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

by Chester D. Campbell

"It'll run into some bucks," cautioned Vuong.

  "This client is willing to pay," said Thach. "And it may open some interesting avenues for future cooperation."

  The flight from Dulles landed in San Francisco about ten minutes early. As soon as it came to a stop at the jetway, Burke Hill pulled his bulging carry-on bag from under the seat in front of him, grabbed his briefcase and slipped into the aisle. He appeared to have taken Nate Highsmith's advice to pack lightly and buy some new outfits when he arrived in Seoul. He had no checked baggage.

  The plane was nearly full. Though the holiday was not until Tuesday, people who planned to take Monday off had started early for a four-day weekend. Glancing at his watch as the passengers edged slowly toward the door, he noted that he still had more than thirty minutes before boarding time for the flight to Seoul. Plenty of time to check in with Lori and find out if she had heard anything from Roddy Rodman. As he neared the exit into the gate area, he saw the usual crowd of nervous relatives peering about, hoping the next face would be that of a wife or husband, Uncle Joe or Aunt Matilda. But he caught one pair of eyes locking onto his and knew its owner was no long, lost relative. He was not surprised a few moments later when a voice beside him said, "Mr. Hill?"

  The man appeared to be in his thirties, neatly dressed, clean All-American look. FBI was Burke's first thought. Normally he didn't worry about his son's safety, although he was well aware of the risks the young agent constantly faced. He was supposed to have left on his freebie trip this morning, but anything could have happened before that.

  "Is Cliff okay?" he said, frowning.

  "Pardon?" The young man stared at him wide-eyed.

  Burke smiled. "Sorry. Obviously that's not why you're here."

  The man held up his ID folder. "I'm Special Agent Ron Blevins, FBI.Who is Cliff?"

  "My son, Cliff Walters. He's a special agent in the Philadelphia Field Office."

  "You knew who I was?"

  "Not who...what. I also spent a number of years in the Bureau."

  "That's right. Mr. McNaughton mentioned that."

  "Deputy Assistant Director McNaughton?"

  "Yes, sir. I know you have a flight to catch shortly, but I need to ask you a few questions."

  Burke shrugged and looked around, finding a quiet spot just outside the waiting area. "If it won't take long, we can stand over there," he said, pointing.

  As Burke leaned against a post, Blevins took out a small note pad, then looked up and grinned. "Cliff Walters. Yeah, didn't I read where he got a citation recently?"

  Burke nodded. "Would you believe they gave him a trip to an Idaho resort?" He glanced back at his watch. "We'd better get on with it, Mr. Blevins. I don't have long."

  "Sure. Sorry. I understand you flew back from Mexico City a couple of days ago on your company's plane."

  "That's right."

  "There were two other passengers–"

  "Warren Rodman and Ivan Netto," Burke said, taking the initiative to show he had nothing to hide. He had already prepared what he would say, which was mostly true. "They were a couple of businessmen I met in the lounge at my hotel. When I told them I was getting ready to head back to Washington, it seems that's where they were going, too. With an empty Learjet picking me up, I asked if they'd like a ride. They jumped at the opportunity." He frowned suddenly. "What's the Bureau's interest in them?"

  Blevins ignored the question. "They flew all the way to Washington with you?"

  "Right. I had my car at the airport. They were going to Alexandria, so I detoured down there on my way home."

  "Where did you let them out?"

  Burke gave him the name of the motel. "Now will you tell me what this is all about?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Hill, but I honestly don't have any details. Mr. McNaughton told me what to ask you. He just said the Bureau wanted to find Rodman and Netto, whose real name is Shumakov. That's all he would tell me."

  Burke frowned. "I know where you're coming from. Just do what we tell you and don't ask questions. Have I given you what you need?"

  "Yes, sir. Thank you."

  Burke glanced again at his watch. "Well, I'd really better get moving."

  He hurried out to the main concourse and strode rapidly along the moving walkway. He glanced back and saw Agent Blevins going in the opposite direction. He felt rather good about his performance. Hopefully that would keep them at bay for awhile. Before heading to the check-in counter, he put his carry-on bag in a locker and stopped at a pay phone to call Lori.

