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  "If anyone else heard you mention the war, John, the same thing would happen to you that happened to all the rest of them. We'll talk later, at my place."

  "Ohh." Rourke nodded. He wondered who the rest of them had been. As he held the woman's hand when they danced, he automatically feit her pulse; it was rapid and strong. . . .

  Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy stepped down from the aircraft to the sodden tarmac of the runway surface. "The weather—it is insane," he shouted to the KGB man with him.

  "Yes, Comrade Colonel." THe man nodded, offering an umbrella, but the rain—chillingly cold—had already soaked him, and Rozhdestvenskiy watched, almost amused, as a strong gust of wind caught up the umbrella and turned it inside out.

  He shook his head, and ran through the puddles toward the waiting au tomobile. He read the name on it as he entered. "Suburban." He ran the name through his head—it was a type of Chevrolet. . . .

  The ride had taken longer than Rozhdestvenskiy had anticipated because he had been unable to use a helicopter. But as the large Chevy wagon stopped, he felt himself smiling—it had been worth the wait.

  There was already a searchlight trained on the massive bombproof doors—they had been bombproof at least. They were wide apart now, gaping into darkness beyond.

  "Mt. Lincoln," Rozhdestvenskiy murmured. The presidential retreat.

  He stepped out and down, into the mud.

  "Comrade Colonel," the solicitous officer, who had tried the umbrella, said as he joined Rozhdestvenskiy in the mud.

  "It is all right, Voskavich—do not trouble over the mud. The facility is secured?"

  "Yes, Comrade Colonel—there were no prisoners." The KGB officer smiled.

  "I wanted prisoners."

  "They were all dead when we arrived, Comrade. A fault in the air-circulation system. The bodies, were, ahh . . ." The younger man let the sentence hang.

  "Very well—they were all dead, then." Rozhdestvenskiy dismissed the idea.

  "We will enter—it is safe to do so then?"

  "Yes, Comrade Colonel." He extracted from under his raincoat two gas masks.

  "This is for—"

  "The bodies, Comrade Colonel—they have not all been removed as yet and—"

  "I understand." Rozhdestvenskiy nodded. He ran his fingers through his soaking hair as he started toward the entrance, nodding only at salutes—he was dressed in civilian clothes—and stopping before the steel doors. "You were able to penetrate these?"

  "One of the particle-beam weapons ordered here by the late Colonel Karamatsov, Comrade. It was brought here for this purpose I presume?"

  "Partly. It is sensitive material that we cannot discuss here in the open.

  It was efficient," Rozhdestvenskiy said, looking at the doors and feeling genuinely impressed. The entire central section of both doors looked to have been vaporized.

  He ran his fingers through his hair again, pulled on the gas mask, and popped the cheeks, blowij^out to seal it; then he started forward with a hand torch given him by the younger KGB officer. Through the gas mask, hearing the odd sound of his own voice, he said, "You will lead the way for me, Voskavich."

  "Yes, Comrade Colonel." The younger man was a captain and Rozhdestvenskiy decided that the man had no intention of remaining one.

  "You have done well, Voskavich. Rest assured, your superiors are aware of your efficiency."

  "Thank you, Comrade," the younger man enthused. "Be careful here, Comrade—a wet spot and you might slip."

  Rozhdestvenskiy nodded, staring ahead of them. There was a lagoon; or at least there appeared to be one in the darkness of the massive cave inside the mountain.

  "We have boats, Comrade Colonel. The Americans used them I believe to inspect the lagoon and we must use them to cross it. This was a service entrance and the most direct route to the presidential suite is—"

  "I know, Voskavich; I, too, have read these plans until they were something I dreamed about. We shall take one of the boats—Charon."

  Rozhdestvenskiy laughed at his own joke—the boatman to take him across the river Styx.

  But Voskavich was not the boatman; another KGB man, a sergeant, was running the small outboard. Rozhdestvenskiy climbed aboard from the lagoon shoreline, reassessing his nomenclature in terms of the American language. This would not be a lagoon, but rather a lake because of its progressively greater depth. A man-made lake? he wondered. None of his readings of intelligence reports dealing with Mt. Lincoln had ever

  indicated the origin of the waters there.

