Survivalist - 22 - Brutal Conquest (8 page)

“Martin’s in there. Has to be. I saw the usual motorcycle escorts, everything. Went in through the underground garage. That means our friends did not make it.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Manfred.” James Darkwood lit his own cigarette. The lighter was an original Zippo, identical to the one John Rourke carried, a gift from Rourke to Darkwood. Jason Darkwood was a non-smoker, but according to stories told concerning him, he had a genuine fondness for antiques. Aside from John Rourke’s, James Darkwood had only seen two similar lighters in his entire life. This one was solid brass, marked “1932 ZIPPO 1987” at its base. It was probably worth more than the Steinmetz James Darkwood wore on his left wrist.

Darkwood inhaled the smoke of the cigarette deep into his lungs.

Kohl said, “Why am I jumping to conclusions, James?”

Darkwood exhaled, saying, “Well, for one thing, we’ve never been able to tell for certain that those motorcycle escorts really are for Martin. And we don’t know what Martin looks like. Only a handful of his people do. And, even if Martin did come back, that doesn’t mean the Rourke Family failed in its mission or got caught. It only means Martin wasn’t there. Maybe. You’re a worrier, pal.”

Kohl’s shoulder shrug was just visible in the shadows. “Perhaps.”

Darkwood looked at the orange glowing tip of his cigarette. A lot of people smoked these days. The Germans had developed non-carcinogenic tobacco more than a century and a half ago, and in the last fifty years or so, the habit had caught on again. It was still possible to smoke to excess and cause other sorts of damage to the body, but the moderate smoker who kept to something like a pack or so a day could smoke all his life without any fear of physical repercussions. Synthetic nicotine provided taste satisfaction, but there was no chance of nicotine addiction.

The only person alive who’d smoked the real things regularly more than six centuries ago was Major Tiemerovna. She smoked these now and approved of the taste.

He watched the building. It was the tallest in Eden City.

From the outside, no one would have suspected it was the actual seat of government. The capitol, two blocks away, was a quaint structure, centuries old in appearance. Few persons knew that a tunnel, traversed only by highspeed battery-powered cars, connected the two structures.

He agreed with Manfred Kohl. The motorcycle escorts seen from time to time had to be for Martin.

And maybe something had gone wrong for the Rourkes.

Tall, lean, shaven head, the skin so tight over his skull that the veins could be seen pulsing, Croenberg stood in the doorway, right hand in the pocket of his jacket. Michael Rourke looked at him for an instant longer, then asked, “What is it?”

“1 had hoped that I could speak with you, Martin.”

“I am tired. As you know, I started the day rather poorly.”

“It will only take a moment.” Croenberg smiled. Michael Rourke didn’t like the smile because it reminded him of a death mask.

“All right.” Michael stepped aside and Croenberg walked inside. The door closed and Michael was alone with him. Gunther Hong was, presumably, following orders and actually taking to the field to assist in the search for the Rourke Family, which Michael prayed would be abortive. Michael had dismissed the uniformed manservant shortly after Hong left, needing to be alone … or as alone as he could be.

Croenberg crossed the room, unbidden, and stopped just inside the balcony doors. “The view from here is incredible.”

“I suppose,” Michael responded, trying to sound as though he saw that same view every day. But it was incredible. Dark now, the city of Eden was alive with lights, which sparkled like jewels in the darkness.

And Croenberg turned around, his hand out of his pocket and a gun about the size of Natalia’s Walther PPK/S pointing direcdy at Michael’s center of mass. “Who are you?”

Michael looked away from the solitary orifice of the gun and into the two orifices that were Croenberg’s deep-set grey-blue eyes. “I could have you killed for this.”

Croenberg then blew the whole thing. He began speaking in German, Michael recognizing just enough of it to realize the vocabulary was too much for him, the speed too rapid. Croenberg continued speaking. Michael sat down in one of the overstuffed leather chairs, opening the lid of the cigarette box, then using the battery-powered table lighter to fire the cigarette he placed between his lips. Whether Martin smoked or not was academic. Michael did, occasionally, and the game was up; so now seemed like the ideal time.

Croenberg continued speaking in machine-gun-rapid German. Michael exhaled smoke through his nostrils, smiled, and asked, “Are you anywhere near being through, Croenberg?”

