Survivalist - 22 - Brutal Conquest (23 page)

“Sounds like it’d be fun,” Rourke smiled.

“Yeah, it does,” she answered, glancing toward him for an instant. “What I … er … said when we were—”

“Don’t worry about it,” John Rourke said honesdy.

“But I meant it.” Rourke just looked at her. Emma no longer looked at him but continued speaking, her voice coming into his ear through the headset he wore. “I mean, I know you’d never give it a second thought, but I had to say it.”

“Thank you,” Rourke told her.

“You’re welcome.”

And he understood how she meant that.

John Rourke watched Tim Shaw’s face as the Tac Team leader spoke into the microphone of his headset. “Ed … you got everybody into position? Over.”

Rourke could not hear the incoming.

“All right. Soon as we get the signal, we move to ready position. Remember, be quick. Shaw out.”

Lieutenant Commander Washington stepped in at the back of the truck. “My people are in place, Inspector.”

“You goin’ then?”

“On my way,” Washington nodded.

Rourke said, “I’m joining you. Tim, hold the good thought.”

Shaw nodded as Rourke caught up his windbreaker and slipped it on over the aloha shirt and the weapons, then stepped out into the mid-morning sunlight. Washington wore civies, blue jeans, and a sweatshirt. Rourke fell in beside him as they left the truck—a power company repair van—and started across the street toward the car.

The car, an Edison Seven, was electric, reminiscent in shape to a much-streamlined Corvette, low and flat at the nose and stubbed off at the rear end. He had been told it would top a hundred easily.

They stopped beside the car.

A cool wind was blowing in off the ocean, less than a mile distant from here, but the sun itself felt warm on Rourke’s face and hands.

Washington extended his hand. “Good luck, Doctor.”

“You guys take it easy,” Rourke nodded, taking the black officer’s hand in his.

Then John Rourke opened the door of the car and dropped behind the wheel.

There was no key, just a start code combination that he punched out on something which looked similar to a Twentieth Century touch-tone pad from a telephone.’

There was a gende hum. As Rourke touched his foot to the accelerator, the hum increased almost impenxptibkt. iMI been briefed on the car, given a chance to try it on one of the roads winding through the base, but he still wasn’t totally comfortable with something that didn’t utilize an internal combustion engine.

There was a floor-mounted transmission—the concepts of manual or automatic were obsolete these days. He set the indicator to drive, then pulled away from the curb… .

Michael Rourke pulled up to the gates and honked his horn.

Video cameras—very small—moved into position. He watched them. The gates opened.

Michael Rourke drove the litde electric car through the opening. He watched in the rearview mirror as the gates closed behind him… .

Natalia stepped out of the car, her legs looking impossibly long with the super short skirt and thigh-high boots. Annie got out of the car as well.

The hood latch release was already pulled and they both walked to the front of the car and, together, elevated the hood, looking inside the “engine” compartment. There was a smallish power plant, so small it would have fit into a large shoulder bag. There were two batteries, these about the size

of standard automotive batteries like the one on the truck at The Retreat.

There was nothing wrong with the car, but from a distance nobody would know-that. Annie sneaked a look over her shoulder.

Across the street were the gates leading into the compound’s main driveway. If the two stranded women in short skirts routine worked, Annie knew, those gates might open… .

Paul Rubenstein pushed himself up and began to move through the woods that were just beyond the northernmost fence line of the estate. Police Sergeant Ed Shaw was beside him, the rest of the Tac Team personnel spread out in the trees on both sides of them.

The Schmiesser was tight in Paul’s hands.

But he thought of Michael.

Less than thirty seconds ago, Ed Shaw’s father called on the radio. Then Ed Shaw whispered, “We have the signal. And it’s strong. Move to ready position now. Move to ready!”

Michael was inside.

That the signal was strong meant Michael was inside. That the signal was activated meant the gun Michael wore was withdrawn from its holster, either by Michael or by someone else.

The fence line was barely in sight. Before they reached it, they would stop again and wait, because there were video cameras surrounding the property. And the moment Paul Rubenstein, Sergeant Ed Shaw, and the Honolulu Tac learn approached within range of the cameras—the estate had its own power generators and so there was no way to kill power to the cameras—the thing would be started.

