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  up, awkwardly leaned across the desk in his office-without-walls, and stuffed his white-stockinged feet into his shoes.

  His uniform blouse still open, he walked toward the main hall of the museum, his feet hurting as they always did when he walked. "The soldier's curse," he murmured, stopping not quite halfway across the main hall to look at the figures of the mastodons, fighting. He watched them.

  How huge they were, how powerful—all once, long ago.

  He snorted, shaking his head, still standing there, not walking. She should be safe—she had been with—"Comrade General!"

  Varakov turned, staring. A man was standing on the mezzanine balcony, staring down either at him or at the figures of the mastodons. "Comrade General!"

  The man was already starting down the gently winding staircase to Varakov's left, starting toward him, moving with the grace of an athlete, taking the stairs effortlessly in his comparative youth.

  Varakov heard his own lips murmur, "Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy—aagh—"

  "I was looking for you, Comrade General!"

  Varakov did not answer; the man was still halfway across the length of the natural history museum's great hall and Varakov would not shout.

  Rozhdestvenskiy slowed his easy jog, stopping and standing at attention, a boyish smile across his lips, his blond hair tousled, a lock of it falling across his forehead. Varakov thought the man looked as though he had himself sewed into his uniform each morning.

  "You did not think, perhaps, to search for me in my

  office? Or is that not covered in the KGB training school?"

  Rozhdestvenskiy smiled, still standing more or less at attention, saying, "Comrade General—you are as noted for your wit as you are for your brilliant stratagems."

  "That was not an answer to my question," Varakov said flatly, then turned to study the figures of the mastodons. "You have come to replace Karamatsov as head of the American branch of KGB. Arid you have come to tell me where the military and the KGB will draw the proverbial line.

  That is correct?"

  He heard the voice behind him. "Yes, Comrade General—that is correct. The Politburo has decided—"

  "I know what the Politburo has decided," Varakov told him evenly. "That the KGB should have greater authority here, and that you, as Karamatsov's best friend in life should be his successor in death. That KGB will have the final word—not the military."

  'That is correct, Comrade General."

  Varakov turned around, slowly, facing the vastly younger and slightly taller man.

  Rozhdestvenskiy continued speaking. "In matters that strictly involve the military, of course, yours will be the final word, Comrade General. But in matters where the KGB-"

  "In any matters," Varakov interrupted, "I am sure there will be KGB

  involvement, will there not?"

  "So many incidents have unforeseen political ramifications, Comrade General—it may be difficult to avoid. May I smoke?"

  "Yes—you may burn if you wish." Varakov nodded, half-wishing the man would. He watched as Rozhdestvenskiy took from under his uniform tunic a silver cigarette

  case, the^ cigarettes in it looking more American than Russian; then a lighter that perfectly matched the case, and Ht the cigarette in its steady flame. The new KGB colonel—the new Karamatsov, Varakov thought—like the man he replaced, was too reminiscent of a Nazi for Varakov to feel remotely comfortable around him. SS—the perfect physical specimen, the blond-haired superman—only this one was a Marxist rather than a National Socialist. "And what is your first order of business, Colonel?"

  "Two matters are pressing, Comrade General. Perhaps not of the greatest importance, but something which must be accomplished. We do not know,"

  "I thought the KGB knew everything." Varakosmiled, starting to walk around the figures of the mastodons, still inspecting them as if they were his troops.

  Rozhdestvenskiy smiled when Varakov glanced at him "Hardly, Comrade General—but to know everything is our goal. No—this is a rather esoteric matter, perhaps; one with which you are conversant, I am sure. It is the matter of the mysterious Eden Project and what il actually was or is.