  After telling her about his questioning by the young FBI agent, he asked what she had heard from Rodman and Shumakov.

  "Not good news, I'm afraid."

  "What happened?"

  "They think the Major spotted them in Memphis."

  "Damn! How?"

  She told him about the incident at McDonald's.

  "Are they sure he recognized them?"

  "Not absolutely. But Roddy said it would be a miracle if he hadn't."

  "What did Romashchuk do then?"

  "He stopped at another fast food place and went in. They stayed clear of it, so they don't know if he used the phone or not."

  Burke had no doubts. If Romashchuk saw them, he had called Adam Stern. Probably asked for reinforcements. Burke had no idea what sort of resources Stern would have at his disposal, but he felt certain there would be some kind of adverse reaction.

  "Have you heard any more from Roddy since then?"

  "He called a short while ago from somewhere between Memphis and Nashville. They're still heading east on I-40. He said the van was moving along within the speed limit, but the Major wasn't dragging his feet."

  "I don't like the sound of this. When you hear from him again, tell them to be damned careful. Be on the lookout for anything the slightest bit out of the ordinary."

  "I will. Oh, and Burke, I thought of something I forgot to ask you last night. When are they going to send someone to talk to Brenda about that bogus waiter?"

  Burke rumpled his brow. The security chief had promised to get someone onto it right away. "You mean nobody has been there yet?"

  "Exactly. I called Miss Dolly at the caterer. She hasn't been questioned either."

  What the hell was going on here? They should have been able to track the guy down by now. "I've got a few more minutes before time for the flight. I think I'll give Peterson a call."

  Worldwide Communications Consultants had a weekend watch officer who kept up with the locations of key individuals. He punched in the number and asked where Peterson could be reached.

  "This is Burke Hill," he said in an obviously unhappy tone when the security man answered. "When is somebody going to start tracking down the damned character who bugged my telephone?"

  There was a pause, then Peterson replied, "You and the Chief had better get together on this. I thought you knew he told me to hold up on that investigation."

  "He what?"

  "It was the afternoon after you talked to me, when he got back from New York. He said something had come up that might make it unnecessary, to hold off until I heard from him."

  Now Burke was really confused. That morning Nate had been all for getting right to the bottom of it. He wanted to know. Keep him posted, he said. But as soon as he'd returned from New York...a flag suddenly went up. The meeting with Bernard Whitehurst. Nate had canceled the bug inquiry, then gave his little speech indicating he knew Burke was aware of something that involved Adam Stern and the Roundtable. Had the information come from Whitehurst? Had Whitehurst, or Stern, hired someone to bug his house? He thought about that conversation with Lori the morning he returned from Mexico, while they were in the family room. Just enough to tell a listener he believed the Roundtable was involved in something shady in Mexico. Then he realized somebody would have also listened in on the phone call to Lori the night before, when they had plotted the excuse about the twins' illness.

  It all began to make sense now. Stern...Whitehurst...Nate...they were all apparently into this
up to their eye teeth. And by now, or very shortly, Assistant Director McNaughton, and by extension Director Bradford Pickens, would know that he had deposited Rodman and Shumakov in Alexandria.

  He hurried over to the airline counter. With no baggage to check, it was just a matter of checking his ticket. Then he headed for the gate area and eased his way through the crowd. They had formed a rather loose-jointed line in front of the gate, and he managed to camp in a spot fairly near the front. Listening to the conversations around him, he determined there was a family group of five or six people not far behind him. He smiled to himself. It was just what he needed.

  When the boarding call sounded, the line firmed up and began to shuffle ahead. As the passengers gave up their tickets, they moved in singles or knots of twos and threes into the corridor of the jetway. Burke handed his ticket to a smiling attendant whose mouth was operating on automatic with "have a nice flight."

