Rourke leaned into the car, pulled his right glove off and extended his hand. The major took it. "Yes," Rourke said. "I hope we'll see each other again sometime."
Rourke walked around to the trunk. Already-though no vehicles were moving in the traffic jam and heavy snow-motorists immediately behind them were honking, as if the trunk being opened and a man taking his luggage was somehow adding to the delay.
As Rourke leaned down for his aircraft aluminum gun cases, he heard a man's voice behind him. "Hey-what are you doin', Mac?"
Rourke turned around, looking up. The voice belonged to a man in a worn brown leather jacket. He was burly and bearded. A stocking cap was cocked on the back of his head.
"You talkin' to me?" Rourke asked, quietly.
"You're the only bloody fool standing around out here gettin' your grips from a damned Mercedes-yeah. I'm talkin' to you."
"Just wanted to be sure," Rourke said, his voice low and even as he set down his gun cases. Rourke's right hand flashed out then, his fist connecting with the side of the bigger man's lantern jaw. The blow was a quick, short jab, and Rourke followed it with a shortarm left into the man's midsection, then a quick right crossing into the jaw.
As the big man started to go down, Rourke caught him under the armpits and eased him into the snow. "Watch your head," he muttered.
Turning back to Masterson, Rourke took his two gun cases, the smaller, attache-sized one under his left arm, the longer case for the rifles in his left hand. Rourke extended his right hand to Masterson, saying, "Pardon the glove. Good luck, friend."
"And-and to you, sir. You're really going to walk over there, across that?"
"No," Rourke said, the corners of his mouth raising slightly, his lean facing cracking into a smile. "No, I figure that even with the luggage and all, I can still jog it over there-except when the snow gets deep in the drifts. Be see'n ya!"
Rourke boosted his large flight bag into his right hand and threaded his way across the next lane of traffic and onto the shoulder and over to the guard rail. There was-as best as he could make out with the snow cover-a sloping drop of about fifteen feet to the ground level below. He squinted against the glare of headlights and the blowing snow. Across the open space, he could make out the edge of a parking lot. Beyond it was what looked like a hotel, and beyond that, the nearest of the airport terminals. "A little over a mile," he muttered to himself. He lifted his flight bag over the guard rail and let it drop over the side. It slid over the snow. "Not too deep," he muttered again. The long gun case was next. His Colt semiautomatic collapsible stock sporter and the 7.62 mm SSG special rifle, both locked securely in its foam-padded interior.
The long gun case slid down almost like a toboggan, Rourke thought. "Should have ridden it down," he laughed to himself. He stepped over the rail. Losing his footing halfway down the gentle slope, he intentionally let himself fall backward, skidding to the bottom of the slope on his rear end. He stood and dusted the snow from his clothes. Then he looked back up to the level of the highway. He could see Masterson and the RCMP inspector standing at the guard rail.
Rourke made a long, exaggerated wave and, without waiting for them to return it, picked up his rifle case and his flight bag, and started out in a slow jog across the snow.
The snow was drifted heavily near the center of the open expanse as Rourke jogged on. The height of the drifts forced him to slow to a broad stride, a deliberate commando walk. At times, when the drifts were above his knees, he fought the snow, raising his feet high, placing them down slowly to test the footing. His trouser legs were soaked and plastered cold against his skin, but, mercifully no snow had entered his cowboy boots. As he passed the center of the field, the drifts got smaller. As he neared the edge of the snow, he spotted a high fence, snow piled on the other side, apparently from plowing. This separated the parking lot from the open field. It was easy going for him again, and he broke into a jog as he neared the fence.
The snowbank on the opposite side of the fence cushioned the impact for his baggage when he heaved the three cases over. He took a step back and jumped against the fence after he had tossed a snowball against it to be sure it wasn't electrified. Catching the toe of his boot in the chainlinks and holding on with his gloved fingers, Rourke pulled himself up to the top of the barrier and jumped over, coming down in the snow bank. Brushing himself off again, he gathered up his things and started across the parking lot. Climbing the fence had tired him, and now he heard the noise of a vehicle behind him. Turning, Rourke spotted a pickup truck with airport maintenance markings on the door. He stopped as the truck skidded to a halt beside him.
Rourke could see the driver leaning across the front seat and pushing open the passenger side door. "Need a lift? American, ain't you?"
"Yeah, I'm American," Rourke said, nodding. "But, no thanks-good night for a walk-terminal's not too far. Probably faster on foot. Thanks anyway.
"Suit yourself, mate," the driver said, nodding and muttering something Rourke didn't quite catch.
Rourke reached into his pocket, snatched a cigar, and lit it with his Zippo. Looking over the glowing tip and across the lot, he could see the entrance to the hotel-like building he'd spotted from the roadside. "Half a mile," he muttered to himself, picking up his flight bag and walking on.
Chapter Sixteen
"So, we talk again, Mr. President. I, too, prefer the voice link rather than the standard hot line. Now, what troubles you?"
The president of the United States, his coat hung on the back of his chair, his vest unbuttoned, his tie at half-mast, leaned back and put the heels of his shoes on the edge of his desk. He stared at the ceiling of the Oval Office a moment, then began. "Mr. Premier, you are right. We have talked a great deal in these last few hours. I am happy we are of like minds regarding the voice link. When this crisis has passed-as I know that it will," the president said emphatically. Too emphatically, he wondered? "When this has passed," he began again, his tone milder, "I look forward to the voice link as a means of broadening the dialogue between your desk and mine."
"Mr. President?"
"Yes, Mr. Premier?"
"I think you are about to remind me that less than six hours remain before you introduce troops into the Pakistan affair. And you wish to inquire if I personally know about the unfortunate situation between your Benjamin Franklin undersea boat and the Volga. I do-and I know your deadline, too."
"Sir," the president began. "Ambassador Stromberg and I had a long talk when he was here not long ago. I asked him his personal assessment of you-as a person. You might be surprised to learn how highly he speaks of you."
"You have a good man in Ambassador Stromberg. I would like to hire him from you. But we do not agree politically."
"I don't agree politically with all my ambassadors all the time, either, Mr. Premier. But the point I'm trying to make is that he says you are a man of good will. Well, so am I, sir. I want us to settle this thing here and now if we can. I think we can both agree that we're pushing things a little far this time. Those men aboard your submarine and ours-regardless of how it happened-let's let their deaths become a bond between our peoples. Let's learn from that tragedy to avoid an even greater tragedy. Do you agree, sir, that we should do that?"
The connection was silent a moment. The president could hear the premier-quite a bit older than he-breathing heavily on the line. Then: "In principle, of course, I agree. But coming from principle into fact must be our goal. I would be a madman if I wished to have our two nations linger on the brink of war. But there are other variables-ones which you either wish to ignore or about which you are sincerely less than informed."
"These are, sir?" the president said, swinging his feet from the desk and craning forward in his chair.