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

by Chester D. Campbell

  He looked around. The restrooms were on this end of the building. He took the stairs to the second floor, opened the door to the men's room and looked in. The light was off, but he could see a casement window with horizontal panes on the back wall. He went inside and carefully turned the crank until it was open enough to see out.

  As his eyes swept the area behind the building, he noticed a dark object barely visible through the trees on the other side of the old garage. As he stared, he could make out the lines of something, a van, maybe a truck? Re-orienting himself, he realized it would be in the driveway of the small appliance repair shop.

  Nothing had been parked there when they came in.

  Burke hurried back to the office and told his companions what he had seen. Returning with the binoculars, he took another look. Now it became clear that someone was parked at the back of the driveway next door.

  When Burke reported back, Rodman scrambled up from his post at the window. "What are you going to do?"

  "Things still quiet across the street?"

  "Like the night before Christmas."

  Burke rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I'd be afraid to use either of those cars until we can check them out. We might as well forget the rest of it until we can handle this."

  "You think the guy in the driveway is this Max that Murray Bender mentioned?" Roddy asked.

  "Probably. I need some sort of diversion, something to distract him and give me a chance to surprise him."

  Roddy reached over and lifted the sack with the now empty soft drink bottles. "Yuri and I could take these over to that driveway and act like a couple of drunks. We drop the bottles...that'll make a lot of racket...then get into a fight over it."

  Burke turned to Yuri. "Think you can pull it off?"

  He grinned. "I have certainly seen enough drunks in my time."

  "Okay," Burke said. "Keep your guns handy." He had provided Yuri with ammunition for his Rossi and given Roddy the small Beretta. They nodded. "Okay. I'll circle around the building next door and come up behind him. Give me ten minutes from right now, then start your act."

  He slipped out the front door and stood for a moment, looking around. Nothing moved. He heard laughter somewhere up the street. A dog barked in the distance, and off in the other direction rap music was playing on a radio. Moving quickly past the building on the opposite side from the small appliance shop, he turned toward the alley. The ground felt soft as a golf green here, and he caught the pungent odor of freshly cut grass.

  Striding quietly through the short grass to the rear of the building, he went down on one knee and peered cautiously around the corner. This lot had more trees, a dumpster and some outbuildings that offered good concealment. He moved around them in a crouched position, careful to keep the sound of his footsteps to a minimum. He was happy he had worn blue jeans and a dark brown shirt, though he had only anticipated the need to be inconspicuous in a darkened office.

  At the alley, he realized this was where he would be the most vulnerable. Street lights appeared at intervals, and though there was not one near the repair shop driveway, he would be silhouetted against the light behind him. He decided to avoid the alley as long as possible, though it meant moving slower to guard against bumping into something that might create a warning noise.

  He made his way cautiously around the remains of a garbage bag ripped open by dogs, holding his breath against the stench of something worse than rotten. He dodged a large metal drum and a roll of wire fencing that nearly snagged his shirt. He picked his way over a pile of rotting lumber, including one piece that disintegrated into mush as he stepped on it, momentarily throwing him off balance, and finally edged past an empty, thank God, dog house. He hadn't done anything this stupid since his days in the Bureau, he thought with a feeling of irritation. But he couldn't stop now.

  Burke checked his watch when he reached the ramshackle garage. Nine minutes and fifteen seconds had elapsed. He couldn't avoid the alley any longer. Drawing the SIG-Sauer from its holster, he crept carefully behind the garage. At the corner, he released the safety, dropped to the ground, pushed the pistol out in front and eased his head around behind it.

  He froze at the sound of a voice. Then he realized it was someone talking in muted tones. He noted the vehicle was a panel truck, and there were no doubt two people inside.

  There was no time to worry about odds now. He decided to take the passenger and made his move the moment he heard the crash of bottles on the driveway up ahead. He sprang behind the truck, moved around the right side and, keeping his head down, reached for the door handle. It would be an awkward maneuver, but unfortunately he didn't shoot a gun left-handed.

