by Jerry Ahern
Bradley had stopped on the edge. “Catch the gun.” He tossed the AK-47 across the airspace, then the belt. Rourke looped the belt across his shoulders and under his right arm. Bradley ran back, then started forward, bent against his stride and his face set, his lips drawn back.
“Look out!” Rourke shouted. Bradley cleared the roof line as a Soviet soldier came up by the fire escape, his AK-47 opening up.
Bradley’s arms flew away from his sides, like a bird trying to fly, a look of fear on his face for a fleeting instant, then the eyes wide. Bradley was dead; his body fell between the buildings. Rourke dropped to both knees and opened up with the AK-47, a three-round burst hammering into the face of the Russian who’d killed the black sergeant.
Rourke got to his feet, backing away, knowing the Russians were coming up the fire escape. He scanned the roof he was on: there were no buildings near, no hope of escape, he thought. The AK-47 braced against his right hip in an assault position, Rourke started to squeeze the trigger of the AK, then spun to his right. From the far end of the downtown section there was an explosion, then a fireball belched up into the sky.
“The fire station!” Rourke rasped. “Reed—Darren Ball!” Rourke edged toward the far side of the roof, the street below him in panic, fire belching up from manhole covers and sewers.
Rourke turned. Three Russian soldiers were coming up on the opposite roof. He fired, burning out the magazine, then rammed home a fresh one from the belt.
A truck was parked by the curb on the street side, a pickup with a camper top over it. “What the hell!” Rourke rasped. He took a few steps back from the roof edge to get up momentum, then with a running jump clear of the roof, crashed down toward the camper top, his body impacting hard against it, sliding off, and rolling down into the street.
Rourke pulled himself to his feet. There was a single Russian starting toward the roof line above. Rourke raised the muzzle of the AK-47 and fired a three-round burst, then turned and ran, as the Soviet soldier fell screaming from the roof onto the street. The fires still raged from the manhole covers. Sirens were wailing in the distance.
Chapter 21
Varakov’s one abiding wish ever since assuming military command of the Army of Occupation had been, he thought, a simple and basic one—he would have preferred that Lake Michigan be facing west of the city so he could watch the sunset over it. He walked along the lakeshore, watching the deep blue of the water, then looking beyond toward the city he commanded and wondering about the country that lay beyond it. He walked along stone ramparts, slick and slippery from the water, but he walked very carefully, watching the waves break below him. Finally, he sat, staring out at the darkening water, thinking.
Karamatsov had to die—yes. But Karamatsov was the favored child of the KGB, and simply to walk up to him and shoot him in the face would not go well. To try to implicate him in some impropriety would perhaps bring about the downfall of Natalia as well.
And, Varakov realized, if he attempted to arrange for something concerning Karamatsov and it were to fail, then matters would only be worse: it could come back at him and only diminish his power and his ability to protect Natalia from Karamatsov and from her own warped sense of guilt.
No, it had to be a death, pure and simple. And if he could arrange the death in such a way as to make Karamatsov appear the hero, the valiant, noble—but thoroughly dead—Soviet officer, that would only serve to heighten Natalia’s security—and his own. He worried enough about the latter only to be realistic. He realized he was an old man and from Soviet political standards, he was almost as old as one could justifiably expect to become.
A hero’s death for Karamatsov. The man in charge of the American Continental KGB would die a hero. Yes.
But as to how he could assure Karamatsov’s memory, Varakov felt at a loss. He needed, he realized, to somehow make certain someone from the Americans would kill Karamatsov. And, Varakov sighed, Karamatsov was very good, hard to kill—deadly and skillful and well protected.
To kill Karamatsov he would need someone who could best him, someone who was even more deadly, more skillful. A smile flashed across his thick lips. The man who had however unwittingly started it all, the fight between Karamatsov and Natalia—what was the name? Varakov stood up, staring out at the water. The wind was whipping up, some of the breakers now crashing over the lips of the nearest edge of concrete. “Rourke,” he said, so only the water could hear him....
