"Right. Sounded like a feather in your cap." A woman's voice.
"Well, I'm not sure it's a feather I want after what I heard down in Mexico."
"What on earth did—"
"I accidentally ran onto something that looks mighty shady, and they appear to be in the thick of it."
"How shady?"
"I'm starving. Come on. I'll tell you while I get something to eat."
Sarge came back on the line. "That's it. The man's voice was Burke Hill. The woman was his wife, Lorelei Hill."
Stern's brows were knitted into a sharp "V."
"Where's the rest of it?" Stern demanded. "He must have said more about the Roundtable."
"Sorry, Mr. Bowe. They apparently went into the kitchen, which put him out of range. Our bug is on the family room phone."
"What about later on the tape? Anything else there?" The disturbing nature of what he had just heard showed clearly in his tone.
"Matter of fact," said the ex-cop apologetically, "after picking up some music around 11:30 a.m., the transmitter seems to have gone dead."
"I thought you had the best equipment available," Stern said.
"We do. But even the best can occasionally go out without warning. Could have been a battery failure. This Foreign Affairs Roundtable business seems to have hit your hot button. Want us to try going back in there to reactivate it? We could attempt the old telephone repairman ploy. I don't know if they'd fall for it. The house has a top-line security system, so a break-in would not be too advisable."
Too late, Stern realized he had revealed his strong interest in what was said about the Roundtable. Particularly about something "shady" going on in Mexico. He had no way of knowing if Hill had stumbled onto Major Romashchuk's operation. But these two private investigators were now alerted to the likelihood that the Roundtable was involved in a "shady" operation in Mexico. And they had a telephone number that could easily be tied to him at FAR headquarters.
He pondered what this might lead to. Would they simply drop it if that's what he ordered? Or would curiosity lead them to pursue the matter further on their own? With an ordinary cop, he would say "no." But these were men who had been chosen for their tenacity, for their refusal to be bound by a reliance on conventional methods. There was no predicting what they might do. And should they pick up even the slightest hint of the Major and his team, as soon as everything hit the news, they would start putting the pieces together.
"Maybe it was just a temporary glitch," Stern said, as if reconsidering his earlier concern. "You guys go back to your post and check everything out again. It could come back on of its own accord, couldn't it? You've done great so far. I’d like to know what else is said on that phone. Keep me posted."
As soon as Sarge hung up, Stern dialed a number in the Washington suburbs. A deep male voice answered.
"This is the Parson," Stern said in a businesslike tone. "I have an emergency assignment for you."
"Hey, Parson. You haven't been in touch for awhile," said the man known only as Max. "Emergencies cost more, you know."
"I know. How quickly can you get to Falls Church?"
"Depending on the traffic, twenty to thirty minutes."
"Do this right and there's a bonus."
"Hey, I always do it right. What's the deal?"
"There's an abandoned service station near an upscale residential section on one side of the town." Stern gave him the specific location. "You'll find a couple of guys in the former office there with an assortment of electronic equipment. They're monitoring a wiretap. I want final rites for both men and their gear. They may not be there very long, but they're on the way now. Can you handle it?"
"Sure, Parson. No problem. As we say, guys that tap together, get zapped together." He finished with a low, rumbling laugh.
That's real gallows humor, Stern thought. "Happy hunting."
Central Mexico
50
When the van and truck caravan stopped at mid-afternoon to refuel at a Pemex station in Irapuato, a headline on a Mexico City newspaper lying on the counter caught Nikolai Romashchuk's eye: "Prominent Tapatío Brutally Slain." He paused to read the opening paragraphs of the story.
GUADALAJARA, Jal.--A prominent Guadalajara businesswoman, Señora Elena Castillo Quintero, was found brutally murdered in her spacious home here late yesterday, and police are looking for a retired United States Air Force colonel suspected in the killing.