  Roddy and Yuri were creating quite a furor as they cursed and flailed away.

  The window was down in the truck, and a voice just above Burke growled. "Damn drunks! Switch your lights on. See if it'll chase 'em away."

  As the headlights pierced the darkness of the driveway, Burke jerked the door open, causing the dome light to flash on the two occupants of the seat. "Don't move!" he yelled, leveling the SIG-Sauer on the tall, thin man whose large, round eyes widened with surprise.

  The driver already had his hand on the keys in the ignition. He turned the switch and the engine coughed, then began to rumble beneath the hood. The sound startled Burke into momentarily shifting his eyes away from the passenger.

  The short man snatched a 9mm Smith & Wesson from a shoulder holster.

  Burke caught the move and squeezed off two quick shots. The passenger fired at almost the same time, but Burke's first shot had struck his arm, throwing the round off its mark. It only grazed Burke's shoulder. His second shot hit the side of the man's head, which seemed to explode.

  Burke barely dodged the open door as the truck lurched backward into the alley, then swung around and roared off with tires screaming. The door had not closed enough to kill the dome light, and Burke got a glimpse of the driver's thoroughly terrorized, gray-bearded face.

  He heard running feet and turned to see Roddy and Yuri.

  Roddy shined the flashlight at him. "You've been shot!"

  Glancing at his shoulder, Burke saw blood around a tear in his shirt. He also felt a stinging sensation. And he felt awfully lucky. He shoved the gun back into its holster and shrugged. "I'll live."

  "I heard two or three shots," Roddy said. "Did you get him?"

  "Yeah." He could still see the bullet that shattered the gaunt man's head. "I don't believe he'll be taking any more contracts."

  "Shine your light over here," Yuri said, bending down beside them. They saw a small metal box, heavily taped, with a button switch on top covered by a red metal guard. A small antenna was attached to one side.

  "Careful with that," Burke said. "Unless I miss my guess, that's a radio detonation device. Must have fallen out when he jerked around."

  When they checked Burke's car, they found a bomb under the front seat fashioned from C-4 plastic explosive attached to an electronic detonator. A similar device was located under the seat of the Honda. On further examination, they discovered the small tone transmitter that had been attached to Burke's Buick while it was parked at Dulles.

  Roddy rubbed his forehead disconsolately. "This means our lookout is compromised. We'll have to find a new location."

  "Maybe not," Burke said. "That guy was a hired gun. He tracked us down through my car. I don't imagine he's going to get a public funeral. The way that bearded driver looked, he's probably still running. If we're lucky, Stern may not find out what happened for several days yet."

  "What about the gunshots?" Yuri asked. "Somebody may call the police."

  "With all the fireworks going off around here, I doubt that anybody paid any attention. Let's get back to our post."

  "We'll get back there," Roddy said. "You had better go let the doctors look after that shoulder. The handkerchief you put under there is soaked already. Yuri and I can look after things here. We'll let you know if anything happens."

  6 9r />
  The holiday dawned in quiet splendor. A bright sun peeked slowly into the cloudless sky as Washington dozed. Even the tourists appeared to have slept in. It would obviously be a gorgeous day for celebrating, but Burke Hill felt almost lonely driving toward the District. The birds had barely begun venturing out in search of the early worm as he drove Walt Brackin's four-wheel-drive Blazer into the city.

  Lori had been at the Brackins when he arrived late the previous evening with his bloody shoulder. It turned out to be a bit more extensive than he had at first thought. The bone was chipped along with a jagged tear in the skin. She had talked him into resting after Chloe patched him up. But before stretching out on the bed, he had checked with Roddy to be sure all was quiet, then viewed the result of the project his friends had pursued a good part of the day. The pain pill Walt provided relaxed him so thoroughly that he hadn't awakened until after five a.m. Chloe got up and cooked a big breakfast for the troops, which he carried to them in a styrofoam box.

