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

by Chester D. Campbell

  "Do their military forces go along with this?" Nate asked.

  "These republics don't have the strongest of military forces. Nothing like the larger European states. And they seem to be fractious. I would say you could find commanders who would readily side with the Coordinating Committees. But I hardly think they would act on their own. The governments all believe that we, as the only remaining superpower, would readily come to their rescue in case of an attack."

  "And what do you think, Dr. Ketterhagen?"

  "You are in a much better position than I am to answer that, Mr. Highsmith."

  Nate smiled indulgently. "I'm afraid my office is a little too far down Sixteenth Street to pick up rumblings from the White House."

  When the meeting concluded, the directors adjourned to an adjacent room for cocktails while the large, oval-shaped conference table was set for lunch. The meal was catered by a nearby hotel. By the time the cigars were passed out, mints for the sole female director, everyone appeared comfortable, relaxed and overfed.

  Nate Highsmith was about to light up when a secretary advised him that he had a telephone call. He took it in the plushly appointed Chairman's Office.

  "Nathaniel," said Bernard Whitehurst's smooth voice, "I trust I'm not interrupting anything. They said you had just finished lunch."

  "Quite all right, Bernard. I would probably be better off if you had interrupted earlier. I'm feeling stuffed."

  "Well, I hope it was the right stuff." Whitehurst chuckled at his witticism, then immediately turned serious. "What were you able to determine about Burke Hill?"

  Highsmith frowned and breathed a deep sigh. He knew he had failed to rectify the problem with minimal damage. "I gave him a little lecture which I hoped would spur him to come clean and tell me what he knows. I regret to say I did not succeed."

  "You learned nothing?"

  "Nothing verbally. But his body language told me that he knows something about Adam Stern that disturbs him."

  "I am afraid we have a real problem. These next few days are crucial. I can understand your desire to handle this with kid gloves. But if you cannot guarantee Hill's noninterference, I will have to give the job to someone who doesn't operate with gloves on."

  Nate didn't like the sound of the threat, but from Whitehurst's tone it appeared there was a significant problem. One that called for drastic measures. Then Nate had an idea of a way to defuse things with no real consequences. "If I got him out of town, a long, long way out of town. Say for at least a week. Would that take care of the problem?"

  "How far away?"

  "Seoul, South Korea."

  "You could manage that without creating suspicion?"

  "We have an office there that Burke helped open when we were involved in that Poksu affair. I can send him over there to do an audit. That was what he was doing in Mexico City."

  "How soon?"

  "I'll have him on an airplane in the morning."

  Burke had just returned from lunch when Roddy called. From the sound of his voice, Burke knew he was on the road this time.

  "Where are you?"

  "Cruising through Texarkana on I-30."

  "Headed where?"

  "According to the signs, Little Rock is the next place of any consequence."

  "Have you seen any indication the Major knows you're back there?"

  "Yuri says he can't be positive, but it looks like we're still in good shape."

  Burke had a Southwestern States map on his desk and he spread it out to show Texas and Arkansas. "What time did you start out this morning?"

  "Seven."

  "From the looks of this map, by the time you get to Little Rock, you'll have been on the road at least ten hours. I'd think he would be ready for a little rest."

  "I'm sure we will."

  Burke refolded the map as he cradled the phone to his ear. "I'll check with Lori and see if her car rental contact could arrange to swap cars with you in Little Rock. If you're going to be stopping there, call me as soon as you're settled in."

  The head of the Research Department had given Brittany Pickerel an assignment that required a trip to the Library of Congress. The neoclassical facility, which shared Capitol Hill with the Supreme Court and Capitol buildings, catalogued eighty-four-million items, a fact that absolutely fascinated her. But she quickly searched out the information she needed, then found a pay phone and called her data processing friend at the Presidential Plaza Hotel.

  "I don't want to sound like I'm pushing you, David," she said apologetically, "but just wondered if you had anything for me yet?"