The colonel, identified as Warren Rodman, a resident of the Lake Chapala area, reportedly was flown to Mexico City last night, accompanied by an American businessman named Ivan Netto. A murder warrant has been issued for Rodman. Netto is being sought by police for questioning.
Detective Felix Campos Reyez said the victim was disfigured "almost like she had been tortured." The body was discovered by servants returning home after having been given the day off.
Nikolai Romashchuk stopped beside the truck, where Julio sat at the steering wheel. "I don't think we need to worry about Colonel Rodman and Shumakov any longer. The police are hunting them down for the murder of the Señora."
They arrived in San Miguel de Allende about an hour later. Located in a high valley, the town clung to a sloping hillside that was ablaze with brightly blooming wildflowers. It retained much of the charm of an old colonial town, and Julio Podesta led the caravan through the cobblestoned streets lined with pastel colored houses to a truck terminal on the opposite edge of the city. They parked near a row of silver trailers that bore the name Carga la Plata, Silver Freight.
Julio Podesta accompanied Romashchuk as he entered the office, located the man in charge and handed over a thick stack of pesos. Then they pulled the dump truck up to one of the trailers, where the Peruvians carefully lifted out two long, flat wooden crates secured by a succession of strong plastic bands. Exercising considerable care, they carried the unusual cargo to the front end of the trailer and firmly anchored the crates to the floor.
Afterward, a silver-painted tractor hitched up to the trailer and hauled it out into the countryside, with the van and dump truck following. They arrived soon at a large vegetable farm, where they turned in and drove back to a loading area stacked with crates of freshly-picked melons. Romashchuk and Podesta parked their vehicles beside a line of trees, from which they could watch in the comfort of the shade.
"How long do we stay?" Julio asked when the workmen began toting crates into the trailer.
"Until they finish loading," said the Major.
Julio gave a typically Mexican shrug of resignation and returned to his spot beside a tree.
"I'm going to see if I left my map in your truck," Romashchuk said after a moment and walked over to the yellow Ford.
Opening the door, he climbed into the cab and sat down. But instead of looking for the map, which he had already removed, he took a small bundle out of his pocket and leaned down to attach it beneath the driver's seat. It contained a block of plastic explosive and a detonating cap connected to a tiny radio receiver.
"Find your map?" Julio asked when the Major returned to the shady refuge.
"No. I must have misplaced it in the van."
The burly Mexican grinned. "You need some rest. You're becoming forgetful."
"There's no time for rest. We have a long trip ahead of us." And as for you, my Mexican friend, Romashchuk said to himself, it will be the final journey. To wherever it is your Catholic holy fathers say you will go when you depart this damnably hot, dusty land. The bear of a man had been quite helpful, but he knew too much. General Zakharov had given strict instructions to leave no witnesses. That was one reason for the elimination of Elena Castillo Quintero.
"While they're loading the trailer, I'm going back into town and make a phone call," Romashchuk said. "You stay here with our Peruvian comrades and keep an eye on that trailer. I want to make sure nobody tampers with our package."
In San Miguel de Allende, he located a shop with a telephone symbol out front and went inside to place his call. Whe
n a female voice answered, he asked for "Uncle Sasha." A few moments later, General Valeri Zakharov was on the line.
"We're on our way north," Romashchuk said.
"What's this about the Colonel being wanted for murder?" Zakharov asked.
"That was a fortunate turn of events. He paid us another flying visit yesterday, this time with the former chief investigator from Minsk."
"I had planned to tell you he was there."
"How did you know?"
"He called one of his friends here whose phone was being monitored."
"Well, we nearly had him. And the Colonel, too. Unfortunately, they got away."
Romashchuk explained what had happened and why it was necessary to eliminate the lady who had been monitoring the Colonel's activities.
"Then Shumakov is this Ivan Netto they're looking for?" the General asked.
"Right. I hope they stay hidden until you can send somebody in after them."
"I'll contact our New York friend. Will you be able to stay with your schedule?"
"No problem."
