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

by Chester D. Campbell

  "Dead?" Roddy frowned in disbelief.

  "Sí, señor. Dead. The police found an empty prescription medicine bottle beside the bed. Sleeping pills. I believe they called it Dalmane."

  "An accidental overdose?"

  "No, señor. A suicide. He had left a note in the printer connected to his small computer."

  Roddy rambled out to his car in total bewilderment. Had the whole world gone mad? He had no idea what the note in Janney's printer might have said. It didn't matter. The man he had flown into the mountains yesterday and accompanied to the restaurant near the hotel late in the afternoon was definitely not suicidal. Anything but. He had been businesslike, determined, more than a little cocky. The only misgivings he had expressed concerned the deadly nature of one Adam Stern.

  Roddy tried to sort out all the troubling images that had begun to whirl about in his head. He recalled Janney's comments: "one dangerous sonofabitch...it isn't healthy to be on his list...called 'the enforcer.'" A picture was slowly beginning to take shape. Had Janney feared that Stern was onto him and fled, but not far enough? Had "the enforcer" found him and administered a lethal dose of whatever Dalmane contained? If so, it hadn't happened before Stern learned that his companion at the restaurant was a pilot named Warren Rodman.

  As the thoughts churned about in his mind, one conclusion seemed obvious. Lt. Col. Juan Bolivar had not committed suicide either. The circumstances were not just close. They were virtually identical. The empty sleeping pill bottle, Dalmane again, and the note in the printer. Had General Patton become worried that Bolivar might be ready to confess his part in the cover-up? Was Adam Stern the emissary who had threatened the officer in the first place?

  Roddy was finally routed out of his monk-like trance by a blaring horn. He looked around to see María waving merrily as she pulled out of the parking area. He glanced at his watch. It was already past noon.

  Adam Stern, alias Baker Thomas, was likely somewhere out there methodically tracking him down, Roddy calculated. It was not a comforting thought.

  He glanced up at his reflection in the rearview mirror and didn't like what he saw. The face of a man in total confusion. Was he letting an overactive imagination run amok? How much did he really know about Bryan Janney? The man was brash and overbearing. He could easily have been boosting his own ego by exaggerating the threat posed by Stern. Roddy recalled Janney's comment about the box of floppy disks containing "untold hours of research" and all he had written on the book. There was one way to find out if the writer's "suicide" was something infinitely more sinister.

  He started the car and drove into the southern fringes of the city, where he found Motel La Palma, a rather drab looking structure done in pseudo-colonial style. At the registration desk in the small lobby stood a thin, long-haired man who appeared as out of place in a dark blue tie and starched white shirt as a Wall Street banker in a serape. His spare face was highlighted by an aquiline nose, marking him as likely one of the Lacandones, probably the last living descendants of the Mayas.

  "I just heard the terrible news about Señor Bryan Janney," Roddy said with an air of great concern. "I had loaned him some material on a floppy disk to use with his computer. I wondered if it might have been left in his room?"

  "The police took everything," said the clerk dispassionately.

  Roddy gave him an understanding smile. "Of course. I should have thought of that. I wonder, did you see the room before they cleaned it out?"

  He nodded. "I went in to see what was wrong after the maid came down the hall babbling and moaning. It was I who called the police."

  "Did you notice if there was a box of floppy disks around his computer?" Roddy described its size and shape with hand gestures.

  The clerk shook his head emphatically. "There was no such box, señor. The police made me watch as they gathered up everything. I had to sign an inventory. There was a small computer and a printer, a suitcase containing nothing but clothing, and a leather shaving kit. There was also a briefcase with a few notes and papers, along with his passport."

  "He shot some pictures of me with a small camera. Did you notice it?"

  "No, señor. There was no camera."

  Roddy thanked him and left. Undoubtedly what the police took away contained nothing with even a remote mention of the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. It left no question that Bryan Janney had become the latest victim of Adam Stern. And he knew that unless he exercised considerable caution and a lot of street smarts, his might easily be the next head to grace Stern's trophy case.

