by Ahern, Jerry
"Yes—yeah, I did," the younger man said, looking strange without his glasses; but with the snow falling, it would have been impossible to see through them.
"And (ake it real slow—really slow until you start getting out of this.
Just be careful all the way, even after you've gotten through the weather—a sudden temperature—"
"John—I'll do all right. Take it easy." Rubenstein extended his gloved right hand, then pulled the glove away.
Rourke hesitated a moment, then pulled off his own glove. "I know you will Paui—I know. I just—ahh . . ." Rourke simply shook his head, clamping his jaw tight and wishing he had a cigar there to chew on.
"I'll walk you back to your motorcycle," Natalia said quietly, taking Rourke's bare right hand as soon as he released Paul's grip.
"All right," Rourke answered her softly. "I'll see you Paul."
"Yeah, John. I'll be right behind you real soon."
Rourke simply nodded, then started back toward his machine, feeling the pressure of Natalia's hand inside his. Her hand was warm. He looked at her once, then looked away. One of his big bandanna handkerchiefs was tied over her head to cover her ears; his own ears were freezing. It was blue, making the blueness of her eyes even bluer. The sleeping bag bound around her made her figure virtually vanish under it and finally, as they
stopped beside his Harley, without looking at her he murmured, "If you ever need to disguise yourself as a plump Russian peasant girl that's the perfect outfit."
He felt her hand let go of his, then her hand on his face as he turned to her.
"I love you, John Rourke—I'll always love you. Forever." She kissed his mouth hard, and he thought he saw a faint trace of a smile—a strained smile—on her face. She turned and ran away, almost slipping once on the ice as he watched her. She clambered aboard the snow-splotched bright blue Harley Low Rider and didn't look back as Rubenstein gunned the machine, shot a wave over his shoulder, and started off.
John Rourke stood there for a moment—cold. He was alone. It was a lifelong habit.
Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna hugged her arms tightly around Paul Rubenstein; she thought of him as a brother, as Rourke thought of him.
Rourke had said it to her more than once. She held Paul in order to stay aboard the slowly moving motorcycle, and for the warmth his body radiated—and to give him the warmth of her body.
It had been three hours by the face of her ladies' Rolex and the ice and snow had allowed them, she estimated, not more than a hundred miles, perhaps less. "Do you think the storm will intensify as John heads south?"
she asked.
There was no answer from Rubenstein. She repeated the question—louder. "Do you think the storm will intensify—as John goes south, Paul?"
"I think so. May be slacking up a little soon for us— looks like it up—"
"Paul!" It was the first time he'd turned his face toward her in more than an hour. His eyebrows were crusted over with ice, his face red and raw to the point of bleeding on his cheeks. She suddenly realized that while his body had shielded hers from the wind, his face had had nothing to protect it. "Stop the bike—now. You have
to," she shouted to him.
"What—" But then he shook his head slowly and she could hear the sounds of engine compressionas he geared down, making the stop slowly to avoid a skid. They had almost had one perhaps ten miles back but Rubenstein had kept the bike aright somehow, although Natalia didn't know how he had done it.
The bike slowed then, stopping, slipping a little as Paul shifted his weight, Natalia's feet going out to balance it as well. "You let me drive," she said, dismounting.
Paul looked at her, his eyes tearing from the wind, but smiling despite it. "If I let anything happen to your face—well, aside from the fact John'd never forgive me—I wouldn't forgive myself," he told her.
She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him a moment, then stepped back.
She had long ago resigned herself to Rourke's chauvinism—and liked it in her heart. And Rubenstein treated her the same way. She pulled the blue-and-white bandanna from her hair, her ears instantly feeling the cold. She started toward Rubenstein again, saying, "Then you tie this over your face and stop for five minutes every half-hour—either that or I don't go another mile, Paul."
