"You are a very pretty lady, Señora. It would be a shame to disfigure that beautiful face. But you will tell me where Colonel Rodman went, and who the man was in the car with him. I promise you."
He knew it would not be easy. She had an obvious toughness about her. She had done an excellent job of working her way into Rodman's confidence. But just as clearly, their relationship had gone far beyond what he had envisioned when Eugenio Santin arranged for her to help. It was imperative that he find Rodman and his passenger and eliminate them before they managed to tell anyone else what they had seen at the barranca. Fortunately, they could know nothing about the men from El Sendero Luminoso, or the plans he had for their deployment.
As soon as he had finished here, and with the two interlopers, he would pack up his team and equipment and head for San Miguel de Allende, a city in Mexico's colonial heartland some 375 kilometers to the east.
44
As expected, the audit had turned up nothing to cause him any concern, but the phone call from Colonel Warren Rodman was another matter entirely. Burke Hill found it difficult to concentrate on financial matters after that disturbing conversation. He would have found the strange story almost unbelievable except for two factors. If Rodman was a retired Air Force helicopter pilot, he had likely seen service in Vietnam. That meant he had probably been exposed to mortar fire. The observation would not have been merely the result of a wild imagination. The other point concerned the setting. It was definitely a terrorist concept, firing from the back of a dump truck. He was familiar with cases where homemade mortar tubes had been attached to the bed of a truck. And a terrorist training operation fit right in with Roberto Garcia's report about Shining Path guerillas in the area.
It wasn't long after receiving the Colonel's call that Garcia stopped by to give Burke an update. One of his staffers from the Amber Group (those with intelligence backgrounds who worked both as legitimate public relations practitioners and, when called on, as clandestine intelligence agents) was in Guadalajara and had been asked to look into the report. Posing as an American network TV news correspondent, he had picked up word of five strangers arriving together in Tequila. One was definitely identified as Peruvian. They were last seen in the company of a big Mexican and a gringo with a German name.
Still, Burke would have stuck with his original assessment that it was a matter of concern only to the Mexican authorities except for one distressing point, Rodman's insistence of a tie-in with the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. Burke was much closer to the Roundtable than he had admitted on the telephone. He knew Adam Stern was a staff member and he had recently met the organization's president, Laurence Coyne. He had been introduced by his boss, Nathaniel Highsmith, president of Worldwide Communications Consultants. Nate was a longtime Roundtable member and had just nominated Burke for membership. The organization would do an investigation of his background, "strictly routine," Nate had said, and the board would vote him in at its July meeting.
One of Worldwide's first employees, Burke had worked with Nate for nearly four years now. He simply could not conceive of Nate Highsmith being involved in any group that would sanction what Warren Rodman had described. A well-dressed, distinguished looking man with concerned blue eyes and bountiful gray hair, Highsmith was in his early sixties. Nate had headed a multinational conglomerate at thirty-five and possessed a half-billion-dollar net worth by age forty. A student of the intelligence field, he had served a brief stint as CIA Deputy Director for Operations, then took over an old friend's failing advertising agency, building it into one of Madison Avenue's biggest. It was at that point, with the Cold War gone the way of the Ice Age, that the President, his National Security Adviser and the CIA Director had proposed what became Worldwide Communications Consultants. It was different from the normal CIA front in that it had quickly become a legitimate, thriving financial success. Highsmith had total control over his operation and accepted only secret expense reimbursements from Langley for intelligence activities.
Burke was using the desk in a small office borrowed from an account executive when the phone rang late that afternoon. It was his executive assistant, Evelyn Tilson, calling from Washington.
"I marvel at how you manage to encounter such interesting people," she told him in her usual flippant style. Evelyn was a sharp-witted, sharp-tongued divorcee who was pushing fifty and hating it.
"I trust you have the pedigree on Colonel Warren Rodman," Burke replied. He had contacted her immediately after getting the disturbing phone call from Guadalajara.
