The Quest

Chapter 15

Varakov sat in the back seat of his staff car, a Lincoln Continental expropriated from a parking lot near what had been the United States Federal Building in downtown Chicago. There had been, he reflected, that one more urgent reason for sending Vladmir Karamatsov to the southeast, more urgent he felt than the brigands and the Resistance.

After Texas, Karamatsov had moved directly to Florida, working through Cuban liaisons to determine what the exact nature of the launches at Cape Canaveral from the space center there had been the night of the war.

All the missiles the U.S. had launched, Varakov understood, had been accounted for. These launches were the only exceptions and that worried Kremlin leadership. It worried Varakov because it hinted that somehow the Americans had prepared for the possibility of war and, despite the crushing losses, perhaps had some new weapon no one had dreamed of—up in space now perhaps. He stared up at the gray Chicago sky through his back seat window. He wondered. During the exchanges, each side’s hunter-killer satellites had destroyed spy satellites of the other side. Nothing remained in orbit except the hunter-killers and the Soviet space platform—which was now useless, Varakov thought, since the Soviet Union had no time, money, or desire to explore the reaches of space—surviving after the war would take all the efforts the people of the Soviet Union could muster.

If the Americans had put some mysterious weapons system in orbit, there remained no way of detecting it. The Soviet manned platform was in a polar orbit, and all the Americans would have needed to do was place their vehicles in an orbit out of range of the platform, perhaps around the South Pole regions. He was not an astronomer or a missile scientist; he didn’t know nor could he guess. He thought that perhaps it was some doomsday device, placed in orbit to detonate after a specific period of time if some radio signal were not received to scrub the mission—some gigantic burst that would blow away the atmosphere, the final retribution for the Soviet attack. The thought unsettled him. He had survived much, always because he had willed himself to do so—this he could not impose his will against. There had been a mysterious reference found in a looseleaf notebook in an Air Force Intelligence installation: the words “Eden Project” and the drawing of an upward vectoring rocket ship beside it. Nothing else. Varakov wondered if the words Eden Project and the mysterious multiple launchings from Cape Canaveral were related. This was Karamatsov’s prime and secret reason for being in the southeast.

Intelligence also indicated that apparently one official of the National Aeronautics and Space Administrations—NASA—survived, an official with the level of responsibility that he might know what exactly had been launched that night. He was a chief public information officer for NASA, the name in the file had been James R. Colfax. Varakov recalled the man had been an astronaut, then moved into administration with NASA after a heart condition had disqualified him for space flight. He had piloted one of the space shuttles the Americans had been so proud of. This Colfax, Varakov thought, he would know.

He had been making a speaking tour, recruiting for NASA at the time of the war and had a home somewhere in Georgia in the mountains. If he would be anywhere he could be “officially” found, he would be there, Varakov had reasoned. People and animals were of little difference. A wounded animal goes to its burrow or nest or cave; a man whose world is destroyed goes to his home—it was the same.

And, according to intelligence files, the man Varakov knew had defeated Karamatsov—John Rourke—had his home in Georgia as well. If Rourke had survived after the affair in Texas, he might be there by now. It was food for Karamatsov’s ego to have suffered defeat at the hands of an American—and perhaps the two men would cross each other’s paths again.

Varakov’s driver pulled up to the white painted brick house in the expensive suburb, the house where Karamatsov and Natalia lived.

“Stop here. I will walk up the driveway. Stay in the car. I will get my door,” Varakov said, scrunching his feet into his shoes, wrapping his great coat closed around him and stepping out onto the concrete driveway. He had not called. He had not taken a helicopter in order to call as little attention to this personal business as he could.

He was cold. The weather in America was insane, he decided. It had been hot three days earlier. He walked toward the low steps, then mounted them heavily, and stood by the door. He rang the doorbell and waited. He rang the doorbell again; thinking then that perhaps it was out of order, he knocked his gloved right fist against the white wooden door, not bothering with the brass doorknocker.

There was no answer. “Natalia!” he shouted.

Again there was no answer. “You are home—I know that—answer the door. It is an order.”

There was no answer and as he began to speak he could hear her voice from beyond the door. “Please—I am sick—I can see no one.” “Let me in—now!”

“No, I’m going upstairs, please leave.” And the voice stopped.

His thick lips twisted downward. He stomped down the steps toward the car and his driver. The man started from the car and Varakov waved him back. “My briefcase—give it to me—now.” He took the case through the open window, set it roughly on the hood of the Lincoln, spun the combination and opened the lock, then took a battered 9mm PM from the case, slammed the case closed and spun the tumblers. “Put it away,” he commanded without looking at the driver.

