Free Survivalist - 22 - Brutal Conquest by Jerry Ahern Page A

closed and Michael was alone with him. Gunther Hong was, presumably, following orders and actually taking to the field to assist in the search for the Rourke Family, which Michael prayed would be abortive. Michael had dismissed the uniformed manservant shortly after Hong left, needing to be alone … or as alone as he could be.
    Croenberg crossed the room, unbidden, and stopped just inside the balcony doors. “The view from here is incredible.”
    “I suppose,” Michael responded, trying to sound as though he saw that same view every day. But it was incredible. Dark now, the city of Eden was alive with lights, which sparkled like jewels in the darkness.
    And Croenberg turned around, his hand out of his pocket and a gun about the size of Natalia’s Walther PPK/S pointing direcdy at Michael’s center of mass. “Who are you?”
    Michael looked away from the solitary orifice of the gun and into the two orifices that were Croenberg’s deep-set grey-blue eyes. “I could have you killed for this.”
    Croenberg then blew the whole thing. He began speaking in German, Michael recognizing just enough of it to realize the vocabulary was too much for him, the speed too rapid. Croenberg continued speaking. Michael sat down in one of the overstuffed leather chairs, opening the lid of the cigarette box, then using the battery-powered table lighter to fire the cigarette he placed between his lips. Whether Martin smoked or not was academic. Michael did, occasionally, and the game was up; so now seemed like the ideal time.
    Croenberg continued speaking in machine-gun-rapid German. Michael exhaled smoke through his nostrils, smiled, and asked, “Are you anywhere near being through, Croenberg?”
    Croenberg laughed, the laughter quite genuine in nature. “You really look like him, you know? Are you John Rourke?”
    “You flatter me,” Michael said with a wave of his hand, which held the cigarette, and a smile. “I’m Michael Rourke, John Rourke’s other son. I’m five hundred years older than my brother Martin, but still, there’s a marvelous resemblance.”
    “You are very bold, and intelligent, too, I think. Since these remarks will never leave this room, I will speak freely. More intelligent, I think, than your ‘younger* brother … hmm?”
    “Nice of you to notice.”
    “Where is he?”
    “Are you trying to give me the impression that you don’t like old Marty?”
    “Marty? Ahh! Marty! Well, as a matter of fact, Herr Rourke, I do not like him one bit. He is an annoying—”
    “Are you searching for the word prick, Croenberg?”
    “Yes, a prick. Now, if you would step over to the balcony and take in that lovely view for one last time, please.”
    Michael didn’t move. He smoked his cigarette. And he asked Croenberg, “Are you planning to kill me and make it appear that Martin’s dead?”
    “The thought had crossed my mind, yes. You see, I have always believed that the true test of genius is the ability to take advantage of opportunity, then capitalize on the present rather than vainly plan for a future which may never come.”
    “Aside from the fact that you’re a Nazi and that Nazis are assholes, of course “—Croenberg’s eyes hardened and his fist balled slighdy more tighdy to his gun—“I find you quite engaging. And your philosophy concerning seizing the moment is something with which I wholeheartedly agree. Carpe diem.”
    “Yes, the dead language, Latin. How appropriate for a man who is soon to be dead to use the dead language. To the balcony, please.”
    Michael sat where he was. “You don’t want me shot. You want me splattered all over the sidewalk… .”
    “Actually,” Croenberg smiled wickedly, “I would more suppose you will be ‘splattered,’ as you put it, all over the street. Science and mathematics seem to suggest to me that the fall would pull you slightly outward. But, shall we experiment? You will know a split second before I do.”
    “You can always go first, if you like,”