"That I have, Your Grace. Remember the infamous mission to Iran back in ninety-one, when the mullahs' men manhandled a special operations helicopter? Colonel Rodman—he's known as 'Roddy'—was the pilot. He was pretty well bashed up in the crash, then got himself court-martialed for a slip-up that caused him to miss a recall message. Took a disability retirement and tried to drown his troubles in booze. Lost his wife, then moved to Mexico."
"Not too good, huh? Doesn't sound like somebody you'd want to put your full faith and trust in, does he?"
"Not at first blush. But I talked to a friend at the Pentagon. She's secretary to one of the big moguls in the Air Force. She said he had a reputation as a top-flight commander and was the best helicopter pilot around. That's why he was chosen for the mission. He's an Air Force Academy graduate and a combat veteran of Vietnam, Panama and the Persian Gulf War. Nobody knows how many hush-hush missions he's flown. My friend remembers people saying he would probably have been found not guilty at the court-martial except for his big mouth. Seems he blasted the powers that be and claimed he was railroaded. General types don't take kindly to that sort of conduct."
That put a little different spin on things, Burke thought. "Anything been heard of him since he came to Mexico?"
"Not much. He apparently hasn't been back to the States. I heard his copilot from the Iranian mission went with him and helped him bury the booze. Apparently he has a part-time job flying helicopters around Guadalajara."
"Thanks for your usual masterful job," Burke said lightly. Evelyn was also a master at repartee, and he had long since learned the futility of trying to top her.
"Anytime, sire. By the way, how are the twins? Have you talked to Lori?"
"The day I got here," he said coolly. His frown would have frozen hot coffee. Evelyn knew him like the back of her hand. If she wasn't so damned valuable that he couldn't do without her, he would fire her. "You really know how to hurt a guy. For your information, I'm calling her the minute I get back to the hotel."
She chuckled. "Sorry for the needle. Just trying to keep you out of trouble."
As she had done on more occasions than he cared to recall. "You're forgiven, I think. I'll be in touch."
Roddy Rodman did not sound like a man who would be prone to repeating dubious tales or exaggerating his observations. Burke glanced at his watch. It would soon be five. Rodman had called before leaving Guadalajara. They should be on the ground by now. Burke didn't have his own transportation as Garcia strongly recommended against fighting Mexico City's nightmarish traffic. Burke had suggested the two visitors take a taxi to his hotel, where he would meet them in the lounge.
Burke was sipping a glass of chablis when two men were escorted to his table.
"Mr. Hill?" said the one with light brown hair, offering his hand. He appeared the older of the two. "I'm Roddy Rodman. This is Yuri Shumakov. I'm afraid things have gotten a bit worse since I talked to you the first time."
"Sit down," Burke said, motioning to the chairs at his small round table. "Worse how?"
"This bastard Nikolai Romashchuk. He's the ex-KGB man I mentioned. He and a Mexican cohort tried to kill us."
Burke frowned. What the hell was going on here, he wondered? "Tell me about it. And about this business of the dead writer and Adam Stern."
They huddled in the lounge, Burke with his wine and Rodman and Shumakov drinking beer, as the Colonel described his experiences starting with Bryan Janney and the man known as "Baker Thomas." Sh
umakov followed with the account of his brother's death and the events leading up to his tracking Romashchuk to Guadalajara. He still held off on any mention of the special project he had taken on at the behest of General Borovsky. It would only muddy the water, he thought, since it didn't fit in with everything else that had been taking place.
By the time they had finished, Burke felt he had stumbled into a real quagmire. It sure as hell appeared that Major Romashchuk was training Shining Path guerillas to use the chemical weapons, with at least the tacit knowledge of Adam Stern and the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. But he could do nothing official on this without alerting Nate Highsmith and Kingsley Marshall, the Director of Central Intelligence. Both were influential members of the FAR, and he did not care to confront them until he knew a lot more than he did now. He needed Roberto Garcia's help to confirm what was going on at that canyon near Tequila, but he had no authority over intelligence operations in the Mexico City office.
