Survivalist - 24 - Blood Assassins (3 page)

Cigarettes weren’t like they used to be in the days when John Rourke was growing up. Tobacco was now totally noncarcinogenic. So, unless one smoked to excess and contracted emphesyma or injured the heart, smoking was okay. Under the circumstances, as she lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the one burned down between her fingertips, she would have smoked anyway, even if there hadn’t been noncarcinogenic cigarettes and even if cancer weren’t curable. Life like this was nothing to lose.

Annie Rourke Rubenstein sat up, screaming.

The afghan fell from her body to the floor.”

“Dead?” What had she seen? She could not bring it back from the dream. There was a note on the coffee table. She picked it up and read it. Paul had gone off to see Admiral Hayes about something.

She stood up.

She looked down at her clothes. The wrinkles would fall out of her skirt. She straightened her blouse. She walked to the window and looked out. It was raining, huge drops streaming down over the panes of window glass like tears, like tears down a cheek.

And, without warning, the memory of her dream flooded over her and Annie screamed as she fell against the window frame.

Five

Paul Rubenstein sent Natalia over to keep his wife Annie company, not telling Natalia what Admiral Hayes had told him. He could not tell her, but knew that soon he would have to, tell Annie, tell Michael, too.

He borrowed an F.O.U.O. car, its Tracer unit tuned to the frequency of the F.O.U.O. car which John had taken when he drove off the base. The Tracer unit allowed one F.O.U.O. vehicle to home in on another, a very simple thing since each of the vehicles emitted its own signal code from the moment it left the base until it was returned (unless the solar cells ran out of energy first).

This signal was strong.

Paul followed it out of the city and into the mountains, along a highway that a few hours from now would be well travelled during the rush hour, but now was all-but-deserted. He passed through small suburban Honolulu communities, climbing with the road, his eyes occasionally drifting down to the automatic

controls which drove the car instead of him. He didn’t trust them, kept his hands very lightly on the steering wheel even though he didn’t have to.

What Admiral Hayes told him, in the aftermath of Martin’s death, was almost beyond absorption. Tears still came to his eyes when he thought of it, and he would then focus his attention all the harder on the automobile’s automatic controls, as a means of forcing reality away from him.

They—he and the car’s computer—were out of any trace of real civilization now, and Paul Rubenstein, a New Yorker centuries ago, breathed more easily. Now, cities compressed his spirit, were slightly maddening to him.

It—the computer—kept driving, turning the car off onto an unpaved side road now.

The car drove at a “safe” speed, neither so fast as to enable him to get this over with soon, nor so slow as to postpone the horrible inevitable.

Instead, at what was the perfect speed, the computer drove him calmly toward what would be the worst moment of his life.

His left arm was a little sore, still.

But exercise was the best thing. He flexed his fist and put his hand into the borrowed glove. Michael Rourke took the ball from inside the glove and hefted it. His baseball experience was limited to distant memory and the occasional game of catch with his sister in the years when they were growing up alone at the Retreat.

He took the ball and threw it against the concrete wall, and the ball rocketed back toward him. Michael dashed left, barely getting his glove on it. But he caught it. He threw the ball again, caught it more easily this time. He could get a baseball and glove of his own. If he stayed here at Pearl Harbor long enough, he might get involved with one of the teams. Every unit had its own, and there were several teams from among the ranks of the civilian employees, too.

Michael Rourke had discussed this with Paul. “You mean you really played on a team?”

“Well, it wasn’t as if I played for the New York Yankees, Michael. I just played with some teams on the Air Force Bases my dad was assigned to. It was kind of fun.”

“Can you teach me to hit?”

“You serious?”

Michael told his brother-in-law that he was serious.

Paul agreed to teach him to hit.

Michael nearly missed the ball—but only nearly. As a boy, his father had played catch with him, swatted flies with him, done all the father-son stuff. But his true boyhood ended the morning after the Night of the War when he saw his mother about to be molested and, rather than stand there, or cry, he took the boning knife out of their hastily put-together cache of supplies and killed the man who was about to hurt his mother. He put the knife in the man’s kidney. He hadn’t known anything about where to place a knife for killing, and he doubted that instinct was working upon him—more like dumb luck.