  He took a step forward, then to the right, paused and looked into his briefcase as though searching for something. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the family group moved up and gathered around the ticket agent. As soon as he was sure the attendant's attention was distracted, he turned suddenly and walked back out into the waiting area as though looking for something he had lost. He didn't stop until he was all the way out to where the lockers were located. Now, if they didn't get hung up on a passenger count, he would be officially on his way to Korea.

  He reclaimed his carry-on and headed for the American Airlines ticket counter.

  Nashville, Tennessee

  63

  It was around one o'clock when the gray Chevrolet van towing the U-Haul pulled off the interstate at the Donelson Pike exit on the east side of Nashville. Yuri Shumakov followed in the exit lane, keeping his eye on the van as it reached the top of the hill, paused, then turned left. Yuri accelerated the Caprice to get back into a position to see the Major's vehicle. When he turned onto Donelson Pike, he saw the van up ahead slowing at a row of fast food outlets. It turned in at the second restaurant, so Yuri pulled into the first one.

  "Go get us some hamburgers," Roddy said with little enthusiasm. He was getting tired of the menu. "I'll take the wheel. Give you a horn blast if necessary."

  It was the pattern they had followed whenever they had the opportunity. The one not driving would buy the sandwiches, while the other waited behind the wheel, keeping an eye on the van. Roddy took his eye off it for a moment, though, looking to the east, where the sky was turning darker as the clouds thickened. They had driven in sunshine most of the way from Memphis. During the last half-hour, conditions had changed significantly. Tall, black-bottomed cumulonimbus clouds were building to the east. It was not a sight you wanted to stare in the face if you were piloting a helicopter. Fortunately, he was on the ground this time, but he knew they faced some messy weather ahead. It would require closing in on the van to keep it in sight.

  This was an area Roddy had known well in the past. Though he hadn't been through Nashville in several years, he had traveled up I-40 toward Knoxville and the Great Smoky Mountains enough times to know the way blindfolded, as he had told Yuri. Karen's father had served several churches in Middle Tennessee before his retirement, and the Rodman family had visited the area on many occasions, usually journeying on to the east for a few days in the mountains.

  While he waited for Yuri, Roddy picked up the portable phone and dialed Lori Hill's number in Falls Church, Virginia.

  "We're in Nashville, still headed east," he told her when she came on the line.

  "Burke called from San Francisco a couple of hours ago. The FBI had questioned him." She explained what had happened at the airport, and she passed along Burke's warning.

  Roddy thought of calling Karen, but she would most likely be at the dress shop getting things ready for the opening. He frowned at the thought that he was letting her down again. He should be there to help.

  Yuri came back a few minutes later, and they sat eating their sandwiches while they waited for the van to get underway. Roddy told him about his conversation with Lori.

  "Does Burke think the FBI will be coming after us?" Yuri asked.

  "I don't know, but Lori doesn't think so. If Major Romashchuk is operating under somebody's protection, they would try to hold the FBI off of us to keep him from being compromised. At least that's her theory."

  At that moment, the Peruvians and the Major strolled out of the restaurant next door, looking well fed and picking their teeth. Roddy followed as the van turned back toward the interstate and continued eastward. As they cruised along at sixty, he glanced up occasionally at the churning clouds and noted that the afternoon was beginning to resemble early evening. Headlights burning on vehicles coming from the east warned of what lay ahead. Roddy was hardly surprised when, about an hour out of Nashville, raindrops began to splatter on the windshield. Staring into the gloom ahead, he saw rain blowing across the highway, coming down at an angle like sheets billowed out from a country clothesline.

  They were headed up the mountain now. The van slowed, apparently to avoid the possibility of a skid. At the top of the long grade, the highway leveled off, then continued its meandering course along the rolling terrain of the Cumberland Plateau. Vast hardwood forests flanked the road. With black clouds hovering above and the dark shapes of the trees on either side, it gave Roddy the sensation of driving through a tunnel.

  The downpour slackened a time or two, but brilliant flashes of lightning stabbed at the nearby hills, loud rumbles of thunder following quickly like deep-voiced protests from the forest. Clearly the storm had much of its fury left. Stiff gusts of wind broadsided the car. More often than not Roddy found himself clutching the steering wheel tightly as he struggled to keep on course with the van in view. He was so intent on what was taking place up ahead that he failed to notice the truck that had gradually closed in from the rear, then settled down to match his speed.