  Shortly before leaving our headquar ters in Moscow, I learned of the efforts of a heroic Soviel agent. He had stolen some information regarding th< Eden Project and information regarding other matters a; well, things which were held at the highest security levels in what was the United States. Because of the sensitive nature of the information, he was bringing it to Moscov personally. When the war broke out—"

  "Yes—do you recall? I believe it was Napoleon, wasn'i it? A messenger reportedly came to him. Napoleon reac the message and proclaimed something to the effect: rM) God, peace has broken out!' It was something like that.'

  office? Or is that not covered in the KGB training school?"

  Rozhdestvenskiy smiled, still standing more or less at attention, saying, "Comrade General—you are as noted for your wit as you are for your brilliant stratagems."

  "That was not an answer to niy question," Varakov said flatly, then turned to study the figures of the mastodons. "You have come to replace Karamatsov as head of the American branch of KGB. Anti you have come to tell me where the military and the KGB will draw the proverbial line.

  That is correct?"

  He heard the voice behind him. "Yes, Comrade General—that is correct. The Politburo has decided—"

  " know what the Politburo has decided,' Varakov told him evenly. "That the KGB should have greater authority here, and that you, as Karamatsov's best friend in life should be his successor in death. That KGB will have the final word—not the military."

  "That is correct, Comrade General."

  Varakov turned around, slowly, facing the vastly younger and slightly taller man.

  Rozhdestvenskiy continued speaking. "In matters that strictly involve the military, of course, yours will be the final word, Comrade General. But in matters where the KGB—"

  "In any matters," Varakov interrupted, ctI am sure there will be KGB

  involvement, will there not?"

  "So many incidents have unforeseen political ramifications, Comrade General—it may be difficult to avoid. May I smoke?"

  "Yes—you may burn if you wish." Varakov nodded, half-wishing the man would. He watched as Rozhdestvenskiy took from under his uniform tunic a silver cigarette

  case, the^ cigarettes in it looking more American than Russian; then a lighter that perfectly matched the case, and lit the cigarette in its steady flame. The new KGB colonel—the new Karamatsov, Varakov thought—like the man he replaced, was too reminiscent of a Nazi for Varakov to feel remotely comfortable around him. SS—the perfect physical specimen, the blond-haired superman—only this one was a Marxist rather than a National Socialist. "And what is your first order of business, Colonel?"

  "Two matters are pressing, Comrade General. Perhaps not of the greatest importance, but something which must be accomplished. We do not know."

  "I thought the KGB knew everything." Varakosmiled, starting to walk around the figures of the mastodons, stil] inspecting them as if they were his troops.

  Rozhdestvenskiy smiled when Varakov glanced at him "Hardly, Comrade General—but to know everything is our goal. No—this is a rather esoteric matter, perhaps; one with which you are conversant, I am sure. It is the matter of the mysterious Eden Project and what ii actually was or is.

  Shortly before leaving our headquar ters in Moscow, I learned of the efforts of a heroic Soviel agent. He had stolen some information regarding th« Eden Project and information regarding other matters as well, things which were held at the highest security levels in what was the United States. Because of the sensitive nature of the information, he was bringing it to Moscow personally. When the war broke out—"

  "Yes—do you recall? I believe it was Napoleon, wasn'i it? A messenger reportedly came to him. Napoleon reac the messag
e and proclaimed something to the effect: rM) God, peace has broken out!' It was something like that.'

  "Yes, something like that, Comrade General." Rozhdestvenskiy nodded.

  "This agent—what word did he bring you?" Varakov felt himself smile.

  "Surely not that peace had broken out.

  "He brought word of precisely where duplicate files on the Eden Project were hidden, in addition to the first .copy files which were destroyed during the bombing oi the Johnson Space Center in Texas. There is now renewed hope that—"

  "You hope for that then. I have more pressing matters than some American defense project so obscure that—"

  "I know what you hope." Rozhdestvenskiy nodded. "As the wife of my lifelong friend Colonel Karamatsov, the life of Major Tiemerovna is my concern as well. Surely in all the troop movements from the East Coast of the continent there has been some word—"

  "Nothing," Varakov answered sincerely. "She was last seen helping in the evacuation of Florida at an airfield, only moments before the major earthquake struck and a high-altitude observation plane photographed the beginning of the Florida peninsula's collapse into the ocean."

