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

by Chester D. Campbell

  "Are you using the phone?"

  The impatient voice interrupted his thoughts, and he glanced around to find a dowdy looking woman wearing a "New Horizons Travel" badge. Her name, stuck on with embossed red tape, was "Ellen Castle."

  Roddy shook his head, almost in tears. It was the English translation of Elena Castillo. "No," he said, turning away. "I'm sorry."

  46

  Since the two men were coming to Mexico City at his invitation, Burke had made a reservation for them in the company's name. He was to supply the guests' identification on their arrival. But after hearing their disturbing stories, he had signed his own name to get the key. The room was on the same floor as his, and he walked with them to the door.

  "Sorry I couldn't get separate rooms," he said, "This was the only thing available."

  Roddy shrugged. "We've been stuck together like bookends all day. Might as well finish the night the same way."

  "We may not be here all night. I'll call as soon as I know something."

  Burke headed on to his own room, where he promptly sat down at the phone. He felt an even greater urgency since learning about Elena's murder and the police view that Rodman was the prime suspect. He had finally convinced Roddy that going back to Guadalajara would be the worst mistake he could make. In order to explain everything, he would have to reveal Yuri's true identity. And when the police discovered Shumakov on the Interpol wanted list, he would cease to be a credible witness.

  If Shumakov was really what he claimed.

  Burke placed a call to Fred Birnbaum in Woodbridge, Virginia. He didn't have to ask information for the number. He never went anywhere without a small scheduler that fit neatly into his shirt pocket. Part of it changed monthly for daily plans and notes. The other part was a small, alphabetized telephone directory filled with his own cryptic shorthand and contained names and numbers from the past few years. He soon had Fred on the line.

  "Hi, Burke," the FBI agent said. "Last I heard of you was when that Seoul detective called. I ran into your son recently. He said you were doing fine. Getting fat."

  Burke's son by his first wife was now with the FBI. "I'm going to have to get after that boy. Cliff tends to exaggerate, you know. Say, I apologize for bothering you so late, Fred, but I needed to check on something."

  "Sure. What's up?"

  "We need a little help with a problem over in the old Soviet Union. I heard that you knew an investigator in Minsk. Can you tell me anything about him?"

  The FBI man chuckled. "You must still have some great sources, Burke. Yeah, his name is Yuri Shumakov. He's a young chief investigator with the Minsk prosecutor's office. I met him when he was over here a couple of years ago. Sharp guy. Impressed me as real conscientious. I've been sending him some reading material. Haven't heard from him lately."

  "Sounds like he might just be our man," said Burke.

  He called Lori next. "Did they get the lawn cleaned up and everything put back where it belongs?" he asked.

  "I think I picked a good firm," she said. "Except for the grass looking a bit trampled, you'd never guess this place had resembled a state fair midway a few nights ago. How's Mexico City?"

  "Crowded and smelly as usual. Are Cam and Liz okay?"

  "As stimulating as ever. You'll be interested, though not necessarily thrilled, to know our daughter has learned a new word."

  "What's that?"

  "Abortion."

  "Oh, no. She's not pregnant?"

  "Dummy! There's a family planning clinic across from the day care center. The right-to-lifers were out in force today. She heard all the chanting and, of course, asked what the signs said."

  Burke's voice turned serious. "Lori, I've run into something I can't explain on the phone, but I need your help."

  "What do you need?"

  "I want you to pretend the twins have suddenly come down with what appears to be some serious illness. Got any ideas?"

  "Serious illness...summertime. Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever?"

  "Good idea. Let's say you found some ticks and had some tests run. You shouldn't need to, but if necessary, get the godmother to back you up."

  The "godmother" was Dr. Chloe Brackin, Lori's best friend, an OB/GYN specialist who had delivered the twins. A tall, sultry-looking black beauty who was in practice with her father in Alexandria, Chloe lived in another section of Falls Church with her husband Walt, a neurologist.

  "Can you tell me why?" Lori sounded both puzzled and concerned.