Inside his thin black leather gloves—they were real leather, not one of the modern synthetics—Paul Rubenstein’s hands sweated.

Natalia’s earrings were large. The left one was particularly heavy, being a receiver. She heard the voice of Inspector Shaw saying, “The stew is in the pot. I say again, the stew is in the pot.”

Natalia stood up, no longer looking into the engine compartment. She smoothed down what litde there was of her skirt with the tips of her fingers. Annie looked into her eyes. Natalia simply said, “Michael’s inside.”

Annie licked her lips and her face went a litde pale… .

John Rourke pulled the litde receiver out of his ear and flung it down on the seat. Michael.

John turned down the relatively narrow street. Natalia and Annie were clearly visible standing beside the upraised hood of their car.

John pulled over in front of them and shut off the engine. He stepped out of the car.

Natalia and Annie were trying to look slinky as they waved to him.

As he closed the door, John caught a glimpse of himself in the driver’s side sport mirror. The lifemask that was constructed^oyerjiisface, the blond hair dye and the blond mustache, the contact lenses to change eye color … it all worked. He didn’t look like John Rourke.

He turned, looking at Natalia and his daughter. “What is the problem, girls?”

“Our car. It just died!” Annie called back in a rather squeaky voice.

“Let me take a look,” Rourke responded, not so overly loud that it would appear obvious to any audio sensing equipment on the gates.

And he didn’t even look at the gates. It was showtime… .

Michael Rourke walked along a narrow corridor, the walls and ceiling made of marble or something that resembled it, antique-style light fixtures hung along its length at regular intervals.

Six men walked with him, two in front, two behind, and one on either side of him.

They should have been more impressed that he was Martin Zimmer, should have treated him more deferentially. When they searched him, taking the “stolen” energy pistol, they were almost rude to him.

As Michael neared the end of the corridor—there was a set of double doors, resembling real wood—he had a disturbing thought, a very disturbing thought.

Croenberg managed the sabotage teams for the SS.

What if once Croenberg learned that Martin Zimmer was taken to Hawaii, he had told his people—quiedy, of course— that Martin should die?

A sick feeling started in the pit of Michael Rourke’s stomach.

He lied to himself that it was because he hadn’t had much for breakfast… .

John Rourke stared up into the nearest video camera. The sun felt positively hot.

The camera turned toward his face.

John Rourke spoke to it in his best German accent. “I was wondering if it would be possible to have some assistance.” He didn’t say anything else, just stared into the camera.

A small speaker concealed within the grillwork abutting a stone pillar on Rourke’s end of the metal gates came to life. “This is a private residence. You are trespassing.”

Rourke smiled, looking down toward his feet, then back at the security camera. “I am standing in your driveway. This is trespassing?”

The voice—human, not prerecorded—repeated, “This is a private residence. You are trespassing.” “Is this the way you treat all visitors to your glorious Hawaii? You would not be treated in such a manner in New Germany, I assure you. I require assistance for the two young women on the other side of the street.” “Use your car phone.”

“All I require is a pair of pliers, yes? Then I can fix the Frauleins’ car, yes?”

“Use your car phone to call for assistance.”

John Rourke lit a cigarette with a modern disposable lighter, which he pocketed, blowing smoke toward the camera. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

John Rourke looked back toward the street, then into the camera lens. “These young women have been waiting here for quite some time. You did not notice them? Ha! I drive a rented automobile. There are no tools. The Frauleins have no tools in their car, either. You will allow me the use of a pair of pliers, I think. Or I will stand here.”

“Stand the fuck in the street, but get off the driveway or we will call the police.”

“Then call the police. And I will call the embassy. I will call the newspapers and the television stations. Let us see how much privacy you have then, humph!”

There was no response.

John Roirrke stood his ground… .

Michael Rourke was led through the doorway, the doors opening automatically. He imagined they were controlled by some sort of electronic eye apparatus. Too much was electronic these days, he reflected.

