The Arsenal, page 4
There was silence, not even the clearing of a throat, then First Secretary Korenikov broke the silence. "Be seated, Comrade Marshal Antonovitch."
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CHAPTER FIVE
The red light clicked off and Akiro Kurinami pressed his hands tightly over his eyes for a moment as defense against the brightness of the ordinary white light, then took his hands away. Outside, it was a starless night, the heavy overcast of snow laden clouds making the last stage of the trek up the mountainside like moving while hooded with black velvet. He felt like a sneak thief, but coming here was the only way to survive. And he knew John Rourke well enough that "the only way to survive" was, to John Rourke, a powerful argument, and if entering his sanctum unbidden would be viewed as a transgression at all, it would be forgiven.
Elaine Halversen squeezed his left hand and he looked down at her hand in his— the chocolate brown of her flesh. But he wondered why men of his race were called yellow, because despite his Japanese origins his hand looked white against hers. His eyes tracked upward from their hands to her eyes, as dark as his own, but somehow different, and very beautiful.
Together, they descended the three steps from the interior vault door into the great room of The Retreat.
Kurinami had half-hoped what Elaine's words echoed. "If he were only here!"
But The Retreat was empty, except for themselves, he realized, had realized from the moment they had opened the doors. He had once said to John Rourke, "Why haven't you shown Commander Dodd the loca-
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tion of The Retreat— it might prove important some day?"
And Rourke, taking the cigar from his mouth, the corners of his eyes —all that was visible with his eyes shielded by the dark lensed aviator-style sunglasses he habitually wore —wrinkling slightly as though he were smiling, said, "If someone knows a secret, then it's no longer a secret. Dodd could find The Retreat by working out the coordinates off the transmission logs of the Eden computer. But he'd have to blow the top of the mountain off to get inside unless he knew how. You and Elaine share a secret that no one outside my family knows. You're now just as responsible for the integrity of that secret as we are. I didn't intend to stick you with such a responsibility, but you were the first people we had seen. It just sort of happened."
Akiro Kurinami now thanked God that it had. Exposure, lack of food, exhaustion and despair had nearly claimed them.
"If we're going to invade his home, we may as well invade his refrigerator," Elaine began, the cheerfulness of her tone sounding forced to him.
"Yes," he nodded, stripping away his arctic parka, dropping it on the floor of the great room. And he suddenly felt rude. He picked up the coat, holding it dumbly, looking for some place to hang it.
He had not eaten in two days, holding back the last of the emergency rations he had stolen— stolen? —for Elaine, giving them to her hours ago to keep her going. After he had been kidnapped, tortured, nearly killed, escaping barely in time to save Elaine from that fate or worse, they had sought sanctuary among the Germans who helped to guard Eden Base, the Germans giving it gladly. But after an eternity of wrangling between Commander Dodd and German high command, it had appeared inevitable that he and Elaine would be
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surrendered. And so, stealing what he could for them, they fled.
He didn't blame the Germans. He and Elaine were -victims of diplomacy and duplicity. The Germans had been faced with serious criminal charges, including various counts of murder, leveled against him by Commander Christopher Dodd, technically the leader of a foreign nation on whose soil the German base was located .
Elaine handed him a drink. It smelled like whiskey. It was whiskey as he tasted it.
He wondered if he had decided they should flee simply to obviate the necessity of the Germans doing what they at once thought was immoral but a moral imperative?
"Some of those irradiated steaks and frozen potatoes and vegetables that look like they were fresh —maybe ones Annie and Michael grew in the garden."
"You're too tired. You should rest. Just anything would — "
The whiskey warmed his stomach more than it had burnt his throat; so, admittedly never a connoisseur of spiritous liquor, he felt he had achieved a baseline for judgment that it was good.
She kissed him, hard on the mouth and he felt warmed more than the whiskey could have made him feel. "You either rest here or take a shower and warm up. Doctor's orders," she laughed.
She was a "doctor" but a PhD, not MD and it had become a running joke between them. "I declare martial law —so it's lieutenant's orders," he told her.
She kissed him again —this time on the cheek and moved off before his hands could react and he found himself laughing, something he had not done in the weeks since it had all started. He stood up, the whiskey hitting- him now and making his balance a little uncer-
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tain. Two days without food.
He left the rest of the whiskey and started up the three steps toward the bathroom, the door open.
The main computer aboard Eden One blanked out, robbing Eden survivors of the location of strategic stores.
Missing: twenty-four M-16 assault rifles, three thousand rounds of 5.56mm Ball, botanical samples, lighting, medical supplies, emergency rations.
The men and the electric shock torture so he would reveal the location of the backup files he had made for the main computers. These were still hidden.
Akiro Kurinami leaned over the wash basin and then looked up into the mirror.
Taped to the mirror was a computer printout, the letters daisy wheel quality rather than dot matrix.
"Akiro and Elaine:
It may strike you as odd that I have left this note for you, but you might well appreciate that only 'odd' circumstances would place you in a position to be reading it. My house, as they say, is your house. You know the location of weapons, food and medical supplies. If you have come here, circumstances are likely desperate. Remember that you are safe here if you kept the secret. Colonel Mann donated a wonderfully powerful radio transmitter which Michael and I have installed. I have no way of knowing what has prompted your visit. If you need help, you can trust Doctor Munchen. Contact him if you cannot contact me directly.
