Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3)

by Chester D. Campbell

  Yuri Shumakov stared at his friend. Nikolai Romashchuk, one of the two former KGB officers identified in the Russian report as systematically visiting commonwealth capitals. He was virtually certain now the man had been to Switzerland, withdrawing cash from a secret bank account. But what was it intended for, he wondered? Some operation here in Ukraine? Or was this just a transit point? Romashchuk obviously had a contact in Kiev who knew of his capture and set up the release from jail. Who else was involved with him? Then another possibility came to mind. Could Romashchuk have been spirited across the border into Belarus?

  Too many unanswered questions, Yuri thought disconsolately. Had he run into the same dead end as the investigators in Moscow?

  Early the next morning, Yuri sat in a small, undistinguished cafe beyond Kreschatik Street with a view of the towering St. Vladimir Monument, a bronze statue that looked down benignly on a hilly, wooded park. He and Oleg Kovalenko listened to a crusty old detective named Voronin as the three of them sipped glasses of black tea into which jelly had been spooned and stirred. A short, stocky man, Voronin had a booming voice that made you think of a small hound with a deep, throaty bark. He had dealt with the seamier side of life for so long that he tended to consider it more the normal thing than respectability.

  "Yeah, me, a guy who's listened to every damned alibi ever invented, and I believed him. I must have lost my touch. Maybe it's time I put in for retirement."

  "No, no, not and leave us at the mercy of this new bunch of young radicals," Chief Investigator Kovalenko objected. "I've tangled with too many youthful militia officers who insist on doing things in unorthodox ways. Hell, they don't even know to come in out of the rain. They would insist it was 'communing with nature.'"

  Voronin shrugged. Built like a small bull, all shoulders and no neck, he was also endowed with the bull's menacing air. In combination with a quick fist, it made him a formidable inquisitor. But at the moment he seemed bent only on self-flagellation.

  "I shouldn't have been taken in. But I'll give the bastard credit. He was as convincing a liar as I've ever run across."

  "He said he was on holiday?" Shumakov inquired.

  Voronin nodded. "Claimed he was a security consultant. Worked for an industrial firm in Moscow owned by Germans. When we checked that out, it was a lie, too. Said he had collected a big bonus and headed to Budapest to try his luck."

  The waitress brought a refill of hot tea and Shumakov smiled. Ah, the wonders of privatization. He had to pinch himself at times to be sure it was real after years of enduring the sullen, often grudging service in state-run restaurants. He looked across at Voronin. "Any idea who the person was who got him released?"

  "The jailer provided a good description, but we haven't been able to identify him yet. He had on a militia captain's uniform and seemed to know his way around. Either he was local or had local help."

  Yuri took a cautious sip of tea. "Has anybody reported a stolen uniform?"

  "You've got to be kidding!" blurted Voronin. "That would be nearly as bad as admitting somebody stole your weapon."

  Shumakov frowned. In other words, the degree of honesty was dependent upon how its result might reflect on you personally. Better to forego the crime than undergo the derision. So much for the fantasy of the honest cop.

  "At least we wound up with Romashchuk's cash," said Kovalenko, smiling. "Whatever scheme he had in mind will have to wait."

  Shumakov knew that outcome would remain to be seen.

  The transition from Soviet republic to independent state had brought efforts to improve the criminal justice system, but in Chief Investigator Yuri Shumakov's view, they had moved at the pace of a lava flow. Although Chairman Latishev was a dedicated reformer, too many of the troops down the line were holdovers from the repressive old regime of the past. They wore their new allegiance like an ill-fitting suit. Nobody was interested in reform if it meant a loss of power and perks.

  Inevitably, a man of ambition attracted petty jealousies, but most of Yuri's colleagues viewed him as a tireless worker possessed of an inquisitive mind. Indeed, he was considered a highly capable investigator, a possible candidate for promotion to the position of prosecutor. But there was another less obvious side to him. Only a few close friends were aware that besides a forward-looking mind, he possessed a soul steadfastly attuned to the past. He was a closet history buff. For Yuri Shumakov, nothing was more stimulating than the intriguing twists and turns of history. Likely it was an extension of his fascination with the role of the criminal investigator, which was a constant exercise in discovery.