"But—"
"No!" She decided then that if Paul insisted on treating her like a woman, then she could treat him like a little boy—and impose her will. She bound the handkerchief at the back of his neck, pulling up the sides until the handkerchief covered all his face just below his eyes. "You look very, very much like a bandit—a handsome bandit." She smiled.
Rubenstein shook his head, shrugging his shoulders,
his voice sounding slightly muffled as he said, "We go again?"
"Yes—if you think you can. But only for a half-hour—then a rest."
"Agreed," Rubenstein told her, straddling the Harley once more. She climbed on behind him. As the machine started along the road, she huddled her head down into the sleeping bag which formed a collar for her—at least as much as she could, for her ears tingled already with the cold despite her hair covering them.
She had bathed his face and now massaged it as they huddled from the slightly diminished storm under the shelter of a bridge, ground clothes anchored to the bike and to the bridge itself to form a windbreak for them. It was dark—night had come early because of the darkness that had filled the skies throughout the day. "You don't have to—"
She cut him off. "I massage your face because I love you and want you to be well."
He turned and looked at her. "You don't have to—"
"I do. I love both of you. You know that."
"But you love him differently—I know that, too. The kid isn't always asleep when you think he is." Rubenstein smiled, then winced, his face evidently hurting when he moved.
"Rest," she told Paul.
"He's a funny guy, isn't he? John, I mean," Paul Rubenstein said, as if to himself, she thought.
"Yes—he is," she answered, wishing for a cigarette but still needing to rub his face to restore the circulation. "How are your feet and hands?''
"Left foot's a little stiff—but I don't think it's—"
"Rourke isn't the only one who knows about the damage cold can do to the body," she said reprovingly. "Lean back."
"Hey, no—I can—"
"Do as I say," Natalia told him. She started undoing the laces of his left boot, getting the boot free; it felt damp to her. Then she removed the two socks that covered his foot. The sole of his foot was yellow. "This could turn to frostbite—very quickly," she snapped. She opened the front of her coat, throwing back as well the sleeping bag that covered her. Reaching under her coat, under the shirt Rourke had given her, to the front of her black jump suit, she zipped it down, then took Rubenstein's foot and placed it against the bare flesh of her abdomen. Hey—you—"Let me! Tell me when the feeling starts back. How is the other foot?"
"It's well, it's okay."
"Keep your foot here and don't move it," she ordered, reaching down to his other foot and starting to work on the boot laces—her own fingers were numb, and her ears still felt the cold from the slipstream of the bike as they'd ridden.
"That bandanna you put over my face against the wind—it smelled like you.
I guess from your hair," Rubenstein concluded, sounding lame.
"Thank you, Paul," Natalia whispered, getting the two socks off his right foot. The sole of his foot was yellow, but not as bad as the left one had been. Again, she felt the almost icy flesh against her abdomen and she shivered, "You love John—I mean really love him, don't you?" Rubenstein blurted out.
She closed her eyes a moment, felt pressure there
against her eyelids, tt
"I'm sorry—I mean for both of you. John and Sarah— I mean it's none of my bu
siness—"
"No—talk if you want," she told him.
"He—well, it's because he doesn't know if she's safe, if she's alive minute by minute—that's—"
"I heard the lines in an American movie once—fI can't fight a ghost'?
No—even a living ghost. And I don't want to fight it. I respect John for searching for Sarah. For—" She almost said never touching her. But she couldn't say that because she didn't like to think about it. !
"I mean . . . he's the last of a breed, isn't he? Silent, strong—a man of honor."
"Yes—he's a man of honor," she repeated. The chills in her body from the coldness of Rubenstein's feet were starting to subside. . . .
They had built a fire; there had been no other choice. And behind the windbreak in the glow of the fire, her feet wrapped in the sleeping bag and blankets around her, even covering her head, her ears were finally starting to become warmer.
Paul sat a foot or so away from her, the whiskey bottle beside them, between them. He had taken a long drink from it an hour earlier and then simply sat, watching the fire, silent, his feet wrapped in blankets against the cold.