John Rourke
P.S. Don't attempt to ride the Harleys unless you are quite experienced with motorcycles. Forgive me that I neglected to ask."
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Kurinami could see part of his own face in the mirror, beyond the edge of the letter. And his face seamed with a smile as he thought of John Rourke's often spoken motto, "It pays to plan ahead."
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CHAPTER SIX
Han Lu Chen's eyes were intense bullets of blackness as the Chairman spoke, Rourke watching Han rather than the Chairman. "It has been suggested by the Germans, who even now seek to formalize an alliance between our peoples against the growing Soviet threat, that an embassy be sent to the Second City in the hopes of ending the centuries of philosophical differences which have divided us. Certainly, the possibility that the rulers of the Second City know the whereabouts of the remainder of the People's Republic's nuclear arsenal from before the Dragon Wind came and might make such weapons available to the Soviets, is a fact which cannot be ignored."
John Rourke shifted his eyes to Otto Hammerschmidt. Between the German commando captain and the Chinese intelligence agent Han sat his son, Michael. Michael caught his glance, raised his eyebrows in simulation of a shoulder shrug and looked away.
"Doctor Rourke," the Chairman began again, seating himself at last at the head of the long black lacquer table which was set like a piece of onyx in the immensity of the otherwise bare conference hall. "The people of Eden. What is their feeling?"
John Rourke studied the Chairman's face for a moment, then answered. "Sir; I cannot speak for the Eden Project, although I intend to return there soon. I would, however, be honored if you were to request that I carry
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your good wishes and news of your interest in Eden leadership opinion. But, in candor, at the moment I have less in common with Eden leadership than I have had in the past. A valued friend, one Lieutenant Akiro Kurinami, has been charged with various heinous crimes and falsely so, I believe. Again, speaking frankly, I hold the current Eden leadership under Commander Dodd personally responsible. I've been exposed to his manipulation of justice before, and with nearly disastrous results." Natalia had almost been killed because of Dodd's ineptitude — or was it design? — when a mob had been about to execute her as a supposed traitor. "Lieutenant Kurinami and his fiance, Doctor Elaine Halversen, have been forced to flee into the wilds of the Georgia mountains, flee for their lives. I learned of this belatedly due to a pledge by Dodd that I would be informed, which precluded the Germans doing it themselves. At last, I was told of this turn of events by the Germans. There has been no word from Dodd. So, I'm the wrong man to ask."
The Chairman of the First City's brow knit into deep furrows. Michael's voice, so much like his own, cut through the silence. "Sir?"
"Yes, Mr. Rourke?"
"I share the feelings my father holds, but at the same time it would be worthwhile for this proposed embassy to the Second City to be comprised of, let's say, an impartial observer. Eden is due for a change of leadership. That seems inevitable. And when that time comes, were I to accompany this embassy, I could brief the new leadership concerning the embassy's results." Michael looked across the table.
John Rourke nodded, not approval but acceptance.
"You would be welcome, Michael," Otto Hammerschmidt declared.
"Yes," Han added; but his voice lacked emotion . . .
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Sarah was waiting for him at the hospital, in the monorail level lobby when he arrived, wearing a dress of the Icelandic fashion, Empire waisted, her pregnancy so discreetly concealed beneath the long, bell-shaped skirt to be almost unnoticeable. John Rourke took her in his arms. "Any word?"
"Just that the operation was under way and we'd be notified. Annie and Paul are coming and should be here in a few minutes. Maria came by, then left to join Michael. She's in love with him."
"She's a nice girl." He cleared his throat. "Any word on
Natalia's condition?"
"No change, I was told. That was a few hours ago. She
eats poorly, cries. John?"
"What?"
"What are you going to do? Short of starting a harem, I mean?" She smiled when she said it and squeezed his hand as he sat down beside her.
Rolvaag undergoing major surgery, Natalia showing the classic symptoms of mental collapse, Kurinami and Halversen fleeing as fugitives from murder charges, Dodd no doubt pursuing them, his wife pregnant and his son going off to begin diplomatic negotiations with people who were spoken of as bloodthirsty barbarians. What was he going to do, he almost echoed aloud. The question was as pregnant as Sarah . . .
Mao stood on the platform and she watched him, as she had watched him when the self-proclaimed Russian soldier had been forced to hurtle himself into the pit.
There had been many smiles of approval, nods of gratitude and murmurs of support as he had entered the officers' recreation hall at the north corner of the main
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barracks, cheers as he had ascended the steps to the platform, his tonsured pate gleaming slightly with perspiration. He had always been uncomfortable as a public speaker, which somehow made him more effective, made him cling to the words which she gave him like a man thrown into the dog pit would cling to the leg of a guard.
