rourke began. "I may have to pull up quick, so be ready to help
me on the controls." Rourke reached over his head, checked the switches, and as
the elevator stopped, hit the throttle, the plane starting forward into the
darkness and across the runway. Rourke turned into the wind and throttled up,
the runway fence coming up as they cut across the tarmac.
The president was shouting, "What are you doing?"
"I'm avoiding the trap they've probably got at the end of the runway—pull up
now!"
And Rourke hauled back on the controls, the nose coming up, the plane bouncing
against the runway surface, then lifting off, the fence clearing just below the
landing gear.
Rourke left his running lights off, banking steeply, his right hand twirling the
radio frequency dial. Chambers said, "Who are you calling on the radio, Mr.
Rourke?"
"I made a promise, Mr. President—I figure if you get on that frequency they'll
call off the attack for you."
"Why should I?" the voice asked out of the darkness.
Quietly, Rourke said, "Mr. President—with all due respect, this plane flies two
ways—away from the Russians back there and right back toward them— don't think I
wouldn't!"
&n
bsp; There was silence, then Rourke found the frequency, hearing the ground chatter
in English. "You're on, sir," Rourke whispered in the darkness.
He let out his breath when he heard the president begin to speak into the
headset microphone.
Chapter Forty-Four
Rourke knelt on the ground, listening, the CAR-15 in his hands, the leather
jacket zipped high against the night cold. He could hear dogs howling in the
night, and throughout the late afternoon and early evening before dusk he had
seen signs of trucks and motorcycles and men on foot in the woods and the dirt
roads cutting through the forested areas. "Brigands here, too?" he wondered. He
knew the ground he was covering—he had owned it before the night of the war and
supposed he still did if anyone owned anything anymore.
He listened to the night for a moment.
After the flight out of the KGB stronghold, Chambers, by radio, had cancelled
the night attack, but the attack had merely been postponed. There were several
hundred airmen held prisoner at the base, the ground commander, an army National
Guard captain named Reed had explained. Rourke wondered if by now, a week later,
the attack had taken place. It was hard getting used to a world without news,
without information. He had landed the aircraft in east Texas, where Rubenstein
had been given additional medical aid and pronounced fit enough for limited
travel less than twenty-four hours ago—Rourke checked the luminous face of the
Rolex on his wrist. It was past eight o'clock, if eight o'clock indeed existed,
he reminded himself.
Chambers, the air force colonel, Darlington, and some of the others had asked
him to stay and fight with them, or work as their spy. They'd told Rourke that
he would now be a hunted man, followed by the KGB, his name and face known. He'd
told them he knew that already and that he had business of his own. And he was
here now, at the farm. In the distance beyond the stand of trees, he would see
the house, he knew, but he sat on his haunches by a dogwood tree—it hadn't
bloomed for a long time, or at least when he had been there to see it. But he
remembered it.
Intelligence reports had come in that Karamatsov had left the KGB base, and
there had been a dark-haired, beautiful woman with him. Another report had