But, childhood ended.

If this was his second childhood, it would really be his first

He kept playing with the ball, getting generally

better at getting his borrowed glove on it each time. He was worried for his sister. Paul had said she was upset, restless, dreaming. That did not bode well. But, Michael supposed, Natalia was the best to keep Annie company, take care of her, comfort her if Paul himself could not be there.

Paul had not said where he was going.

And, that was odd, very unlike Paul.

Michael stopped throwing the ball, took off his glove, just stood there. He decided to go see Natalia and his sister after a quick shower.

Six

It took a moment before Paul Rubenstein was able to see John Rourke. John lay against a rock, as if asleep.

Tears filled Paul Rubenstein’s eyes as he forced his legs to move along the narrow, rocky trail.

It was full daylight now. Admiral Hayes had offered to detail some men to accompany him, but he had told her simply that some things had to be done alone. First Martin, now this, one life that was evil and vile by any judgement, another that was noble and good, yet both lives shared the same genes. And, how would he tell Annie? He’d have to tell her; it was only right that he did. He was as used to being orphaned as anyone ever got to it, Paul Rubenstein supposed. But how did one tell someone that a parent, a loved one, someone who had become quite literally larger than life because of circumstance, was dead?

Paul reached the top of the rise, the end of the path. He stooped over to pick up a spent brass cartridge case. It was from a .45 ACP, one of the German production

rounds, of course, but headstamped as if it were made by Federal Cartridge, John’s perennial brand of preference.

Paul stared at John Rourke. Paul sniffed back a tear.

He started to walk closer to him and the rock against which his friend lay. Why had this had to happen? It wasn’t right.

“It’s not like you to come up so quietly, Paul. What’s up?”

Paul Rubenstein breathed. There were more yellow brass cartridge cases on the ground near Paul’s feet. He crouched, began picking them up.

“Came up here to think. I haven’t shot for anything but self-defense in longer than I can remember. I can police up that brass. I just hadn’t gotten around to it.”

“Gives me something to do,” Paul told his friend. “Uhh—”

“What?”

This was needless cruelty to John, prolonging it to save himself. “The cryogenic facility in New Germany was hit by Nazi commandoes. Blew it up. Sarah and Colonel Mann are both dead.”

He’d said it.

He stayed there, crouched over the pieces of empty brass. John said nothing.

“I didn’t know how to tell you. Annie and Michael and Natalia don’t know yet. But, I’ll tell them. I’m sorry, John. She was a magnificent woman. I don’t know what else to say.”

John lit a cigar, but his hands shook and, as he exhaled smoke, John coughed, sounded for an instant as if he were choking. He just dropped the cigar and lowered his face into his hands. And Paul could hear the sobbing, see his friend’s face as John’s fists hammered down into the dirt on either side of him.

“Jesus!” John exclaimed. John stood up, walked to the edge of the drop, stood there, beating his right thigh with his right fist. “After all—all she—she went—went through, God!” And John Rourke raised his voice into a cry across the valley beyond “Sarah!”

Paul Rubenstein opened his hands and let the empty brass fall through his fingers. His throat felt tight. He stood up, walked toward his friend, put his arms around him and John Rourke rested his arm across Paul’s shoulders and wept.

Seven

Annie already knew that something terrible had happened, but not quite what. While Natalia kept talking with her, she dressed, telling Natalia nothing at all about her dream-initiated fears.

“Michael’s been thinking about trying to pass himself off as Martin with Deitrich Zimmer. I don’t seem to be able to talk him out of it,” Natalia said despairingly.

Annie was pulling her slip over her head, stopped with it still bunched up over her breasts. “He shouldn’t do that. There’s been enough tragedy, Natalia.” She finished putting on her slip, smoothing it along her thighs, then walked over to the dresser, picked up her brush and started doing her hair. She’d showered, washed her hair, dried it. She would have to look her best, today. Her mother always liked her to look her best. “Besides, Michael could never convince Deitrich Zimmer. It would be like Martin having tried to convince daddy that he was Michael, instead. It’d never work.”

“I know that. But Michael feels he has to do something. Men are crazy.”