  There was a small spotlight jury-rigged to (he helm of the large rowboat; and between that and the flashlights both Rozhdestvenskiy and Voskavich held, there was ample light to see the even surface of the waters. At its widest, Rozhdestvenskiy judged the lake to be perhaps three-quarters of a mile across. He leaned back as best he could; he liked boat rides, despite wearing the gas mask, despite the lighting. When he someday returned a hero to the Soviet Union, he had decided, he would get a boat and a house on the Black Sea. There were many beautiful women there, and somehow beautiful women seemed especially fond of influential KGB officers.

  And influential he would be if he were able to solidify all the speculations regarding the Eden Project, and thereby eliminate this last potential U.S. threat. He favored the most popular theory—that the Eden Project was a doomsday device. The Americans had always been kind and careful people so if they had a doomsday device encircling the globe now, there would be some way of deactivating it in the event it had been launched by mistake. He would find that way of deactivating it, then be the hero.

  It was simple.

  He even knew where to look for the plans for the device. Part of Mt.

  Lincoln held a filing room containing duplicates of the most highly classified war-related documents, for the reference of the president. It was there that this most classified of documents would be kept— there that he would find his answer.

  Rozhdestvenskiy felt the motorized rowboat bump

  against the far shore of the lake. The ride was over. . . .

  Rozhdestvenskiy felt like a graverobber, like an unscrupulous archeologist invading the tomb of a once-great Pharaoh—and perhaps it was a Pharaoh's tomb, the tomb of the last real president of the United States. He discounted this Chambers; he had taken the power, but by all reports from the late quisling Randan Soames, Chambers had taken the power reluctantly.

  The power had not been given him as it was to other American presidents—such a strange custom, Rozhdestvenskiy thought as he shone the light of the torch across the gaping mouth of a partially decomposed U.S.

  Marine. To hold free elections and trust the mass of the people to select a leader who was accountable to them.

  "No wonder they didn't prevail," Rozhdestvenskiy murmured.

  Voskavich asked, "Comrade Colonel?"

  "The Americans—their absurd ideas of doing things— it accounts handily for their failure." The thought crossed his mind, though, that Soviet troops were now retreading to regroup for the fight against American Resistance on the eastern seaboard. Their failure had not yet been completely recognized.

  Voskavich stepped across the body of the dead Marine, saying, "These men were trapped here—perhaps locked inside."

  "That is not the American way. They were probably happy to have died in the service of their country. Give the devihhis due, Voskavich."

  Rozhdestvenskiy picked his way over the bodies, seeing ahead of him at the end of a long corridor what he thought was the room.

  It recalled the Egyptian tomb analogy to his mind— fhese Marines, priests of the order, guardians of the Pharaoh, who was their high priest. The priests of De

  mocracy—an outmoded religion, Rozhdestvenskiy thought. But he did not smile. Despite himself, he was saddened to see the death masks o[ these priests, the anguish, the sorrow, the shock. He wondered what loved ones they had left behind
, what dreams they had held dear. They were young, all of them, these priests.

  He stopped before the "temple." There was a combination lock on the vault like doors, "I shall need experts in this sort of thing—immediately,"

  Rozhdestvenskiy ordered.

  "Yes, Comrade Colonel," Voskavich answered, starting to leave. The younger man paused, turning to Rozhdestvenskiy. "Should I leave you here, Comrade?"

  "The dead cannot hurt me," Rozhdestvenskiy told him. Voskavich left then and Rozhdestvenskiy stood amid the bodies, by the sealed doors, studying the faces.

  In not one of them could he find disillusionment. They had died for something important—what was it? Rozhdestvenskiy wondered. . . .

  A sergeant, a corporal and two lieutenants had labored over the locking system ofthedoors,formorelhanahalf hour, and now Voskavich turned to him, saying, "Comrade Colonel—they are ready."

