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

by Chester D. Campbell

  Later in the evening, a call came through from Roberto Garcia in Mexico City. Burke took it on his scrambler. The company had uniquely designed fax machines that contained a floppy disk drive and a microprocessor. Special disks were encoded in pairs with computer-generated random algorithms used to scramble and unscramble voice or facsimile transmissions. They were like high-tech versions of the old espionage stand-by, the one-time pad.

  "My man Juan just called from San Luis Potosí," Garcia said.

  "Where the hell is that?"

  "About 400 kilometers northeast of Guadalajara. That's where he ended up. He went to Tequila first thing this morning and located the road leading back into the mountains. He found a family that remembered the truck going in there a couple of days ago. They said it hadn't come back out. Juan staked out the intersection and waited. After awhile, a van leading a yellow dump truck came out and turned toward Guadalajara. He followed them on to San Miguel de Allende, some 360 kilometers to the east."

  "What's there?"

  "They stopped first at a trucking outfit called Carga la Plata." Garcia described the scene with the crates being transferred to an empty trailer, then the trip to a farm where the trailer was loaded with crates of melons. "Juan determined from the farm workers that the shipment was headed for San Antonio, Texas. Consigned to the Krueger Produce Company. It's due there tomorrow evening around 7:30."

  Burke's eyes widened with alarm. San Antonio. Romashchuk was smuggling the chemical weapons into the U.S. "Did he find out where the men went after that?"

  "They left the farm as soon as the eighteen-wheeler was loaded. The dump truck turned back toward San Miguel, driven by a big, burly Mexican. The van headed north, apparently with the guy reported to be a German and the Sendero Luminoso guerillas." Garcia hesitated a moment, then asked pointedly, "Are you going to take some action on this, Burke?"

  "You're damn right I am, Roberto. But I still don't want anything reported officially. Remember, you gave me a week." This wasn't looking good at all, but he still wasn't ready to approach Nate. He needed more answers first.

  "Don't you think the Bureau should be alerted?" Roberto insisted.

  It certainly appeared to be a case for the FBI, but the Director of the Bureau, like CIA's Kingsley Marshall and Nate Highsmith, was a member of the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. If Bryan Janney was right about the conspiratorial nature of the FAR, just how pervasive was it? A prominent newspaper publisher had been concerned enough to kill the writer's story. Adam Stern had been concerned enough to kill the writer. The former CIA man, Murray Bender, had given Rodman Burke's name because he didn't trust anyone else.

  "Please believe me, Roberto. I've got good reasons for doing it this way. Just stick with me a little longer. Okay?"

  "Well, you'd better hear the rest of the story. When they left the farm, Juan followed the van. He had hidden his car in some trees and waited until the van was disappearing around a curve, then pulled out onto the highway. Juan saw the truck in his rearview mirror heading south. About that time, there was a tremendous explosion behind him. When he looked back, he saw the truck had been demolished."

  "What the hell happened? Did he have any idea?"

  "Juan's an excellent observer. He just reports; he doesn't speculate. Of course, he wasn't interested in staying around there, either. He followed the van on to the San Luis Potosí airport, where they bought tickets to San Antonio. He waited until they boarded the plane, then called me."

  "Excellent work, Roberto," Burke said enthusiastically. "Juan deserves a bonus. Anything else I should know about?"

  "I guess that's it, Burke. Unless you're interested in murder mysteries."

  "What sort of murder mysteries?" Burke suspected that he knew the answer.

  "The newspapers here are full of stories about the search for a retired U.S. Air Force colonel. He's wanted for the murder of a prominent Guadalajara businesswoman. Had his picture on page one."

  "Where are they looking?"

  "They think he's somewhere around Mexico City. There was another American with him. Guy with a Russian-sounding name. He's wanted for questioning."