  "The persistent Miss Pickerel. I knew you'd be calling. Matter of fact, I have it right here, if I can lay my hands on it." There was the sound of shuffling papers as he searched his desk. "Here we go. Adam Stern checked in at 2:45 p.m. on March seventeenth, St. Patrick's Day, and checked out on the nineteenth at 7:30 a.m."

  The morning that Lt. Col. Juan Bolivar's body was found.

  Brittany enjoyed working with Burke Hill. He treated her like a professional equal and gave her free rein to follow her instincts. Though she was not trained as an intelligence officer, she had been exposed to them enough to absorb their mindset. She decided it was time to renew a newspaper acquaintance from the days before she had left for Korea. His name was Stanley Dahlman. He was one of the better known investigative reporters in the capital. A prima donna with a highly inflated view of himself, Dahlman had taken to Brittany because she indulged his ego. His vanity wouldn't let him admit she only did it for the help he could provide her.

  "Stan, this is Brittany Pickerel," she said when she got him on the phone. "I arrived back in town recently and noted your by-line still dominates the front pages."

  "Bob Woodward is about over the hill, you know. Somebody had to take his place. How are you doing, girl? Where have you been?"

  "I've been working in Seoul, South Korea the past couple of years."

  "The hell you have. Been taking part in those student riots?"

  She laughed. "You know that's not my style, Stan."

  "Don't give me that. It's the quiet ones who can stir up the most trouble. Still water runs deep and all that."

  "I'm not interested in stirring up any trouble, but I could use a little help."

  "Lay it on me."

  "The brother of a friend of mine from Texas committed suicide here recently. She doesn't suspect any foul play, but she wants to know exactly what happened. She asked if I would look into it for her."

  "What do you need?"

  "The medical examiner reported he died from an overdose of a sleeping pill. Dalmane, I believe. Any chance you could get me a look at the pill bottle they found beside his bed?"

  "You like to make it tough on a guy, don't you?"

  "Come on, Stan. I know an award-winning investigative reporter like you has all kinds of contacts and works miracles on a regular basis."

  His voice turned smug. "I have built quite a reputation, haven't I? You still working the same place? What was it, Worldwide Communications?"

  "Right. But I'm over at the Library of Congress now."

  "Soon be lunchtime. You want to get a bite? Maybe we can go take a look at this pill bottle afterward?"

  Brittany wasn't sure she was ready for that much of Stanley Dahlman. It could be as bad as an overdose of Dalmane, but the possibility of an immediate answer to her "friend's" request led her to accept the invitation.

  The restaurant just off Pennsylvania Avenue was packed, but the air conditioning provided a welcome relief to the broiling sun on the sidewalk. Fortunately, the noontime din drowned out half of Dahlman's avidly detailed exploits. But Brittany grinned and nodded enough to keep him satisfied. Afterward, they took a cab over to a Metropolitan Police building where evidence from crimes and incidents of uncertain cause was stored. Dahlman knew the sergeant in charge and explained what Brittany wanted to see.

  The officer was gone for a few minutes, then returned with a kraft envelope tied up with string. He opened t
he flap and poured the contents onto the counter.

  "This is what the investigators took from the scene," the sergeant explained. "Probably the contents of the bedside table."

  He pushed the objects around with a pair of kitchen tongs. Brittany saw a brown plastic pill container, a small, two-blade pocket knife, a five-ounce plastic cup and a small black penlite. Everything was smudged with black fingerprint powder.

  "You can pick it up with this," said the sergeant, handing over the tongs.

  Brittany lifted the pill bottle and read the prescription label. It included Colonel Bolivar's name, the prescription number, the date "March 18," the medication "Dalmane," the name and address of the pharmacy and "Dr. Hailey." The label indicated the bottle contained thirty 30 milligram capsules. The instructions said "Take one at bedtime as needed." She took a small pad from her handbag and wrote down the information. The pharmacy, she noted, was at a drug store in Silver Spring, Maryland, a suburb near the northern point of the District. Bolivar had lived on the north side of Washington, though not all that close to Silver Spring.

