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

by Chester D. Campbell

  Other vehicles were parked in the area, and he walked hurriedly, staying behind them as much as possible to make himself less conspicuous. When he reached the truck, he looked back and saw no sign of the two men.

  He found the vehicle was a Ford, like his rental car, only this was a heavy ten-wheeler. The yellow paint was faded, but the tires looked almost new. The truck appeared to have been well maintained. Climbing up on one side, he pushed the tarp back enough to look into the hopper. It was filled partway with sand. That struck him as rather odd until he considered the cargo it would be carrying. No doubt the sand would serve as a cushion for the C/B weapons.

  Moving around to the cab, he checked the righthand door and found it locked. He would have expected as much from Romashchuk. Hopefully the Mexican was not so meticulous, though he was prepared to jimmy it if necessary. He walked over to a spot that afforded a glimpse of the building the pair had entered and still saw no sign of them. Then he tried the driver's door. It opened. He climbed inside.

  In the middle of the seat sat a small, zippered fabric bag that contained a few articles of clothing and a shaving kit. A half-filled pack of cigarettes and a pair of sunglasses lay on the dash on the driver's side. He pressed a button on the dashboard compartment and the panel sprang open. The papers inside appeared to be registration and information on the truck, all in Spanish. Also a roadmap of Mexico. It had been folded to show the southern part of the country. He noted Veracruz had been circled with a red pen. Looking back to the west, he saw Guadalajara had also been circled. And another red circle appeared in the open area north of Tequila.

  Yuri stared in wonder. What could it mean? The map showed nothing in that area but mountains. He made a careful mental note of the map circles and shoved it back into the pocket.

  Realizing he had paid little attention to how long he had been inside the cab, he scrambled out onto the ground and moved to where he had a better view of the pier. To his surprise, he found Romashchuk and the Mexican already halfway back to the truck. He ducked behind it and scurried in the direction of his rental car.

  When he was safely inside, Yuri looked back toward the parking area. The heavy yellow vehicle had pulled out and was headed for the docks. It maneuvered back and forth into a narrow space beside a stack of large crates. As he watched, a crane hoisted one from the top of the stack and lowered it into the truck. Romashchuk and the driver tied the tarp back in place, and the vehicle soon came lumbering out onto the street. Yuri started his car and slowly pulled out behind them as they headed for Highway 150, the route he had taken from Mexico City to Veracruz. Knowing the Major was trained in counter-surveillance, he stayed back as far as possible without losing sight of the green tarp. It was doubtful they had any idea they might be followed, but if they were on their way to Guadalajara, there was a long road ahead.

  At Cordoba, they hit the toll road and began climbing into the forested mountains. The dump truck took the grades at a modest speed, making it easy to follow. When the yellow vehicle pulled off to stop at a restaurant, Yuri took advantage of the opportunity to refuel. He had brought along snacks to nibble on.

  It was four o'clock by the time they reached the outskirts of Mexico City, the world's most populous metropolitan area. Over twenty million people and horrendous traffic at any hour. Then, like an answered prayer, his quarry turned in at a suburban motel. Yuri couldn't resist a glance heavenward and a half-sighed "Thanks."

  He found a parking place nearby and waited. The afternoon traffic raced past in waves, a noxious parade of vintage vehicles and the latest models from designers in America and Japan. The odor from their exhausts was enough to make his eyes water. After something over an hour, he concluded that Romashchuk and his driver had settled in for the night. He hoped they had read the same guidebook he had, which strongly warned against traveling Mexico's highways after dark.

  Yuri had observed several cars along the way similar to his small Ford. He had taken great pains to keep out of view of the dump truck as much as he could, making it possible that he might have escaped detection so far. But he knew the Major had seen him at the Posada Zamora. The reappearance of his face around this motel would surely put Romashchuk on guard. He drove a short distance farther into the city and checked into the next available motel.

