Survivalist - 12 - The Rebellion (19 page)

John Rourke began to walk. He faulted himself. A fine and beautiful woman with strength and dignity and honor was his wife. And a woman of equal character was his mistress in his mind.

He had impregnated his wife.

His physician’s mind considered the possibilities.

Decision would be lost in honor, because honor was something he had early learned, was all which elevated men among the beasts.

He kept walking. Sarah. Natalia. With Frau Mann, they had passed the guards at the open entrance to The Complex. He could see them.

Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna stopped. She stared at the rising edifice of the government building which housed the headquarters for the youth. But she stared obliquely so her gaze would not attract attention. She felt her hands pressing down along her thighs, smoothing her dress against her undergarments, and these in turn against her flesh.

John. Sarah. They had been lovers again. She had told John she was happy for them. And she was. Lying was something she had abandoned long ago, and as one who had lived by deception, she could see truth.

John Rourke loved her. John Rourke loved his wife as well. John Rourke was and always had been bound by duty.

She, Natalia, would forever be John Rourke’s bride, but only in her heart. Never in fact.

She looked at Sarah Rourke. The eyes. The hair. The figure. A beautiful woman, but not the sort of woman who considered herself beautiful.

Frau Mann whispered in English, “We should enter now—before we attract attention here.”

“Your English is so very good.” Natalia smiled at her.

“My husband—he taught it to me. It was his way of practicing when he trained for the officer corps. He was not my husband then. But he was my lover—always.” Frau Mann smiled, almost seeming to blush, her pale cheeks reddening.

Natalia’s eyes met Sarah’s eyes. Sarah spoke. “Frau Mann is right—we should go inside.” “Yes,” Natalia agreed.

And she began again to walk, her feet unused to heels after so long, but the discomfort somehow worth it as she saw herself approaching the government building, her reflection in the dark-tinted glass which composed almost the entire wall surface of the first or ground floor. Heels had always done something for her—accentuated her height.

Natalia knew she was beautiful. She had been told it often enough. She had used it often enough—her beauty.

She began to speak—to Sarah, her voice low so no one except perhaps Frau Mann would hear. And there was no way to avoid that because the words needed to be said lest one of them should die in the enterprise. “I am very happy for you and for John.”

“Did John tell you?” Sarah asked, not smiling at all.

“He didn’t have to tell me. I think—after we have finished here and we have stopped Vladmir, my husband. I think I shall go away.”

“I don’t want you to go away. That will solve nothing,” Sarah whispered.

“There is nothing that can be solved, Sarah. You are his wife.”

“He loves you as much as he loves me—maybe more. I don’t know. Yes, he made love to me. But I know he’d like to make love to you.”

“Thank you. He never has—I swear it,” Natalia whispered, forcing a smile so that any casual observer would

not become suspicious.

It was sultry, the temperature and the humidity. And Natalia was grateful the dress she wore was of a light fabric.

The sun shone brilliantly. The grass which flanked the walkway leading toward the main entrance of the new government building was bright green and as neat as a freshly vacuumed carpet.

“He’s made love to you in your mind. You see, I know. Because when I first met him,” Sarah whispered, “even though I didn’t know him really—I made love to him in my mind. I know the look. And it’s in your eyes too. He’s very special.”

“Yes,” Natalia murmured. “He is your man.”

“Is he?” Sarah asked, smiling, then quickening her pace. Natalia stopped for an instant, then she walked ahead, focusing her attention on the staccatto rhythm of her heels against the sidewalk.

Once they were inside the building, it would begin. It always did.

John Rourke started past the guards and stopped—they called to him, first one, then a second.

Rourke turned, drawing his briefcase closer toward his thigh with a downward pressure of his left arm.

In German, Rourke almost whispered, “Yes, there is something?”

“I have not seen your face before, sir.”

Rourke made himself smile—his eyes were feeling the brightness of the sun beyond the entranceway, but he had elected not to use his glasses because he had seen no one with sunglasses in the entire Complex. “I’ve seen you, Corporal,” Rourke answered. “You’re on duty weekdays from eight until four. And I saw you once on Sunday. It is worthwhile to be observant, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir. What is in your briefcase?”