Croenberg laughed, the laughter quite genuine in nature. “You really look like him, you know? Are you John Rourke?”

“You flatter me,” Michael said with a wave of his hand, which held the cigarette, and a smile. “I’m Michael Rourke, John Rourke’s other son. I’m five hundred years older than my brother Martin, but still, there’s a marvelous resemblance.”

“You are very bold, and intelligent, too, I think. Since these remarks will never leave this room, I will speak freely. More intelligent, I think, than your ‘younger* brother … hmm?”

“Nice of you to notice.”

“Where is he?”

“Are you trying to give me the impression that you don’t like old Marty?”

“Marty? Ahh! Marty! Well, as a matter of fact, Herr Rourke, I do not like him one bit. He is an annoying—”

“Are you searching for the word prick, Croenberg?”

“Yes, a prick. Now, if you would step over to the balcony and take in that lovely view for one last time, please.”

Michael didn’t move. He smoked his cigarette. And he asked Croenberg, “Are you planning to kill me and make it appear that Martin’s dead?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, yes. You see, I have always believed that the true test of genius is the ability to take advantage of opportunity, then capitalize on the present rather than vainly plan for a future which may never come.”

“Aside from the fact that you’re a Nazi and that Nazis are assholes, of course “—Croenberg’s eyes hardened and his fist balled slighdy more tighdy to his gun—“I find you quite engaging. And your philosophy concerning seizing the moment is something with which I wholeheartedly agree. Carpe diem.”

“Yes, the dead language, Latin. How appropriate for a man who is soon to be dead to use the dead language. To the balcony, please.”

Michael sat where he was. “You don’t want me shot. You want me splattered all over the sidewalk… .”

“Actually,” Croenberg smiled wickedly, “I would more suppose you will be ‘splattered,’ as you put it, all over the street. Science and mathematics seem to suggest to me that the fall would pull you slightly outward. But, shall we experiment? You will know a split second before I do.”

“You can always go first, if you like,” Michael offered.

“I find your wit rather engaging as well, and you are correct of course that if I shoot you, my ends will not be so well served as if you merely die from impact. But I will

I

j shoot you if I must. Think of it this way, Herr Rourke. If i you walk toward the balcony, perhaps you can attempt to disarm me, perhaps even succeed. Otherwise, I must merely pull the trigger.”

“Best to squeeze, as I’m sure you know. More accurate shot placement. Don’t you think Deitrich Zimmer will be able to tell from the remains that it isn’t Martin, but someone else instead?”

“Ohh, he would indeed be able to tell. But, by the time he arrives, which will not be until several hours have passed, I will have succeeded in beginning a process that not even Deitrich Zimmer will be able to stop.”

Michael grinned, snapped his fingers, then said, “I know! A coup, right?” t Croenberg smiled with seemingly genuine warmth. “As a matter of fact, yes. You guessed it Herr Rourke. Congratulations.”

“I don’t understand. You’re all Nazis and you all want to start a war to take over the world. And the only way to defeat the Trans-Global Alliance is to go nuclear—” “I think we have talked sufficiendy, Herr Rourke,” j Croenberg announced, the smile vanishing from his face. » Michael stood up, his cigarette smoked half down. “You • think you can do it better, and you don’t want to worry about Martin Zimmer when it’s all through, right?”

“Something like that.” Croenberg gestured with the pistol’s muzzle.

Michael started walking. “You still want to hit Pearl i Harbor, just like the Japanese did in 1941?” \ “Not actually quite like that. They lost their war. We ‘i will not. And we wish to avail ourselves of the United I States Fleet, not send it to the bottom”

Michael stopped, looking Croenberg straight in the eye. They were dead even now. “Bottom? Whose?”

There was a moment’s look of incomprehension in Croenberg’s eyes. That was the same moment Michael

Rourke chose to snap the cigarette into Croenberg’s face and throw himself toward the Nazi, his left hand trying to sweep the gun away from the plane of his body.

That was not entirely successful, Michael Rourke realized in the very next instant.

The night sky, black as velvet, textured with stars, was magnificendy clear.

John Rourke navigated by the stars as he rode north. To maximize on the ability of the horses, he planned to stop for ten minutes every hour, rubbing the animals down and switching mounts. He rode the bay mare now. And she was a good runner.