  As he started driving back toward the airport, he concentrated on thinking it through the way he would expect a person like Stern to do. The man had been a clandestine professional. He was posing as a private investigator. He would probably contact the neighbors and learn what he could about Roddy's daily routine. He might check back with Pablo Alba on any planned flights.

  Roddy stopped at a pay phone and called Alba.

  "Heard anymore of that Baker Thomas guy?" he asked.

  "Haven't seen or heard of him," said Alba.

  "I've been thinking about it, and I'm not real happy about him nosing around my affairs, Pablo. He may call or come back looking for me. Would you do me a favor? If you hear from him again, tell him I'm on a charter to Mexico City or somewhere and won't be back for several days. Tell María in case she should be asked."

  "Sure, Roddy. You really plan to be unavailable?"

  "Yeah. I need to take a little time off to get some things done. Any problem?"

  "No. Everything looks quiet here. Go ahead."

  As Roddy thought of what he should do, his first inclination was to head for the nearest police station and lay it on the line. Bryan Janney was a victim of murder, not suicide. But, realistically, that would likely be met with questions about his sanity or his motivation for such outrageous accusations. He hadn't the slightest bit of evidence to back it up. And if he managed to get away from the police without a straightjacket, he would probably find himself facing an unforgiving Adam Stern.

  Nikolai Romashchuk sat behind the wheel of the rented Jeep Cherokee as they rolled through the suburbs on Highway 15, the route to Tequila. Working through an old KGB contact in the moribund Mexican Communist Party, he had been put in touch with the owner of the remote lodge hidden away in the wooded canyon. It appeared to be the perfect site for this phase of the operation.

  Since picking up Adam Stern at the hotel, Romashchuk had spent most of his time answering questions about his recruitment of the guerrilla team and his plans for teaching them what they needed to know to complete the mission. But at the first lull in the conversation, the Major inquired about the aftermath of last night's venture at Motel La Palma.

  "What were you able to learn about Warren Rodman?" he asked.

  "Some very interesting facts. I'm sure you remember the big international flap back in September of 1991, when one of our helicopters was shot down in the mountains of Iran."

  "Oh, yes. It was right after the coup fell through. Took the spotlight off us for a week or so."

  "Well, it seems our Mr. Rodman was the Air Force colonel who piloted the chopper. He was later court-martialed, then retired and moved down here."

  "Bryan Janney picked himself quite an experienced pilot then, didn't he?"

  "Right. I'm still not sure I believe all the bastard told us. Particularly that he said nothing to Rodman about my connection with the cabin. Or that Rodman didn't know why he wanted to follow us to that restaurant. It will be interesting to see what we find on that film from the Minox."

  Romashchuk shrugged. "Didn't you say Rodman left on a charter flight to Mexico City this morning? He probably isn't aware that anything happened to Janney. By the time he gets back, he will be damned lucky to find any trace of the man. Outside the family, suicide is a very forgettable affair. The body will be long buried, the case closed. I doubt we'll have any more problems with Mr. Rodman."

  "I hope to hell you're right. Just to be safe, though, I'll
give you a contact who can see that somebody keeps an eye on him."

  Falls Church, Virginia

  31

  Strings of multi-colored Oriental lanterns criss-crossed the smoothly-clipped green lawn, their small lights becoming more visible as the fading sun slowly dipped behind the Northern Virginia hills. Red tablecloths along the brick terrace at the rear of the spacious two-story house caught the lengthening rays and appeared to glow like hot coals. The hostess also glowed. That beautiful sun had been a godsend. The possibility of rain had kept Lori Hill's fingers and toes crossed for days now. But judging by the reaction of the crowd, the party was a terrific hit. Despite all the expensive trappings, though, for many of the guests, particularly the ladies, the star attraction so far had been the Hill twins, Liz and Cam, who were a precocious pair for tots in their "terrible twos."

  "You're giving the neighborhood a hell of a challenge," said Will Arnold, the tall, tanned computer expert who lived next door.

