Her uncle, Natalia not looking at him as he spoke, said, 'You will give me as complete a description as possible of Rubenstein, of the vehicle he drove—'
'A motorcycle—like Rourke's, only blue.'
'A motorcycle—only blue, yes. And the direction in which he would be traveling. Even now Rozhdestvenskiy
is rerouting my retreating troops, forming a strike force. I must talk with this Rubenstein in order to find Rourke. He has a place where he operates from—and this Jew can find it for me. I must talk with Rourke.'
'Why?' She looked at her uncle then.
'You must trust me—that Rubenstein will not be harmed, nor will Rourke.
And while my men search for this young man, I have a job for you. It is perhaps the most dangerous mission you have ever had.'
'Where must I go, Uncle?'
'Into Rozhdestvenskiy's private office. Walk with me and we shall discuss it.'
Her palms sweated as she stubbed out tbe cigarette in a pedestal ashtray, then followed him slowly— because his feet;hurt, she could tell—down the steps.
As he leaned back in his chair, the telephone cradled beside his left ear, against his shoulder, Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy studied his face in the reflection of the mirror opposite his desk. He studied the toes of his shoes; they sparkled.
'Yes,' he answered into the receiver. 'Yes, Comrade. ... I cannot hear you. . . . The connection is ... yes —now. Work goes ahead on the Womb construction. ... I have already begun martialing forces to restart the factories needed. . . . No, Comrade, I have not made copies of the Eden Project documents. Should they fall into the wrong hands . . .' He coughed, covering up, he hoped, the fact that he had been about to interrupt Anatol Tporich, the supreme head of the KGB. 'No, Comrade. A courier even now brings to your offices a copy of the abstract and my initial report of the findings. There can be no mistake. The factories will work four six-hour shifts to keep the laborers and technicians fresh.
They will be housed in the factories and not allowed outside contact... .
. And—' He coughed again, to cover another interruption. 'Yes, Comrade—only KGB personnel . . . No, Comrade—not Major Tiemerovna. I
agree that-her loyalties may lie—** Tporich was lecturing him about security and Rozhdestvenskiy disliked anyone lecturing him on a subject at which he himself was so expert. 'I will be constantly vigilant, Comrade.
... am losing your voice, Comrade!' There was much static. High-attitude bombers were being used as communications relays for overseas radio transmissions with all satellites down or out of service since the Night of the War. 'There ... I hear you. Yes, Comrade.' Rozhdestvenskiy lit a cigarette, studying his gleaming teeth in the mirror for a moment as he did. 'Yes. ... I realize, Comrade, how little time remains. The Womb will be ready. . . . This I swear as a loyal member of the party.'
The line clicked off, dead.
Rozhdestvenskiy studied the abstract of the Eden Project again. It was clear, concise, but incomplete. He needed more information. But he had not told Tporich that. He would find out what he needed to know in time. He had to, in order to live.
And to live—he had always felt—was all. After life, there was nothing.
Rubenstein felt better. He was making better time. The weather was almost warm again as he moved through Kentucky, nearing the Tennessee line, the Harley eating the miles since he had made the stop near the strategic fuel reserve of which Rourke had told him.
There was slush, heavy slush at the higher elevations. And in case the temperature dropped with evening, he wanted to get as far south as possible. If he pressed, he could get near the Georgia line and be well toward Savannah by nightfall. By now, Rourke should be crisscrossing the upper portion of the state and into the Carolinas, looking for Sarah and the children. Perhaps—Rubenstein fell himself smile at the thought—perhaps Rourke had already found them. Should he, Rubenstein, start for the Retreat?
He should follow the plan, he decided. If Rourke had designed it, it was—Rubenstein looked up; a helicopter, American but with a Soviet star stenciled over it, was passing low along the highway, coming up fast behind him.
'Holy shit!' Rubenstein bent low over the machine, running out the Harley to full throttle. He had almost
forgotten about the Russians; and what .were they doing? 'Joy riding,' he snapped, releasing the handlebar a moment to push his wire-rimmed glasses back off his nose. 'Damn it!'
The helicopter was directly above him, hovering. Rubenstein started to reach for his pistol to fire, but the machine pulled away, vanishing up ahead of him.
Rubenstein braked the Harley, glancmg to his right; there was a dirt road, little more than a track. He wondered if he could take it. Should he? The helicopter was coming back, toward him, and Rubenstein had no choice. He wrenched the bike into a hard right, sliding across the slushy highway toward the dirt road beyond, jumping the bike over a broad flat low rock.
As his hands worked the controls, the bike came down hard under him, and throttled up to take the incline with some speed as he started up the dirt track.
There was a loudspeaker sounding Behind him. 'Paul Rubenstein. You are ordered to stop your machine. You are ordered to stop and lay down your arms. You will not be harmed.'
Rubenstein glanced skyward, at the helicopter almost directly over him.
He bounced the bright blue Harley up over a ridge of dirt and onto a board bridge. There was a second helicopter now, joining the pursuit.