He still harbored a few misgivings about Colonel Roddy Rodman, and this Shumakov fellow admitted he was a fugitive on a murder charge, traveling on a false American passport. The whole strange story about stolen shells loaded with a nerve agent and canisters of neurotoxins and renegade former KGB officers had come from the supposed Minsk chief investigator. Burke knew he would feel a lot better if he had some way of confirming Shumakov's background. His years with the FBI and his experiences at Worldwide Communications had left him a confirmed skeptic.
There was a momentary lull in the conversation as each man seemed deep in his own thoughts. Then Roddy looked across at Burke.
"Murray Bender, the former CIA man, told me you used to be an FBI agent. How long ago was that?"
Burke rumpled his brow. "God, back in the dark ages. I worked under old J. Edgar Hoover."
Yuri Shumakov suddenly perked up. "I spent some time in the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington. When your country offered to provide technical help for Belarus, I came over and visited the FBI. Then I toured several big city police departments. I still receive correspondence from a very helpful agent at the FBI National Academy."
"Yeah?" Burke said. "Who's that?"
"His name is Frederick Birnbaum. He sends me magazine articles and reports on developments in criminal investigation."
Burke nodded. "I've known Fred for years."
Birnbaum had been a brand new agent back in the middle sixties when he and Burke had worked together in the New York Field Office. He had vouched for Burke with a South Korean homicide officer during the Poksu affair a couple of years ago. He might be able to provide the information needed to put to rest any fears about Yuri Shumakov, Burke realized. And as Roddy Rodman continued to talk, the pilot dissolved those lingering doubts about himself while further muddying Burke's view of the Foreign Affairs Roundtable.
"I'd better be completely up front with you, Burke," Rodman said, his jaw set resolutely. "You may not be aware, but I was the pilot of the Operation Easy Street chopper that was ambushed in Iran about the time Yuri's brother was killed. They court-martialed me and shot my career to hell."
"I know," Burke said, nodding. "I had my assistant check on your background this afternoon. She heard you might have been acquitted, if you hadn't charged you were railroaded and blasted the brass."
"True. But I know for sure now why I was railroaded. General Wing Patton, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and a good Roundtable member, was really the guilty party. It appears to have been another situation involving Adam Stern."
He told Burke what he had learned from CMSgt Clint Black.
Burke came to a sudden decision. He would have to take his chances and push Roberto Garcia to cooperate without informing Washington. And he needed to get these two to safety across the border as quickly as possible.
He hadn't realized how long they had been talking until he glanced at his watch. "You guys interested in something to eat? I need to call my wife in Virginia after dinner."
"Damn," Rodman murmured, "that reminds me. I never did call Elena and tell her we were okay. I'd better do it now. I hate to have to tell her about the car."
45
Roddy stopped at a telephone alcove as the other two strolled across the bustling lobby toward the restaurant. The hotel appeared crowded with tourists and business travelers. Would they have a rooms available, he wondered? Hill had not said what he intended to do, but obviously he had given serious thought to the situation.
As he picked up the phone, Roddy recalled the unfortunate circumstances under which he had left Elena. He was still distressed at what she had done, but his anger had now turned to disappointment. As he recalled her explanation, he began to see what he had refused to accept earlier. The relationship that had started out as a lark for her had unexpectedly turned into something a girl might wax poetic about in her diary. He cursed himself for the way he had reacted. He had been too damned hard on her, too unfeeling?
He gave the operator Elena's name and number as he needed to call collect. As he listened, the phone rang several times. It sounded like a distant, forlorn sort of ring, but he knew that was just his mind playing tricks. The fact that it went unanswered, though, was unusual. Manuel had always picked up the phone within the first three rings. Had he still not returned? Where was Elena?
"Bueno?" snapped an unfamiliar male voice on about the eighth ring. There was a hard quality to it, a note of impatience.
"Long distance calling collect for Señora Elena Castillo Quintero," the operator droned like a recording.
"Who is calling?" the man demanded.
Roddy began to get a feeling that something was terribly wrong. "Is the Señora in?" the operator inquired. "I need to know if she will accept the charges?"