  Rozhdestvenskiy only nodded, then touched his black-gloved right hand to the door handle, twisting it. Pulling it open toward him, he shone his light inside. He felt like Carter at the discovery of Tutankhamen. No golden idols were here, but file cabinets, unopened, unlike the ones in other parts of the complex. There was no pile of charred papers and microfilm rolls in the center of the floor.

  "No tomb robbers have beaten us»" he remarked,

  then stepped inside. He walked quickly through thedark-ness, the light of his torch showing across the yellow indexes on the file drawers.

  He found the one he wanted—the ones. There were six file drawers marked "Project ,-C/RS." He opened the top drawer to pull out the abstract sheets at the front of the file. He read them, then closed his eyes, suddenly very tired.

  "Voskavich, these drawers are not to be looked in. I will need carts for removing the contents after they have been boxed. Bring the cartons here and I will do that personally."

  "Yes, Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy,' Voskavich answered.

  "Leave me here—alone." And Rozhdestvenskiy, when the last one of them had left, switched off his torch and stood in the darkness beside the file drawers. He knew now what the Eden Project was. The Americans never ceased to amaze him.

  "I wasn't born here. Most of the rest of them were, and their parents were born here, too, and before that," the woman told him.

  "What the hell does that mean, lady?" Rourke asked her, exasperated, smiling as he spoke through tightly clenched teeth while the men and women and children of the town who had made up the knot of humanity in the town square were now breaking up, going home.

  "My name's Martha Bogen." She smiled.

  "My question wasn't about your name. Don't these people—"

  'That's right, Abe." She smiled, saying the last words loudly, a knot of people coining up to them, stopping. She looked at a pretty older woman at the center of a group of people roughly in their sixties, Rourke judged.

  She said, "Marion—this is my brother, Abe Collins. He finally made it here to join me!"

  "Ohh," the older woman cooed. "Martha, we're so happy for you—to have your brother with you. Ohh— Abe," she said, extending a hand Rourke took. The hand was clammy and cold. "It's so wonderful to meet you after all this time. Martha's younger brother. I hope we'll

  see you in church tomorrow."

  "Well, I had a hard ride____I'll try though." Rourke smiled.

  "Good! I know you and Martha have so much to talk about." The older woman smiled again.

  Rourke was busy shaking hands with the others, and as they left, he smiled broadly at Martha Bogen, his right hand clamping on her upper left arm, the fingers boring tightly into her flesh. "You give me some answers—now."

  "Walk me home, Abe, and I'll try." She smiled, the smile genuine, Rourke thought.

  "I'll get my bike; it's at the corner." He gestured toward it, half-expect ing that in the instant since he'd last looked for it someone had taken it. But it was there, untouched. "I suppose you've got a fully operational gas station, too?"

  "Yes. You can fill up tomorrow. You should stay here tonight—at my house.

  Everyone will expect it."

  "Why?" Rourke rasped.

  "I told them you were my brother—of course." She smiled again, taking his arm and starting with him through the ever-thinning crowd.

  "Why did you tell them that?"

  "If they knew you were a stranger, then they'd have to do something." She smiled, nodding to another old lady as they passed her.

  Rourke smiled and nodded, too, then rasped, "Do what?"

  "The strangers—most of them didn't want to stay."

  "Nobody's going to think I'm your brother. That was so damned transparent—"

  "My brother was coming. He's probably dead out there

  like everybody else. God knows how you survived."

  "A lot of us survived—not everyone's dead."

  "I know that, but it must be terrible out there—a world like that."

  "They know Fm not your brother."

  "I know they do," Martha Bogen said, "but it won't matter—so long as you pretend."

  Rourke shook his head, looking at her, saying, his voice low, "Pretend—what the hell is going on here?"

  "I can't -explain it well enough for you to understand, Abe—"

  "It's John. I told you that."

  "John. Walk me home, then just sleep on the couch; it looks like there's bad weather outside the valley tonight. Then tomorrow with a good meal in you—not just those terrible hot dogs—well, you can decide what you want to do."

  Rourke stopped beside his bike. "I won't stay—not now," he told her, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, telling him something more than he could imagine was wrong.

  "Did you see the police on the way into town—John?"