"Good. The Committee is counting on you."
By the time Romashchuk got back to the farm, the loading was finished. It was after four o'clock when the eighteen-wheeler hit the road. The driver would head over to Highway 57, where he had arranged to meet a couple of compatriots with loads from other farms. The small caravan would roll north to San Luis Potosí, where they would spend the night before resuming the journey toward the border.
At this point, Romashchuk and his guerrilla band became Professor Klaus Gruber and a group of mineral specialists en route to an American Mining Congress meeting in San Antonio, Texas.
"Have a good trip," he called to Julio as they pulled away from the farm. The big Mexican waved and turned south. The van headed north.
Washington, D.C.
51
Nathaniel Highsmith occupied a large, stylish office high above Sixteenth Street a few blocks from the White House. The location was no accident. He enjoyed its proximity to the seat of power. A surreptitious visitor to the Oval Office on several occasions when the Amber Group was involved in crisis situations, he occasionally had the ear of the President. But it was his position as head of Worldwide Communications Consultants that made him particularly attractive to the leadership of the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. He had the ability to influence people's perceptions of the world around them through management of information resources dealing with international organizations, multinational companies and various agencies of governments both here and abroad. And he was a hands-on executive who did not hesitate to give policy guidance in the dissemination process.
Heavy drapes designed to muffle sound blocked the piercing afternoon sun as Highsmith sat in his high-backed, plushly upholstered chair and stared grim-faced at his number one deputy on the clandestine side. Nate believed in maintaining close control over his operations, both overt and covert, and what he had just heard suggested a highly undesirable glitch in the control system.
"A phone tap?" Deep anxiety clouded the normally clear blue eyes.
"Both lines," Burke Hill replied. "But not just the phone. Anderson said the bug would have picked up any conversation in the room."
"Any idea who could be responsible?"
"Not yet. I'm working on it. Lori's assistant said one of the caterer's people used that phone the other night during her Tenth Anniversary party. She's checking it out to see who the guy was."
Nate shook his head slowly. "I'm sure you've given thought to what might have been said in there that could compromise us?"
"Yeah, but I didn't come up with anything. Lori mentioned the Amber Group when we were talking about my trip to Mexico City, but that was out on the lawn. I've been gone most of the time since then."
He had recalled one comment of significance made in the family room, but it would not have compromised Worldwide Communications. It was when he had started to tell Lori about Colonel Rodman's startling story that morning. He didn't think he had said anything important until they were in the kitchen.
"Let me know what you come up with," Nate said. "I'll have to notify Kingsley Marshall. I'd like to know more about it before I do."
"Don't worry. I'm as anxious to get to the bottom of this as you are."
Nate leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head, a stretching exercise he did occasionally when he needed relief from the tension of his constant juggling act, a feat that involved keeping a dozen balls in the air to achieve a satisfactory public image, accomplishment of the secret mission and above all, financial soundness. The latter had become a source of concern lately. "How did the audit of Roberto's shop go?" he asked.
"I made a few suggestions to improve some expense areas. But, basically, he seems to be running a pretty tight ship."
"I wish we could say that for every office."
They had run into stiff competition lately in several areas, which was having its affect on the bottom line. A few countries were causing problems, either by throwing up roadblocks or by openly favoring other firms. This was particularly true in Eastern Europe and the Commonwealth of Independent States, areas in which they had been attempting to make inroads over the past couple of years.
"Look at what's happening to us in Berlin," Nate said. "For awhile, we were picking up clients right and left. Now we couldn't buy one with a Reader's Digest sweepstakes prize. I'm really disappointed in the lack of cooperation we've had from the leadership in the CIS." Nate leaned forward on his elbows. "Wouldn't it be great if we could export some of that Mexican success?"
"We need a few more Robertos."
Nate finally grinned. "Ex-FBI men aren't all bad. By the way, I ran into Laurence Coyne at lunch. The Roundtable has a special meeting scheduled over the Fourth of July at a resort in Colorado. Families invited. I asked about bringing you, but he said it was members only. After next month, of course, that will include you."