"Damn the charges," the man barked. "This is Sergeant—"
"Please cancel the call, operator," Roddy broke in and hung up the phone. What the hell was going on? "Sergeant" could only mean the police. He began to worry. Had they tracked down Elena's car from that ungodly chase through the residential neighborhood? He had sideswiped one car for certain. He didn't think he had hit any others, but several shots had been fired.
Then it occurred to him that if the police had found Elena's car, Pablo Alba should know about it. He had left the battered red Mercedes parked in the Aeronautica Jalisco parking lot. He called the number for the Operations counter, which was manned at night. He got an old multi-engine pilot named Salvador.
"This is Roddy. Is Pablo there?"
"No, he's at home. Where the hell are you?"
"Mexico City. Have the police been there looking for a red Mercedes?"
"They just left. They wanted to know where you were, but I didn't have any idea. I suggested they call Pablo."
Elena must have told them he had her car, Roddy thought. He decided to call Pablo and enlist his help in advising the police that he would be home in the morning and straighten everything out. He was beginning to have some doubts that Burke Hill could do anything to help. Burke had probably been right with his first comment that he needed to contact the Mexican authorities. He had no idea what all this could have to do with the Foreign Affairs Roundtable, but it was taking place in Mexico so was obviously a Mexican affair. He would try to keep Elena's name out of it. He didn't want to cause her any more problems.
"Roddy?" Alba asked tentatively. "Are you still in Mexico City?"
"Yeah. Since I didn't explain what my problem was this afternoon, I thought I'd better call and fill you in. I understand the cops were at the airport a little while ago looking for Elena Castillo Quintero's red Mercedes. I left it parked in the lot. It's a long story, but to make it short, a couple of guys were chasing Ivan Netto and me. They shot at us, knocked a hole in the back window. Anyway, I banged into a car parked on the street. You can tell the police I'll be back in the morning and straighten everything out. It involves–"
"Roddy," Alba broke in urgently, "the police aren't concerned about damage to a car."
"What do you mean?"
"They think you killed Señora Castillo Quintero."
"Killed?" It took a moment for the words to sink in. Then Roddy felt like a knot had suddenly been tied inside his chest. He gasped, "Elena's dead?"
"I just hung up from talking to a police sergeant. I told him you had flown to Mexico City, but I didn't know where you were staying. I thought you would be back in the morning."
"Elena's dead?" Roddy repeated, as if that was the only thing he had heard. He felt as though he were shrouded in fog, a filmy sheet of gossamer obscuring everything around him. It seemed unreal. Just as unreal as what Alba had said to him. Elena couldn't be dead. She had been very much alive when he and Yuri had climbed into the Mercedes.
"I knew you couldn't have done it, Roddy. The sergeant said it was brutal. She had really been messed up, almost like she'd been tortured."
Tortured? He clamped his eyes shut tightly at the painful realization of what had happened. It was Romashchuk. It had to be. He had taken out his anger on Elena, attempting to make her tell where he and Yuri had gone. But she didn't know! Oh, God, he thought, what have I done?
"Are you all right, Roddy?" Alba asked when he received no response.
"I guess. I just can't believe she's dead. I left her around one. She was..." His voice trailed off.
"The police found your car at her house. When they learned that you flew for us, they checked our hangar and found her car all banged up. Was that Netto fellow with you all afternoon?"
"Yeah. He's been with me all day."
"Good. You'd better bring him along to vouch that you didn't do it." It was a helpful suggestion, but no consolation for the loss of Elena. He stood there by the telephone for a few minutes, unable, or unwilling, to move. The aching feeling inside him had diminished, but it left only a void. Elena dead. It did not seem possible. He could still feel the softness of her skin. He could still smell the fragrance of the flower in her hair. And then as he thought of Major Nikolai Romashchuk, the void inside him was replaced by a growing fury. As soon as he got back to Guadalajara, he would fly the chopper up to that barranca and find the bastard.
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 29