  "I'm going to ask Nate to send the jet for me. I should be home by morning. I'll explain when I get there. But if Nate calls about the kids, have your story ready."

  Worldwide had recently acquired a corporate jet, a completely overhauled Lear that looked like new and had a range of around 2,500 miles. Nate Highsmith had wanted one for some time. Burke found this one at a bankruptcy sale and bought it for an unbelievable price. The plane was currently in New Orleans, where it had taken the senior vice president of the Technology Group and two of his top people for a high-powered presentation to a prospective client. They were scheduled to return in the morning, after an evening of wining and dining the prospect. Burke knew it would be no problem for the crew to fly down and pick him up, along with his two companions. A pair he had encountered who could be quite useful in future business arrangements, or so he would say. They could stop off in New Orleans for the Technology Group team on the way back to Washington.

  Burke found Nate enjoying an evening at home with one of his grandchildren. He had always shown great concern for the Hill twins and readily agreed to send the jet to speed Burke back to their bedside.

  "Let me know how they are," Highsmith admonished him. "I appreciate your calling me on this, Burke, but you could have made the decision on your own."

  He knew that, of course, but didn't want to leave even the appearance of a conflict of interest. It was a small thing, but his FBI career had been so tainted that he had become noted in recent years as a man of impeccable ethics. The fact that he had lied about the twins did not strike him as at odds with that stance. Considering the possibile ramifications of what he had learned, the old rules no longer applied.

  After tracking down the Learjet pilot and arranging a two a.m. pickup at the Mexico City airport, he called Roberto Garcia at home. By then it was after nine.

  "I hate to do this to you, Roberto," he began, "but I've got an emergency at home. The twins are ill and the Learjet is picking me up at two in the morning. I need to talk to you before I leave. I can take a taxi out to your place."

  "Sorry to hear about your kids, Burke. Forget the taxi. That's too much trouble. I'll come in and meet you at the office."

  He alerted Rodman and Shumakov to the upcoming flight.

  "You planning on Yuri using his Ivan Netto passport?" Roddy asked.

  "Right. Traveling in a private jet, he should have no trouble with customs. I just hope we don't have any problem getting you out of Mexico."

  It was around ten when he met Garcia at the Worldwide office. After discussing a few things about the audit and relieving the manager's mind on that score, Burke brought up the real subject that was occupying his mind.

  "I need a major league favor of you, Roberto. I've turned up something so sensitive I can't give you the background. And I don't want it mentioned or even hinted at to Washington until I can check it out."

  "Hey," Garcia protested, "you want to get me fired?"

  "If any heat comes out of this, I'll take full responsibility. I know the procedures and the rules, but in this case, they simply don't apply."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "It involves that report of the Shining Path people up around Tequila. I have information that they may be undergoing training at a canyon, a barranca, I believe, north of Tequila. There's a Mexican involved, and a Ukrainian posing as a German named Gruber. I have a hunch they'll be leaving there pretty soon. I want to know where they go, anything else you can tell me about them."

  Garci
a looked like a man contemplating a firing squad. "And you want me to hold that in confidence, not report it to the Chief or anybody in Washington?"

  Burke nodded. The "Chief" was Nate Highsmith. "Or anywhere else, until I give you the word."

  "And when is that likely to be?"

  "Give me a week, Roberto. I promise I'll get back to you by then."

  "I'm probably crazy for doing it," Garcia said, shaking his head, "but with what I know about you, okay. I'll get in touch with my man right now and get him onto it. He's a native tapatío but grew up in the States. I'll call you on the scrambler when I have something."

  47

  The customs officer was half-dozing when the phone rang on his desk at Aeropuerta Internacional Benito Juárez around 1:30 a.m. A small, stocky man named Sergio Muños, he was called Corto, roughly "Shorty," by many of his colleagues. He hated the night shift as much as he detested the demeaning nickname. There was not much work to do in the section that dealt with private passenger and cargo aircraft during this shift, but the odd hours screwed up his internal clock. He had enough seniority to avoid it normally, but getting an extra day added onto his upcoming three-day holiday required his presence tonight. He would sleep till noon, then load his wife and three boys into the car and head for the beach at Veracruz. The prices there were affordable, in contrast to the resorts for foreigners like Acapulco or Cancun. Muños wasn't all that thrilled by the beach, except for the scenery.