  "So what?" He looked at her.

  ffThey let anyone in, but they won't Jet you out. And at night you won't stand a chance unless you know the valley. I know the valley. Before he died, my husband used to take me for long walks. He hunted the valley a lot—white-tailed deer. I know every path there is."

  Rourke felt the corners of his mouth downturning. "How long ago did your husband die?"

  "He was a doctor. You have hands like a doctor, John. Good hands. He died five years ago. There was an influenza outbreak in the valley and he worked himself

  half to death; children, pregnant women—all of them had it. And he caught it and he died."

  "I'm sorry, Martha," Rourke told her genuinely. "But J cant stay."

  "We have twelve policemen and they work twelve-hour shifts lately—six men on and six off. Can you fight twelve policemen to get out of town—into a storm?" She stroked his face with her right hand. "You need a shave. I'll bet a hot shower would be good, and a warm bed."

  Her face flushed, then she added, "In the guest room, I meant."

  Rourke nodded. There was no strategic reserve site for more than a hundred miles, and Rourke knew that he needed gasoline. The slow going in the storm had depleted his tanks. "That gas station really has gas?" he asked her.

  "You can even use my credit card, John, if you don't have any money."

  Rourke looked at her, speechless. "Credit card?" The gasoline—without it he couldn't press the search for Sarah and the children. "All right, Martha, I'll accept your generous invitation. Thank you." His skin crawled when he said it.

  Tildie's breath came in clouds of heavy steam. On a rise overlooking Lake Hartwell, Sarah reined the sweating animal in. Beneath her horse's hoofs was South Carolina and on the far shore, Georgia. In the distance, to her left, she could make out the giant outline of the dam through the swirling snow. And below her, on the lake, was a large flat-bottomed houseboat.

  Smoke drifted from a small chimney in the center of the houseboat's roof.

  She looked behind her at Michael and Annie, freezing with the cold; at Sam, John's horse before the war and now she supposed more realis
tically Michael's horse. The animal was shuddering as large clouds of steam, like those Tildie exhaled, gushed from its nostrils. "Michael, where'd you get that knife?" "One of the children on the island—he gave it to me." Sarah didn't know what to say. Her son had just stabbed at a man trying to hurt him, trying to hurt his sister. "You did the right thing, using it—but be careful with it." She couldn't quite bring herself to tell him that she wanted to take it away from him. tfJust be careful with it. We'll talk about it later."

  "All right," he said—slightly defensively, she thought.

  beneath it slick and wet and like polished ice.

  When she reached the base of the rise, the houseboat was less than thirty feet away.

  There were no mooring lines, but there were trees nearby that woulddo, she calculated. The houseboat rose and fell with the meager tide, edgingin toward the shore and away. Sarah visually searched the hank. At one place the houseboat's gunwales were three feet away from the edge when the Hat-bottomed craft drifted in. Sarah skidded down, along the red clay toward this spot, secured her rifle, then waited, wiping imaginary sweat from her palms as she rubbed her gloved hands along her thighs.

  The houseboat was easing in. Sarah jumped, her hand reaching out for the line of rope that formed the rail, grabbing at it. The rope, ice-coated, slipped from her fingers.

  She twisted her body, arching her back, throwing her weight forward, crashing her arms down across the rope, falling, heaving over the raiJ and sprawling across the ice-coated deck.

  She lay there a moment, catching her breath, her belly aching where the butt of the Government Model Colt had slammed against it as she fell. She rolled onto her side, giving a brave wave toward the children, still watching her from atop the rise. But she didn't call out because of the smoke in the houseboat chimney—there had to be people aboard.

  Sarah tried standing up, but the deck was too slippery for her and she fell, catching herself on her hands, the butt of the AR-slamming into the deckboards. She crawled on hands and knees toward the door leading inside.

  Sarah looked at the houseboat again. "I'm going to see. if there's anyone aboard that houseboat—if maybe wecan find shelter with them. Michael, you and Annie stay here. Don't come after me. If it looks like I'm in trouble . . . then . . ." She didn't know what to tell him. Finally she said, "Use your ownjWgment. But wait until I come for you or you see Vm in trouble.