  Damn, that was close, Burke thought. If he had waited any longer, Roddy likely would not have been allowed to board the plane. Or Shumakov, either, for that matter. No doubt they had a description of Ivan Netto. Burke didn't understand why the customs officer hadn't reported their departure on the private jet. Even if he didn't have a good description last night, surely he had seen the newspaper photographs by now. He knew if the little customs agent had made a report, it wouldn't take long for someone to track down the Worldwide Communications Consultants pilots. Then the finger would point directly at Burke Hill.

  A few years back when Burke had tackled the Jabberwock conspiracy, he was a lone wolf, operating on his own, depending strictly on his personal talents and instincts, helped only by Lori and a few friends. But since joining Worldwide Communications and its Amber Group, he had become a team player, more properly a team leader. He had followed the established order, abided by the rules of the game, coordinated the efforts of many people. He had been involved in several crucial operations whose outcomes had impacted favorably upon his country and the things it stood for. He was proud of that involvement. Above all, Burke Hill considered himself a patriot. Not one of those Cold War patriots with a capital "P" who wore the flag on their sleeves and berated anyone they thought soft on communism. He was a man who believed in the innate goodness of his native land and was ready to stand up and be counted when she was in trouble. The fact that he had no military service occasionally bothered him, though it shouldn't have. He was in college, working as a clerk at the FBI, during the Korean War and was well into his career as a special agent at the time of Vietnam. The nature of his present job, however, gave him obvious responsibilities toward the nation. Worldwide had been specifically structured so there was no direct link to the CIA or any other federal agency, but he felt just as strongly about those responsibilities as if he had been sworn in directly by the man in the White House.

  All of this communicated a strong message to him. He should call Nate Highsmith immediately and report the presence of a deadly guerrilla group on American soil, a team of Maoist rebels armed with an arsenal of highly lethal and destabilizing chemical weapons, directed by a former Soviet intelligence officer. Nate would no doubt instruct him to pass the word on to Kingsley Marshall at the CIA. He might even suggest Burke contact the FBI directly, except for the fact that part of the information was developed by an Amber Group employee working covertly. The Bureau was not privy to Worldwide's secret mission.

  He knew this was what he should do. Yet he couldn't ignore Roddy Rodman's account of Adam Stern's involvement. What role was the Foreign Affairs Roundtable and its so-called "enforcer" playing? He needed time to ferret out the facts. But he was faced with two other problems that loomed as threatening black thunderheads on the horizon. Romashchuk and his deadly crew could not be allowed to simply disappear out in the heart of Texas, and Rodman and Shumakov could not remain in the Washington area without becoming easy prey for fugitive trackers from Mexico. Turning back to the phone, he dialed the motel where they were staying.

  52

  On his last relocation to Washington, Nate Highsmith had bought a restored Federal style brick house on a large, scenic plot of ground in the northern section of Georgetown. It had been built around 1800 by one of the area's early families of prominence. That fact had been one of the estate's major attractions for him. He had grown up in a simple frame house in a small northern Ohio town, where his father was a struggling shopkeeper, owner of a "five-and-ten-cent store." Though hard to believe now, there were many items at such prices back in those days. As a boy, Nate had worked summers at the store. Over the years he began to see the mistakes his father made, like buying too many items that only a few customers requested, or giving credit to people who could not afford to pay. Whether inherited or acquired, Nate was driven by the same entre
preneurial spirit as his father, but he vowed to learn everything possible to assure success far beyond anything his father had ever dreamed. And when he had achieved it, seemingly with ease, he had unconsciously distanced himself from any reminders of his commonplace past. He never returned to the little Ohio town, and he constantly surrounded himself with the trappings of wealth and material success.

  When the phone rang around ten that evening, Nate was reading at an intricately carved antique cherry desk in his study.

  "Good evening, Nathaniel, this is Bernard Whitehurst," said a deep, cultured voice. "I hope you will forgive the intrusion at this late hour. I just returned from a business trip and received an urgent message I need to discuss with you."

