"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?"
"You know I do," Rourke said, his voice sounding tired to himself.
"Yes, I know—come in." And Karamatsov stepped aside and Rourke walked into the office. There was a dirty ring on the wall behind the desk at the far end of the long, low-ceilinged room—Rourke assumed there had been an air force or other military insignia on the wall, taken down after the neutron bombing of the area had killed most of the resistance and the Soviets had occupied the facility. As the helicopter carrying himself and Rubenstein and the girl had swept over Galveston coming into the base, the sun was already up, and Rourke had seen much of the real estate below them generally intact, but no signs of life, the trees and other plant life dead—even the grass brown and withered.
He saw Natalie sitting on a soft chair by the wall flanking Karamatsov's desk.
She looked at him and smiled. Rourke sat down in the chair opposite Karamatsov's desk and waited, hearing the soft footsteps of the KGB officer coming across the carpet behind him, then seeing the major circling the desk. Karamatsov stood behind the desk for a moment, smiling, then sat down, saying, "So—I understand you saved Natalia's life—you and the injured one— Rubenstein. He's a Jew, isn't he?"
"I thought you were a communist, not a Nazi."
"We have found Jews to be troublemakers in the past—I was only curious. We as yet have located nothing about him in our data banks. He is new to your agency?"
Rourke started to answer, but Natalie cut him off. "Vladmir—stop it! I have told you—Rourke no longer works for the CIA and Rubenstein is just a magazine editor who fell in with John after their plane crashed."
"Then what about this?" and Karamatsov hammered his fist down on the desk, Rourke's identity card revealing the reserve connection with the CIA in his hand, the same card Rourke had shown on the airplane before he had taken over the controls after the pilots had been blinded the night of the war.
"You know they have a reserve list," the girl said.
"That is easy for you to say, Natalia—you are tired, this man saved your life, you have both undergone a great deal together. But I will handle this!"
Rourke reached across onto the end of Karamatsov's desk, opened a small wooden box there and saw cigars inside. He took one, unbidden, and then reached for the desk lighter. As Karamatsov reached toward his hand, Rourke eyed the man and Karamatsov drew his hand away. The KGB major said, "You apparently were given to understand by Captain Tiemerovna that you would be released after the Jew was treated by our doctors. You will not be released, of course, as I'm sure you realized. But, you will have the opportunity of assuring your continued safety and good treatment, simply by telling us everything you know about the remaining strength of the CIA in your country, all that you have learned in your travels since the purported crashing of your commercial jet—everything. If you do this, you will remain alive and be treated fairly. Otherwise, I need not be specific.
We are both men of the world."
Rourke studied the tip of his cigar, saying to Karamatsov, "No, I didn't believe her—but I'm glad she believed herself. I'm no longer in the CIA, haven't been for a long time. And if I were, I wouldn't tell you anything anyway—you want information, get out the guys with the pentathol and the hypos, then you can find out I don't know a damned thing. If you want to know what I saw after the plane crashed, I'll tell you—it's no military secret. Every town we passed was either abandoned or knocked off by the brigand gangs—like the people your troops grabbed back on the plateau when they picked us up. At least you guys did somethin' right."
"He's right," Natalie said, her voice sounding low and cold to Rourke.
"Then I will tell you some things, Rourke—your president committed—he is dead.
You have a new president—Samuel Chambers. We captured him less than an hour before you arrived here. He is resting comfortably under guard in this same complex. I will give you time to rest as well—while the surgery is completed on your fellow agent. Then—"