She parked the bike at the foot of the museum steps, dismounting as she let down the stand. She ran her hands across her face, through her hair.

'Major Tiemerovna . . . you are—'

'Alive.' She smiled, looking at the face that belonged to the voice. It was that of a young corporal, a frequent sentry at the museum. 'Thank you for caring.' She smiled again. 'Please, make arrangements to return this motorcycle to Captain Konstantin with the forces in Gary, Indiana; it was a loan.'

'Yes, Comrade Major.' The younger man saluted. She nodded, gesturing toward her clothes, then started up the steps, two at a time, the pistols shaking in the holsters

against her hips; the gun barrels with the American Eagles on them had elicited raised eyebrows on her comrades in Indiana. She smiled thinking about that. A gift given in friendship—she would use them from now on.

She stopped at the height of the steps to look at the sun, appearing reddish orange over the lake.

How long would from now on be? she wondered. She thought of Rourke, and she shook her head, tossing her hair back as she moved through the brass-looking doors into the museum; then she started across the vast main hall. She saw the figures of the mastodons that her uncle seemed so obsessed with watching, studying. And beyond them, on the small mezzanine, where she had thought she would find him, he stood, staring—at the mastodons.

There were men and women moving about the main hall, office workers, messengers. Ignoring them, she shouted, running now, past the mastodons, 'Uncle Ishmael!'

The face turned toward her as she called again 'Uncle!' She saw his thick lips forming into a smile, his arms outstretching, his uniform blouse opening. And as his arms expanded toward her and she took the mezzanine steps two at a time, running, his jacket opened wider, revealing the potbelly he had always had ever since her first remembrance of him—like a father. And like a daughter, she came into his arms, hugging his neck, feeling the strength of his arms around her.

'Natalia Anastasia,' he murmured.

'Uncle.' And she held him tightly.

'You are well, child?' he asked, folding her in his right arm, turning to stare across the museum's

great hall.

She stood beside him. 'Yes, Uncle—I am well.'

'The storm—when I heard that our troops found you, my heart—if an old man's heart can sing, then mine did,' he said, not looking at her.

She studied his face.

'When I did not receive word from Chambers, the American president, I was frightened. For you.'

'John Rourke flew all of us out of Florida, Uncle; he helped Paul Rubenstein find his parents. We took off just as—'

'Just as the final tremor hit. Thank—' He looked at her and laughed. 'Yes, thank Lenin's ghost, child.' And he laughed again. 'That man, the mole agent who accompanied you when our troops found you, I assume he was Paul Rubenstein, the young Jew?'

'Yes, Uncle,' she answered, her voice low, looking away. 'I couldn't—'

'Betray a friend? I would not have expected you to, child. But I need to know. It is important. Is it the young—'

'Yes. It was Paul Rubenstein,' she told him, fishing in her bag for her cigarettes, finding one, then a lighter, working the lighter, and then inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs.

'Such a bad habit—this smoking. You do it more since the death of Karamatsov.'

'I know.' She smiled, exhaling the smoke through her nostrils, watching it hang on the air for a moment, then begin to dissipate.

'You may see Rourke again—soon. Does this distress your 'He's been captur—'

'Captured? Hardly. I think he is more ghost than man, sometimes. No. But I must speak with this man of yours.'

She felt her hand trembling as she touched the end of the cigarette to her lips, inhaling the smoke. 'He is not—'

'The wrong phrase, then.' Varakov smiled. 'Can you find Rourke for me?'

'Uncle, I—'

'I would not ask if it were not of vital importance. I need someone who has honor, someone who—I will explain it all to you later, Natalia. You cannot find him?'

'I do not know where to look, Uncle,' she answered. 'The storm—he went into it, to search for his wife and children—'

'Alone. And he sent this Rubenstein with you, to care for-you?'

'Yes. I tried to tell him I could—'

'It matters little, child, to a man who loves a woman, that she can care for herself, perhaps better under some circumstances than he could care for her^ or have her cared for. He did what I would have done. He has two lives, and is loyal to them both. He pursued one while he sent the other of his two lives under the care of this man who seems to be his best friend. He should be Russian, this Rourke.'

'I wish he were.' She smiled, then looked away.

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