"She used to do that. I always had problems with my feet freezing up,"
Paul said suddenly.
"Your—"
"My girl—I was afraid you were gonna say my mother. But it was my girl."
"Was she—was she pretty?" Natalia asked, not looking at him, but staring into the fire.
"Yeah—she was pretty. She was," he said with an air of finality.
Natalia felt suddenly awkward, reaching her hand out of the blankets which swathed her, the cold air something she could feel suddenly against her skin. She picked up the bottle—the glass of it was cold to her touch and cold against her lips as she drank from it, then set it down again. She reached her hand out still farther, found Rubenstein's arm and held it.
"Would you tell me about her?"
"Catharsis?"
"Maybe—and my curiosity. You know that. Women are always curious."
"Ruth was that way," he said quietly.
"Had you—?"
"Known each other a long time? Yeah—went to temple together whenever my dad was on leave when we were kids. Her folks and my folks knew each other."
"You were a military brat weren't you?" Natalia smiled, looking at him in the firelight.
"Yeah—brat period, maybe. But that isn't true. I was always a good kid—relatives, the other officers, always said, 'Paul is such a well-behaved little boy.' Wish I hadn't been. Ruth always said we should wait until we—" He stopped and fell silent.
Natalia didn't know if she should press it, but then decided. "Until you were married?"
He just looked at her, his glasses, long since back in place, slipping down the bridge of his nose. "You believe that ... I mean, well you know .
. . but this isn't any kind of thing on my part to try to—"
"To make a pass?" Natalia smiled.
"Yeah—that'd be pretty funny—me making a pass for
you, wouldn't it?" He laughed.
"No—and it wouldn't even be sweet. But it'd be flattering to me." She smiled.
Again he fell silent, taking a pull on the bottle, then settling his forearm under her left hand again. "Here I am—middle of nowhere and I'm a virgin. Just what you want with death around every corner, isn't it?" He laughed.
"You would make any woman a fine lover," Natalia said, feeling awkward saying it.
"Hell! I knew Ruth for six years before I worked up/the nerve to kiss her." Rubenstein Jaughed. {
But the laughter sounded hollow to her, and Natalia said, "How old were you then?"
"Nine." He laughed again, this time the laughter sounded genuine she thought.
(fI me! Vladmir when I was twenty. He was so strong and brave and—I didn't know any better. He made love to me—a lot in those days. I thought it was love anyway."
She moved her hand away, finding the black shoulder bag and starting to search it for her cigarettes. She set her knife down on the ground beside the bag.
"What'd you call that knife again?" Rubenstein asked, obviously changing the subject. "What was it?"
"A Bali-Song knife—it's a Philippine design, though it may have originated with an American sailor who brought it there. Some of the really big ones were used as cane knives and as weapons, too. It's a martial-arts fighting knife. I got into martial-arts weapons when I was just—"
She put the knife down, looking at Paul. "Why don't you ask—did I ever really love Vladmir?"
She lit a cigarette, waiting for him to ask her.
"Did you?' he finally said, his voice sounding suddenly older to her.
"Yes—until I found out what he was. And I was trying to deal with that and I saw John again there and—" She swallowed hard, forgetting about the cigarette a moment, then choking on the smoke and coughing.
"John was everything you'd thought Vladimir was— but really wasn't. I mean, the grammar or syntax or whatever—well it really sucks, but isn't that what you want to Of >
say:
Natalia swallowed again, this time without the smoke—instead the bottle in her left hand, the whiskey burning at her throat suddenly. "Yes—I wanted to say that. Men always jokingly say women are like children, call them girls—but we are. We all look for our own personal knight—you know, the kind with a rK-N-I—' We look for someone we hook our dreams on. That's what Ruth saw in you—and she wasn't wrong."
"Me—a knight?" Rubenstein laughed.