  "She was with the American agent, Rourke, was she not, Comrade General?"

  Rozhdestvenskiy asked. Is he trying to sound innocent, Varakov asked himself, realizing that for an instant the charming, handsome, blond officer had penetrated his defenses, made him feel there was something of a genuine concern for Natalia's welfare.

  "I believe so—but that is only from a—" he began defensively.

  Rozhdestvenskiy cut him off. "A reliable report, I

  believe, Comrade General? This other matter to which I hope to attend—I confess both a personal and professional interest in the safe return of your niece. The major may be able to aid me in locating the war criminal Rourke—"

  "War criminal?" Varakov repeated, without really thinking.

  "Surely, the assassination of the head of the American KGB by this Rourke is a war crime, Comrade General. I understand he was a physician before going into the employ of the American Central Intelligence Agency."

  Varakov picked his words—carefully—for the first time realizing what kind of man he truly dealt with. "It is my understanding that this Dr. Rourke had left the CIA sometime before the war. I do not really concern myself with him. I belive his major preoccupation is searching for his wife and children who may have survived the war; I do not know. If you capture him, I should be interested in meeting him. But that is your affair."

  "Yes, Comrade General. That is my affair." Rozhdestvenskiy dropped his cigarette to the marble floor and started to grind it out beneath the heel of his boot.

  "But this is my headquarters building, Colonel; pick up that cigarette."

  "Bat surely, a prisoner used for janitorial service can—"

  "That is not the point; pick it up."

  The boyish smile was gone from Rozhdestvenskiy's face. He hesitated a moment, then stooped over and picked up the cigarette butt, holding it between two manicured fingernails. "Will there be anything else, Comrade General?"

  "No—I think not." Varakov turned and started back

  across the main hall toward his office without walls.

  Thousands of troops were moving inland to escape the raging storm fronts assaulting the eastern coast of what had been the United States—regrouping and searching, he hoped. That Natalia would be safe as long as she was with John Rourke, Varakov took as a fact. It was after that—with this Rozhdestvenskiy-—that Varakov worried about her safety.

  "Catherine!" He called out the name before he remembered he had told her to go and rest. He shrugged, deciding he would do the same thing himself.

  There might not be time for it in the future.

  His hands stabbed into his pockets as he walked away from his office and he stopped once, glancing back over his right shoulder. The offensive SS-Hke KGB officer was gone from view. Varakov smiled, remembering the ego satisfaction he had given himself in making Rozhdestvenskiy pick up the cigarette. He realized as he glanced once more at the mastodons that he would likely pay for it, too, and perhaps so would Natalia.

  Rourke's knuckles were white, Ms fists bunched on the yoke now as the twin-engine cargo plane skimmed low over over the icy roadway, his starboard engine hopelessly iced. His mind went back to the only other time in his life he had crash-landed a plane—the in the New Mexico desert on the Night of the War. He remembered Mrs. Richards, her husband gone in the destruction of the West Coast, her compassion in caring for the dying captain, her tireless help that long night while they had fought to keep airborne—then her death when the had—Rourke wrenched back on the controls, trying to keep the nose up. The brakes held, but the plane started to skid as it hit the ice-and snow-covered road. "Get your heads down!" Rourke shouted to Paul, strapped in near the midsection, and to Natalia in the copilot's seat beside him.

  "John!"

  Rourke didn't look at her; he was feeling the tendons in his neck distending, his body suddenly cold, the air temperature finally getting to him. The plane was going out of control. He worked the flaps to decelerate, the brakes starting to slow him as well now. The straight

  away stretched for perhaps another quarter-mile yet and if he slowed the craft too quickly the skid would become uncontrollable. The aircraft zigzagged under him, the tail of the craft whipping back and forth across the three-lane width of Kentucky highway. The straightaway was rapidly running out. Eyes squinted against the glare of the plane's lights on the snow, he could see ahead of him where the road seem to end, to curve in a sharp S-bend, running to his left. The plane coasted right across the icy road, toward the drop-off on the far end of the S-bend, a meager metal guardrail there and beyond it, from what Rourke could see, a drop.