“Comrade General?”
“Girl, coffee!” he shouted, walking, he realized, as he hadn’t walked since he was ten years younger. He smiled at the young female secretary, and shouted after her as she scurried downstairs to the cafeteria for the coffee, “And requisition a new uniform skirt; that one is too long!”
He crashed down in the chair behind his desk, his greatcoat still on, plopping his hat on the desk top and kicking off his shoes.
“Rourke,” he said, “who has bested Karamatsov once before. Ha, ha!”
Chapter 22
Rourke had hidden the Harley and his weapons in the railroad yard by the end of town. With the explosions still ringing in the distance, he edged toward the area cautiously through the tall grass and weeds, the reddish clay under his feet giving because of the dampness of the ground. He could see two of Reed’s men left behind with the equipment. He edged closer to them and, in a low voice, called out. The men turned, guns ready, but the muzzles already lowering as Rourke rose from his crouch and ran across the few yards separating them.
“What the hell is goin’ on in that town—Fourth of July or a war?”
“A little of both, I guess,” Rourke answered, sitting in the grass despite the dampness, shucking off the cowboy boots and exchanging them for his black combat boots. “Bradley’s dead—shot by some Soviet trooper—but I got the guy. Reed and the others are okay. He made contact with the Resistance, I’m almost certain.” Rourke scraped most of the mud off the cowboy boots, slipped them into a plastic bag, and secured them inside the Lowe pack on the back of the Harley, then scrounged out his weapons, checking the twin Detonics pistols, the Government .45, and the CAR-15. “We can wait a little while, but not too long—I don’t want the Russians slamming up roadblocks and putting out more patrols and us getting boxed in.” Rourke slipped on the brown leather jacket over his double Alessi holster, then left the bike, starting toward one of the crumbling concrete pylons supporting the railroad trestle. He noticed Reed’s two men behind him.
“You,” Rourke said to the nearest man, not remembering his name and not bothering to read the cloth tag sewn onto his cammie fatigues. “Go over there to my left, on the far side in the weeds and wait. Keep that intersection as your field of fire.” He turned to the other man, pointed along the railroad tracks, and rasped, “You take up a position about fifty yards down there and spot the road. I’ll keep an eye out here. And don’t get overeager and shoot anything that moves; there’re a lot of civilians out there, hmm?”
As both men left, Rourke crouched in the grass, the CAR-15 across his lap, the scope covers off and the stock extended. He could hear the wind despite the distant rumblings from the city, and as he watched beyond the tracks for some sign of Reed or the others, or for some sign of Russian troops, he reviewed what had happened. Once the young Russian officer had come up to him, it meant an arrest—and if nothing else a short period of detention.
But, more likely, Rourke thought, it meant his identification. He was certain that after he’d helped President Chambers break out from the KGB Texas stronghold, all KGB units had the Soviet equivalent of a rap sheet on him—a physical description at the least and, likely, a photo of him fished from old KGB files when he’d been on the CIA active list years before. And that young girl, Rourke thought, the one with the pansy eyes—there’d been a look of fear in her eyes, the same look he’d seen in the eyes of the people he and Bradley had run past when the Soviet troops had been pursuing them. The people in Athens, Rourke thought bitterly, probably the
people in any occupied American city needed something to show them the Soviets weren’t invincible. Rourke smiled. He knew they weren’t.
Rourke dropped on the ground, the butt of the CAR-15 swinging up to his shoulder, the crosshairs of the three power scope settling on something moving on the far side of the triple crossroads beyond the tracks. It was hard to see clearly because the road curved deeply and was partially out of view.
He saw the movement again, wishing the Steyr-Mannlicher SSG were with him rather than at the retreat because of the doubleset triggers, the tolerances in the barrel and the action. You could make reliable hits with the SSG out to a thousand yards and sometimes beyond. A smile crossed his lips. The semi-automatic version of Colonel Colt’s little assault rifle would have to do. As he watched across the eye relief into and through the scope, he thought about the gun for a moment—there were more expensive assault type sporters than the CAR-15, but for his use, none he truly liked better—spare parts, spare magazines, ammunition, all were out there to be found, scrounged from a military rifle, whatever. And, despite his comparatively vast experience with weapons, Rourke abhorred guns that were complicated to clean or maintain.
