Black Sun Reich Part 11

Rucker and Deitel were almost too late. While Deitel was asking an omelet chef if he knew how to make breakfast tacos, Rucker was scanning the crowd.

Deitel put a hand on Rucker's shoulder, about to ask him something.

"Hand. Hand!" Rucker hissed, brus.h.i.+ng Deitel's paw away.

Just across the lawn the Hawaiian delegation-replete in their native garb-were seating themselves and trying to enjoy what pa.s.sed for seafood in this cold, deathly climate. They were listening to a diamond-draped elderly Manhattan socialite give her opinion of the merits of national socialism versus state socialism. The amba.s.sador noted that the lines on her face were etched by a lifetime of sneering disapproval. The poor woman wasn't ugly because she had bad genes; it was the ugliness of bad character.

"Well, darling, from what I read in Gotham magazine," Mrs. Vanderbilt was saying, "the German leader champions the rights of the workers, and he regards capitalist society as brutal and unjust. Although he has his eccentricities, he deplores the selfishness and exploitive capitalism in countries like France, Brazil, and Texas. He seeks a third way between communism and the anarchy of the free market, something which provides stability and proper place for everyone. In this regard, he has emulated some of the steps taken by Vice President Roosevelt's New Society agenda, taking large-scale economic decision-making out of private hands and putting it in the hands of central planning agencies answerable to the political establishment, and which protects the people from risk . . . Oh me? No, my grandfather established a trust fund for me."

One of the aides motioned to the amba.s.sador, who was looking for any excuse to get away from this woman. Could he pretend to be brain-damaged? he wondered. Start thrusting his hips in her direction and jabbering nonsense? He saw the aide trying to get his attention. He finally excused himself by telling the elderly New York socialite that she should "p.i.s.s off"-an American idiom he particularly enjoyed.

"Anolani," the aide said. "That man over there. Does he look familiar?"

The corpulent amba.s.sador nodded. He'd never forget the blond-haired devil. The Hawaiian amba.s.sador switched to Olelo, their native language.

"I wonder what the Fox is doing here, among the Yanks?" Anolani asked his a.s.sistant.

"Shall I go ask him if he'll join us?" the a.s.sistant said.

The Hawaiian amba.s.sador considered it.

"Hmmm. As much as I would be delighted to speak with him, there's something about his mien. I don't think he's here on a social or diplomatic matter. We owe him much. We don't want to ruin his wave. Play it cool. And stick with the 'Me like 'em fire' act for these backwater white a.s.ses."

Rucker's eyes pa.s.sed the Hawaiian delegation and he gave a quick wink to Anolani. Anolani touched his nose, and Rucker nodded slightly.

Rucker turned back to his visual sweep, this time toward the West Wing.

That's when he saw her.

No doubt about it. It didn't matter what name she was using at the moment or that she'd colored her hair that ridiculous . . . fetching . . . shade. It was her.

Terah Jane Spencer.

The love of his life.

And there she was, sneaking off with a man for what looked like a morning tryst.

It was just typical, Rucker thought.

He grabbed Deitel's arm and jerked him away from the serving table.

"Come on."

Deitel almost choked on the shrimp he was chewing.

"It's Terah."

Discreetly as he could with a full-size German doctor in tow, Rucker followed Terah and Horichi through one of the servant entrances to Hamilton House and up a lesser used stairway to the third floor of the immense mansion. He peeked through the stairwell door and saw the imminent amba.s.sador leading Terah into one of the side rooms as he nuzzled her neck.

Peeking around Rucker, Deitel saw the same thing. He pulled his head back and put his back against the doorjamb.

"So, how will we handle this? Discreetly, I presume?"

Only when he heard the door in the hall crash open did he realize Rucker wasn't standing beside him anymore.

In the Lincoln Room, Horichi had his coat off and some lipstick on his face. And a tent in his pants.

And a gun pointed at his head.

Terah's gun.

Rucker was standing in the doorway amid the ruins of the door.

"Oh thank G.o.d. This crazy broad just pulled a gat on me," Horichi said when he saw Rucker.

"Shut up," Rucker said to him.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" Terah demanded. There was a murderous glint in her big green eyes.

"Lysander sent me. I have to get you out of here now. Something more important has come up."

"Nothing is more important than squas.h.i.+ng this bug," she said, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng in anger.

G.o.d, she was beautiful.

"You know," he said, "you're supposed to keep things low-key. It would have been easy to take care of this trash once he was in Hawaii. But no, you want to go doing it right here in the presidential palace."

Terah and Rucker eyed each other angrily, both holding pistols at their sides now.

"You haven't changed a bit," she smirked.

"And you're still crazy as an outhouse rat," he said.

Horichi, hands out and palms up, spoke very softly.

"I don't know what this is all about, but I'm sure we can work it out. If she's your woman, I had no idea. There's no need for violence or gunplay. h.e.l.l, I'm not even carrying a gun-"

The report of the two pistols was almost simultaneous. A .45 caliber hole opened in Horichi's forehead. A .32 caliber hole opened in his nethers.

Terah and Rucker hadn't taken their eyes off each other. Rucker shook his head.

"And now we're running."

Hearing the gunshots and the ensuing alarm, Deitel scrambled down to the Lincoln Bedroom. Rucker was pulling the window open. A woman-Terah, the doctor a.s.sumed-was trying to drag a stocky corpse behind a couch.