  Fortunately, the name Juan Bolivar had meant nothing to Stanley Dahlman and he showed no interest in the case. Brittany thanked him for lunch and the help and explained that she had to get back to the office. When the cab let her out, she went directly to the garage, retrieved her car and headed out Sixteenth Street toward Silver Spring.

  The drug store was located in a strip center that included a supermarket and a variety of small specialty shops. Brittany approached one of the pharmacists, a thin man with black-rimmed glasses, white hair and a small white mustache. She put on her best girl-in-trouble manner.

  "I hope you can help me," she began. "My brother-in-law asked me to check with his doctor about a prescription. He was on his way out of town and he's supposed to call tonight. I can't find my note with the doctor's name and address, but I have the prescription number."

  She handed him a slip of paper with the number on it.

  The pharmacist held his head up to look through his bifocals and punched the number into the computer. "Here it is. Is his name John Bolivar?"

  "It's Juan."

  He accepted the correction with a nod. "The doctor's name is Hailey."

  "Would you have the prescription slip, so I could get his address and phone number?"

  The man rumpled his forehead with a frown. "March eighteenth. Yeah, it would be filed in a box in the back. It may take me a couple of minutes."

  "I hate to put you to all this trouble," she apologized with an appreciative smile.

  He grinned with a shake of his head. "No trouble."

  He came back with a slip that appeared torn from a prescription pad. It listed the physician as "Morton Hailey" with a Chevy Chase address. The western suburb was next door to Bethesda, location of the National Institutes of Health and the big naval hospital that treated Presidents and congressmen and the like. Brittany found a pay phone at the front of the store and dialed the number for Dr. Hailey. After a couple of rings, she heard:

  "The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service."

  Veracruz, Mexico

  60

  Sergio Muños suffered from the Rodney Daingerfield syndrome. Most of the time he got no respect and cringed when someone used the offensive nickname Corto, Shorty. He usually wore a glued-on frown and carried a large chip on his small shoulder. But after a couple of days of sunning among the scantily-clad bodies that formed a sea of flesh across the sandy Veracruz beach, he was in an upbeat mood. He even smiled when his sons got into a playful shoving match.

  It was late afternoon. While Sergio took turns napping and ogling the girls, his wife sat on the big red and yellow towel reading a newspaper. He'd always said when the Good Lord returned to earth, He would find her either gossiping or reading. After awhile, she turned to him with a curious voice. "On the way down here, you mentioned something about looking for a man wanted for murder."

  He raised his head on one elbow. "A gringo. Rodman, I believe."

  "Well, they're still looking. The paper has pictures of him and a man called Ivan Netto they say was with him."

  "Netto?"

  "That's the name he used. They just learned his real name was Shumakov. The Belarus government says he is wanted there for murder. Where is Belarus?"

  Sergio bolted upright. Ivan Netto. Born in Russia. Tall, thin man with horn-rim glasses. He reached for the newspaper. "Let me see those pictures."

  He stared at the photo of Netto/Shumakov. It was the same man. He was positive. And Colonel Warren Rodman. ¡Madre de Dios! It was one of the other two who had boarded the American jet.

  Startled at his reaction, his wife frowned. "What is it, Sergio?"

  "I processed those men out of the country early Wednesday morning. Get your things. Where are the boys? Let's go. I have to call my supervisor."

  Burke Hill had just finished his preliminary work on the financial report late that afternoon when Evelyn Tilson called on the intercom.

  "Mr. Highsmith is here to see you."

  Burke walked to the door and met him.

  "We have a problem in Seoul," Highsmith said tersely as he entered the office and took a chair. His face mirrored the gravity he felt.

  "I thought we were in good shape there?" Burke said, feeling relief in the assumption that Nate's problem did not concern Adam Stern and the Foreign Affairs Roundtable.