  Kiev excited his imagination. Sometimes called "the Mother of Russian cities," this was where it had all begun. With Oleg Kovalenko tied up in court most of the day, Yuri seized the opportunity to explore Pecherskaya Lavra, the Monastery of the Caves (founded in 1051), the city's most historic landmark, a marvel of tombs and underground churches. Steeped in Communist Party dogma from early childhood, Yuri had understandably rejected the God of his mother's faith, but over the years he had learned a healthy respect for the moral precepts of her religion. He came to realize that it beat hell out of the pragmatic moralism of the clenched fist, the old might makes right dictum of the now-discredited communists.

  Yuri became so absorbed in the history he was uncovering that he emerged into the daylight with barely enough time to get back to meet his friend at four o'clock. It had been one of those days for a harried Oleg Kovalenko. He shook his head wearily as they entered his office.

  "Too damned many people still think in the old ways," he said as he dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk. "I'm convinced that old Bolsheviks will never change."

  "True. They still believe the state should run everything and tell everybody what to think and what to do," Yuri said. "I doubt if most of those characters have had an original idea in years."

  "Well, one of my old friends in the Defense Ministry gave two of them something to think about today."

  "How's that?"

  "We had a case involving the theft of a military vehicle. The culprits were two diehard communists, ex-soldiers. Their defense was that we couldn't prosecute them for stealing the truck because it didn't belong to us in the first place. We illegally took it from the Red Army, to hear them tell it. The prosecutor put Colonel Ivan Oskin on the stand and he ripped them apart. Wound up saying they represented the kind of flawed thinking that got us into the Afghanistan fiasco."

  Mention of that bloody and useless campaign darkened Yuri's face. "My younger brother went through hell in Afghanistan," he said. "But he survived. Then somebody in the glorious Soviet Army screwed up, got him killed in an explosion. It was in an exercise down toward Nikolayev back in ninety-one."

  "You never mentioned that before," said Kovalenko. "An explosion?"

  Something his friend had said a moment before stuck in Yuri's mind. It recalled former Private First Class Vadim Trishin's remark about the accident report. He cocked his head to one side. "You say this Colonel Oskin is an old friend?"

  "Goes back to my army days. That was a long time ago."

  "And he's in the Defense Ministry?"

  "Right."

  Yuri explained about the abortive investigation of the explosion and his unsuccessful attempts to learn something about it from Moscow. He added that he had heard the file was ultimately sent to the Ukrainian Defense Ministry.

  "Do you think Colonel Oskin might have access to the report? I'd give anything to get a look at it."

  Kovalenko pulled the telephone across his desk and looked up a number. "We'll damn sure find out."

  Lima , Peru

  14

  The Hungarian passport identified the neatly dressed man as Laszlo Horthy. Unlike his experience in Minsk, he was not using his real name of Nikolai Romashchuk. He carried a letter of credit from a high official at a major international bank in New York. It had been passed to him by an American contact during a brief stopover at John F. Kennedy International Airport. The letter called hi
m a businessman from Budapest and requested that he be given all possible assistance. He was ushered into the Lima banker's office by a pretty secretary, a mestizo, of Indian and Spanish ancestry, with long black hair and dark, twinkling eyes.

  A bachelor in his late thirties, the ex-major had no trouble passing himself off as a high-flying businessman. His training as an intelligence officer had prepared him for assuming whatever role the situation required. Like a creature from the wild, he adapted effortlessly to his surroundings. A man of medium height, trim as a distance runner and as light on his feet as a boxer, he was blessed, considering his profession, with a face that attracted no particular notice. Fortunately for his libido, the ladies did not find it unpleasant.

  The office was as bland as its occupant, a heavyset man named Vargas who exhibited a banker's ingratiating smile. He had gray hair, sagging jowls and thick glasses.

  "Buenos dios, Señor Horthy," Vargas said in a syrupy voice. "Welcome to Lima. I trust your flight was enjoyable?"