Deitel paused in the doorway and Terah wheeled around, aiming her pistol right at his heart.

"Don't shoot him!" Rucker shouted. "He's with me."

"Peachy," Terah said, and turned back to her work. "In fact, give me a hand."

Deitel noticed Rucker had lipstick on his mouth. And the beginning of what was sure to be a beauty of a black eye.

"Can you explain . . . never mind. What do we do now, Herr Rucker?"

They could hear the sound of boots coming up the stairwell as the FSB guards started their sweep, looking for the source of the gunfire.

"You're going out on this ledge and up the trellis to the West Wing rooftop," Rucker said. "When you get there"-he pulled a cylindrical object from his top hat and slapped it in Deitel's hand-"point this straight up and yank the cord."

So the plan was to corner themselves on the roof of Hamilton House. Of course.

"Sure, why not?" Deitel said, the resignation in his voice almost nonchalant now.

Doors down the hallway were being methodically kicked in and they heard the shuffle of heavy boots as rooms were cleared.

Terah had cut an initial into Horichi's forehead.

Deitel blanched, but then he was out the window. Rucker had to pull Terah off the corpse of the child molester.

"I hate to interrupt you when you're marking yet another man's body parts, but we have to go. Quick, pocket that pistol."

"What?" she said, and then got the idea.

When the guards charged into the room, they found Rucker holding one pistol to Terah's head and his second Webley at them. Terah looked like an innocent hostage.

"Back off or this broad gets it," Rucker said, affecting a New York accent.

"Easy, mister," the lead guard said. "Let's all stay calm here."

The guards had their guns on Rucker but were careful because of the presumed hostage.

From outside the window, Rucker heard the pop that meant Deitel fired off the flare.

The hasty plan seemed to be working. That's when one of the guards spotted the fat dead body sticking out from behind a couch.

"He killed the amba.s.sador!" one of the guards shouted.

The captain of the guard said, "Sorry, lady."

There was half a moment's pause as three sets of eyes exchanged looks. Hostage or no, they were going to fire.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t," Rucker said.

He yanked Terah out the window and out of the line of fire just in time.

"Go! Up the trellis. Move!" he said. Then they were both climbing, with Rucker keeping his gun on the window below. Every time a head poked out of the window frame, Rucker fired.

Three stories below the partygoers were transfixed by the gun battle. An FSB man with a rifle was taking aim at Rucker. At that range there was no way the security guard could miss. The FSB sniper never saw the large Hawaiian amba.s.sador, or the amba.s.sador's meaty forearm that crashed into his neck as Anolani "tripped." The sniper's shot went wide.

"My apologies," Anolani said. The Hawaiian's meaty foot crashed down on the rifle stock with all his weight, snapping it in two.

"Oops."

Up on the roof, Rucker waved over his shoulder. Anolani gave him the thumb and pinkie hand sign for "Stay loose."

Then the Hawaiian laughed.

"We're even now," the hefty Hawaiian said. "Haole madman."

Once atop Hamilton House, Rucker once again put a pistol to Terah's head to deter the gunmen on the ground.

Deitel hadn't fathomed the ruse, but somehow the sight didn't even phase him.

"Now that we've successfully escaped to the perfect dead end atop the most heavily guarded residence in North America-what's your next move?" he asked flatly.

Rucker shouted to the crowd below in his best Yank accent.

"The People's Front demands the release of the Boston Seven! Stay back! We've placed a bomb in the Oval Office, and if any of youse creeps come up here, I'll splatter this wh.o.r.e's brains all over the lawn!"

Unseen by the crowd, Terah grabbed Rucker's manhood sack and squeezed.

Hard.

" 'Wh.o.r.e'?" she hissed between gritted teeth.

His voice squeaked and he saw double.

"Maintaining your cover," he hissed in pain. "Stop it. Stop it!"

"Also, your Yank accent is just awful," Terah said. " 'Youse'? Really?"

Away from the edge, where the crowd below couldn't see them, Rucker and Terah divided up their weapons, handing a pistol to Deitel. They got busy loading once they found cover across from the roof access door that would crash open in moments.

"This is hopeless. We're trapped, outnumbered and outgunned," Deitel said.

Rucker and Terah kept loading and snorted in unison.

"We're Texans," Rucker said. "We're known for that sort of thing."

The rising whup-whup-whup coming from somewhere over the tree line of Central Park caused everyone to stop a moment and search for the source.

Then it appeared, the oddest machine anyone had ever seen.

It was a fixed wing monoplane, but with a propeller at the front and another, larger one overhead. The overhead propeller had a diameter of more than thirty feet.

A squad of particularly brave and not easily distracted FSB men had maneuvered around behind them. Terah was the first to spot the squad. Deitel was the second. Rucker was still reloading and knew he wouldn't be ready. He pushed Deitel's head down hard. As Deitel yelped and ducked, Terah rose and spun, firing off six rounds that found six targets. Despite the ringing in his ears, Deitel heard each of the six bodies. .h.i.t the rooftop. He looked up at her, astonished.

Rucker finally finished reloading. "That's my girl." Holstering his pistol, he fired off another flare, and the strange machine buzzed straight toward the Hamilton House roof, coming to a halt-to everyone's astonishment-by hovering overhead. A rope ladder unrolled from beneath.