John Rourke laughed. “Do you want to see boring things? I don’t want to see them. Why don’t you confiscate my briefcase and I can avoid all this paper work and blame you instead? Hmm?”

The soldier beside the corporal began to laugh.

The corporal shook his head, waving his hand toward the outside. “Go ahead, sir. I pity you the paper work.”

Rourke smiled, “I pity you the standing,” he answered sincerely, then turned on his heel and started ahead again.

The Sting IA Black Chrome A.G. Russell had sent him five centuries ago was up his right sleeve and a twist of his forearm would have sent the knife down into his palm.

It was the corporal’s lucky day.

Rourke kept walking, the government building looming ahead of him now. It was imposing, if a bit overly utilitarian seeming.

He could just see, as he squinted against the light, Sarah, Natalia and Frau Mann entering the building.

Akiro Kurinami ran his hand nervously along the receiver of the M-16—Elaine Halverson watched him for an instant longer, then returned her gaze to the binoculars through which she had been observing The Complex. They had secreted themselves with the enlisted personnel from Wolfgang Mann’s party along a ridge in high jungle overlooking the entrance to the Nazi stronghold below.

Without planning it, she began speaking, “Akiro—what are you thinking?”

“Ahh, what am I thinking? That this is a strange place for a Japanese naval aviator to be, in a jungle in Argentina, helping one faction of Germans fight against another.”

It had been on her mind since the awakening—on many minds, she supposed. And it was like a time bomb, ticking. Soon, if the battling were over just to stay alive, then what

had truly happened would sink in. It had already begun to with her. “I had a family. I mean, not a husband or children or anything. And they’re all gone.”

“A pretty woman such as you—” and she put down the binoculars—“should have been married, I think.” Kurinami smiled as he said it.

“I’m not pretty—and anyway, nobody asked. Well,” and she remembered something suddenly. “There was a boy once—but I was working for a Ph.D. and I didn’t think it was all that urgent and, well, that—I thought there’d be plenty of time. I really did.”

She studied his dark eyes. There was sadness in them.

“I had a wife. I had two children. I did not volunteer for the international corps of astronauts. I was requested by my government. It was thought that it would, ahh, bring honor to my country were I to pilot a manned craft that would someday touch the surface of another planet. Foolishly, I accepted the honor. Now—my uncle. He was in Hiroshima when the bomb fell there. Now …” And Kurinami fell silent.

“I didn’t—”

“My wife—she was very beautiful. And she was very quiet. Very much what a Westerner such as yourself would consider a stereotypical Japanese woman. She was—I love her still. They, ahh, they were to come to America and join me. I had found a house—it was a little Japanese-looking and it had a garden. She—she would have liked it, I know. The children—they spoke English well, better than she. She would have learned though.” He looked away.

“I know she would have,” Elaine Halverson nodded. She tugged at her right ear lobe—Natalia had re-pierced her ears. “I, ahh, I envy you.”

“That my family is lost to me?”

“That you had them,” Elaine Halverson answered quietly. “The brash young man is just an act, isn’t it? The reckless Japanese naval aviator.”

“I—I suppose soT Elaine. But there is no reason to be cautious.”

She could not understand why, but she reached out her right hand and touched at his left forearm. He did not draw his arm away. Instead, his right hand closed over hers.

John Rourke passed through the tinted glass of the doorway. A painting of the leader holding high the red, white and black banner of Nazism and rising, phoenixlike, from a sea of flames, dominated the far wall of the foyer. The ceiling was high, stylistic metal sculptures hung suspended at varying heights, the ceiling itself beneath which the sculptures were placed mirrored darkly.

Near the painting, but not so near as to clutter the heroic visage, was a high desk of the sort made to be stood behind because the considerable height would have totally obscured anyone sitting. Two uniformed men, seemingly weaponless (but Rourke knew better from experience and from the counsel of Wolfgang Mann) stood behind it. They were interviewing the tattered old man.

Rourke walked ahead, toward the guard desk, noting the door to the ladies’ room opening.