  They had just passed the Westel Road exit and were heading around a curve near the sign marking the Eastern Time Zone boundary when Yuri spoke up.

  "That truck behind us keeps getting closer. I hope he has good brakes."

  "An eighteen-wheeler?"

  The rain had picked up again and Yuri squinted as he stared out the rear window. The headlights were distracting, but he could still see the outlines of the truck in the gloom. "No, it isn't a trailer-type. Smaller. Part of the back end comes up over the top of the front."

  "Over the cab, you mean?"

  "Yes. Over the cab."

  Roddy glanced in the mirror and saw the headlights swing to the left. "We're probably going too fast, and that idiot's about to pass us. I hope he doesn't pull in front and block my view. There's an exit at the bottom of this mountain."

  They had started down what the truckers called "Rockwood Mountain." Over most of the steep grade, the westbound lane, going uphill, had been hewn out of the rocky face somewhat higher. Though it had been a few years, Roddy well remembered the magnificent view of the valley off to the right, where the town of Rockwood nestled hundreds of feet below. In clear weather, you could see the blue waters of TVA's Watts Bar Lake several miles to the south.

  Gripping the wheel tightly, Roddy saw the truck pull even with him. Though not as big as a long-distance hauler, it was large enough for a local mover. It was painted a solid gray, with no identification on the side. As the truck slowly crept ahead, it began to wander toward the righthand lane.

  Roddy blew his horn and edged near the shoulder of the road. "The idiot's getting into my damned lane," he said.

  But the truck kept pressing closer. Then he looked up at the passenger-side window and saw a grinning Oriental face and a hand waving "bye-bye." The sudden realization of what was happening kicked his heart into overdrive.

  "They're trying to run us off the road!"

  He reacted by shifting his foot to the brake, but caught himself just before jamming it. If he had, he knew, they would be skidding all over the highway. Then the headlig
hts reflected off an exit sign for "Airport Road," and he realized the low mound of stone on the right would soon disappear as the highway reached a point where the view was not unlike that of staring over the precipice of a waterfall.

  As soon as he had yelled, he got a fleeting glimpse of Yuri diving into the back seat. But he didn't have time to worry about anything but that damnable gray hulk crowding him onto the shoulder. He put just enough pressure on the brake pedal to gradually slow the car without locking the wheels. He wished to hell they had gotten a model with anti-lock brakes. They were not slowing quickly enough.

  His heart nearly stopped as he spotted the curve ahead. He definitely knew where he was now. It was a turn to the left with nothing beyond the narrow shoulder on the right but a low guard rail and a drop of two hundred feet or more down the hillside.

  Then he heard Yuri yell from the back seat, "Lower the window!"

  It was such an urgent command that he instantly jammed his hand against the armrest and pressed the down window button. He had used it so many times that the movement was almost reflexive.

  The rain struck his face with a stinging chill as the window moved lower. He gritted his teeth, intent only on that curve looming ahead and the front of the truck, which had just banged against his fender with a sickening, metallic clunk.

  The explosion that followed was about the God-awfulest sound he had ever heard. It occurred just behind his head. He would have risen off the seat but for the restraint of his seatbelt harness. He knew what it was when he saw the hole and the spiderweb pattern of broken glass appear in the window of the truck. Yuri fired two more quick shots and the truck veered suddenly to the left. He was leaning against the front seat now, pushing the pistol through the window beside Roddy. As the front wheel came into view, he blasted the tire.

  The driver completely lost control. He attempted to straighten out, but the blown tire caused him to turn too far and go into a skid off to the right.

  His heart pounding, Roddy fought to maintain control. He had slowed sufficiently to let the truck move ahead. He turned the wheel just enough to ease to the left as the truck slid in front of him, spinning halfway around. He passed it on the left, barely missing the swinging rear end, then saw the truck broadside the guardrail and topple into the chasm.