Survivalist - 24 - Blood Assassins Read online

  Natalia felt her cheeks warming slightly. Michael was most definitely circumcised.

  Dr. Robinson smiled again as he looked at her, apparently recognizing the answer to his somewhat rhetorical question. “How are you going to check now with Martin’s body buried under a couple of tons of still molten lava on Kilauea? I don’t mean to be too blunt, Mr. Rourke, but you’d never get away with it. What would you do—pursuing the thing with the circumcision, for example—if before he did the trade he asked ‘Martin’ to drop—” And he looked at Natalia, didn’t finish what he was about to say.

  She finished it, “Pants?”

  “Yes.”

  Michael smiled. “I’d piss in his face, all right?”

  Natalia looked at the tip of her cigarette, stood up, ground it under the sole of her high heel. “Stop being macho and be smart. As long as he can examine you Michael, you cannot hope to succeed.”

  In the next instant, Natalia wished she’d never said what she had said. Because Michael started to laugh. And he kept laughing. Dr. Robinson looked at her,

  then back at Michael. Michael said, “That’s it!” “What is ‘it,’ Michael?”

  “What the hell are you laughing at Mr. Rourke?”

  Michael stopped laughing, only chuckling a bit, smiling as he said, “They put me into cryogenic sleep, but with two gases. My father has a remote. He lets off the finger pressure—like what they used to call a dead man’s switch—and the other gas flows into the chamber.”

  “What other gas?” Natalia almost whispered. “Cyanide?” Michael suggested, shrugging his shoulders, then laughing again.

  Thirteen

  Annie’s nails dug into the flesh of his abdomen.

  They had gone to bed early, exhausted from the emotional low, then the emotional high. She slept behind him, her right hand and forearm resting across his body. When his wife’s nails pierced his skin, Paul Rubenstein awoke instantly. Gently, he pulled her hand away, holding her hand as he turned over onto his right side, looked at her in the darkness. He could not see her face, but he knew she was dreaming.

  Her mother?

  Was something happening to Sarah Rourke?

  Should he awaken Annie and find out?

  Paul Rubenstein lay on his back, still holding her hand. Annie mumbled something incoherent. Paul Rubenstein stared up into the darkness. Michael’s brave but stupid scheme for substituting himself for Martin Zimmer. Annie’s dreams.

  Paul shook his head.

  And, John’s despair.

  What had happened at Emma Shaw’s house in the

  mountains was obvious. And Paul Rubenstein applauded John for it. Sarah, wonderful woman that she had always been, even if she wasn’t dead, was the next best thing. Because of his love for Sarah and the entire Rourke family, his wife chief among them, Paul Rubenstein prayed that Sarah would return from her living death. On a rational basis, however, he knew that any chance of that was so remote as to be effectively impossible.

  And John had a right to live, too.

  The Rourkes were his family.

  He loved them all, but most of all his wife.

  And when Michael brought his lunacy to fruition, John helping him, Paul Rubenstein knew he would be there, too. His wife’s father and brother were like brothers to him.

  Annie snuggled more closely against him. Paul Rubenstein smiled. “Most fortunate of sidekicks,” he whispered to the darkness.

  That was him.

  Fourteen

  John Rourke poured a glass of his German-made Seagram’s Seven into the small tumbler, sipped at it. Never a regular drinker Before the Night of the War or since, he had always had his preferences. Seagram’s was his favorite hard liquor. When the Germans had offered to duplicate for him whatever he might require from the Retreat supplies, he had suggested the whiskey. One hundred and twenty-five years ago, it was made in small quantities only for him. Nowdays, as he understood it, the whiskey had become one of the favorite alcoholic beverages of New Germany, and Mid-Wake and Hawaii as well.

  He was watching the white-foamed surf breaking over the slick blackness of the rocks. This was his second small glass of whiskey in two hours. He had no intention of getting drunk, nor had he ever been so by design or otherwise.

  But, John Rourke could not sleep.

  Too much had happened for him to be able properly to deal with it. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he had

  precipitated the death of his third child, Martin Zimmer. Then he was informed that his wife was dead, and along with her his old friend and comrade Wolfgang Mann. Then, out of despair and loneliness, in seeking the comfort of a woman, he had betrayed his wife, cheated on her, albeit unknowingly and incompletely—but not for lack of trying on his part. Fate intervened in the form of the eleven men sent to kill Emma Shaw in her home. In the aftermath of this episode, he was informed that, in fact, his wife was not dead (nor was Wolfgang Mann).

  The news that Sarah lived filled his heart with happiness, but even in that very moment his joy was muted by the fact that her life still hung in the balance in two ways. He was not certain of just how yet, but in some way he had to force Deitrich Zimmer to perform a life-saving operation to remove from Sarah’s brain the bullet which Deitrich Zimmer himself had put there. And, he had to get Sarah away from Zimmer. Even in this modern age of highly advanced medical technology and speeded-up healing, there would be a reasonable limit to how far and how fast someone recovering from brain surgery of the most delicate nature could be moved.