  "This is Reynosa in the tower," said the voice on the phone. "Who's this?"

  "Officer Sergio Muños."

  "Oh, Corto. Wake up, man, we've got business for you."

  Muños frowned. "What do you have?"

  "A Learjet inbound from New Orleans. ETA 1:45. Corporate plane coming in to pick up three passengers, all U.S. citizens."

  That would be simple, Muños thought. Just retrieve their tourist cards and make a cursory check of their luggage. He didn't particularly care for norteamericanos. Most of them were much larger than he, and they were usually patronizing or arrogant. If they gave him a hard time, he would reciprocate. He represented the government of Mexico, and no damned gringo from north of the border would push him around.

  He propped the silver-framed glasses on his short nose, strapped on his walkie talkie and service revolver and started for the door. He stopped suddenly as one hand patted his shirt pocket and found his small notebook missing. He walked back to the desk, retrieved it and flipped it open to where he had jotted the note when his supervisor had called earlier in the evening. "Colonel Warren Rodman, U.S. citizen," he read. "Suspected of murder in Guadalajara." Muños headed for the hangar where the jet would park.

  The customs officer found the three passengers waiting for him. Two were about the same height and stocky. The other was a bit taller and thinner. Younger, also. The stocky pair wore floppy cloth hats covered with souvenir-type pins, the sort of thing sold in hotel gift shops. One of them had glasses with a yellowish tint. The thin man wore horn-rimmed spectacles. All carried briefcases. Probably been here on some kind of convention, he thought. The older of the trio walked over to meet Muños.

  "Hi, I'm Burke Hill," the man said, smiling. "Are you the customs agent?"

  "Officer Sergio Muños," the Mexican said in English without returning the smile. "Your tourist card, please."

  He took the card and read the name "Burke Hill." Then, very deliberately, he removed the notebook from his pocket and opened it to the page about the murder suspect. He knew it wasn't the name he was looking for, but he wanted them to know he wasn't just some Chamber of Commerce-type functionary who would bow and scrape and say "I hope you enjoyed your visit, please come again."

  All he said was, "Gracias," then turned to the next man, the younger one.

  He took the card and read the name "Ivan Netto." He noticed the date on the card was different from Hill's. "You didn't travel here together, did you?"

  "No," said Netto, "I arrived about five days ago."

  Muños noted the accent and asked, "Do you have some other identification?"

  The man reached into his briefcase and pulled out a passport. Muños flipped it open and saw that he was born in Russia. As he expected. He handed back the passport and turned to the last passenger.

  Muños observed a slight shake in the hand that held out the tourist card. He glanced up at the face, noting the tired eyes. Was it fatigue or nervousness, Muños wondered? He looked back at the card. "Alvin Easton," it read. He checked the date.

  "You arrived with Señor Hill?" Muños asked.

  "Yes, sir," Easton said with a slight grin. "At a more decent hour than this, however."

  Muños hesitated. Should he ask this one for additional identification also? He was about to make the request when it suddenly dawned on him that Alvin Easton had replied "Yes, sir." He didn't get that much respect from most of them. He slipped the notebook back into his pocket.

  "Open your bags, please," he said. He leaned over and dug a stubby hand into each bag, finding no obvious signs of contraband. Then he straightened up and nodded. "That will be all. You may go."

  After the customs officer had walked away, Roddy Rodman shook his head and breathed a deep sigh. "I've been around here a number of times in the past year. Thank God I was never involved with customs. And thank God for Mr. Alvin Easton, whose name is on nobody's list. I don't know what I'd have done if he had asked for some other identification like he did with Yuri."

  Roberto Garcia had supplied Burke with a blank tourist card, which he filled out for Roddy with the Easton name. Obviously, whoever was responsible had not bothered to provide the customs man with a photograph or physical description of Colonel Warren Rodman. Had he attempted to fly out through the commercial terminal, Roddy figured, it could have been a different story.

