me as is evident you worship this Rourke—”
“He is—”
He released his arms from her, turning up her chin with the tips of the fingers of both his massive, spatulate hands.
“He is a man—”
“He is more, Uncle—he—”
“I am not a religious person—but it is wrong to speak of such things, I think. For a man to worship a woman, or a woman to worship a man—this can be. But —but he is not your god. Perhaps, child,” and she looked into his eyes, tear-rimmed, large, loving seeming to her,
“—perhaps, child, neither you nor I can have a god. And if in the hour of my death, I should discover one, it will be the same one that someday perhaps you shall discover, and Dr. Rourke shall discover too. And your John Rourke—he will not discover his god by staring at his own image in a reflecting pool and being deceived. It is in this Rourke’s eyes — that he is not this sort of man. If you love him so, then respect him also for what he is and what he is not and would never pretend to be.”
She closed her eyes again, hugging her arms as best she could around her uncle’s chest—and it was something un-changing since she had been a little girl—her fingertips would not meet no matter how hard she tried, how tightly she squeezed . . .
Chapter Eight
If free will were in its exercise an intrinsic good, then those who would consciously and totally abrogate the exer-cise of free will for the bulk of mankind for their own pur-poses were, by contrast, intrinsically evil.
Good. Evil.
Rourke considered these as he stood at the height of the mezzanine steps, staring down at Varkov’s figures of the mastodons which dominated the museum hall. John Rourke looked at the Rolex Submariner on his left wrist. Varakov indicated they would have to be clear of the mu-seum by eight forty-five at the latest. It was almost eight- thirty. But the thought of rushing Natalia’s last farewell to her uncle, though it entered his mind, was something Rourke instantaneously dismissed.
He had removed his pack again, placing it on one of the benches at the rear of the mezzanine, his M-16 beside it, only the CAR-15 slung cross body from his left shoulder under his right arm now. He looked back, hearing foot-steps.
It was Natalia, walking slowly beside her uncle.
Rourke turned back toward the great hall, whistling low, once, Vladov’s man beside the brass doors leading to the outside turning, acknowledging.
Rourke turned back to stare at Natalia. As he did, he spoke to Vladov, on the mezzanine beside him. “Captain, looks like we’re ready.”
“It would appear so, Dr. Rourke.”
“How do you feel about this—going against other Rus-sians like yourself?”
“At the Womb?”
“Yes, at the Womb?”
“They are other Russians—but they are not like myself.”
Rourke looked at the man. “Fair enough,” Rourke nod-ded deliberately. He turned back to Natalia, watching. Varakov, beside her, stopped as he reached the edge of the mezzanine.
Rourke listened as the old man spoke. “It is time, child.”
Natalia only nodded, her face turned down, as if staring at her uncle’s feet or her own.
Rourke stepped forward toward them, his left arm fold-ing around her shoulders. He extended his right hand. “General Varakov, I think we could have been friends if all of us hadn’t been so bent on butchering each other, sir.”
Varakov took his hand—the grip was warm, firm, exud-ing strength. “I think that you are quite correct, Dr. Rourke. You will care for her—”
“Like my own life, sir—more than that.”
“I trust you and you alone with the greatest joy of my life.”
Rourke nodded, almost whispering, “I know that, sir.” Their hands were still clasped.
“We Communists are taught that there is no God to be-lieve in—like Marx spoke of. But in the event we have been wrong all these decades since we attempted to liberate man from his chains, then I wish that God—if He exists—bless you all and protect you.”
“We capitalists are taught,” Rourke smiled, “that hedging your bet is never a bad thing, General. May God bless you, too.”
The old man nodded, his eyes lit with something Rourke could not read, but something somehow Rourke could un-derstand. They released each other’s grips.
Varakov folded Natalia into his arms, speaking to her in Russian. “I love you—you are the daughter, you are the life I never led. Kiss me good-bye, child—forever.”
Rourke closed his eyes, opening them as Natalia moved into her uncle’s arms, then turning away.
He heard her voice behind him, in English, saying, “I’m ready, John.”
Rourke turned back. Varakov stared, past him. Rourke looked behind him. Captain Vladov and Lieutenant Daszrozsinski stood at stiff attention, right hands raised in salute.
As he looked back to Varakov, the old man, his uniform tunic open, his shoes unlaced, his shirt collar open, re-turned the salute sharply. “God—if He hears me and if He is there to begin with
— God speed.”
As Rourke drew Natalia to him, he said only one word. “Sir.”
Chapter Nine
Across the profile of Vladov’s AKS-74 assault rifle, as John Rourke looked at him where they stood beside the massive brass doors, Rourke could see tears rimming the Soviet Special Forces captain’s eyes.
Rourke looked at Natalia—she was staring behind them, and Rourke looked back then once. Varakov, his secretary Catherine beside him, stood at the balcony of the mezza-nine, only staring.
Rourke rasped, “Let’s go—our best tribute to him is to do what the general called us here for—Captain?”
“Agreed,” the man nodded, licking his lips.
“Natalia?”
She stared at him, her blue eyes awash with tears. Then she nodded, “Yes,” and pushed through the crack between the doors, Rourke right behind her.
The sun was higher over the lake than Rourke would have supposed, but it had been a long time since he had seen a Chicago sunrise. Thunder rumbled in the sky to the east as Rourke, a step behind Natalia, his M-16 in his hands, raced down the museum steps, diagonally, and toward the lanes of Lake Shore Drive which cut between the museum and the aquarium and the planetarium beyond, the click of the So-viet Special Forces troopers’ boots on the stone steps loud and oddly reassuring. Rourke shot a glance at his Rolex, the cuff of his bomber jacket already rolled back—it was eight forty-two. At eight forty-five for some reason Varakov had not specified, there could be trouble.
Natalia sprinted ahead, toward Lake Shore Drive, no traffic there—nothing as she ducked under the horizontal safety lines and into the street. Rourke followed her, hear-ing Vladov snap from behind him, “Look there, Dr. Rourke—from the south!”
Rourke drew up to his full height— coming up Lake Shore Drive now from the south was first one, then another, then another, and he imagined still more behind—trucks. “KGB,” Vladov murmured.
Rourke looked ahead— Natalia was nearly across the drive. Rourke broke into a dead run behind her, rasping, “Come on, Vladov!” His M-16 at high port, the CAR-15 banging against his side as he ran, Rourke reached the far side of the drive, Natalia still sprinting ahead, crossing be-yond the sidewalk and onto the grass, heading toward the lake side of the spit of land beyond the aquarium, roadway, parkway strip, then roadway and more parkway, then fi-nally the lake to Rourke’s right. But the shelter of the rocks was beyond the aquarium. “Come on,” Rourke