The countryside rolled gendy here and was more normal in appearance, tree cover in broad, deep stands. At the rise where he now paused, he shifted his gaze to the south, seeing the lights behind him again.

They were torches. There seemed to be more than a dozen of them, moving at about his own pace.

He now knew at least part of the story of the men who had fled the gunfight in the bar. The torches could be from no source other than a horse posse, and for no purpose other than to read the ground for the prints of his horses.

These men lived in the Wildlands, of course, and reading sign would be as much a part of life as reading a street sign had been more than six centuries ago. But there was nothing to say that these men were good at reading sign. Someone really good at it wouldn’t have needed torches on such a clear night.

The time was not right yet, however.

John Rourke urged his mount ahead, down the slope and into the shallow, dish-shaped valley beyond, ever northward… .

Michael Rourke’s left side burned, and the smell on the air was from his own flesh.

As he rolled from Croenberg, the Nazi was up instandy to his feet. But Croenberg’s right hand was limp and the gun was gone from his grasp.

Michael Rourke, his left side paining him badly enough that there were floaters across his eyes, drew his feet under him and threw himself toward Croenberg’s knees. It was hard thinking of anyone as being older, of course, because Michael Rourke had been born in the last quarter of the Twentieth Century, but physically Croenberg was well into his fifties. Despite that, he was tough, agile, and hard. As they struck the floor together, Croenberg’s breath went from him in a rush. But so did Michael’s as Croenberg’s left fist hammered across his jaw.

Michael’s head snapped back in the same instant that his right knee smashed upward and caught Croenberg in the groin. The Nazi screamed.

Michael fell back.

As Croenberg, doubled over, sprang toward him, Michael Rourke’s right leg snapped forward and upward, the toe of Martin Zimmer’s boot catching the Nazi just under the jaw, on the Adam’s apple or just above it.

Croenberg’s hands went to his throat as he fell back.

Michael Rourke reached for the pistol that had fallen to the floor. He had it, then threw himself onto Croenberg, cracking the pistol down across the gleaming pinkish flesh of the Nazi’s skull.

Croenberg’s head sagged back, then to the side.

Michael Rourke held the pistol’s muzzle to Croenberg’s temple, then felt for a pulse. There was one, very strong still from the exertion of the fight. And the air passage seemed clear, Croenberg’s breathing shallow but regular.

“Don’t want you dead, pal.” If all Michael’s own efforts and those of The Family should fail, Martin Zimmer’s hold on the Eden government would be in jeopardy-while Croenberg lived. And one less SS officer would not win or lose a war.

Michael leaned back, organizing his thoughts. There was not very much time. The shot could have been heard, and if Deitrich Zimmer were coming soon, there was much to do.

He thought about his mother, lying near death.

Get Deitrich Zimmer to save her. Then kill the man very dead for what he had done before… .

Her Detonics Scoremaster was in her right hand, the hammer cocked, the safety off, and her finger on the trigger. The muzzle was about an inch away from Martin’s crotch.

“You would not really shoot your own brother, would you.” It wasn’t a question, but more of a statement.

Annie Rourke Rubenstein smiled at Martin Zimmer. “I always wanted a baby sister.” And she jabbed the muzzle against his testicles.

The smile that had started forming in his eyes vanished. He really believed her.

She could see past him, through the slit where the rain poncho, which was mounded over with snow, and the actual ground met.

There were two vehicles, both of them heavily armored personnel carriers, fully tracked and moving very rapidly.

Hiding beneath the snow was all they could do, and even at that, heat-sensing equipment might find them through body temperature alone.

The women were to her immediate right, in groups of two, probably freezing even more than she was.

Paul and the woman in the stretcher were to her left,

their positions forming a crescent along what was anticipated to be the least likely path for the vehicles to take.

Both vehicles flew small Nazi flags from their hatchways.

“When my people find you, sister dear, I shall personally delight in your slow and painful death.”

“Gee, Martin, I bet you would’ve twisted the heads off my Barbie dolls, too, huh? Shut up. And, yes, I know if I fire this pistol, your boys will hear it and we’re in deep trouble. Maybe Deitrich Zimmer’s such a hotshot surgeon he can put your testicles back together. Go ahead and let’s try.”