  And there was the matter of the trade itself, in order to be in a position to accomplish all or any of this. Martin, the person for whom Deitrich Zimmer wished to trade, was dead. Michael clung stubbornly to the idea of impersonating Martin, indeed their only viable option, but one which would not get them very far at all and, in the end, might result in Michael’s death as well.

  And if, through some miraculous combination of luck on their part and ineptitude on the part of their adversaries, Sarah was saved, once she was well enough, John Rourke would have to tell her that Martin was dead, killed by his father’s hand.

  Regardless of the circumstances—Martin had been attempting to destroy the aircraft which Emma piloted, endeavoring to force it down into the volcanic lava flows below, killing them all—Martin’s death was a fact. Sarah would never forgive him—John Rourke— for that. And their marriage would end.

  And, there was the matter of Wolfgang Mann, whose life John Rourke wished to save as well. And Mann, it was clear, had taken the cryogenic sleep for one reason only—Sarah.

  John Rourke lit a cigar, inhaled, held the smoke in his lungs, exhaled, watched the smoke as the wind caught it, danced with it, dissipated it into nothingness, like a dream in the light of morning. He sipped at his whiskey.

  This had all started very simply six hundred and twenty-five years ago in the declining years of the twentieth century. Now it was the dawn of the twenty-seventh century A.D. His only intention was that if the unthinkable became reality, his wife and son and daughter would be able to survive that with him. He had built the Retreat, stocked and provisioned it. Now, his children were, in terms of physical age, merely a few years his junior. His daughter was married, his son had been married, then widowed, losing an unborn child in the process. John Rourke’s wife, their mother, bore a third child and, effectively, had been murdered in the moments following giving birth.

  And, without the hands, procedures and appliances of the man who nearly killed her, she was doomed to

  cryogenic sleep for God only knew how long, perhaps forever.

  Simplicity into complexity.

  He took another sip of his drink.

  And he thought of two women, neither one of them his wife. He had been in love with Natalia, and she with him, but because of his marriage they had never consummated that love. And now Natalia belonged to Michael, and he to her, what John Rourke had planned on what, for all he knew, might be humanity’s last morning.

  And then there
was Emma Shaw.

  It seemed to John Rourke that he could not have feelings for a woman without bringing her pain.

  He finished his drink, then sat there for a time longer, smoking his cigar.

  In the morning, he would embark upon the most desperate gamble of his life.

  Tonight, he would be alone with his thoughts …

  friendship would be lost to her, that he would somehow blame her for the terrors of the day, terrors which would have destroyed a lesser man. Although she admired many things about John Rourke, Emma Shaw realized that the man’s resiliency was perhaps his finest and most unique quality. After the talk with her father, after being informed that the earlier reports that Sarah Rourke was dead were erroneous, that she was, instead, held prisoner by the leader of the Nazis, he had come over to her where she’d sat on the porch railing, sat down beside her. “Emma, I’m very sorry.”

  “I’m so happy for you, John, at least there’s a chance for you and your wife, now. I, uhh, got carried away.” She’d tried to smile.

  “No. I was carried away by you,” he told her. Then he said the oddest thing. “And, I guess I still am.” And he kissed her cheek and walked away.

  She could still feel that kiss.

  It burned against her cheek.

  Alone in her bed, staring at the ceiling, Emma Shaw realized that she was starting to cry.

  The ceiling of her BOQ was stippled, meaning that it had an almost infinite number of tiny bumps in it. The drapes open—she was on the second floor—there was enough ambient light from outside that when she strained her eyes, she could make out subtle patterns in them—the bumps.

  Her nightgown, of soft, natural cotton, felt rough against her nipples each time she inhaled, moved. And there was a slightly sick feeling in her abdomen, like an ache.

  Emma Shaw could not sleep.

  For a while, she’d thought that perhaps even John’s

  Fifteen

  The communications center at Pearl Harbor was a series of interconnecting rooms built about a central hub, allowing for expansion or contraction of the facility depending on the demands of the situation. The main portion of the complex—the hub itself—was surprisingly attractive by comparison to most military decor, John Rourke felt. The walls—what could be seen of them where there was not equipment—were so deep a grey as to be almost black, and the floor was of synthetic black and grey marble.

  The first communique arrived precisely at four in the morning, saying nothing but that a second communique would arrive in two hours. The second communique arrived precisely when it was supposed to, John Rourke returning to his quarters, shaving and showering in the interim.

  The eruption on Mt. Kilauea had slowed, and plans were already well along to put into action the plan of vulcanologist Thorn Rolvaag for diverting the lava flow. John Rourke had wanted to be with Bjorn

  Rolvaag’s descendant, but that was impossible now. It was hard to equate the survival of two people, one his wife and one his friend, with the lives of so many that would be ended or altered if the volcanic eruption continued unabated, and perhaps he was selfish to look to his own concerns first. But, out of selfishness grew the value for all other things. And, he had to do what he had to do.

  Intelligence data to which John Rourke was privy had arrived, indicating that the suspect poison gas facility in Eden City was confirmed by James Darkwood and other Allied Intelligence personnel. Rourke scanned the abstract of Darkwood’s report; reading between the lines allowed him to appreciate the danger to which Darkwood had subjected himself in order to get the information. Like Thorn Rolvaag, James Darkwood was also cut from the same heroic cloth as his ancestor.