Burke nodded, trying not the show the turmoil that stirred inside him at mention of the FAR. He still had difficulty believing Nate Highsmith would approve of any involvement with Major Nikolai Romashchuk's operation, whatever it might be. But equally disturbing was the description of the Roundtable's hidden agenda that Roddy Rodman had relayed from Bryan Janney and Murray Bender.
"I trust you'll be staying in the mountains out there," Burke said, steering the conversation into safe waters. "I'm sure it'll beat the weather we're having here."
Nate shrugged. "I've seen it hotter in Washington."
"Hot enough for me. This is the time of year I wish I was back in the Smokies." After a bitter parting with the FBI, Burke had spent several years in self-imposed exile, first in the Alaskan oil fields, then working as a nature photographer in the Great Smoky Mountains of East Tennessee. It was there that his old CIA buddy, Cameron Quinn, had come looking for him and talked him into assisting with a troublesome investigation. It involved Operation Jabberwock, the plot to assassinate the American and Soviet presidents in Toronto. Cam Quinn was Lori's father. His death threw Burke and Lori together in a chase that eventually uncovered the plotters and led finally to their marriage.
"Don't you still have a summer place there?"
Burke laughed. "You make it sound like a condo in Vail. 'Place' is a good word, I guess. It's an old farmhouse I fixed up. We haven't had a chance to make it there this summer. Lori and her buddy Chloe Brackin have a better idea for the Fourth."
"The doctor?"
"Yeah. Us and the Doctors Brackin. They want to go to the National Symphony concert on the west lawn of the Capitol. Along with a few hundred thousand other fresh air nuts."
"I thought you liked symphony music," Nate said.
"I do. That was Lori's rationale. Tchaikovsky is one of my favorites. They nearly always do the 1812 Overture as a climax. I get a kick out of the cannons. But this time of year, it's a lot closer for us to go to Wolf Trap for the symphony. Really, I prefer the air conditioned comfort of the Kennedy Cente
r."
"I can agree with you there," Nate said. Then his face was suddenly drawn into a thoughtful frown. "I surely hope the twins are doing all right by then."
Burke nodded. "Thanks. So do I."
The sigh that followed was not occasioned by concern for the twins. It stemmed from the fact that Nate's comment had barely stopped him from blithely stating that Lori had decided to take the kids to the concert. Wouldn't that have sounded great, he thought? That was the trouble with lies. After you told one, everything else you said had to be tinted with the same color scheme or you'd wind up with a red face. At best.
On the way home that evening, Burke was surprised to find a pile of blackened rubble where a vacant service station had sat when he passed it earlier in the day. A band of yellow tape had been strung around the area bearing the warning "Police Line—Do Not Cross." They must suspect arson, he thought.
When he arrived home, he asked Lori if she had heard anything on the news about the fire.
"Explosion," she corrected him, wide-eyed. "I heard the blast. On the news, they reported two charred bodies were found. No identification. Speculation was they were street people living in the vacant building. Some highly volatile materials had been left behind. Probably got touched off when they attempted to cook in there."
"Really a mess," Burke said. He gave her a hopeful look. "Have you heard from the Dolly woman?"
"She called. And she remembered the incident, even recalled the man had given his name as 'Nelson.' I asked if she would check her records for his address, and guess what? She couldn't find any Nelson among the people who worked that night."
"Damn. I'll have to get our security people to contact her for a description. They'll need to talk with Brenda, too. Probably pose as detectives."
He told her of his near slip-up in talking with Nate about the July Fourth concert. "We'd better say the tests were negative so things can get back to normal and I won't have to watch my tongue." That was how espionage agents got tripped up, he reflected. They could go to great lengths to perfect cover stories, then get nailed by some casual, seemingly insignificant slip of the tongue.
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 32