  Nate leaned back in his chair and let his mind conjure up a picture of the ruddy-faced billionaire banker. Whenever he saw the man, he immediately thought of a polo player. The role seemed to fit him perfectly. But though Nate was well acquainted with Whitehurst, one of the few men who called him by his full first name, they had not been really close. That was one reason it came as a complete surprise when the Roundtable chairman had invited him to attend the Council of Lyon meeting near Lucerne a few weeks earlier, an experience he had found most intriguing. During the session, Whitehurst had obtained the Council's agreement to support any movement that might be directed at consolidating the CIS states into a new union, preferably under a not-so-aggressive socialist regime. He had summed it up this way, "Better the enemy we know so well, and have dealt with for years, than questionable new friends we simply cannot trust."

  Nate marveled at the smooth way the wealthy banker handled the group. He was undoubtedly the most powerful figure in the world, with the possible exception of the President of the United States, yet most people were totally unaware of it.

  "Sure, Bernard," he said casually, "is there something I can help you with?"

  "As a matter of fact, you can. Would it be too much of an imposition for you to meet me in New York tomorrow? I'll make the time at your convenience."

  When a person of Bernard Whitehurst's stature asked a favor, a man like Nate Highsmith didn't hesitate. In the quid pro quo world of high finance, Newton's third law of motion was slightly different. The reaction to every action was not equal and opposite, but equally opulent. Nate knew the trip would be well worth his time.

  "I have a few appointments I'll have to reschedule," Highsmith said, curious about the purpose of the meeting but not wishing to sound inquisitive. "Shouldn't be any problem. As for the time, how does eleven sound?"

  "Fine. I look forward to seeing you. Just come to my office at the bank."

  Burke Hill left an urgent message at the number Roddy Rodman had given him, and a few minutes later the phone rang.

  "This is Murray Bender, Mr. Hill. Colonel Rodman must have been in touch."

  "Yes. He told me that you had offered to help if he ever needed you."

  "I owed him. He once got me out of one helluva tight spot. But with that bad drinking problem I'd heard about, I sort of hated to put him off on you. That crazy story about a KGB major and chemical weapons sounded really off the wall."

  "I'm glad you did, Mr. Bender, because it's all true."

  "You're kidding?"

  "Unfortunately, no."

  "And Adam Stern's involved?"

  "Deeply. That's what really troubles me. My boss, Nate Highsmith, is quite active in the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. I've worked closely with the man for four years. I just can't see him approving of anything involving the Shining Path and mortar shells containing nerve agents."

  "Of course, he wouldn't necessarily know about that part," said Bender.

  "Why not?"

  "It's like the relationship between the White House and the Agency. The President's people draft up a nice high-sounding, legalistic finding that justifies some covert activity. Then they turn it over to the operations people to do the dirty work. The President doesn't know, doesn't want to know the details of how dirty it gets. He'd fire a director who tried to hang his dirty linen in the Oval Office. Look at all the grief Reagan got because they said he knew too much." He paused a moment and then added, "Apparently you're really convinced about the Colonel's story."

  "I've confirmed part of it independently."

  "Damn," said Bender. "He really did stumble into a rat's nest."

  Burke picked up a cup of coffee from the tray Lori had set on the table beside him. It also contained a large brownie. "It's worse than you know," he said. "This Major Romashchuk set him up for a murder charge in Guadalajara. I got him and Shumakov out of Mexico, but I need to provide them new identities until I can sort this thing out. I hoped you would know a source for some documents."

  Bender chuckled. "That I can help you with. He's called the 'Weasel' and he's damned good."

  It was shortly after daybreak when Burke parked in front of the modest frame house on the north side of Washington. Although the houses here were not particularly impressive, the four-wheel toys were. Cars along the street ranged from expensive Japanese models to small, curvacious American and European makes. Burke blinked wearily, aware that the bags under his eyes must resemble steamer trunks. He couldn't help it. For two nights in a row he had managed to find little opportunity for sleep. After making contact with the "Weasel," he had taken one of his cameras over to the motel and made head shots of Roddy and Yuri. He had delivered the film to the forger, who had his own darkroom setup.