  "There have been some hints lately that things might not be as rosy as we thought. I got back from a Foundation meeting in Philadelphia this afternoon and found a fax from Jerry Chan. He is having real trouble with some key accounts. He wants me to send you over right away to try and straighten things out. I think it calls for a full blown audit. I've already checked and we can get you on the flight to Seoul that leaves around six in the morning."

  Burke stared in disbelief. Leave for Seoul tomorrow? Then he recalled the comment Jerry had made yesterday morning, "Fortunately, I've got no problems at all at the moment. Things could hardly be going better. It's scary." That didn't sound anything like the conditions Nate had just described. Then he began to sense what was happening. Nate, or his Roundtable cronies, wanted him out of the way to prevent any interference with Nikolai Romashchuk.

  "This is sort of sudden," he protested. "I may not be able to get ready by then."

  Highsmith assumed an understanding air. "I know it's short notice, Burke, but I feel in the current business climate, it's something that simply can't wait. Look, if you don't have things ready to pack, just buy a new outfit when you get over there. Charge it to the company."

  Burke knew he would be suspect if he protested too strongly. But he couldn't leave now with Major Romashchuk wandering around in a van full of terrorists, pulling a trailer loaded with chemical weapons. "I'm just getting into this monthly report, Nate. It should tell us exactly where we stand and where our problems lie."

  "It can wait," Nate said flatly. Obviously it was a closed subject. "Your ticket will be waiting for you at the airline counter."

  Burke was still staring at the door Nate had briskly departed through when Evelyn called on the intercom.

  "Brittany Pickerel from Research wants you on Line 1."

  He exhaled deeply, letting off a little steam, attempting to relieve the pressure that was building inside. "Yeah, Brittany. What is it?"

  "I'll just give you this over the phone, if it's okay, Mr. Hill. I have a pressing project I simply must get finished this afternoon."

  "Go ahead."

  "I've done a lot of artful dodging today. I'll give you all the gory details later. The bottom line is, I have no proof it was Adam Stern, but it definitely looks like somebody has committed murder."

  "You sound pretty certain."

  She explained how she had placed Stern in Washington at the time of Colonel Bolivar's death. Then she told about tracking down the prescription.

  "Did you find the doctor?" Burke asked.

  "The address was an o
ffice building in Chevy Chase. I found there hasn't been a doctor's office in the building for at least a year. The telephone is no longer in service. I checked with the Montgomery County Medical Society in Rockville. They never heard of a Dr. Morton Hailey."

  Burke drummed his fingers, creating the sound of a racing horse's hooves. His voice had a troubled ring. "I agree it looks like murder, Brittany. But the police would want to know why it couldn't have been the Major who forged the prescription?"

  "Good question. How do we resolve it?"

  "Well, one way would be to take photos of Bolivar and Stern to the pharmacy. See if anybody might recognize one of them. I could try it, but Nate's sending me to Seoul in the morning."

  "What on earth—"

  "He said Jerry was having problems with some key accounts. Nate wants me to conduct an audit and help straighten things out."

  "That doesn't sound like the Jerry I worked for. He always kept a firm hand on everything."

  After he had hung up, Burke recalled what Roddy Rodman had told him about Bryan Janney's death in Guadalajara. He wondered what was on the label of that Dalmane bottle? If only he had the time to check it out, too. But he had a feeling that time was rapidly becoming a commodity in short supply.

  Burke found Lori at the travel agency and told her about Nate's instructions. She was incredulous. And appalled at the short notice. Then, before leaving the office, he put through a call to Jerry Chan's home in Seoul. He caught the branch manager in the midst of breakfast.

  "What's going on, Jerry? Nate says I'm leaving for Korea in the morning, that you're having financial problems and I'm to conduct an audit. That isn't what you told me yesterday."

  Jerry was hesitant. "Well, it's sort of complicated. I'll try to explain when you get here."

  "We're good friends, Jerry. Lay it on the line. What did Nate say to you?"