  While Rodman and Shumakov devoured the eggs, sausage, and biscuits, Burke took up the monotonous vigil at the bogus office window.

  Nikolai Romashchuk and his crew of illegals had changed motels after Adam Stern's warning. They were up early also and set out after breakfast in the gray Chevrolet van that had brought them here from Texas. They went on what would have appeared to be a typical Washington sightseeing tour, except they didn't break out cameras and snap away at every stop. Their first objective was to learn the routes the two drivers would take when the operation began.

  Afterward, they took a real tour, driving past the Kennedy Center, through Georgetown, up Rock Creek Parkway and down Massachusetts Avenue along Embassy Row. Romashchuk had served an assignment in Washington several years before and wanted to see how the city had changed. He was impressed mostly by the renovated houses in the historic areas and all of the massive, soaring high rise hotels. His Peruvian charges viewed the American capital with the same wide-eyed wonder as country folk from the nation's hinterlands. Somewhat oddly, perhaps, they seemed to enjoy Washington's beauty and charm on a warm holiday afternoon just as much as the visitors and residents who would be their victims.

  The elements had not treated Minsk so kindly. Menacing dark clouds blanketed the Belarus capital all day. Nightfall brought a slow, drizzling rain that coated the streets and sidewalks with a treacherous glaze. Those inclined to Russian fatalism viewed it as a bad omen for the meeting of commonwealth leaders scheduled the following morning.

  Most of the heads of state had already arrived and were gathered for a pre-summit dinner. They were a highly diverse group, representing a variety of nationalities, cultures and religions, each with its own unique agenda. Even a casual observer had no difficulty understanding the dynamics that had caused the Soviet Union to fragment like a shattered clay pot. Once the protective glue of the Communist Party had softened, then utterly failed, the pieces had fallen in disarray. A few recalcitrants would not join them until morning, just in time for the opening session. Security was tight. The local militia and the Belarus KGB were out in full force, intent on guarding the dignitaries and assuring a peaceful climate for the decisive meeting. Several units of the Belarus military remained on standby in their barracks in case they were needed.

  A group of men with an entirely different agenda rendezvoused at a comfortable dacha on the outskirts of the capital. A baker's dozen, they represented a coalition of civilian, military and former state security officials with a single purpose, to right the perceived wrongs that had been committed back in December of 1991 in the name of so-called "independence." They had witnessed the Soviet Union being destroyed from within. Now they would see it reconstituted in the same fashion. Their plan was not greatly dissimilar to the one V. I. Lenin and his Bolsheviks had used in 1917. And just as Lenin had financed his revolution with Western capital, this group had been bankrolled by leaders of the Council of Lyon. They knew the most significant change from Lenin's era was the emergence of the United States of America as the lone superpower, willing to commit its forces around the globe in support of friendly governments. They had developed a bold scheme to blunt the possibility of American interference with this operation.

  The conspirators, who had chosen an innocuous designation, the New Party Committee, sat around an oval-shaped table lavishly furnished with typical Russian zakuska, snacks such as caviar, blini, cheese, pickles and cold cuts. Bottles of French brandy sat at both ends of the table. The chairman, a short, bald man with cold gray eyes and a talent for cutting to the heart of any matter, began the discussion with a call for General Konstantin Nikolsky to report the status of his troops.

  "The men are at full readiness," he said. A veteran commander who had distinguished himself in Afghanistan, Nikolsky was tall and rugged in appearance, a persuasive speaker. "The officers have been well indoctrinated. They will obey my orders without question. Although they will not understand the ultimate objective, they trust me implicitly. I have assured them they will be on the road back to military respectability."

  "These are the troops being held supposedly to support the militia?" asked a swarthy Muslim from Kazakhstan.

  "Correct. They are heavily armed, including enough armor to assure success. Air units are available to patrol overhead if needed."