Beyond the doorway was a large desk.

There were several computer and video screens arrayed on it, a central control panel and, behind the desk, a solitary man. He stood up. “Herr Zimmer! This is a true honor, sir!”

Michael decided it was time for his Martin Zimmer-the-prick act. “What is the meaning of this! I demand these ruffians be dismissed and—”

The man behind the desk—backlit by the window, Michael could not see his face—started to laugh. And he kept laughing.

Michael Rourke didn’t think the situation was shaping up to be funny at all… .

Ed Shaw’s voice was a low rasp. “Once we get the signal from Dr. Rourke, Mr. Rubenstein, we move. Hang in there.”

“Jamming the video signal’s going to buy us about sixty seconds at best,” Paul noted.

“In sixty seconds, we can be over the fence. They’ll know they’ve been penetrated—or suspect it at least—but not by how many. Their motion detectors won’t be sensitive enough to give them any numbers. But we should pull most of their security attention to the rear of the property, so Dr. Rourke and the others can do their number.”

“This sucks,” Paul observed. Helicopters would have been spotted as they came in. The high altitude overflight photos the Navy arranged for and the video taken when Emma Shaw flew John near the place indicated a sophisticated aerial surveillance net around the place.

The security here was extraordinarily good, and the plan was built around turning the security system against itself rather than attempting to disarm it or get around it, both of which would have been impossible.

Six choppers were waiting but would not go up unless he or John gave the word, all in the name of diplomacy. Since Martin Zimmer’s face was not generally known outside the leadership circle of Eden, it could be argued that when the Rourke Family brought him to Hawaii, it was not realized he was a foreign head of state.

The raid on the compound could be written off as over-zealous police work in response to a tip.

Even Lieutenant Commander Washington and his SEAL team personnel were in civvies, all of them armed with false Honolulu PD Tac Team credentials. Once concrete evidence, which could be taken to Trans-Global Alliance headquarters in Switzerland, was found in the house and the intended sabotage could be proven, then the military could act. Diplomatic concerns would go by the board.

Paul Rubenstein just hoped that Michael Rourke wouldn’t die because of diplomatic concerns… .

“You are still standing in the driveway.”

“Americans may be rude, but Gott in Himmel they are perceptive!”

“This is the last time I will ask you to leave.”

John Rourke smiled into the camera. “Zer gut—then you will bring the pliers, yes?”

There was a long pause, then the voice from the speaker said, “All right, damnit!”

“Danke!”

John Rourke lit another cigarette, wishing it were a cigar. …

Michael was made to sit in a chair facing the light, on the opposite side of the desk. The man’s face became visible as he stepped~away from the window, crossing the room toward a small bar on the far wall.

The room itself was luxurious in the extreme—or seemed so at least. Aside from the large video screens on the wall, flanking the bar, it could have been a Twentieth Century boardroom or something like it, judging by the video movies Michael had seen at The Retreat and descriptions he’d read of such places in books.

When the man reached the bar, he turned around.

Now Michael could see his face. He almost wished he couldn’t. The face, deeply suntanned, was so skinny that it appeared skeletal, the eyes bulging slighdy. The lips, thin and long, were drawn back over stark white teeth.

“Martin Zimmer, our leader!” The man’s right hand shot forward in a Nazi salute. Then he laughed. “Strutting fool!

Did you think that the SS would follow such as you! You have walked into your own death, I am afraid. Have a drink, yes?” The man turned away and poured some whiskey-colored liquid from a decanter. “You may not remember me, Herr Zimmer. But we did meet once, in Eden City. Grup-penfuhrer Croenberg introduced us. If memory serves, you drank vodka.”

With that, he set down the decanter from which he’d just poured, then took an ordinary botde filled with clear liquid. He twisted open the cap and poured into a second glass.

He turned around, a glass in each hand, smiled again, and said, “I am Sturmbannfuhrer Luther Schmidt.” He walked back across the room, his long-legged stride easy, confident. He extended the hand holding the glass of vodka. Michael took it. “A toast then, Herr Zimmer” and Schmidt raised his glass. “To the new Reich and to its new leadership