  Romashchuk shook the outstretched hand. It felt as lively as a sponge. "I'm not my best at flying over oceans," he said with a shrug.

  "Please sit down." Vargas motioned toward a chair. He accepted the letter and Romashchuk's passport and studied them carefully.

  "I'm sorry I won't be able to see more of your fair city," Romashchuk said, thinking of the busty secretary out front. "But I'm running on a tight schedule." Get the cash, meet the contact, approve the deal, hand over the earnest money. He would be back on the plane headed for the Continent before nightfall.

  "Then I won't delay you," said Vargas. "Everything appears to be in order. I'll have someone bring the funds in, you can sign for them and be on your way."

  A few minutes later, a mousy looking man came in with a cloth bag filled with bundles of Peruvian currency, twenty thousand dollars worth, which he counted out and placed into Romashchuk's attache case.

  Back downstairs in the bank lobby, Romashchuk found everything looking normal and called the number he had memorized. A businesslike voice instructed him to be at the Plaza de Armas in twenty minutes. It was a short distance away, a pleasant walk beneath the late fall sun. He strolled past a row of older structures of Spanish architecture as lunchtime coaxed crowds of brightly-dressed office workers and shoppers onto the sidewalks. He kept a tight grip on the handle of his attache case. He had already endured a lengthy browbeating from General Zakharov for the loss suffered in the Ukrainian border incident. That had been the result of pure bad luck. He was determined that luck would not enter into the equation this time. Under no circumstances would he part prematurely with this horde of cash. He carried a small semiautomatic under his jacket, and he was prepared to use it if necessary.

  Reaching the plaza, he found it flanked by imposing structures representing three seats of power—the presidential palace, the city hall and the cathedral. A military band was lined up smartly in front of the palace, ready for the ceremonial changing of the guard. He wandered past a cluster of gawking tourists being lectured by a half-shouting tour guide, pacing himself to arrive precisely at the appointed time. He glanced at the cathedral with indifference. Nominally an atheist, he was in fact a man of no great ideological conviction but one who had chosen sides long ago and felt no need to change now. He rather enjoyed the role of spoiler.

  As soon as he reached the designated spot at curbside, a battered VW bug sporting a red and white "taxi" sticker, a look-alike for hundreds that swarmed Lima's streets in search of passengers, skidded to a stop beside him. The driver leaned across the worn seat and gave him a toothy grin.

  "Señor Horthy?"

  It sounded like "Orty" with the Spanish pronunciation. He nodded and climbed into the small car. The dark-skinned driver immediately whipped out into traffic. "We will be going into the suburbs," he said. "Take us maybe thirty minutes."

  The neighborhood was one of those called pueblos jovenes by a self-conscious bureaucracy, "young towns." Ordinary citizens knew them better as barridas or squatter shantytowns. They had been created by people unable to eke out a living in the harsh countryside. Over the years, some succeeded in transforming their flimsy structures into substantial homes fashioned of wood and adobe. Others still occupied makeshift shacks that were little better than what they had left behind.

  Peru suffered all the ills that came with high unemployment and underemployment, an abundance of poor cropland and an infrastructure that would not support efforts to mine its wealth of minerals. This had led to a dramatic rise in terrorism over the past few years by the Maoist guerrilla group called El Sendero Luminoso, The Shining Path. They had plagued various areas of the countryside and attacked government officials in the cities.

  The "young town" that the taxi driver swung into was completely controlled by The Shining Path. The house where the driver deposited Nikolai Romashchuk was a nicely upgraded squatter home currently occupied by a guerrilla leader known as "El Grande Pedro," Peter the Great. Romashchuk had enjoyed a big laugh on first hearing the name, but he showed nothing but the greatest respect when he stood before the towering, black-haired Peruvian, a man who easily weighed three hundred pounds and carried a large pistol strapped to his waist. Though the government had succeeded in capturing Jacob Guzman, The Shining Path's founder, El Grande Pedro still reigned supreme in his bailiwick.

  Romashchuk was frisked and relieved of his pistol. "You won't need that in here," said his massive host, "but you are wise to carry it with that briefcase."

