awaken him. But if the sound were nothing it would only further convince him he had to take her all the way into northern Indiana. She wanted him back with John Rourke, helping Rourke in the search for his wife and children, helping to keep Rourke alive—for herself?
She shook her head; then extracted the revolver from the holster. It and the one like it on her left hip were curious guns. On the right faces of their slab-sided barrels were engraved American Eagles. The guns were
originally four-inch stainless steel Smith & Wesson Model s, the .
Magnum L-frame. On the left flats of the barrels were duplicate inscriptions: METALIFE
Industries, Reno, Pa—by Ron Mahovsky. The actions were the smoothest she had ever felt on a gun; the revolvers were round butted, polished, tuned, perfect. Rourke, when they had been given to her, told her he had known the maker of the guns well before the Night of the War. They would be the best guns she would ever own.
The American Eagles. Mahovsky had made them for President Sam Chambers before the war, and Chambers, for her part in the evacuation of Florida, had insisted she take them. She smiled at the memory, recalling his words.
fT can't very well give a Russian spy an American medal, can I? And anyway, we're fresh out of medals. Take these and use 'em to stay alive with, miss.'
She had taken them, and the holsters Chambers had had for them; Rourke had found her a belt that better matched her waist size.
She heard the noise again; it snapped her out of her thoughts. She extracted the second revolver now, gloves off, edging up to her feet. She prodded Rubenstein with her left foot; the man rolled over, looking up at her. She raised a finger to her lips, then pointed to her ear.
Rubenstein blinked his eyes, then nodded, suppressing a yawn. He edged back from the fire, the battered Browning High Power he carried coming into his right hand, the hammer slowly cocking back. In the stillness against the wind, it sounded loud—too loud.
She gestured to Paul with one of the guns—that she would cross around behind the bridge support and look. He nodded; he was sensible, she thought. He wore no boots, but she did, and there wasn't time for an alternate
plan. The sleeping bag fell from her shoulders and she held the pistol in her left hand against her abdomen, flat, to keep her coat closed more tightly about her.
She shook her head; the wind caught her hair as she stepped out of (he crude lean-to into the night. Brigands were her worry—Russian soldiers she could take care of. She had her identification, spoke Russian, could prove who she was and lie about who Paul was.
But Brigands . . . that had been the risk they had run lighting a fire; but otherwise, Paul's feet might have been gone. Frostbite, left untreated, could so quickly turn gangrenous. She didn't want that for Paul—death or being crippled. A friend was too hard a thing to find.
Whatever happened, the fire had been worth it, necessary.
She froze, her back flattening against the concrete bridge support as she heard the sound again, this lime more clearly—a voice, whispering, meaning there was a second person—at least—in the darkness of the storm.
She stayed against the bridge support, cold, both pistols in her_hands, waiting.
They were shiny for night work, but she liked them, the polished stainless steel, the permanence of it— 'Permanence,' she whispered to herself. What was permanent these days? She had just said good-by to a man whom she had told she loved, a man she would never see again, never forget. And soon, it would be good-by to Paul as well, her friend.
She tried to remember who her friends had been.
Tatiana from her ballet class—they had traded secrets. Tatiana had been Jewish, like Paul; and Tatiana's father had done something—Natalia had never known what— and Tatiana had never returned to ballet class again.
Natalia tried to remember her own parents, but it was impossible. She was only able to remember what her uncle who had raised her nad told her about them. Her father had been a doctor, as John was a doctor. Her mother had been a ballerina—they had died. Her Uncle Ishmael had never really fully explained how.
She wondered, silently, whether, when she died, those who cared would know at all.
She didn't think so.
She beard noise again; this time, not the noise of speech, but the bolt of a weapon—assault rifle or submachine gun, she couldn't tell which—being opened.
Perhaps it was Paul with the gun he insisted on calling a Schmeisser, his MP-.
But the sound had been from the wrong direction.
She bunched her fists around the finger-grooved Goncalo Alves wood grips of the matched Smith & Wessons, then stepped away from the bridge support.
She walked, slowly but evenly, toward the edge of the support. She looked around it—she could see the glow of the fire from beyond the far side of the ground-cloth windbreak.
And she could see four men—men or women she wasn't really sure. She had shot both in her lifetime.
They were closing in on the windbreak, in a narrowing circle, assault rifles in their hands. She imagined there were others, behind her, coming up on Paul from the rear. He would have to look out for them—his instincts were good. She would be otherwise engaged.
She stepped away from the bridge support, the glow of the fire glinting off the polished stainless-steel revolvers in her fists.
