. . but this isn't any kind of thing on my part to try to—'
'To make a pass?' Natalia smiled.
'Yeah—that'd be pretty funny—me making a pass for
you, wouldn't it?' He laughed.
'No—and it wouldn't even be sweet. But it'd be flattering to me.' She smiled.
Again he fell silent, taking a pull on the bottle, then settling his forearm under her left hand again. 'Here I am—middle of nowhere and I'm a virgin. Just what you want with death around every corner, isn't it?' He laughed.
'You would make any woman a fine lover,' Natalia said, feeling awkward saying it.
'Hell! I knew Ruth for six years before I worked up/the nerve to kiss her.' Rubenstein Jaughed. {
But the laughter sounded hollow to her, and Natalia said, 'How old were you then?'
'Nine.' He laughed again, this time the laughter sounded genuine she thought.
(fI me! Vladmir when I was twenty. He was so strong and brave and—I didn't know any better. He made love to me—a lot in those days. I thought it was love anyway.'
She moved her hand away, finding the black shoulder bag and starting to search it for her cigarettes. She set her knife down on the ground beside the bag.
'What'd you call that knife again?' Rubenstein asked, obviously changing the subject. 'What was it?'
'A Bali-Song knife—it's a Philippine design, though it may have originated with an American sailor who brought it there. Some of the really big ones were used as cane knives and as weapons, too. It's a martial-arts fighting knife. I got into martial-arts weapons when I was just—'
She put the knife down, looking at Paul. 'Why don't you ask—did I ever really love Vladmir?'
She lit a cigarette, waiting for him to ask her.
'Did you?' he finally said, his voice sounding suddenly older to her.
'Yes—until I found out what he was. And I was trying to deal with that and I saw John again there and—' She swallowed hard, forgetting about the cigarette a moment, then choking on the smoke and coughing.
'John was everything you'd thought Vladimir was— but really wasn't. I mean, the grammar or syntax or whatever—well it really sucks, but isn't that what you want to Of >
say:
Natalia swallowed again, this time without the smoke—instead the bottle in her left hand, the whiskey burning at her throat suddenly. 'Yes—I wanted to say that. Men always jokingly say women are like children, call them girls—but we are. We all look for our own personal knight—you know, the kind with a rK-N-I—' We look for someone we hook our dreams on. That's what Ruth saw in you—and she wasn't wrong.'
'Me—a knight?' Rubenstein laughed.
'A knight doesn't have to be tall and brave—but you are brave, you just maybe didn't know it then. It's inside. That's what it is.' She reached her hand out and felt Rubenstein's hand touching hers. 'That's what it is,' she repeated.
Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy thought the idea was, in a way, amusing. He looked at his gun—a nickel- plated Colt single-action Army . with a four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel. He was the conqueror, the invader, and/his sidearm was 'The Gun That Won the West'—as American as—he verbalized it, 'Apple pie—ha!'
He cocked the hammer back to the loading notch, opened the loading gate, and spun the cylinder—five rounds, originally round-nosed lead solids, but the bullets drilled out three sixty-fourths of an inch with a one- sixteenth-inch drill bit, then tipped into candle wax after first having had an infinitesimal amount of powdered glass shavings inserted into their cavities. His own special load.
After rotating the cylinder, closing the gate, and lowering the hammer over the empty chamber, he holstered the gun inside his waistband, in a small holster he'd had custom-made of alligator skin, the gun with - ivory butt forward and slightly behind his left hip bone. He reached to the dresser top, picking up the set of military brushes and working his hair with them. Thirty-four years old and not a speck of gray, he thought.
He set down the brushes and walked across the room to his closet; the clothes were neatly arranged there by his valet. He took down a tweed sportcoat—woolen and finely tailored to his exact measurements. He held it for a moment against the charcoal gra> slacks he wore. The herringbone pattern had a definite charcoal gray shading and it made for a perfect combination.
He slipped the coat on. It would be cold, dangerous because of the storm—but it was vital and no choice was left other than to go.
He tried to think if there was some American song about West Virginia—his destination. He thought for a moment, then decided there doubtless was but he didn't know it. Instead he whistled 'Dixie'—it was close enough for his purposes.
He stopped whistling as he reached the door of his quarters, laughing.
'Whistling 'Dixie' in a snowstorm—ha!'
He started through the doorway, into the hall. . . .
The wind at the restored Lake Front airport was bit-ingly cold, and he pulled up on the collar of his coat— wolfs fur—as he started toward the helicopter for the first leg of his journey toward West Virginia and the presidential retreat—and the duplicate set of files on the American Eden Project.
As he crossed under the rotor blades, he could feel it— his hair was ruined.
Darkness had fallen deeply—he glanced at the black luminous face of the Rolex Submariner he wore—
