“... I was deeply in love with Natalia’s mother—her name was Natalia too. But I learned—the original Natalia was as honest and decent a woman as is my Natalia, my niece—that she had secretly married Dr. Carl Morovitch, the Jewish physician. Considering myself a gentleman, I with-drew. But it was some years after the War-World War II, that Morovitch, him-self only half Jewish, his mother’s family name Tiemerov, spoke out against the op-pression of Jews in the Soviet Union. I learned through my sources in GRU that his wife, Natalia, the woman I had loved, had departed the ballet before Morovitch’s rash actions, which, had she been associ-ated with them, would have forced her ex-pulsion. And that Natalia was pregnant. I learned also that the KGB was plotting against Morovitch. I endeavored to warn Morovitch and Natalia—I still loved her, and she knew that I did. But they could not escape because Natalia was due to deliver her child. The child was born, a girl, long-legged and skinny, but with eyes the most beautiful blue color I had ever seen—ex-cept for the eyes of her mother. It was the father of my dead chauffeur, Leon, who ac-companied me that night to the home out-side Moscow where Morovitch and Natalia and the newborn child were in hiding from the KGB. Leon’s father and I went there, because, through my GRU contacts, I knew the KGB was alert to their whereabouts. It was our intent—Leon’s father was as loyal to me as Leon himself was—to spirit them away and get them to Finland and then to Sweden where they would be safe. We ar-rived too late—”
Rourke looked up, relighting his cigar—Nata-lia was weeping, Sarah’s left arm around her shoulders. Rourke took a good swallow of his drink.
“—to save them. Doctor Morovitch had owned a gun—I had given it to him. He re-sisted the KGB as I too would have done. To defend his family. Carl Morovitch was dead, shot three times in the chest, then his throat slit. Natalia was bleeding and dying—one of the KGB officers was at-tempting to rape her. I shot him in the head—and then general shooting began. Leon’s father was killed defending the small room Morovitch and Natalia had used as a nursery for the baby girl. I was shot in the leg—the left leg, and I still carry the bullet there. I could not trust a doctor to remove it at the time, and afterwards it became physically impossible to remove. But all the KGB were dead. The infant girl still lived. There was a woman—also once a dancer—whose services I used from time to time and whose discretion I trusted. I brought the infant to her. Through those few persons I trusted, with meticulous care, I altered my army records to indicate a brother who had lived with relatives ever since birth. This because of my family’s poverty. I was a general by then, and the task was not as difficult as might be imag-ined. I found in recent death records a doc-tor who had no known family, a doctor named Plenko. It was not uncommon in the Twenties and Thirties to change one’s name in Russia—it was sometimes necessity. To disguise criminal background or unfavor-able political association. I made this man my brother. I invented of whole cloth a woman who was secretly his wife, but the name uncertain, and I invented her death. This too was simple enough. With parents for the infant girl, and myself established as her uncle, I acquired the house I still own on the Black Sea, esconcing the trusted woman there as my housekeeper—and to raise Natalia during my absence. For that is what I named her—Natalia, after her be-loved, exquisite mother. The eyes gave me no choice, nor did my heart. And then Anastasia, because to me she was the lost princess—presumed dead. But my Anasta-sia was alive. Tiemerovna after her father’s family. Two years later, the woman who was caring for Natalia married a doctor, his name Tiemerovitch, perhaps some distant relative of Morovitch’s family. The woman and Tiemerovitch loved Natalia as their own. I once again altered my background records, eliminating the references to Dr. Plenko and instead linking Dr. Tiermerovitch to myself as a lost brother. Tiemerovitch’s medical career was greatly enhanced by the newly “discovered” rela-tionship to a prominent Soviet general. I lied to Natalia only in that her “father”
was my brother. After her father and mother—Tiemerovitch and his wife—died in an accident when Natalia was eighteen, again I took her in and saw to it that she had the best education, the best training. When she saw her patriotic duty as being linked to the KGB, I did not dare to interfere lest some-thing somehow be suspected—and in times such as these, perhaps the greatest safety lies in being counted among those who threaten the safety of others. When she married Karamatsov, I was disheartened, but saw it as further enhancing her safety. Natalia— “my niece”—is all that I have, my obsession is that she live. Her mother died at the same age Natalia is now. I do not wish this for Natalia, whom I love.
“There is a choice for you. To save your-self, your friend, perhaps your wife and children, and since we both love her so deeply—”
Rourke licked his lips, looking at his wife, then looking at Natalia. He finished the letter, repeating the last few words—
“... and since we both love her so deeply, my niece. You must come to me in Chicago before it is too late—and bring Na-talia with you, for there is no other way of it than to force her into danger again. I of-fer you the chance at life against certain death. Look to the skies, the electrical ac-tivity there each dawn—the End is Com-ing.”
A scrawled signature was at the bottom of the note—the note itself was printed by hand. Rourke folded the pages of the note together, setting down his cigar. Natalia, her voice like he had never heard it, stood up, her fingers splayed along her thighs. “I will change to suitable clothes—my uncle— “
Rourke smiled at her, stood, walked around the table and folded her into his arms. “He loves you—and God help me, so do I—”
“I—”
“We’ll leave as soon as you’ve changed.” Still holding Natalia, he looked at Sarah’s eyes. After all the years of marriage, the years of arguing, there was no argument there—but the under-standing he had sought for so long.
He still held Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna.
Chapter Twenty-nine
His weapons were laid out, his gear ready. They would ride double on his Low Rider to the place where they had left the prototype F-111, using that to get them to Chicago—it was the fastest way. Sarah stood behind him—he could feel her hands on his shoulders. He bent over to kiss Annie— “I love you, honey—honest,” he whispered to her. She rolled over, not awakening, but a smile cross-ing her lips. They left Natalia’s room, Annie sleeping there, and moved on to Paul’s room—Michael. Rourke sat again on the edge of the bed. He looked at his son. He spoke to his wife. “If I die, Paul will care for you and the children. And pretty soon Michael will help him. Maybe he’s too much like me—”
“He is,” Sarah’s voice murmured in the dark-ness.
“I tried,” Rourke whispered, sighing loudly. “Honest to God, I tried. To be a father, a hus-band. If General Varakov is right—hell—” and he bent his head over his son, crying. Sarah held his head—and in the darkness, she whispered, “I’ll always love you—I hate your guts, but I’ll always love you. I’ll be with you if we all live or if we all die.”
He swallowed hard, hugging his wife to him—and he let himself cry because he might never come home again....
His sinuses ached as he strapped on the old hol-ster rig for the Python. The belt was heavier, a spare magazine pouch with two extra-length eight-shot magazines for his .45s, the magazines made by Detonics. On the belt as well was a black-sheathed, black-handled Gerber MkII fighting knife with double-edged stainless blade with saw-teeth near the double-quillon guard on each side. He had the little Metalifed Colt Lawman in a spe-cial holster made by Thad Rybka for him years be-fore The Night of The War—it carried the gun in the small of his back at a sharp angle. He picked up the Government Model .45—a Mk IV Series ‘70, not the newer series ‘80 gun that had come out before The Night of The War. It, like the other two Colts he carried, was Metalifed. Chamber empty, the magazine loaded with 185-grain JHPs, he rammed the Colt into his trouser band. The twin stainless Detonics .45s were already on him in the shoulder rig from Alessi, and the little Russell black Chrome Sting IA was in his belt.