"Want me to hold your watch for you?"
Rourke looked at Summers, then grinned. "It's a Rolex— more waterproof than this boat. Thanks anyway."
Rourke stood by the rail, Summers pointing out about six feet away from the hull. "There and straight down," he said.
"Same to you," Rourke muttered with a grin, swinging his left leg over the portside rail, then his right. He perched there on the rail a moment, then added, "And if the Russians come or something, let me know." Without waiting for an answer, Rourke pushed himself off with his feet, diving out into the water, the wind and the water temperature chilling him so badly that he began to shake with the cold.
He glanced up at the fishing boat, Summers giving him a quick salute, then Rourke tucked down, under the water, his mouth closing as he broke the surface. His lungs already felt it as he swam downward. At least a weight belt would have been useful, Rourke thought. The water was reasonably clean and he could already see the sandy bottom. That the water was so clear indicated nothing had disturbed the bottom recently. Rourke made a mental note to check himself with the Geiger counter in case the ocean here was radioactive— but he doubted the Russians would have allowed fishing if it were. And he was almost certain they periodically checked. It was only common sense, Rourke reasoned.
His arms fanned away from his sides, and Rourke's feet touched bottom. Immediately the sand and silt there stirred up in a cloud from his disturbing it. He could see the mound of rocks there which Cal Summers had described, then moved along the bottom the few feet remaining to reach them. Had Summers not described it, Rourke thought, he would have spotted something strange at any event. The clouds of silt increased in density as Rourke reached the rocks. Then he pried the top, flat rock away, letting it bounce to the bottom beside the pile, a large amount of the sand and silt now clouding the water.
Rourke waved his left hand in front of him, as one might do it in the air to clear away a smoke cloud.
There, inside the cup of rocks, was a waterproof container. A small fish Rourke couldn't instantly identify swayed past it as he reached down, carefully prying at the radio lest some small sea creature had decided to use the rock nest as a home— some small sea creature that could bite or stick.
In the water, the weight of the object seemed off to him, but he assumed it was the radio. The waterproof packing seemed to have kept its integrity. Leaving the capping rock where it had dropped, the radio under his left arm, Rourke pushed himself up with his knees and feet and started clawing toward the surface. He glanced awkwardly at the Rolex— he had been down better than two minutes and the burning feeling in his lungs told him his time was running out.
He could see the light shimmering from the surface as he reached out toward it, the radio suddenly feeling heavier to him. His hand broke the water above him, then his head. Rourke opened his mouth, exhaling hard and sucking in air with his mouth and nose. Scanning from side to side, he saw the boat—
he'd come up on the starboard side.
To be on the careful side, he thought, he didn't shout to Summers. He swam instead the dozen or so feet toward the fishing boat. There was a small ladder over the side and, clinging to the bottom rung, balancing the edge of the radio against it, Rourke shifted his grip quickly, two rungs up, hauling his right foot to the bottom rung, still holding the radio. Balanced there, Rourke peered over the side, into the fishing boat. He could see Summers, standing there looking out to port. A smile crossed Rourke's lips as he watched the man. "Captain," he said, his voice low.
Summers wheeled, the gun coming into his right hand, his face twisted into something Rourke thought seemed half between a snarl and a look of surprise.
"God, man! You scared ten years out of me!" Summers shoved the revolver back in his trousers and started across the deck.
Rourke said, "Just being on the safe side. Now help me with this blasted radio!"
Chapter 16
Varakov sat at his desk, slipping his shoes off. He smiled, looking first at his niece Natalia, then at Constantine Miklov, then back at Natalia. "You are lovely, my dear— as usual, of course," he told her.
The girl smiled, saying nothing.
Varakov said nothing for a moment either, assessing her. She was dressed in black, as she had been since learning of the death of Karamatsov, but she looked beautiful in black and Varakov decided he would rather see her wear a black dress every day for the rest of her life than think of her with the animal she had married.
Her dark hair flowed to her shoulders and beyond, and with the contrasting bright blue of her eyes, the whiteness of her skin seemed somehow unreal, almost too perfect. In that instant, Varakov decided he understood why Karamatsov had beaten her— though he could never forgive it in the man, despite the fact Karamatsov was dead.
Karamatsov had somehow wanted to defile the perfection, the goddess-like beauty. It could have been hard, Varakov decided, for a man like Karamatsov— a despoiler, what the British before World War II in their days of empire would have called a "rotter"— to live with flawless beauty such as Natalia possessed. He sighed, watching the girl's eyes meet his.
He smiled at her, saying to her across his desk, "An old man sometimes finds his thoughts drifting to other things. It is part of life."
Varakov turned to Colonel Miklov, beginning, "You were briefed on the Cuban problem, the border incursions from Florida, all of that?"
Miklov nodded. Varakov liked that in Miklov. He said little.
"Good— Natalia will be there officially in the capacity of an aide. If they realize she is KGB, then they do. They can do nothing to either of you. We would crush them and they know that."
Then Varakov turned to Natalia. "And you, my dear. It is not such a unique intelligence assignment. I simply wish you to learn all that you can, especially that which they do not wish you to know. If they suspect you are KGB, they will feed you information on their strength, their intentions— all of that. That is why I chose you particularly for this assignment. I need all this to be seen through, so to speak. I. wish to ascertain their actual intent, their actual strength."
"How far should I go, Comrade General?" she asked, the warmth in her eyes belying the formality of her tone.
Varakov smiled, saying, "That is entirely up to your own discretion."
"I don't mean that," she almost laughed, her cheeks slightly flushed.
"I know what you mean. Do what needs to be done," he told her. "So long as it does not immediately result in you or Colonel Miklov being imperiled. Neither the Colonel's diplomatic negotiations nor what you learn, by whatever means, will be of any use if you should be killed in some unfortunate accident. You understand?"
"Yes, Comrade General."
"Good," Varakov grunted. He glanced at the notes he'd made, then turned and addressed Miklov. The meeting lasted for more than an hour, Varakov noted. Miklov and Natalia Tiemerovna were set to leave early that evening from the military airfield northwest of the city. Varakov asked if Miklov would care for a glass of vodka, but Miklov declined, Varakov dismissing him then. It was late afternoon and Varakov decided he had worked enough that day. Sitting silently with Natalia across from him, Varakov looked up from his desk, saying abruptly,