  Guadalajara, Mexico

  34

  Señora Elena Castillo Quintero observed herself critically in the full-length mirror. She had pinned a red hibiscus blossom in her long black hair. The dress was a colorful mixture of red and yellow and green with a low-cut, lacy top that hung precariously about the satin smooth skin of her shoulders. The fluffy white ruffles at the bottom made no pretense of hiding a pair of shapely legs, which had seen only enough sun to be lightly tanned.

  She would never wear this outfit in public and she wasn't altogether sure why she had it on now. Did she look like a brazen hussy or an over-the-hill Mexican hat dancer, she wondered? No, not over-the-hill. Though she was admittedly forty-five, her skin would still rival that of someone ten years younger.

  She chuckled at the thought of what would happen should she stroll across the Plaza Tapatío in this garb. Macho Mexican men would come panting in droves. That was one reason for her reputation as a cold fish in the corridors of commerce. She had read the descriptions of herself as a "frozen beauty in the boardroom" and the "businesswoman with the pretty face and the iron fist." The only way to cope with the machismo of the men she had to deal with in business was to turn them off to her femininity. She had succeeded admirably. But it had only increased her loneliness, a feeling that had plagued her increasingly since the death of her husband and the more recent deaths of her parents. Beauty could be a curse, she lamented as she contemplated the mirror. It had caused her to be wary of potential suitors. She wanted to be desired for what lay inside her, not just this attractive facade, not to mention the considerable fortune she controlled.

  Then why was she dressed like this and feeling so roguish? She smiled. The man who was coming tonight was not a macho Mexican, and she was determined to enjoy the role of naughty Nannette. It was all in fun.

  Since coming to Guadalajara, Roddy Rodman had heard countless invitations from Mexicans saying lavishly "mi casa es su casa," my house is your house. He had learned it was not meant literally but only intended as an expression of congeniality, like a Southerner saying "y'all come see us." But this was a genuine invitation from a prominent Mexican woman to come by her "house" that evening. When he drove up to the walled enclave in an exclusive area in the western part of the city, Roddy saw that it resembled his house about like Neiman-Marcus resembled Wal-Mart. It was a damned mansion.

  The invitation had followed a surprising message he had found on his answering machine from General Wackenhut, Dutch Schuler's father-in-law. He saw the machine's red light winking furiously on his arrival home after two days' absence, during which he learned happily from the hotel that Adam Stern had returned to New York. He called the General back, figuring it must concern a message from Dutch. His former copilot had returned to the Air Force during the past year after some coercion and high-level string-pulling by his father-in-law.

  "Colonel Rodman," said Wackenhut in his surly voice, "I have been asked to put you in touch with Señora Elena Castillo Quintero. Are you familiar with the lady?"

  "Sorry, General. The name doesn't ring a bell."

  "She comes from an aristocratic family here. Descendants of the Spaniards. Her father headed a business group involved in cattle and the export of fruits and vegetables. I met her when I was asked to consult with the board of a local museum. They were planning an exhibit dealing with military aircraft. She's a dynamic person with a very persuasive manner in the boardroom. Yesterday she called to ask if I was acquainted with you. Said she was interested in having you speak to a group of ladies on your experiences in Operation Desert Storm. I don't know why the sudden interest in that bit of history. Because Iraq has been back in the news lately, I presume. Frankly, I sugges
ted some other officers I felt better qualified, but somebody had told her about you. She asked me to see if you would mind giving her a call."

  Roddy knew the reference to officers "better qualified" meant those who had not been court-martialed. He chose to ignore it.

  After reading off the phone number, General Wackenhut warned, "She's quite an attractive lady, Rodman, but don't get any ideas. One of the American community's unwritten rules is we don't get involved in Guadalajara's society or politics. We don't butt into their business, and they don't meddle in ours."

  He had called her "Señora," not "Señorita," Roddy noted. "I presume she's married?"