  Skipping the pleasantries, they promptly got down to business. "According to the agreement," Romashchuk said, confirming the arrangements negotiated earlier by an employee of the Libyan embassy who still maintained liaison with his old KGB contacts, "you are to provide us a team of five experienced men. At least three able to speak English. Two will be competent drivers, one an experienced welder."

  "They are already chosen," replied the big man, who believed he was dealing with a Hugarian communist named Laszlo Horthy. "They have been trained by Libyan commandos to fire all types of weapons, including RPG's and mortars. They will be ready to go when you give us the word."

  No doubt the Libyan commandos had been trained by KGB personnel, Romashchuk mused. "Good," he said, pleased that everything appeared to be in order. "We will give them a little specialized training of our own. I trust you will be ready to take credit when their handiwork becomes apparent?" The last thing his people wanted was to be identified with the actions that were planned.

  El Grande Pedro laughed as he did everything else, exorbitantly. "You're damned right!" he roared, and the laughter rumbled from his throat. "I don't know how your country stands to benefit from this, Señor Horthy, but the world will learn that El Sendero Luminoso has very long arms."

  Satisfied, Romashchuk opened his attache case. "As promised, this is the first installment."

  El Grande Pedro smiled but turned to one of his lieutenants. "Count it."

  Kiev , Ukraine

  15

  Yuri Shumakov hurried through breakfast. He was anxious to get on with the meeting Oleg Kovalenko had set up, hopeful that he might at last be near some answers to why his younger brother had died. He found the morning pleasantly mild as he walked briskly along busy streets flanked by blooming chestnut trees. He found his friend waiting at the entrance to the Defense Ministry building. They were promptly ushered to a section that dealt with army operations. Colonel Ivan Oskin beckoned them into his office.

  A tall, burly man with a reddish face, Oskin looked like he had just come from a run in the cold, though the cold was barely a memory with summer in full flower. He shook hands with Yuri. "I never had occasion to meet your brother, but I was assigned to the 24th Division. I transferred out before that terrible accident."

  "Did you locate the investigative report?" Yuri asked.

  Oskin tapped a thick folder on his desk. "It was necessary to get it declassified so I could show it to you. I told them you were the top criminal investigator in Minsk. Wit
h the meeting coming up, cooperation with Belarus is officially applauded."

  "I trust it wasn't too much of an inconvenience," Kovalenko said.

  "Not really. The army has too many other knotty problems to worry about now. This is ancient history, you know. Nobody was very concerned about it."

  Just as he'd thought, Yuri reflected as he took the folder from the Colonel. He began to thumb through it as Oskin and Kovalenko turned to rehashing the case that had brought them together in court the day before. When he came to photographs of the disaster area, he was struck by the devastation. Obviously Vadim Trishin was lucky he hadn't been any closer to the building. It looked like the aftermath of an aerial attack.

  He found a summary of the interrogation of several witnesses, including Private First Class Trishin. Apparently there had been multiple inspections that day, one by officers from 24th Division Headquarters and another by a KGB team. Trishin and his partner, who were guarding the compound entrance, reported the KGB delegation had left shortly before the explosion.

  There was a note about the need to follow up with an inquiry to headquarters of the Committee for State Security in Moscow. If it was ever acted upon, the file contained no evidence of a reply.

  He found a brief summary of the earlier theft investigation Trishin had mentioned. It indicated they were unable to find a connection between the supply officer and the sergeants who were convicted in the incident. But the mere fact of its being there gave credence to Trishin's concern.

  Then he came across the autopsy report on Captain Anatoli Shumakov.

  He felt a churning in his stomach and the skin crawled at the back of his neck as he read how the head had been severed by the blast. It was identified as his brother by dental records. He wasn't sure he really wanted to go on, but since he had come this far, there was no stopping now. Not until he came across an item that stopped him cold—a description of the bullet hole made by a 7.62mm round that had entered the center of the forehead and exited from the back of the head. A diagram of the trajectory showed the bullet traveling straight through Anatoli's brain.