have a little bit of a chance. With guns, you’d be outclassed. Stick to the knife.”
And now the man shouted to his friends, “This sucker thinks he’s so good—shit—” he drawled.
“What’s your strategy—you gonna bore me to death talkin’ or start fighting?”
The man lunged, a switchblade flicking audibly open, the blade catching a glint of moonlight, Rourke feigning with the big Gerber, the man side-stepping, Rourke’s left hand punching out, the Sting IA clenched tight in his left fist, the spear-point blade stabbing into the carotid artery on the right side of the neck.
There was a scream, Rourke feeling blood squirt onto his hand as he backstepped, the man going down in a heap.
Rourke stepped back, making the big Gerber disappear into its sheath, his right fist now swing-ing the M-16 forward, the thumb flicking off the safety.
The men from the trees on both sides were edg-ing in, Rourke stooping to wipe clean his little knife on the dead man’s sweater.
Rourke stood up, sheathing the knife.
He took his cigar in his left hand, studying the glowing tip a minute, then replaced it between his teeth.
“This has gotten awful tedious,” Rourke called in a loud whisper. “I mean, a real drag. Now fight and die or run and hide—doesn’t matter shit to me.”
Searchlights lit the ground—from above, Rourke thought, but he wasn’t certain.
“Commies,” one of the figures shouted, all of them breaking and running, Rourke starting to move.
“Major Tiemerovna!”
The voice, English but Russian-accented, from beyond the edge of the light, down the walkway. “Major!
Please—I beg of you, stop—”
Natalia was running, swinging her M-16 toward the lights to fire, Rourke wheeling, in a crouch, the muzzle of his M-16 coming up—
“It is Captain Vladov—major!”
Natalia’s voice—
“John—it is all right, I think—he is my uncle’s friend—“
Rourke didn’t move the rifle’s muzzle for an in-stant, the searchlight going out—its origin was ahead of them, not from above—
The Russian voice again. “I have come to find you—we travel the park here each night in hopes you are coming, major—and this man is Rourke?”
Rourke didn’t move his weapon.
“John—” It was Natalia.
Rourke lowered the M-16—thinking it might be the last stupid thing he would ever do.
Chapter Forty-nine
They walked in total silence, in darkness save for the bright moon, through the park. Captain Vladov led the way with his three men, Vladov and his men in black camouflaged-pattern fatigues, their faces and hands blackened as well.
They reached what Rourke recognized as Co-lumbus Drive, the street running parallel to the lakefront and Lake Shore Drive itself. The foun-tain at the middle of the square now seemed odd—no lights, no water— stillness.
Vladov waited behind bushes near the street, signaling silently to one of his men—the man ran to the curb, then signalling. Vladov whispered hoarsely-“Hurry!”
Vladov ran ahead, Rourke and Natalia running abreast behind him, the two other men following, Rourke recognizing their rifles as the new 5.45 mm AKS 74s—Vladov and his men were paratroop-ers—he could tell from the stylized berets, and likely the Soviet equivalent of Special Forces. They halted in dead underbrush—but in the moonlight Rourke could see sprigs of pale green—new life. Vladov, a pistol in his right hand—he had car-ried it since Rourke had first set eyes on him—turned, still crouched, saying, “Your uncle, major—my men and I have been patrolling the park each night, a similar patrol on the far side of the museum—he almost despaired, comrade,” and the man smiled at her—warmly.
“So had I,” she laughed softly. “Almost de-spaired.”
“There’s no need to speak in English—I speak Russian,” Rourke advised Vladov.
“Very good,” Vladov nodded, slipping into Rus-sian then. “The comrade general—he is watched by some of the residual forces of the KGB—but Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy is no longer here—it is rumored he has gone to a place in Colorado called The Womb. Our forces mass for an attack against United States II, but this is senseless commitment of troops—these are your uncle’s words, comrade major—there is something afoot.”
Rourke studied the man’s gun as he listened to him. “What are you doing with a Smith & Wesson automatic and the AKS-74 assault rifle?”
“You are observant, Dr. Rourke—we are the So-viet equivalent of your—” and he said the next two words in English— “Special Forces. Officers are allowed to choose their own personal weapons, and we are all issued the AKS-74—it is more effi-cient. Now,” and he seemed to dismiss the subject, “we shall make all good speed to the museum—the guard posted at the main entrance is friendly to our cause—but we must hurry,” and he rolled back the cuff of his black and dark green night jacket—the watch was a Rolex. “The guard will change in less than forty- five minutes.” “My uncle,” Natalia asked.
“He is well?” “The comrade general is well—yes, comrade major,” Vladov grinned, adding, “and as tough a man as ever. It will gladden his heart that you are well.” And he looked at Rourke, “But we must hurry—there will be no need for shooting—you see, I have looked at your guns.”
“I hope you’re right,” Rourke only told him. And then, Vladov in the lead, they began to run again.
Chapter Fifty
They had reached the main entrance to the mu-seum from the side, by circling behind the struc-ture—and the guard there, a young, florid-faced man who looked very tired, had pretended they were invisible, never acknowledging their pres-ence, never following with his eyes as they had gone up the steps toward the heavy doors.
Vladov used a key—two of the men went through first, the third in a guard position in the shadow beside a pillar at the head of the stone steps.
Vladov was checking his watch—then he said in English, “Hurry—inside.” Natalia went through, Rourke behind her, Vladov after them, closing the door as his men came through, then locking it from the inside. Vladov rasped, “That way—hurry!”
The figures of two fighting mastodons domi-nated the central hallway, Rourke running past them waved on by the two Special Forces men who had gone through first, toward mezzanine stair-ways, Natalia taking the stairs three at a time in a run, Rourke behind her, doing the same, Vladov and the third trooper behind him.
At the head of the stairs, the two Soviet SF men waved them down a left-hand corridor, Natalia following, Rourke beside her now, Vladov giving an order in Russian to the third trooper to stand guard by the mezzanine and stay out of sight.
They slowed their run, walking in dark shadows, a golden light ahead of them. The two Soviet SF men turned right into a side chamber, Rourke and Natalia after them—Rourke stopped. At the far side of the chamber—perhaps some sixty feet away, was a man, huge in his bulk, but of average height and not more. His face was a com- bination of sternness and the warmth of a home-less dog, his uniform tunic open, his feet moving as though it hurt him to stand. Natalia ran into his arms, the man seeming to smother her.
“That is Comrade General Varakov,” Vladov said with obvious pride. “I am sure that as the friend of the major you will not, but should you attempt to harm the comrade general, I would willingly—even gladly—die in his defense.”
Rourke studied Vladov’s eyes, saying, “You know—I think you would.”