  A volunteer group of Trans-Global Alliance fighter-bomber pilots was already being assembled for a preemptive strike against the facility.

  War was at hand.

  Dressed in the color which best fit his mood and his outlook—black—John Rourke read the communique to the Family. It was from Dr. Deitrich Zimmer: “You will fly to sixty-two degrees, forty-one minutes, fourteen seconds North Latitude, one hundred eighteen degrees, seventeen minutes, forty seconds West Longitude.”

  The rendezvous time was in exactly twenty-four hours. “You will bring with you my son, Martin. Since you will need assistance in moving the sarcophagi, you may bring with you three other persons beyond the crew of the aircraft. It would be absurd to demand that you arrive unarmed, but any use of weapons or any other action which I might deem threatening will be dealt with accordingly, i.e., the occupants of the cryogenic chambers killed immediately. Should you fail to bring Martin, or attempt to intervene with troops, the result will be the same. The lives of Frau Rourke and Generaloberst Mann are in your hands.”

  “Sixty-two, one-eighteen. That’s near Great Slave Lake, in the lower portion of the Northwest Territories in what used to be Canada,” Michael said, turning away from the map which dominated a substantial section of the far wall.

  “People of your generation were often accused of having a poor knowledge of geography, Michael. But you were always good at it.” And John Rourke smiled approvingly at his son. Michael, despite his tender years when the Night of the War occurred, had always shown academic promise, a natural intellect coupled with a keen desire to know.

  “There are five of us,” Natalia said, “and he’ll only allow four.” She was slowly, inconspicuously opening and closing her Bali-Song. In the days prior to the Night of War, when butterfly knives had first become popular, they were occasionally referred to as the macho pacifier, like worry beads, the opening and closing of the two-handled knife something to occupy the hands and free the mind. “But, if Michael goes through with his idea of impersonating Martin,” Natalia went on, “all five of us will be there anyway.”

  Admiral Hayes stood overlooking a tabletop display showing communications satellite positions. Com

  mander Washington waited beside her. A third person, in charge of communications security for Pearl, was with them. Rourke walked toward the lighted table as this third person, Lieutenant Commander Wilma Jones, said, “We naturally took shots off the first communique, then set up for the second. His transmitter is bouncing off satellite, of course, but we feel it’s actually in the neighborhood of sixty-two North, one hundred eighteen West. You and your family will be walking into his domain, General Rourke, if I may say so, Nazi Headquarters.”

  “Opinion noted, Commander,” Rourke told her, standing beside her, looking down at the display. “He’s evidently quite confident of pulling off more than a trade or he would have picked a more neutral spot in order to safeguard the location of his facility.

  “Agreed,” Commander Washington nodded. “It’ll be a tough insertion, but we can put a specially equipped SEAL Team in there to back you up. Arctic gear, the works.”

  “Have them standing by, but don’t insert,” Rourke advised Commander Washington.

  Admiral Hayes cleared her throat. “Dr. Rourke?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “We can’t afford to lose you to him. If Zimmer had you he could dictate terms. Even if military thinking were to the contrary, public opinion would be such that we would have no choice. Have you watched the television lately, or read the compunews?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t,” Rourke admitted. Television news, with its ability to editorialize through selective revelation, had never engaged his interest. Compunews was fine, but in the last few days there had been no time to boot up the computer terminal in his quarters and read.

  “There’s a cult of personality growing up around you, Dr. Rourke, as a symbol of what the United States once was. If there were a Presidential election being held tomorrow, you’d win in a landslide.”

  John Rourke smiled, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Political aspirations are something I’ve never possessed, Admiral, let me assure you. And if Zimmer were to get the upper hand on us, I’m sure I speak for my entire family when I say I would expect you to do whatever you had to do as regards safe
guarding national security. If we make our bed, we’ll lie in it.”

  “It’s fine for you, Doctor, to encourage us to do what is logical rather than what is expedient. Nonetheless, you’re risking a great deal, Dr. Rourke, a very great deal. This is an obvious trap, we’re all agreed. Five of you will be no match for Zimmer’s elite SS units.”

  Commander Washington interjected, “That SEAL Team can be positioned to close in within under two minutes, barring terrain in the immediate vicinity being too flat for cover. And even then, we can pull it off. Unless the Admiral says I can’t have my men there, they’ll be there, Doctor.”

  John Rourke looked at Washington as he said, “You can’t be close enough for Zimmer to spot you. Not just visually but electronically. We’re talking about the lives of not only my wife and Generaloberst Mann, but also Michael’s life.”

  “Then you’ll do it!” Michael almost shouted.

  John Rourke turned to his son. “What choice do I have but for you to pass yourself off as Martin?”

  There was no choice. Putting Michael into cryogenic

  sleep just might work, if they could outguess how Deitrich Zimmer would have planned to outguess them, assuming they might substitute Michael for Martin as part of a countermeasure. But correspondingly, Michael would be highly vulnerable and unable to be of any direct assistance to them.

  However he figured it, for once John Rourke was unable to plan ahead.