  "Widow. Her husband was killed in an accident a few years ago. It was fortunate for her, actually. She had been something of a family outcast for marrying beneath her station. Even worse, her husband was a rabble rouser. Supported leftist causes, labor unions and such. After he died, her father relented, accepted her back into the fold. When her parents passed away a couple of years ago, everything was left to her."

  Everything included this gorgeous white colonial mansion in a walled compound filled with the colorful blooms and heady scents of roses and hibiscus, lawns dotted with towering palms and the regal plumage of purple jacaranda trees. The exterior of the house was bathed in the soft glow of wrought iron lanterns as Roddy parked beside a bright red Mercedes and strode toward the massive front entrance.

  Roddy had donned his normal casual attire, though tonight he wore a more upscale version, a silky white guayabera shirt and well-pressed dark blue slacks. Still, he felt a bit odd at sight of the more formally dressed servant who answered the door.

  "Señor Rodman?" the stiffly precise man inquired with a virtually expressionless face. He was Tarascan, an Indian from Patzcuaro, noted for their cool, reserved nature.

  "That's right," Roddy said. "I'm here to see the Señora."

  "Please follow me."

  He led Roddy into a large foyer illuminated by a cascading crystal chandelier that glistened like a waterfall reflecting the morning sun. Off to one side was a large sitting room tastefully furnished with comfortable sofas and chairs. Colorful pottery, bronze sculptures of racing charros and a large oil painting of a torreador added a distinct Mexican flavor to the room.

  As he was admiring the artwork, Roddy heard a throaty voice behind him. "It was nice of you to come, Colonel Rodman."

  He recognized the voice on the phone. She spoke almost flawless English, with just a hint of an accent. He was told it resulted from four years spent at Bryn Mawr College in Pennsylvania, plus many visits north of the border in subsequent years. While an undercurrent of anti-Americanism ran through the Mexican elite, and most educated their children in Europe, Elena Castillo Quintero's father had been involved closely with the U.S. in business and chose an American school for his daughter.

  When he turned to greet the Señora, he was struck by the thought that General Wackenhut had, if anything, understated her attractiveness. Knowing the tendency of most Mexican women to dress in a manner that men would not take as an invitation to flirt, he was somewhat surprised at the colorful, revealing outfit. Not that he objected. He loved it. But it was certainly unexpected. He was intrigued by the flower in her long, black hair that matched the shade of her lipstick. Her eyes were a dark brown with a mirthful quality that matched the hint of a smile on her expressive lips.

  One feature of his post-crash outlook was a predisposition for what might be called the politics of the attainable. He no longer had any interest in shooting for the stars or grasping at some slightly out-of-reach brass ring. He did what could be done comfortably and had no regrets. However, despite the divorce, he had clung doggedly to the hope that one day he might return north to straighten out the mess he had left behind and win back Karen's love. Remaining faithful to her had not been all that difficult since most of the temptation here had taken the form of an abundance of shapely young tapatío beauties he encountered about the city. They were nice to look at but untouchable. They stirred no real passion.

  Elena Castillo Quintero was a rose of a different hue. He saw in her a stunning, sensual, fully matured beauty who was not much younger than himself. Thinking about it later, he was not sure whether it had been a reaction to all the exposure he'd had to Mexican machismo, or if it was simply a case of his repressed sexuality boiling to the surface, but at that point he turned on the old Rodman charm that had made him the life of the party in his Air Force heyday.

  "It was nice of you to invite me," he replied with a smile of true admiration. "I'm really flattered. You have a fabulous place here, Señora."

  "Thank you, Colonel Rodman. Please have a seat."

  She sat on a floral print sofa and Roddy took a matching chair beside it.

  "I'm sure the idea of my coming over was to give you an opportunity to check me out," he said lightly.

  "Check you out?"

  "You know, make sure I'm the kind of person you'd want to expose your ladies to. Frankly, I wasn't all that keen on the idea at first. But I've been thinking about it since we talked this morning. I'm really getting excited. I hope you don't change your mind."