  "Are they prepared to move on a moment's notice?" the chairman asked. "The moment General Zakharov confirms that his American operation has been concluded successfully?"

  "Yes. Perhaps General Zakharov can enlighten us on that prospect."

  Zakharov smiled broadly. "I spoke with Major Romashchuk just before coming here. His team of guerrillas is ready to strike. I assure you, when they do, you will witness a panic in the American capital such as has never been seen before. We can expect a complete breakdown of law and order. The government will be paralyzed. Making any move to interfere with our mission here will be the farthest thing from the President's mind. We will be able to act with impunity. Our friends in Moscow and the other capitals are prepared to follow up. Once we start the action, inertia will take over."

  Seated near the center was a bushy-browed Ukrainian who was highly placed in his country's government. He gave the chairman a concerned look. "Are you sure the authorities here have no hint of what we plan?"

  "Hints, perhaps," said the chairman. "But knowledge, no. I talked this morning with both Chairman Latishev and General Borovsky of the Belarus KGB. They are counting on the militia and General Nikolsky's troops to guard against any trouble. Latishev believes there may be attempts to disrupt the proceedings. Borovsky was more tight-lipped, but he apparently suspects something similar. By the time they learn the truth, it will be too late."

  When noon arrived with nothing more exciting than the occasional popping of firecrackers or a booming M80, the surveillance crew across from Advance Security Systems began to suspect this could turn into a mind-numbing marathon stakeout. Burke Hill had participated in a few of those years ago. It could make you feel trapped in a time warp. He called the Brackin home and told Lori to stick with her plans as though nothing had happened, giving everyone the impression that he was still in Seoul.

  Shortly afterward, the cellular phone rang and Karen Rodman asked to speak with her husband. Lori had given her the number, along with a warning to use it only from a pay phone.

  "I'm fine," Roddy assured her, conveniently omitting any mention of the previous night's close call with the car bomb. "Hopefully this will all soon be history. Are Renee and Jim coming for lunch?"

  "They should be over shortly. I left Lila finishing up the potato salad. I've had to preach hard to that girl to keep her off the phone. She'd love to call the newspapers and the TV stations and complain about what's being done to you."

  He shook his head. "Please keep her quiet, Karen. If the news people start probing, the FBI will release word about my being wanted in Mexico. They'll run my picture and every damned cop in this town will be looking for me. Don't say anything to Renee, either. J
ust tell her I couldn't make it back in time. Will Sergeant McGregor be there?"

  "No, he has a rehearsal. We'll see him tonight after the concert."

  Roddy's voice had a forlorn note. "Well, I hope you enjoy it. Wish I could be there with you."

  When he was off the phone, Burke gave him a hesitant grin. "What would you like for your Fourth of July picnic, chicken, fish or burger?"

  Roddy frowned. "Is there a barbeque place around?" That's what he would have eaten at Karen's house.

  "Probably, but I have no idea where it would be. The other three I can find."

  They wound up with crunchy, breaded chunks of fish, french fries and cole slaw. It wouldn't be the most memorable Fourth from the standpoint of the cuisine, but what was yet to come would likely make up for that.

  The closest thing to excitement during the afternoon was a race of sorts along the street out front, featuring two go-carts that were little more than tubular frames with wheels and lawnmower engines. A group of boys, about half white and half black, took turns noisily roaring up and down the street. The competition literally ran out of gas at one point, being delayed while a couple of youths playing "pit crew" headed off with two large gasoline cans.

  It was Roddy's turn at the window. He turned to Burke. "Those kids reminded me of something. I haven't paid any attention to how much gas is left in that Honda. Those boys went down the driveway next door. Is there a service station back that way?"

  "Seems I remember seeing one a couple of blocks over," Burke said. "When Yuri takes the window, you'd better go check, and get some gas if necessary. Walt's Blazer showed half a tank when I was coming over this morning. That should be plenty for me."