Varakov strode up the driveway, his feet not hurting him, drawing the slide back on the Makarov and chambering a round, leaving the hammer back as he mounted the steps.

“If you are near the door, stand away!” There was no answer. He took a step back and fired the pistol once, then again into the mechanism of the lock, then threw his shoulder against it. The door sprang inward. He regained his balance, then manually lowered the hammer on the Makarov and pushed up the safety lever, dropping the pistol in the pocket of his great coat. With his hamlike left fist he punched the door closed behind him. He stood in the vestibule, looking down into the living room and shouted, “Natalia!” “Uncle.” He turned and saw her standing by a swinging door leading from the opposite end of the living room, he assumed into the kitchen. Women spent a great deal of time in kitchens even when they weren’t cooking. It was like a man and his office, Varakov thought.

He stopped thinking when he saw her face. She wore heavy makeup, and she usually wore little or none. Despite the makeup, he could see the darkness of bruises. He stepped down into the living room, stared at the dark stain in the white carpet, then saw tiny red stains on the couch.

“You and Vladmir—you fought—he beat you.”

“He told—” and she seemed to catch herself.

“No, he told me nothing. Come here to me, child.” He reached out his arms. Natalia ran toward him and sank her head against his massive chest. His arms went around her. She was crying. He stroked her back and she winced. He pushed her away.

“Let me see your body.”

She took a step back. He studied her. She wore a long sleeved white blouse, buttoned high at the neck, a black skirt extending to the middle of her calves, and low-heeled black shoes. He repeated himself, “Let me see your body, child. I changed your diapers when you were a baby; I bathed you once. I am your father’s brother. You should not fear my eyes. Either remove your blouse so I may see your back or I will call to my chauffeur and have him use the radio to send two women here to undress you—six women if I need it—let me see your back.” Varakov watched her dark eyes, watched her long fingers move slowly to the buttons at her collar, watched her slip the bow there, then slip each of the pearl-looking buttons through the button holes. She left the cuffs of the blouse closed, pulling the blouse from her skirt, letting it drop behind her, her arms limp at her sides. She wore a slip that covered her abdomen and much of her back.

“Turn around.”

Natalia obeyed. He could see the trailing edge of red welts above the lace forming the upper portion of the slip against her back. He took a step closer to her, both his hands grabbing the slip, then ripping it down the back. He stripped away his right glove and undid the back of her bra. He saw her hands raising to her chest.

“I need to see no more, child,” Varakov said slowly, studying the dozen or more welts across her back.

“He beat you with a belt. Is the rest of your body like this?”

He looked at her face in profile over her left shoulder, her eyes cast down. He watched her nod.

“What else did he do?” Varakov asked, forcing his voice to remain even and sound calm and fatherly.

“He—” Her voice faltered, and she turned toward him, her hands still holding her clothes against her breasts, her face against his chest. He knew what she was going to say, but couldn’t. When he was young, a husband raping his wife was a logical absurdity. If a man wanted his wife and she did not want him, that was her misfortune. Things were different these days, he thought, and the thought didn’t distress him.

“I know, Natalia. Why? It is none of my business, but why?”

“The man, Rourke—I cannot—”

“I am your uncle, not your commanding officer. I don’t care. Tell me.”

She looked up into his eyes. Her eyes were sad like they had been when her father—his brother—had died. “I fell in love with . . . with Rourke. But nothing happened between us. He saved my life, I had to save him, it was my honor to do this.” Varakov loved his native language at times, and her soft contralto gave it the beauty it deserved.

“You should remember the first duty of a soldier, Natalia, child—duty is ranked before honor—and honor is often a luxury. But I respect honor. Tell me.” And he looked into her eyes again.

“What, Uncle?”

“Would you go back to Vladmir?”

“He only punished me as I deserved to be punished.”

“You are not only beautiful, but you are naive. Punishment is in the soul. The body is not punished; it is given pain. A man beats a woman—” he sighed heavily— “a man hits a woman perhaps in anger, once, perhaps twice—perhaps that is just. A man beats a woman not to punish her, but to expiate himself, child. He did not do this to you because of something in you, but because of something in him. And I was afraid you would say such foolishness that you would return to him.” He said nothing else, just sat down with her on the couch and listened to her cry, listened to her tell him very slowly what had happened, sat quietly and thought while she changed clothes, then stayed to the early hours of the morning with her, lingering over a dinner she made for him as she had many times when she was a child. They talked about her father, about trips to the Black Sea resort they had loved, about her marriage to Karamatsov.

He left after drinking too much; his chauffeur was almost visibly angry at the late hour. As Varakov sat back in his seat, his great coat huddled around him, he softly verbalized two thoughts. “She is a sincere cook, but not a gifted one; I will cause Karamatsov somehow to die.”