Mao spoke and she didn't bother to listen, already knowing his words. Instead, she listened to the soft whispered words of the select group of assembled officers, both mercenary and enlisted, as they digested his edict. "... to the site where this battle supposedly took place. You will ascertain as best as available data suggests the extent and capabilities of the combatants. Colonel Wing. You will assume personal charge of the expeditionary force, and at the proper moment will dispatch riders to the City with your intelligence estimate while the main body of your force will pursue but not engage the assumedly weaker of the two forces. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Comrade Chairman. I will obey!"
Mao nodded his head, as though bowing, which of course he did to no one but her, and then only in the privacy of her apartments. "We must crush the weaker of these forces, then pursue the stronger! Victory!"
Mao raised his right fist and clenched it, the size it seemed, of a large hammer and as he crashed it down against the bare rostrum and it shook, a cheer thundered from the officers like a rumble from a rapidly advancing storm.
She was pleased . . .
John Rourke wore a white tropical weight dinner jacket, the kind of bow tie that was tied rather than clipped on (one could tell from the way the ends of the
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bow sagged slightly). He stood at the head of the stairs, his long legs spread slightly apart, as though he had stopped in mid-stride, as though nature had somehow freeze-framed him there. The photograph sent in the diplomatic pouch from Derzhinsky Square hadn't done him justice. He'd been exiting the plane, the collar of a heavy coat turned up against a strong wind that had tousled his hair, the collar obscuring much of his face. And the photo had only been in black and white.
Vladmir looked briefly into her eyes, then turned his head, craning his neck to stare toward the Miami Grande's main entrance where the American Case Officer Rourke, Vladmir had detemined, had to be killed
tonight, stood.
The water couldn't be drunk since the revolutionary guard had blown up the American financed filtration plant (there was disease in the poorer parts of the capital but Vladmir had told her it was a small price for Central America's poor to pay for equality and justice). And so, on business tonight, Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna, Captain, Committee for State Security of the Soviet, sipped at Chablis Blanc instead, watching him over the rim of her tulip shaped glass — it was the wrong shape for such a wine. John Rourke stepped onto the club's floor. He moved with the grace of a black leopard, the surety of a stallion. She pushed a strand of her dyed blond hair back from her forehead with the back of her left hand, glancing at the time on the plain ladies Rolex on her wrist, mentally logging it for her report. He walked toward the bar.
"That's him," Vladmir Karamotsav hissed across his vodka tumbler. Unlike her husband, she never drank hard liquor while working. She nodded almost imperceptibly that she knew that this man was Rourke, John Thomas, Case Officer, United States Central Intelligence Covert Operations Division, Central American
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Special Action Group. "Go up to the bar and refill your glass. Get a closer look. See if you can spot his gun. That might come in handy. He's right-handed."
"All right, Vladmir," she whispered, not bothering to mention that had Vladmir read deeper into the file he would have learned that Rourke was, for all intents and purposes, ambidextrous. So was she.
The air was as heavy with smoke as it was with counterfeit American rock music as she drained off her glass and stood, catching up the skirt of her white ankle length gown and starting toward the bar where the American leaned, at once casual yet somehow seeming uncomfortable.
She knew his name, assumed his politics, knew why the CIA had sent him, but found herself wondering what he was really like.
Natalia reached the bar.
"Si —another Chablis Blanc, please. It was house brand I think." The bartender— a greasy looking man in a white bolero length jacket —nodded and smiled at her as he took the glass, his hand intentionally touching hers for an instant. She dismissed it like accidentally touching a dirty doorknob. She glanced to her left, looking at this John Rourke. His forehead was high, but naturally so, his dark brown hair thick, healthy looking. As if he felt her watching him, he inclined his head toward her and before she averted her eyes, she saw his. They were brown, filled with steadiness and a hint of melancholy and she felt a nervous feeling suddenly deep in the pit of her stomach.
He was either very good at concealing a weapon — better than she would have thought he should be —or unarmed. She determined that as her eyes crossed over his body plane when the bartender brought her the glass of wine. There was no hint of a telltale bulge under his jacket. Perhaps an ankle holster, the trouser legs wide
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enough for one if it were worn properly. "Put the wine on our bill —over there," she told the bartender, then ignored him and walked back from the bar. Vladmir stood but didn't get her chair. She sat down, raising her glass to her lips, saying over it, "Either he isn't armed at all or he's better than anyone I've seen at concealing. He could have an ankle holster, but I didn't see anything to indicate he did."
"What did his file say?"
"He carries a ,45 automatic, a Colt, sometimes two of them."
"Any mention of a backup gun?w "He carries a knife. An A.G. Russell Sting, it said, or sometimes a big Gerber."
"Then we'll take him easily enough. You can see him better. Who's he talking to?"
She lit a cigarette and looked across the flame of the lighter toward the bar. John Rourke was speaking with a Latin wearing a white dinner jacket, the Latin smoking a cigarette, holding it carelessly in his right hand, gesturing with it as he spoke. His name was Armando Fernandez-Salizar and he was head of the pro-American government's counter-terrorist unit, his identity a closely guarded state secret. Fernandez-Salizar must have been in a back room, because she had not seen him at the bar before this instant. Fernandez-Salizar did not know that his identity was known.