“We let them be, even admire it in them, don’t we?”

“Paul is so sensible.”

Annie smiled. “He’s exciting. Trust me.”

“Ohh, I didn’t mean that!” Natalia told her hastily.

“I know you didn’t mean anything,” Annie replied.

“It is only that Paul doesn’t seem to have to be spectacular, that he does what needs to be done without any—what’s the word?”

“I’m amazed!” Annie said. “Fanfare?”

“Yes, like that. ‘Fanfare’ isn’t the sort of word one uses every day, you know.”

Annie shrugged her shoulders, straightened her straps. The sides of her hair were caught up in a bar-rette just near the crown of her head, the rest of her hair hanging down, almost to her waist. Natalia had helped her a few days before, trimming off about two inches of split ends.

It was a cool day. She took down a long-sleeved medium blue blouse, began putting it on. “Michael is just like Daddy; he’s naturally heroic. And it’s unnatural for him to be otherwise. Paul is just naturally competent; when it’s competent to be heroic, he’s heroic, but he doesn’t go out of his way to constantly do that. Do you know what I mean? It doesn’t define him.”

“Yes. I want Michael’s baby.” And Natalia laughed. “Can you imagine that? Me? A mother!”

“You’ll make a wonderful mother. What’s Michael think about it?” Her blouse was buttoned except for the button at the neck. She closed the cloth-covered buttons at her cuffs.

“I haven’t mentioned it to him, not yet, anyway.”

Natalia lit a cigarette, stood up from where she’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, walked to the window. Natalia wore black slacks and a loose-fitting, black, long-sleeved cotton sweater with a round neck. Except for very small pierced earrings—diamonds—and her Rolex wristwatch, she wore no jewelry. As usual, she looked stunning.

Natalia was frequently in black. Annie felt a chill along her spine, that the color might be especially appropriate today. Natalia’s hair was up, making her look very sophisticated. But she was always that, at least in appearance.

“Why did Paul go off like that, Annie?”

“I’m not sure. I think there’s something going on and he didn’t want to worry me.” Annie closed the button at her collar and tied the collar into a long, drooping bow at her throat, then stepped into her skirt. It was straight and navy blue. She pulled it up, closed the zipper, then the double waist buttons at the small of her back. She picked up the skirt, at its hem, smoothed her slip beneath it, then let the skirt fall back, its hem only a little bit above her ankles.

In China’s First City, Annie had become much taken with high heels, for the way they looked and made her feel. She stepped up and into a pair of blue pumps, then saw to her jewelry. This consisted of only a thin gold chain at her neck, a gold bracelet on her right wrist, her wristwatch on her left wrist and a pair of gold pierced earrings.

She liked dressing well, and the mere process was usually a way to clear her mind, get her thinking of something else. “Could you do my eyes, Natalia? I’ve never been good at it.”

“All right. Sit down. How about a very pale blue?”

“It wouldn’t be too much blue?”

“You’re right. Here we go. Close your eyes.”

Getting her mind on something else had worked a little. But when she closed her eyes in order for Natalia to apply the eye liner and eye shadow—she didn’t use mascara and hated the stuff anyway—Annie could still see the dream. It was as if she had been inside one of the cryogenic chambers in New Germany, and then there was fire and there were explosions.

Perhaps she should have contacted the German authorities right away, alerted them. Tell them she’d had a bad dream? That she never dreamed unless someone she loved was in danger? If Colonel Mann had not himself been in cryogenic sleep, he would have believed her.

She was tempted to tell Natalia, but somehow felt she should not. Not yet, at least.

“There, kid! You look great.”

Annie smiled, kissed Natalia’s cheek. “You look great. I look okay,” Annie corrected, going over to the mirror to inspect Natalia’s handiwork. “You have to show me again, sometime. I always get too much on so it looks like I got my eyelids dirty or something.” She did her lips. All men got to do was shave. That couldn’t be much fun. Maybe she should tell Natalia. “I had a dream.”

“Ohh, God,” Natalia almost whispered.

As Annie started to explain, she heard the door to the apartment opening. In the mirror, when she moved her head just right, she could see beyond the bedroom doorway and into the small living room. Paul. Michael. Her father.