He saw the movement again, this time clearly through the scope tube, then relaxed. It was Reed, and not far behind him—Rourke swept the scope along—were the two other men who had been with him. And behind them—Rourke settled the crosshairs on the awkwardly moving man—was a fourth figure. The figure turned; Rourke caught the face under the objective lens—Darren Ball, prosthetic leg and all.
Rourke leaned back in the tall grass and stared skyward. He wondered without verbalizing it if Darren Ball and men like himself as well had been more a cause for the problems that had brought the war—more a cause than a solution. Then he thought back to the girl with the pansy-colored eyes: there was no reason for fear, no reason why it should be endured or allowed to grow. Ball, in his own way as an anti-Communist mercenary, had fought that fear. Rourke had fought it in the CIA, since by working against the ignorance that helped fear that made men in situations where their lives and other lives were at stake do the wrong thing, or fear to do anything because it could be wrong.
Rourke shook his head, got back into a crouch, a smile crossing his lips, his hands almost without conscious will collapsing the stock on the CAR-15, replacing the elastic connected scope covers, flicking the CAR-15’s safety to the on position. He edged along the grass toward the nearest of the concrete pylons and stood up to his full height, waiting.
It took a full three minutes by the face of the Rolex Submariner for Ball, Reed, and the others to reach the railroad trestle. Already Rourke was getting edgey over the protracted time. Rourke signaled the men as they approached, waving them over by the crumpling pylon, Ball’s face creasing into a smile as he saw Rourke. The man limped forward, short of breath. “John! Hell man, I thought they’d gotten you!”
The two men shook hands, then Rourke said, “Darren, have you heard anything?”
“Reed already asked me,” Ball said.
Rourke looked at Reed and nodded. Rourke added, “Well—have you?”
“All I know is somebody told me as they passed by your place the end of the first day after the war—saw a bunch of tire tracks and some hoof prints from maybe four or five horses—fella wasn’t sure on that. The house was burned down, but it was still hot. Coupl’a bodies too, some burned up, some not—three, maybe four, people, one of them a woman. Found a couple of guns burned up in the house—they yours?”
“No. All I had at the house was a shotgun and a .45. Sarah probably took those—least I hope she did,” Rourke added.
“She doesn’t know where that fancy-dan retreat of yours is, huh?”
Rourke looked at Ball, saying, “She could have, but we never got around to it. I’m the only one who knows,” he said, intentionally neglecting to mention Paul Rubenstein. He didn’t know how far he wanted to trust Ball, despite their long-standing semi-friendship.
“Well, I’ll put the word out to look for her—and the kids. Now what do you want in Athens besides causing trouble?”
Rourke smiled, then his voice low, said, “Ask these guys—they’ve got the big ideas. I’m just the native guide.”
Ball laughed, then turned to Reed. “You want that Jim Colfax—tonight’s the best time to do your askin’—and you guys can give us a hand.”
He looked at Rourke.
Rourke looked up from his watch. “Let’s cut the small talk—time’s wasting.”
“I’ll make it short then,” Ball said, his whiskey voice almost hiding a laugh. “We got a raid planned tonight—a biggee. I can’t go, but Rourke—if you go and bring some of these fellas along, well—I’ll make certain the whole Resistance network has the poop on Sarah and the kids—and on Colfax.” Ball, edging painfully it appeared on his false leg, glanced at Reed.
“Where?” Rourke said, cutting off Reed before the Army Intelligence man could speak.
“Nine o’clock or so at the old drive-in down the highway. You know the place?”
“Yeah,” Rourke sighed. “.Check your watch against mine.”
Ball pulled from his jeans pocket a wristwatch with a broken band. Comparing their times, Rourke was about ten minutes fast.