  "I'm delighted, Colonel. I have no intention of changing my mind. And you may be sure I did not invite you over to sit in judgment. I merely wanted to get to know you and to tell you something about the group, so you might feel more comfortable with us."

  "Thanks. I appreciate that. Oh, and about the rank. Since leaving the Air Force, I've made a point of becoming just plain Roddy Rodman. You can drop the 'Colonel'."

  She nodded and replied with a smile, "I, too, prefer informality. But with the ladies, I think it best to call you Colonel Rodman. Most of the group are somewhat older than we are. It will be quite impressive for a handsome American aviator colonel to speak to them. Could you wear your uniform? From what I hear, you must have a chest full of ribbons."

  Roddy rumpled his brow. "Sorry. I left all my uniforms back in the States."

  She shrugged. "It was just a thought."

  It suddenly occurred to him that she probably was not aware of his tainted past. But what if someone else in the group were to recognize the name and raise some objection? It pained him to think that this lovely, congenial lady might become embarrassed because of him. As much as he hated the prospect, he knew he had to tell her.

  Roddy rubbed his hands together and stared down at them for a moment, then looked squarely into Elena's eyes. "You've been very gracious in asking me to speak and in inviting me here tonight," he began, a troubled look on his face. "I have something to confess that may change your mind. I don't want to risk the possibility of your being humiliated because of it."

  She frowned. "What are you talking about? What could humiliate me?"

  "I was the pilot of the American helicopter that was shot down over in Iran back in 1991. You may recall the incident. The Air Force claimed I made a horrendous error that caused the disaster. I was court-martialed. That's why I took my retirement and came down here."

  She was silent for a moment, a look of concern on her face. "Did you make the error?"

  "No. I recently found out who did, but I can't prove it."

  "Who was it?"

  He would love to see Wing Patton's name spread across front pages from Maine to California, but he could not see that it would help matters now to tell the Señora. "Without the proof, I'd rather not say. One day I hope to be able to."

  "This had nothing to do with the Persian Gulf War, did it?"

  "No."

  "Then I see no problem. If anyone should bring it up, I will simply say that it has no bearing on the experiences you will be discussing in your talk. You were not dismissed from the service or you could not have retired. Correct?"

  He nodded.

  "Then we shall forget it." She smiled again, dismissing the painful subject. "By the way, Roddy, I'm told your Spanish is excellent. Where did you learn it?"

  He felt oddly flattered when she used his nickname. And with the
court-martial unceremoniously swept aside, he relaxed and leaned back in the chair. "Hey, it's not all that good, I'm afraid. Hopefully I won't offend any of your friends. I guess I have a knack for languages, though. I studied Spanish in school, then took some extra courses later. I was stationed for awhile at Torrejon, Spain. Then I've had a brush-up course down here in Mexican Spanish. And, to broaden my background, I've done a bit of reading on Mexican culture."

  Her smile brightened. "Then you must see some of the art my father collected." She got up from the sofa, then suddenly pressed two slender fingers against her chin in a gesture of contrition. "Where are my manners. Would you care for some coffee?"

  "Yes, thanks. I never turn down coffee. It's one of my weaknesses."

  "You will have to tell me about the others sometime," she said with a mischievous grin as she walked across to the foyer. "Manuel," she called. "Would you please bring us some coffee?"

  Obviously it had been prepared in advance, for she had hardly made the request before the stodgy-looking servant walked in with a tray containing two exquisite china cups and a matching pot. He poured coffee and milk and served it with small cakes.

  "Thank you, Manuel," Elena said. "I won't be needing anything else this evening."

  He nodded with that everpresent deadpan expression. "Buenas noches, Señora."

  35

  As they drank coffee and nibbled on the cakes, Elena told Roddy about the group he would be addressing. It was made up mostly of spouses of some of the city's most prominent businessmen and politicians. They met monthly at the museum where she served on the board of directors.

  "Most of them were friends of my mother," she explained. "I'm afraid they disapproved of my marriage, but my husband has been dead for several years now."