  He walked up to the door and pressed the lighted button. He could hear the faint sound of a chime inside. A few moments later, the door opened to reveal a short, thin man with a hooked nose, a green eyeshade pushed back on his forehead. He looked like a character out of Hecht and MacArthur's The Front Page.

  The man called "Weasel" gave Burke a wary eye, looked around to make sure no one was following him, then said, "Come on in."

  He locked the door, then led the way back to his workshop in a room at the rear of the house. Two new Virginia driver's licenses, two social security cards and a resident alien "green card" lay on a table.

  "How's it look?"

  Burke bent over and examined the documents. They looked perfect. "Fine," he said, pulling a large stack of bills from his pocket. "This should take care of it."

  The "Weasel" counted out the money. Then he stuffed the material into an envelope and handed it over. "A pleasure doing business with you."

  53

  The lobby of the building on Sixteenth Street was deserted when Hill entered. In contrast to the normal wait, he had an elevator at the press of a button and zoomed right up to what was known at Worldwide Communications Consultants as the "executive floor." Evelyn's desk appeared as pristine as a furniture display as he headed past it to drop off his briefcase. Then he walked down the silent corridor to Nate Highsmith's suite.

  Highsmith was a man who slept sparingly and started his day like a farmer, at the crow of the rooster. He arrived early and took care of routine tasks before the normal business day began. It provided Burke an opportunity to catch him in a leisurely mood and discuss the results of the wiretap investigation.

  Toni Carlucci, a petite size eight with slightly graying hair and a broad, friendly smile, looked up in surprise when Burke strolled in. "Are you troubled with insomnia, Mr. Hill? I haven't seen you at this time of the morning in ages."

  He didn't doubt that he could pass for an insomniac with those red-rimmed eyes. But he smiled back and said casually, "It wasn't a very good night for sleeping anyway, Toni." She had been Nate's secretary for more than twenty-five years. In a business that frequently resembled a pressure cooker, she never seemed ruffled.

  "Would you like some coffee?"

  "I'd love it. Would Nate mind if I disturbed his morning routine?"

  "Let me see." She picked up the phone, punched the intercom button and said in a droll voice, "There's a Mr. Burke Hill out here to see you." After a pause, she put the phone down and nodded. "You can go on in. I'll bring your coffee."


  Nate was leaning back in his chair reading overnight reports from the various overseas offices. Burke reflected that whatever time of day, whatever the circumstances, Nathaniel Highsmith always appeared the impeccably groomed executive. Suit, shirt, tie, handkerchief, everything perfectly matched and coordinated. It was hard to realize that he had been born into an ordinary middle class family. He seemed perfectly at ease with and perfectly suited to his wealth. It was almost as if financial success had been his inevitable fate.

  "Anything interesting going on around the world?" Burke inquired.

  "There's always something interesting going on," Nate said quite seriously. "The only question is just who would be interested in it?"

  "That's a bit too philosophical for me. I have some news of interest, though. The guy in the waiter's outfit who used the phone at our house was a gate crasher."

  "Really? How did you find out?"

  Burke told him about Lori's conversation with the woman called "Dolly."

  "She had no idea who he was?"

  "None. I'll talk to our security people and have them get a description from her. Lori's assistant can help, also. She spoke to him."

  Toni knocked softly, then came in with Burke's coffee and a refill for Highsmith.

  "I think I had better go ahead and inform Kingsley Marshall," Nate said. "You're sure nothing could have been compromised?"

  "Positive. But I damned sure want to know who's been listening in on my conversations."

  "So do I. Keep me posted. I have to run up to New York this morning for a meeting with Bernard Whitehurst."

  Burke's eyebrows immediately shot up in surprise, but he tried to mask his reaction with a flippant comment. "The big man himself?"

  "The chairman of the Roundtable," Nate said, nodding. "He sounded quite concerned about something. I'll be back this afternoon."