  Burke Hill let go of little Liz's hand and she went bouncing off like a rubber doll in pursuit of her brother, who was being shepherded by Arnold's wife, Maggie. Burke raised a questioning eyebrow. "What do you mean? What kind of challenge?"

  Will spread his arms out to take in the crowd of people who were milling about the area between the back of the house and the woods at the rear of the two-acre lot. "How's anybody going to top this?"

  It was the last week in June and dusk had brought little change in the day's sizzle. The temperature hovered in the mid-eighties. The casually-dressed guests toted their drinks and hors d'oeuvre plates about the lawn, moving from one buffet setup to the next. Each area was decorated to represent a different country or popular tourist destination in the U.S. Among the imaginative replicas were a London pub and a Japanese sushi bar. The areas featured food native to the town or country. A few provided entertainment by musicians dressed for the part, including a New Orleans jazz group and a mariachi band.

  Burke grinned at Will Arnold and shrugged his broad shoulders. "Don't blame me. This is Lori's party. Can you believe that production outfit spent two days setting all this up?"

  "Not bad for recreating half the globe."

  "She's been talking about a tenth anniversary bash ever since we were married, and that's been nearly four years. When my wife decides to do something big, she does it big."

  "Clipper Cruise & Travel is surely coining the dough," said Will. "She must have dropped a bundle on this. Looks like she invited half of Washington."

  "A lot of airline and hotel people, bus tour operators, folks like that. Clipper can afford it. I don't handle her accounting, but I read the statements. Her travel business is doing okay."

  Lori walked up just then, carrying a cup of New Orleans gumbo. "Where are the kids?" she asked. "I thought you were helping Maggie keep track of them?"

  "She's got both in tow," Will said. "She's somewhere over there around Mexico. I guess they're listening to La Cucaracha, or whatever it is they're playing."

  "Great party," Burke said with a grin. "Looks like the caterer's got everything under control. How's the gumbo?"

  Lori gave him the okay sign with thumb and forefinger joined, then tossed her head, letting her long black tresses fall to one side. It made a sharp contrast to her husband's short gray hair, but, then, she was twenty years his junior. She was also a singularly attractive woman whose large, impish eyes had intrigued Burke from the start, creating a bit of mystery about her face. "Speaking of Mexico," she said, "did you get everything packed?"

  "Yeah. I hate like hell to be leaving you before all this mess is cleaned up. But I'll only be gone a few days."

  She gave him a grim smile. "You can manage to head out of the country at the most inopportune times, dear." The most infamous had been his traumatic venture to Korea just before the twins were due. That one had involved something called Operation Hangover.

  Will grinned. "This sounds like it might deteriorate into fisticuffs. I'd better get over there and give Maggie a hand." He hustled off toward Mexico.

  "I wish you'd agree to my idea to find a nanny to look after the kids," Burke said. "I know you like the day care center, and I'm sure they do a great job. But there are too many times when we can't keep a normal schedule and a sitter's unavailable. I hate to impose on Maggie all the time."

  Lori shrugged. "We might find some girl just out of college who hasn't found a job. But I don't like the idea of Liz and Cam thinking some young thing is their mommy. Anyway, Maggie would kill me if I didn't let her keep them now and then."

  How to care for the twins had been a sore spot between them lately. It was one of those manifestations of the generation gap that plagued them on occasion. His mother had been a high school teacher in a small Missouri town when he was just a little tyke. That was during the Depression and the family had little money. Nevertheless, she had paid a young black girl to clean house and look after him during the day until he was old enough to start school.

  Burke knew he was fighting a losing battle when Lori twitched her nose and promptly changed the subject.

  "I've been so busy getting ready for this party I've hardly had time to ask about your trip," she said. "Mexico isn't in your 'Amber' territory. I presume this has to do with the financial end."

  "Right. We're running an audit on the Mexico City office. I also need to look into some dealings with the banks down there. It's strictly a 'Blue' affair."