“I’ll go by your time,” Rourke rasped.
“Hey, John?” Ball said as Rourke turned to move back toward the Harley.
Rourke looked at him, saying, “I forgot to say thanks for the fireworks—bailed me out, Darren.”
“You cost us, John. Full dress tonight. There’s gonna be a lot of killin’.”
Rourke looked at Ball, watched the gray eyes, smiled, and just shook his head and started for the Harley. “A lot of killing,” he muttered under his breath. He would have thought there’d been enough of that despite the fact that it was a likely consequence it would have at least ceased to be a preoccupation.
Killing. Some people never changed, Rourke thought.
Chapter 23
Natalia sat on the couch. Her face was still tender where it was bruised. She moved her body slowly to get a more comfortable position; the welts on her back made it awkward to sit. She rearranged the long robe around her as she tucked her legs up onto the sofa, and hugged her knees to her. Karamatsov, she thought, Vladmir.
She sipped at the vodka, feeling the ice against her even white teeth. Would her uncle try to get revenge against Vladmir? The thought chilled her more than the ice. She brushed a strand of black hair away off her forehead and wrapped the blue terrycloth robe around her more tightly. She glanced at the digital clock on the table beside the sofa. Her uncle, General Ishmael Varakov, had called twenty-five minutes before to tell her he was coming to see her. Why?
There was a knock at the door, the one repaired only a few hours earlier. It was the sound of a fist, rather than the metallic click-click-click of the brass doorknocker.
She stood up, tightened the belt around the robe, and reached into the small drawer of the end table. She had put away the gun she’d taken from Vladmir and had the little four-barreled stainless steel COP pistol. She broke the pistol, verified all four barrels were loaded, and dropped the double action only derringer-like gun in the right pocket of her robe. Her hand remained there. It was likely her uncle, she thought, but chances were something only fools took. She stopped, the thought momentarily amusing her. Hadn’t it been a chance to marry the most handsome and most ruthless young officer in the KGB? Some chances didn’t prove out, she thought, staring at the unopened door at the end of the small hallway, hearing the knocking again.
She walked to the door, decided against peering through the peephole, and stood beside the doorframe in the narrow part by the wall. She asked through the door, in Russian, “Yes, who is at the door?”
“It is cold out here, and I’m an old man too lazy to button his coat. Hurry, girl!”
She smiled. Natalia loved her uncle like a second father, perhaps more than the father she had lo
st as a little girl. She verified it was him by glancing through the magnifying lens in the peephole, then released the chain and the deadbolt, and swung the door inward.
The old man stood there, his greatcoat open as he’d told her, rubbing his gloved hands together. He took a step inside, and she let him smother her in his arms as he had always done since she was a child.
“Uncle,” she murmured.
“Child,” he whispered, then, one arm still around her, he started into the hall. “It is cold here—like Moscow—only somehow more damp.” With his free hand he swung the door shut behind them.
They stopped at the end of the hall beside the steps leading down into the living room. She helped him out of his coat, took his hat and gloves, and watched him as he walked into the living room. Hugging the coat to her, she walked back into the hall and hung it on the coat tree and set the hat on the small table, then, taking a deep breath because she was afraid of what her uncle would say, she walked back toward the living room, and down the steps. Natalia sat beside him on the couch, tucking her knees up and her ankles under her again, looking at his deep, almost canine-sad, eyes.
“Natalia, I need information and I will not tell you why. You doubtless already suspect why at any event, child. You may keep your suspicions. I want information.”
“Uncle?”
“Fix me vodka, then I will tell you.” He picked up her glass, sniffed at it and smiled, then looked at the ice, his face downturning at the corners of the mouth. “None of this American ice-cube mixing—a ruination of good vodka.”
She smiled and leaned across the couch, still on her knees, and kissed his cheek, then got up, walked into the kitchen.
She could hear him humming. Hey! Andrushka, the song itself about drinking vodka. She poured a tumbler about two-thirds full and brought the bottle out with it, and returned to the living room.