She would return—as Rourke would have done—to learn the rest of the information, what she could do. The young American Jew—he would come with her.
As Varakov stopped at the mezzanine railing, slightly out of breath, weary, he wondered if perhaps all of them had been killed. Rourke, Rubenstein, his niece Natalia.
'What will I do then?' he murmured.
'Comrade general?'
The voice was soft, uncertain. He turned. 'Yes, Catherine.'
'Comrade general,' the girl began. 'These papers— they require your signature.'
'Hmmph,' he said, turning away, studying the figures of the mastodons which dominated the center of the great hall. 'Soon, Catherine—we shall be like them.'
'Comrade general,' she began again, a long silence ending. 'Comrade general—what is it—might I ask, Comrade general—what is it which seems to—to trouble you?'
He did not look at her—she was pretty, however plain she made herself appear intentionally.
'Catherine. More scientific data which greatly disturbs me, which shall profoundly influence us all. That is one report. And a second report. The KGB, which is stockpiling raw materials, equipment—everything you might imagine and many things, child, which you could not—one of their convoys was attacked by the American resistance near some city called Nashville. There is a resistance stronghold which Rozhdestvenskiy has committed Army forces to destroying —against my policies because there are women and children there. And without even asking my permission. He does not need it anymore, child.'
He looked away from the mastodons, studying her face—the gentleness of her eyes.
'Catherine—I have never before stared death so closely in the face. Go and prepare for me coffee, child.'
He started away from the railing, listening to the clicking of her heels, noting her skirt was still too long. He tried no! to look at the mastodons—there would be little but bones to look at soon enough.
Chapter 53
Jacob Steel, she thought, was perhaps a talented minister. He was not so talented as a doctor.
'Here—I'll tie that,' she told him.
Steel looked up from the dressing he had attempted twice to secure, his gray hair falling across his forehead, his glasses smudged on the lenses. He smiled.
'You've realized I'm a klutz, Mrs. Rourke. The only reason I learned anything about medicine in the first place was because when I was drafted, I was a conscientious objector. Had to find something to do with me—I couldn't type. I was starting to worry about you. Most people who've worked as my nurse have discovered my ineptitudes far sooner.'
She felt herself smile as she secured the dressing. 'I was just too polite, I guess, Reverend.'
'Hmm—but I see you can do that quite well. Your husband's a doctor, is he?'
She looked up, but Steel hadn't waited for an answer. He had already moved to the next patient. She arranged the covers of the man on the ground by her feet, then stood, following Steel.
'Yes,' she answered belatedly.
'Yes, what?'
'He's a doctor,' she said.
Steel looked away, then back to the patient. The woman's burns were not healing.
'Are those sheets sterile?'
Steel looked up at her.
She smiled. 'That was a silly question, wasn't it?'
'Yes, Mrs. Rourke—it was a silly question. Nothing here is sterile. Except me—I caught the mumps from my daughter five years ago,' and he laughed.
'How old is she—' She caught herself.
'Now? She's dead. My wife's dead. My two sons are dead. Our house is gone—wasn't really our house. Belonged to the church. Church is gone, too. I was away.
Chattanooga was neutron bombed.'
'I know,' she answered quietly.
'Realize how many fires start in a given day—just your regular ordinary fires? I don't know how many myself, but I bet plenty. Fire started in the garage of the house across the street from the church—don't know why, but it looked like it started there. Spread across the street somehow—must've been the wind. Burned the church, the house. My wife and the children—woulda been dead by then anyway.'
'I'm—'