  Two hundred yards, perhaps less. Rourke controlled the plane with the flaps, the braking action worsening the skid. Rourke reached across to Natalia, punching the release button on the seat harness, grabbing her by the left shoulder, shouting back along the fuselage, "Paul— we're bailing out—get the cargo door and jump for it— jump as far out as you canl"

  Rourke didn't wait to see that the younger man was complying, but grabbed Natalia, shoving her roughly ahead of him toward the fuselage door.

  "John!" Rourke glanced to his left. Rubenstein was struggling with the seat belt, its buckling mechanism apparently jammed. "Save yourselves!"

  Rourke glanced toward Natalia; the Russian woman was already working the handle on the cargo door with her left hand, in her right hand something metallic gleamed—a knife. She reached the butt of it out to Rourke. Rourke snatched it from her hand, wheeling, the aircraft's lurching and bumping throwing him toward Rubenstein. Collapsing against the fuselage, Rourke reached the knife blade under the webbing strap across

  Paul's left shoulder, sliced it; then, as he started for the leg strap, he could feel the rush of arctic-feeling air, hear the slipstream. The fuselage door opened. Rourke's borrowed knife slashed apart the last of the restraints.

  The knife still in his right hand, he snatched at his CAR-, yelling to Paul, "Jump for it, Paul—go on!"

  As Rourke was moving toward the door, the younger man was already on his feet, the Schmeisser in his right hand; Natalia was starting to jump.

  Rourke, at the fuselage door, wheeled, reaching toward his strapped-down Harley, cast a glance at it because it would likely be the last, and snatched his leather jacket. He turned and dove, the snow slamming up toward him as he rolled onto the road surface, his left shoulder taking it, aching as he hit, the rear stabilizers sawing through the air toward him as he flattened himself, .the tail of the fuselage passing inches over his head.

  He followed it with his eyes for an instant, then pushed himself to his feet, slipping on the ice, running, lurching forward. He could see Natalia, lying in the middle of the road, Paul running toward her. Rourke heard it, the wrenching and groaning of metal. He
wheeled, skidding on the heels of his black combat boots across the ice, to watch as the plane crashed through the metal roadside barricade and disappeared over the side. He waited— there was no explosion. But there wasn't much hope either, he thought. Three people, one jacket, a rifle with no spare magazines and a submachine gun with no spare magazines. A few pistols. He looked into his hand—and a Bali-Song knife. He turned, starting back toward Natalia.

  But like a little girl after taking a spill on an ice rink, she sat, legs wide apart, her right hand propping her up, her left hand brushing the hair back from her face,

  hair already flecked with snow. Beside her Rubenstein crouched, as if waiting.

  Rourke stopped walking, a yard or so from her still. He held up the knife.

  "Never told me about the Bali-Song knife."

  She only smiled. Rourke glanced back where the plane had disappeared; if anything could be salvaged, it would have to wait. The leather jacket was bunched in his left hand along with the CAR-. He approached Natalia, squatted down beside her, and draped the coat across her shoulders. She was already shivering, as was Paul Rubenstein. And so was Rourke. . . .

  "I had the Bali-Song for a long time. For some reason I didn't carry it when you found me in (he desert. I don't remember why-But I took it with me to Florida, just in case.

  "Are you good with it?" Rourke asked her, shivering.

  "Yes. If my hands weren't so cold—I could show—" She shook from the freezing air temperature; sub-freezing, perhaps close to zero, Rourke thought as he started down the side of the embankment, carefully, slowly, for the rocks that formed the purchases for his hands and feet were ice-coated. "Be careful, John."