The Nightmare begins

Chapter Forty-One

Rourke heard a knock on the door of the small two-bunk room he was locked in, then the door opened and Natalie was standing there. She was wearing a long-sleeved white blouse, a black pleated skirt and low-heeled shoes, her hair styled, make-up—it was hard for Rourke to remember the way she had looked back on the plateau—the mud stained jeans, the wet hair plastered to her face. And she hadn't looked vastly different, just drier, in Karamatsov's office— Rourke checked his watch—three hours earlier. "May I come in, John?" she asked.

"You run the place, I don't—come ahead, "Rourke told her, standing up as she entered the room.

"I thought I'd let you know—they got Paul out of surgery and they're holding him in what you'd call intensive care—but he's fine. No major damage to the intestines or whatever—I don't know a lot about anatomy. They've got a tube in his stomach for drainage, but he's going to be all right."

"That's good," Rourke said, then, "Thanks— look, I know you tried. I'm not angry at you, really— you did what you could."

She didn't say anything for a moment, then, "I saw Chambers—he's well. They haven't sedated him or anything. There's a plane coming from Chicago to pick you up—they'll want to take Chambers, too. General Varakov wants to see you both.

Actually, you're lucky—Varakov is a good man. He'll be easier than Vladmir would have been."

"Yeah, real lucky," Rourke said, not trying to disguise the bitterness in his voice.

"I brought you a cigar," she said, her face brightening. She handed it to him, then reached into the right-hand pocket of her skirt and pulled out her cigarettes and a lighter. She lit the cigar for Rourke, then her own cigarette.

She sat down beside him on the bed. "John?"

"What?"

"You aren't in the CIA anymore, are you?"

"I told you I wasn't—all I'm interested in for now is finding my wife and children."

"Tell me about them, John—all of them."

"Why?"

"Just tell me about them, please," she said, her voice a whisper. Rourke stared at her, watched the deep blue eyes, the exquisite profile.

He dragged on the cigar, saying, "Well, my son Michael is six—smart, independent little guy, but what do you say—he's a neat little man. There's Annie—my daughter, she's just four—kind of funny, cracks you up sometimes, pretty like her mother. And sometimes she drives you crazy."

"What's your wife like?" Natalie asked.

"Sarah—dark hair, brown though, not like yours. Gray-green eyes, about five-seven. She's smarter than I am. She's more—what would I say—she's more of a diversified person, wider interests—she's—"

"Do you love her that much?"

"We talked about that already, didn't we?"

"Give me an honest answer to one question," the girl said.

"All right, if I can," Rourke told her, watching the tip of his cigar, not wanting to look at Natalie.

"If you'd never met Sarah, didn't have Michael and Ann—would you have—ahh—never mind, John," and she started to stand up.

Rourke put his left hand on her forearm, his hand moving down to her hand.

"Maybe I'm crazy," he said, forcing a smile.

"No," she said quietly. She looked at the door, then hitched up the skirt over her right leg and Rourke saw the COP pistol, the little stainless steel .357

Magnum, strapped to her right thigh with a length of white surgical elastic. She undid the elastic, stuffing it under the pillow on the cot, and weighed the gun in her hand, then pointed it at him.

"John—your weapons, Rubenstein's weapons, they're in my husband's office. He's learned of an attack on the base—here, late tonight. We have a spy in Chamber's organization in east Texas. Vladmir is calling down a neutron strike at the time the attack starts, then you and Chambers will be flown to Chicago. You'd never find your wife and children. Rubenstein would be made to talk, when they found out he didn't know anything, they'd kill him then. You wouldn't leave here without Chambers, would you?"

"Honest?" Rourke asked, looking into her eyes.

"I know you wouldn't. If I help you—to get Paul out and Chambers too, would you promise me one thing—that you wouldn't kill anyone you didn't have to?"

"Yeah—I'd promise that," Rourke answered.

"And that includes Vladmir—that you wouldn't kill him—only if you had to, to defend yourself?"

"Do you love him?" Rourke asked her.

"I don't know," she said flatly. "Get ready—I'll get the guard in here."

She stood up and walked to the door, smoothed her hair back from her face and tapped on the door, saying in Russian, "Corporal—come in here. This prisoner had a weapon—I've disarmed him. Come inside immediately and assist me."

The door opened, the young corporal said, "I will assist you, comrade captain,"

then stepped through the doorway. As he passed her, the COP pistol clamped in her right fist, she straight-armed him in the right side of the neck. Rourke stepped forward and caught the young soldier before he hit the floor, then eased him onto the bed. As Rourke stripped the man's weapon away, then used the military trouser belt to tie the man, the girl stood by the door, watching.

Rourke, over his shoulder, said to her, "How are you going to get out of this?"

"Don't worry about me. We can get Chambers freed, then get Paul out. I have already arranged for your motorcycles and equipment to be brought to one of the elevators they use for getting the planes up onto the field. There's a prop plane down there—it's fueled and flight checked. You can fly it?"

"Unless the gauges are in Arabic, I'll do okay. Why are you doing this?"

She looked at him, saying, "I gave my word—I keep my word, just like you do."

He didn't say anything to her as he checked the young unconscious guard's AK-47, but he could see her smiling.