  "Amber" and "Blue" were code words dealing with Burke's employer, Worldwide Communications Consultants. The international public relations firm headquartered in Washington was widely known as a major player in the PR field. What was not intended to be known outside its Sixteenth Street headquarters, the CIA's top executives, and a few key players at the White House was its clandestine role. Created some four years earlier at the request of the nation's top intelligence officer, with concurrence of the President, Worldwide was both a legitimate PR practitioner ("Blue" operations) and a highly secret spinoff of the Central Intelligence Agency ("Amber" operations). In addition to being corporate treasurer and chief financial officer, Burke was director of clandestine activities for Europe, the Middle East and the Far East. The company had overseas offices in Berlin, Tel Aviv, Moscow, Hong Kong, Seoul, and Mexico City. Only the latter, the destination of his upcoming trip, did not fall under his jurisdiction for secret intelligence operations.

  As a former CIA officer herself, a second generation one, in fact, who provided the Agency with travel arrangements for clandestine operations, Lori was privy to the broad outlines of her husband's classified activities. It had been decided from the start to bring her in on the basic scheme of Worldwide's operation. Otherwise, it was feared, her knowledge and contacts could easily lead to well-informed speculation that might put the company in peril.

  As Burke and Lori discussed his Mexico City plans, two of the guests stood near the Japanese display, nibbling hesitantly at small portions of sushi, obviously unsure whether it was a delicacy they really wanted to pursue. On another count they were more certain, and they watched their hosts with more than normal curiosity.

  "How does an old geezer like him rate a cool chick like her?" asked the young man whose name was Art. He had the tan of a surfer, the physique of a weight lifter and the refinement of a barbell.

  "Old geezer my ass," growled his partner, a tall, thin man in his forties known as Sarge. A former New York City cop, he had an aversion to sentimentality but a true admiration for anybody with real guts. "You'll think old geezer after you get a few more years under that belt. You must not have paid much attention to his bio. That guy is a former FBI special agent who got screwed by old man Hoover. Several years ago, practically single-handed, he took on a bunch of conspirators, renegade factions of the CIA and KGB, who were out to assassinate the American and Soviet presidents. He came out the winner."

  "The hell you say."

  "The hell I say."

  "Didn't the bio say he was around sixty?"

 
"So what? See those twins over there? He’s the father."

  "So he's a stud."

  "Christ," moaned Sarge. "I don't know why I agreed to work with you."

  Art grinned. "Because you know I'll do your damned dirty work."

  The older man shrugged. "Okay, if that's the case, it's time you got busy. Head around toward the catering truck. I'll give you a shout if I see any problem coming your way."

  Both men wore "hearing aids" similar to the President's security detail. In addition to the inconspicuous earpieces, they were equipped with Dick Tracy-style microphone/transmitters built into their watch cases. With the innocent gesture of rubbing a hand against their face, they could transmit in a crowd without being noticed. It was just one small example of the high tech gear available to agents of Advanced Security Systems, a Washington area firm that provided such services as installing security devices, conducting private investigations, and carrying out surveillance activities. The company did practically no advertising, depending strictly on referrals. But Sarge had figured out that a lot of the work was funneled down from the boss's silent partner, an unnamed source who provided financing for all the sophisticated hardware.

  His career as a sergeant with the NYPD had suffered a sudden death following a bloody confrontation with a smalltime hood. The guy had successfully thwarted police efforts to put him out of business until an informant tipped Sarge late one night to a big money stash. There wasn't time to go through a lot of Mickey Mouse with the DA and the courts, so he pulled a simple "black bag" job, a break-in, as the FBI had done for years prior to the inquisitions in the aftermath of Watergate. Too late, he learned his informant was pulling both ends of the string. The hood surprised him, there was a bloody fight, and Sarge wound up the target of an Internal Affairs investigation. Fortunately for everybody but the hood, the guy died of his injuries. But the Department feared a scandal if word of the sergeant's indiscretions leaked out. He was quietly bumped off the force, with information put in his record designed to keep him from ever being hired by any other police agency.