long pause when he— Varakov— did not look up to return the salute.
Finally, he heard the sound of heels on the floor of his place, his special place, the sound diminishing with each step.
There would not be a recall to Moscow, a premature pension— or perhaps an accident.
There would not be the time for that. He— Varakov— would die like all the rest.
His feet hurt badly.
Chapter Forty-Three
David Balfry opened his eyes— they hurt to open, his nose stiff and he could not breathe through it. The lights were bright.
He looked down to his chest, then looked away, sickened, the nipples of his breasts black, burned, the electrodes still clipped to them.
'You are awake?' The voice was almost kind-sounding. 'He is awake— let us be sure—'
Balfry felt the pain starting in his testicles— the burning, felt it, smelled his flesh as it smoked.
'No— o-o-o-o— Christ, no—!' The pain stopped and he was numb except for a core of pain still somewhere inside the pit of his stomach.
'Then you will cooperate and tell us the information we request about the so-called Resistance?' There was a laugh.
'Fuck you,' Balfry stammered, his tongue thick-feeling, his words strange-sounding to him—
his teeth gone, broken, his tongue swollen from thirst, cut where it scraped against the jagged edge of his teeth. They had used a hammer and chisel part of the time— part of the time pliers. The salty taste started again in his mouth and he knew he was bleeding.
'Our dental care— our electrical stimulation— you found this offensive? Hmm.' The voice— he could not see the face— cooed to him. 'Hard on you? Painful, even?' There was laughter in the frightening darkness beyond the light. 'There are things unspeakable in yours or any language—
things we can make you endure, Balfry— but there are drugs to calm your pain, to ease you happily into death— these choices are yours to make. We have hours, days, weeks— as long as necessary.'
'No, ya don't,' Balfry coughed. 'You need what I know— and you need it now— but to get it now you're gonna have to kill me— and then you won't have it— eat shit.'
'A college professor— such a way for a university don to speak— let's try the electrodes to the breasts again— the twitching is interesting to watch.'
The pain— it flooded his chest and he cried and felt ashamed. But he didn't talk— he would have laughed. With the pain, he couldn't talk.
Chapter Forty-Four
Rozhdestvenskiy entered the room at the far corner of the museum basement. What he saw made his stomach churn.
'You are barbarians— and worse than that— incompetent! This is an important prisoner whose information may be vital and you so risk his life!'
He couldn't see the face in the darkness beyond the light— all he could see was the captured Resistance leader, Balfry.
'But, Comrade Colonel!'
He recognized the voice— and more than that, his eyes drifting across the naked, horribly abused body strapped against the 'work' table, the table hanging the man almost completely inverted—
the technique.
'You will call medical assistance immediately— the man will be treated, made comfortable and then administered drugs— drugs against which he can offer no resistance and that will allow his successful interrogation— not this butchery.'
'You are insane—' and Rozhdestvenskiy started out the door—
'Comrade Colonel—'
Rozhdestvenskiy, his hand on the knob, stopped, not turning back, not wanting to see the American again.
'He is dead, Comrade Colonel— I— I had no idea that—'
Rozhdestvenskiy leaned against the door, letting it slam closed under his weight.
'Have the man's body— what remains of it— given a decent burial. He is the equivalent of an enemy officer— he deserves such.' And Rozhdestvenskiy turned, stepping quickly into the shadow, reaching out, his left hand finding the throat of the man whose technique he knew so well, hated so well.
'And if you ever— ever attempt such a thing again— when the time comes, rather than a long sleep and renewed life— I will disembowel you with greater zest than I have ever killed any other man—' Rozhdestvenskiy pushed the torturer away, heard the clatter of the body falling against what sounded like an instrument tray, upsetting it, overturning it, metallic objects and glass tinkling against the stone floor.
Rozhdestvenskiy stepped out of the shadow, walked back to the door and looked once again at the now dead American, Balfry.
'When one lives with animals,' Rozhdestvenskiy began, never finishing, going out through the doorway and closing the memory behind him.
Chapter Forty-Five
The submarine's deck winch shifted, Rourke's Harley the last of the three bikes to be put onto the rocks. No dock, they had carefully explored a section of coastline, finding a flat rocky surface with deep enough soundings for the submarine to get within ten yards— Rourke standing now on the rock, salt spray blowing on the wind, Natalia and Paul Rubenstein already moving away along the spit of rock to the shore, only Commander Gundersen beside him now as the Jet Black Harley Low Rider swung precariously from the tackle, then was lowered slowly down.
'How's O'Neal?'
'Got him in sick bay— got a few more cuts and bruises during that bruha you folks had with Cole and the others. But he's just fine. Told me to give you his best regards— and to wish you luck finding your family.'
'Tell him I wish him the same— the best of luck, and if he's looking for someone, to find them—
and— well, tell him,' Rourke added lamely. Gundersen laughed. 'All right— I'll tell him exactly that.'
'Where you bound to?'
'Close as I can get this boat to U.S. II headquarters without a Russian reception committee to welcome me, I guess,' Gundersen laughed.
'Then what?'
'Funny talk for a guy who rides around under water, but guess you could say I'm a quoteunquote soldier— I'll follow my orders. Finally got through to U.S. II— ran a radio link through a ham set opened up last night in Tennessee— some Resistance people just got onto it— fella named Critchfield. Know him?'
'No— he didn't mention anything about a woman and two children, did he?'
'No— can't say I asked, either, though— sorry about that.'
'I'm heading there anyway, once I get back.'
'Well— we made the link,' Gundersen said. 'Seems Cole was really Thomas Iversenn. Reed called him a kudzu commando?'
'Yeah--kudzu's a plant, imported from Japan years ago— grows worse than a weed in Georgia—
it's a vine. Covers up telephone poles, abandoned houses—'
'Really?'
'Yeah— but what about Cole— or Iversenn?'
'He was a National Guard officer— a first lieutenant. Wandered in one day with about a dozen men or so and volunteered to go regular army. They took him. Reed never really trusted him—
rightwing radical, he called him. U.S. II assigned the real Cole and six men to recover the warheads to use as a bargaining tool against the Soviet Union. Somehow, Iversenn found out about it— killed Cole and his men, Reed almost bought it. He took Cole's orders and identity.'
'How'd he know so much about the missiles?'
'Worked at the facility that built the warheads— apparently— least figures it this way— this Iversenn had been planning to get to the missiles someday even if there hadn't been a war— start his own preemptive strike