  Shortly after two A.M., the sleek silver Learjet with the Worldwide Communications Consultants logo on the side cleared the runway and departed Mexico City. For the first time in several hours, Burke appeared to breathe easier and relax in the comfort of his plushly upholstered seat. He turned to his two companions.

  "Sorry about the short night, guys."

  Roddy shrugged. "If I'm going to lose a night's sleep, I'd rather do it here than in a Mexican jail."

  "We are flying to Washington?" Yuri inquired, frowning.

  "Right."

  "What then?"

  "I'm not sure yet," Burke said. "I've asked some friends to look into that situation near Tequila. It depends on what they find."

  It had been a hectic, tiring day for Roddy. He sat there for a few minutes, almost as if in a daze, then looked up at Burke. "One of my daughters and my ex-wife recently moved to Alexandria. My daughter wanted me to come up for Independence Day. Looks like she'll get her wish."

  Burke smiled his approval. "When we get there, I'll drive you down to Alexandria, help you find a motel."

  They landed at New Orleans around 3:30 and encountered no problems from a bored U.S. customs agent. The Technology Group people hardly had an opportunity to get curious about their fellow passengers as they struggled aboard bleary-eyed and promptly fell asleep, waking only on landing at Dulles.

  The morning was already warm and edging toward hot when they climbed out of the Lear in front of a private hangar around seven a.m. Burke called Lori to advise her that he had to drop off a couple of passengers in Alexandria, then would be home. Surprisingly, she said she would be waiting.

  "You're not going to the office this morning?" he asked.

  "Are you kidding? With the twins showing possible symptoms of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever?"

  "What?" He almost shouted before realizing she was just going along with the cover story he had requested. "Sorry, I'm a little groggy. Afraid I didn't get much sleep. Thanks for taking care of things. I'll fill you in when I get there."

  Nikolai Romashchuk, using the name Klaus Gruber, and Julio Podesta were up early that morning, completing the weapons training session that had been interrupted the
day before by an unwelcome helicopter fly-over. By mid-morning, they were busily striking camp in the barranca. Rafael Madero, Julio's employer, wanted no clues left that might identify those who had used the cabin, and nothing to indicate what they had been doing. He only knew that it was of questionable legality.

  "Pepe!" Julio shouted to the Shining Path leader, who had his men gathering up their gear in preparation for departure. "Take your people back into the trees and bury those shell casings. And make damned sure you cover up your tracks on the way out."

  In Julio's limited experience at bossing work crews, he had developed the belief that obedience was best assured through instilling a fear of reprisal. But he had never been involved with men who had the lethal outlook of these Peruvians. Gruber finally called him aside and gave him a little comradely advice.

  "If I were you, Julio, I'd lighten up a bit," he said. "Unless you want to wake up in the morning with your throat slit."

  Julio Podesta shrugged his big shoulders. If the gringo wanted to coddle these young punks from Peru, so be it. His instructions were to assist this man who called himself Gruber in whatever was necessary to carry out the operation. Though the long, tedious drive from Veracruz in the dump truck had been a real bore, he had found nothing dull about what had occurred since then. Unlike their brothers to the north, Mexicans did not yearn for quiet and serenity. Whether it was the frequent tolling of church bells, the explosion of fiesta fireworks, shouts from the bull ring or the loud music of the mariachis, the higher the decibel count the greater it stirred their souls. The high point for Julio had been the mortar firing.

  Podesta had grown up dirt poor in a small, impoverished Jalisco village. He bathed in the same stream where his mother scrubbed his ragged clothes on the rocks. She pounded the corn into meal and baked tortillas over an open fire. Rafael Madero had rescued him from this life of deprivation. After a stint as a ranch hand, where he showed an innate talent for wheeling and dealing, he had been groomed for service as what American politicians would call an "advance man." Julio made arrangements. He procured meeting halls, limousines, audiences, women, feasts. When it came election time, he was a master at buying votes.