husband, the incredibly beautiful Natalia loved the wild and deadly American.
Varakov began to laugh out loud, turning from the balcony railing and starting down the long, low stairs back toward the main hall and his adjoining office. It amused him that he was so concerned over a potentially volatile situation between Russia and Cuba. 'I should be more concerned about that,' he muttered as he reached the base of the stairs, wondering what he would do if something were to happen that brought Natalia and Rourke together— the KGB major and the ex-C.I.A. covert operations officer.
'Amusing,' he said, passing his tall, young secretary, then chuckling again as it seemed evident her eyes were trying to decipher his laughter. 'Nothing,' he told her good-naturedly, walking toward his desk. Then under his breath he muttered, 'Nothing yet.'
Chapter 7
'Who is it?'
'If they're close enough to answer, it's usually too late to shoot,' John Rourke said, stepping out of the shadows of the small stand of pines, less than six feet from the reddish-brown-haired woman, her hair almost black in the twilight.
'My God— do you always—'
'No, I don't usually creep up on people— just wanted to make certain you were alone,' Rourke told her, taking two steps and standing beside her as she sat on the ground, her back propped against some rocks. 'How are you feeling, Sissy?' he asked, bending down beside her, studying her face despite the shadows.
'Tired, nervous— better though, I think,' she said. 'Here— take this back.' She handed Rourke the Metalifed two-inch Colt Lawman .357 he'd left with her earlier. 'Guns make me nervous.'
'No reason guns should do anything to you,' he told her, his voice low. 'A gun is just like a screwdriver, a saw, a stethoscope, a scalpel— or a seismograph,' Rourke added.
'You can't kill someone with a seismograph, though,' the girl said, her voice tired.
Lighting one of the small cigars with the Zippo, then clicking the lighter shut and studying it in his left hand, Rourke inhaled hard, exhaling and watching as the gray smoke trailed up into the dim sunlight above the level of the rocks. 'You can misuse anything, or you can use it for good— guns aren't any different. I could take one of these—' and he opened his coat, patting the butt of the stainless Detonics under his left arm—'and go become a Brigand like those people chasing you this morning. Or, do what I did— fight the Brigands. I can use the gun for either job, can't I? It doesn't change the nature of the gun, the gun itself has no personality, does it?'
'Well, no...'
'Guns bother people because the people don't understand them. People are generally afraid of something they don't understand. Try showing a seismograph to an Australian bushman and the stylus moving along the graph paper making strange lines will scare him to death— just like you and this.' Rourke balanced the little Colt in his right hand, then slipped it under his jacket in the small of his back.
'Maybe you're right,' the girl said. 'But— weapons, all of that— it caused this,' she said as she stared toward the orange-red horizon.
'No,' Rourke whispered. 'Just like my analogy with the Brigands. Nuclear power could have been used for good, and in a lot of ways it was— maybe it still will be. It's the same thing with people not understanding something, being afraid of it. The Russians never really understood us; we never really understood them. The few on both sides who did understand didn't start the war. It was the people who never took the time to understand, or the ones who didn't want to. That's why you're trying to alert what's left of Army Intelligence to an impending disaster, that's why I'm searching for my wife and children. Not enough people understood or cared to. That's why we're here now.'
'It's all over, really— isn't it?' the girl whispered hoarsely, her words choked and halting.
'I think so— I'm not sure. I don't know if anybody is. But you can't just lie down and die. As long as you're breathing there's a chance.'
'But the sunsets, the sunrises, the weather— all of it—' the woman began.
'We've done something that may never have been done before, or maybe the world reached a level of sophistication like ours eons ago— I don't know,' he whispered slowly.
'Maybe history does repeat itself. All the crap we belted into the atmosphere— it hasn't been like that since there was mass vulcanism millions of years ago. What kind of effect it's going to have, I don't know. I'm a doctor— you're a scientist. Do you know?'
'No, but...'
'Maybe you're lucky— maybe we're both lucky.'
Rourke looked up at the sky again. The sun had finally winked below the horizon and stars were visible, though the sky seemed purple more than black or deep blue.
'Do you think there's anyone out there?' she asked, her voice soft, little-girl sounding.
'Maybe that's the greatest tragedy of this whole thing,' Rourke answered slowly. 'Maybe we'll never know. I kind of think there has to be. Maybe if we'd encountered a civilization that had gotten itself over the technological hump and still survived we could have learned how to do it.'
'You're a strange man, John— I mean, a doctor who runs around on a motorcycle and carries guns. You don't fit any mold I ever encountered.'
'I'll take that as a compliment.' Rourke smiled in the darkness. 'We'd better get on the way to Savannah— see what we can do to contact what government there is.'
'Then you got the gas for your motorcycle?'
'Uh-huh,' Rourke answered absently. He stared starward— wondering.
Chapter 8