"A knight doesn't have to be tall and brave—but you are brave, you just maybe didn't know it then. It's inside. That's what it is." She reached her hand out and felt Rubenstein's hand touching hers. "That's what it is," she repeated.
Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy thought the idea was, in a way, amusing. He looked at his gun—a nickel-plated Colt single-action Army . with a four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel. He was the conqueror, the invader, and/his sidearm was "The Gun That Won the West'—as American as—he verbalized it, "Apple pie—ha!"
He cocked the hammer back to the loading notch, opened the loading gate, and spun the cylinder—five rounds, originally round-nosed lead solids, but the bullets drilled out three sixty-fourths of an inch with a one-sixteenth-inch drill bit, then tipped into candle wax after first having had an infinitesimal amount of powdered glass shavings inserted into their cavities. His own special load.
After rotating the cylinder, closing the gate, and lowering the hammer over the empty chamber, he holstered the gun inside his waistband, in a small holster he'd had custom-made of alligator skin, the gun with -ivory butt forward and slightly behind his left hip bone. He reached to the dresser top, picking up the set of military brushes and working his hair with them. Thirty-four years old and not a speck of gray, he thought.
He set down the brushes and walked across the room to his closet; the clothes were neatly arranged there by his valet. He took down a tweed sportcoat—woolen and finely tailored to his exact measurements. He held it for a moment against the charcoal gra> slacks he wore. The herringbone pattern had a definite charcoal gray shading and it made for a perfect combination.
He slipped the coat on. It would be cold, dangerous because of the storm—but it was vital and no choice was left other than to go.
He tried to think if there was some American song about West Virginia—his destination. He thought for a moment, then decided there doubtless was but he didn't know it. Instead he whistled "Dixie"—it was close enough for his purposes.
He stopped whistling as he reached the door of his quarters, laughing.
"Whistling 'Dixie' in a snowstorm—ha!"
He started through the doorway, into the hall. . . .
The wind at the restored Lake Front airport was bit-ingly cold, and he pulled up on the collar of his coat— wolfs fur—as he started toward the helicopter for the first leg of his journey
toward West Virginia and the presidential retreat—and the duplicate set of files on the American Eden Project.
As he crossed under the rotor blades, he could feel it— his hair was ruined.
Darkness had fallen deeply—he glanced at the black luminous face of the Rolex Submariner he wore—more than an hour ago. Rourke exhaled, watching the steam $n his breath. The Harley's engine rumbled between his legs, running a little roughly with the cold.
A smile crossed his lips; he had been right. He was heading into the heart of the storm, Natalia and Paul away from it. He looked behind him once, into the white swirling darkness, then gunned the Hariey, slowly starting ahead, the snow making the road almost impassable. . . .
Rourke had stopped a little while earlier to pull up the neck of his crew-neck sweater so that it covered most of his face, and his ears and head. There had been a sudden coldness near the small of his back where his sweater no longer protected him, and his ears had been stiffening with the cold. Now as he pressed the bike along a mountain curve, the visibility was bad, worse than it had been before. The storm only seemed to intensify as he moved along, and the cold increased. He wore his dark-lensed aviator-style sunglasses, to protect his eyes from the driving ice spicules; the backs of his gloved hands were
i
encrusted with the ice where his fists locked over the handlebars.
Brushing the ice away from the cuff of his sweater where it extended past his brown leather jacket's cuff, he moved his right hand to roll back the sweater and read the face of his watch. It was early in the evening, and the temperature would still drop for another nine or ten hours or so until just before dawn. As he shifted his right hand back to the handlebars, his weight shifted— stiffness from the cold—and the bike started into a skid.
He was doing barely twenty by the speedometer, the headlight of the Harley dancing wildly across the snow and ice as he took the curve, the Harley almost out of control. His hands wrestled the controls, trying to steer 'the bike out of the skid. His feet dragged to stop it, to balance it.