Natalia stepped into the corridor first, then behind her Sarah—Sarah seemed to be searching for something in her shoulder bag. Natalia’s right hand was concealed behind her right thigh. Frau Mann joined them, the three women commencing, it seemed, to chatter in hushed tones.

John Rourke smiled. He was near enough to the guard desk that he could make out the conversation between the disguised Wolfgang Mann and the two guards. “See Herr Goethler, supervisor of the youth. It is vital I speak with him.”

“Sir, he does not see just anybody, Herr Goethler. You must move through proper channels and have an appoint

ment. I shall be glad to give you his telephone number and you can perhaps call tomorrow.”

“But I have walked all this way—from the far edge of the interior of The Complex. It is so important.”

Natalia, in perfect German, her right arm sweeping up, the silenced stainless PPK/S American in her tiny right fist, said in perfect German, “You are being very rude to one so old.”

The guard nearest her turned and Natalia shot him where the line at the height of the bridge of the nose would intersect the horizontal line of the eyebrows. He fell over dead as she lifted the pistol left, then fired twice more, once to the neck and a second time into the left eye of the second guard. Rourke was beside the guard desk as the second body fell, his sunglasses coming from inside his jacket, onto his face. His left hand released the briefcase and in one continuous motion swept out to the body of the guard, catching it at the scruff of the neck, holding it as Sarah and Frau Mann—Frau Mann seemed white as a ghost—caught the body from him and dragged it behind the desk.

Wolfgang Mann had the paper bundle open on the desk, drawing his Waltherlike service pistol from it, putting the spare magazines into his pockets, throwing the bundle— empty—down over the desk and behind it.

Sarah’s right hand held the Trapper Scorpion .45. Natalia was changing magazines for the silenced PPK/S.

Rourke opened the briefcase, drawing from it his gunbelt with the Milt Sparks Six-Pack for the twin stainless Detonics Combat Masters, the full flap holster for the Python, the ammo dumps for it, the Gerber Mkll. He secured the belt just below his waist, then took the musette bag from the case—it held his spare magazines for the stainless Scoremasters and his speedloaders for the Python. He slung it crossbody. Last from the case were the two Scoremasters—he stuffed these in appendix forward carries

right and left in the front of his gunbelt.

Rourke looked to his wife—the second .45 was in her left fist. He looked to Natalia—she looked slightly ridiculous, the double Safariland full flap rig cinched at her waist. It didn’t go with the dress, the jewelry and the high heels. Frau Mann held a military pistol in her right fist, identical to her husband’s.

“Which way?” Rourke whispered getting the Sting IA from his sleeve, sheathing it inside the waistband of his trousers.

“Back along the corridor and then either the elevator or the stairwell to the second basement. It is where she would be held.”

Rourke nodded only, breaking into a run. He glanced at the black-faced Rolex on his left fist. It would be more than an hour until the guard team at the front desk which Natalia had disposed of would be due for replacement. But anyone could come in at any time and discover their deaths.

He passed the elevator banks, then slowed. “Natalia— check there isn’t an alarm. Hurry.”

Natalia, running awkwardly in the heels and tight skirt, half skidded past him, dropping into a crouch before the door handle. Her fingers splayed out over it, touching at the handle, trying the knob slowly, gently. “I can’t be sure—but I don’t think so.”

Rourke nodded. Natalia stepped back.

Rourke drew one of the Scoremasters from his belt, jacking back the slide, leaving the safety down.

He turned the knob. There was no sound, which of itself proved nothing. Silent alarms would be no stranger here.

Rourke stepped through the doorway, eyeing the frame first that there was no electronic eye.

He looked above him—a camera eye. It moved, following him.

“Kiss off secrecy,” he snarled, stabbing the Scoremaster

toward the camera and pulling the trigger.

He averted his eyes as the camera shattered, lens material spraying downward.

The steps leading toward the basements—he ran toward them, glancing behind him once. Natalia and Sarah were through, Frau Mann, then Colonel Mann behind his wife.

The door slammed shut with a hollow, echoing sound.

And now, as Rourke took the steps downward two at a time, the Scoremaster’s safety upped, he could hear the sounding of an alarm.

Helene Sturm screamed.

“No one can hear you. These walls are soundproofed, Frau Sturm.”