"On what charge?"
"Illegally usurping the powers of the Soviet Union. They will announce that Sergei Perchik, as head of the New Party Committee, will serve as temporary chairman of the new Union."
Yuri's jaw sagged. "Prosecutor Perchik?"
"How do you think we knew about your activities, particularly the trip to Brest. You were getting too close to the truth. We were afraid that talkative ex-soldier would foul up our plans."
"Who killed Trishin?"
Romashchuk laughed. "You did. Haven't you heard?"
"You know damn well it was not me." Yuri was straining to keep his temper in check.
"Two of my former KGB colleagues, Maximov and Metreveli. They were part of the team that obtained the weapons from your—"
Romashchuk's voice was abruptly silenced by a blow to the head from a large wrench wielded by Roddy Rodman. He had picked up the tool in the shop area and stuck it in his back pocket, thinking it might come in handy as something to throw should he need to decoy the Major's attention away from Yuri or himself. He hadn't considered that he would get close enough to use it like this. But it seemed the better alternative since he didn't trust the KGB man to react rationally to the small Beretta.
"That was for Elena," Roddy said, his voice flat. He looked down at the body sprawled on the floor. "I don't understand Russian. What was he saying?"
Yuri quickly repeated what he had heard. "I have my own score to settle with this man," he said. "You need to get with Burke and find that dump truck. It must be somewhere around the Capitol. Take the car and go on."
Roddy shook his head. "He should be out of commission for awhile. We can throw him in the back of the car. Come on."
Shumakov was insistent. "You don't have any time to lose. Neither do I. I have to call Belarus, try to find General Borovsky or Chairman Latishev and warn them."
Roddy glanced at the clock. It was 8:20. The concert had been under way for twenty minutes already. No doubt the Peruvians had reached their destination, somewhere in the vicinity of the Capitol. He grabbed the keys Yuri held out. "Okay. Take care of this character and call me on the cellular phone. You can use his van."
Yuri turned to the desk, which supported a panel covered by numerous lights and switches. One was designated "Main Gate," with switch positions labeled "Open" and "Closed."
"I can let you out the gate," he said, pressing the switch to "Open."
71
Romashchuk was breathing, but he was strictly dead weight as Yuri dragged him aside. From the looks of it, Roddy had given him quite a lick. It should keep him quiet while he contacted General Borovsky, Yuri thought. The prudent thing would be to find a place where he could secure the traitor to a chair or post. But he was impatient to get on with the mission he had worked so hard to wrap up these past few weeks. Now that he had answers to the questions that had bedeviled them, Yuri was anxious to warn General Borovsky. Unless action was taken immediately to counter Sergei Perchik's New Party Commmittee, his country was in grave danger.
He pulled Romashchuk's belt off and tied his hands in back. Then he picked up the gun that had fallen to the floor and shoved it in his pocket.
There were two telephones on the desk. Yuri chose one and called for an overseas operator. His briefcase would have had the number, but it was back at the Brackins' home. He asked to be connected with Belarus KGB Headquarters in Minsk. After a few minutes, a night watch officer came on the line.
"I have an urgent message for General Borovsky," Yuri said. "Give me his phone number, or get him on the line for me."
"Who is this?"
"Chief Investigator Yuri Shumakov. I've been working on an investigation for the General. This is urgent. I must speak with him immediately."
"I know who you are. Do you know what time it is? Where the hell are you?"
"Washington, D.C. United States of America."
"Well, my advice is to get your ass over to the Belarus Embassy and turn yourself in. If they think you have something worth talking to the General about, they can call."
"Don't give me that, you imbecile. The information I have is vital to the national security of Belarus. I've been working on an undercover mission directly under General Borovsky. If he finds out you delayed his getting this message, you're in deep trouble. Hurry!"
The officer began to weasel and with a little more cajoling, he transferred the call to the General's private line at home.
Yuri heard a sleepy voice growl, "Borovsky."
"This is Yuri Shumakov in Washington, D.C., General. I just had an encounter with Major Nikolai Romashchuk."
The state security director was suddenly wide awake. "You what?"
"He thought he had me trapped. While he had the upper hand, he told me what they were planning. It's nothing short of a revolution. They intend to take over the CIS meeting in the morning."
The General replied in a skeptical tone. "They won't get far. General Nikolsky has his troops on standby. I have my people everywhere. The militia are out in force."
Yuri informed him that Nikolsky was part of the plot, that Sergei Perchik was the ringleader.
"Romashchuk said that?"
"And a lot more. He has a terrorist operation going on over here, set to take place at any moment. He plans to cause massive panic and confusion to keep the American President from offering help to Belarus." Yuri explained about the Shining Path guerrillas, the plan to fire nerve agent-filled mortar rounds into a crowd that included most of the leading members of the U.S. Congress.
"Where would he get chemical weapons?"
"Remember that grave they dug up in Kiev? The weapons are what they had hidden in it. They were stolen from my brother's outfit in Ukraine back in 1991."
"How do you know they're chemical weapons?"
"If you want confirmation, call Forensic Analyst Selikh with the Minsk militia crime lab. He tested a piece of cloth from the casket and identified traces of a nerve agent. Oh, and Paul Kruszewski from your office tracked down the shipment from Kiev containing the weapons. It was aboard a ship sailing from Gdansk to Mexico. That's where I caught up with Major Romashchuk."
Borovsky sounded hesitant. "Kruszewski told me about that ship, but I never thought...damn, Shumakov, if you're right—"
"I know I'm right, General. I followed the bastard through Mexico and saw his people practice-firing mortars from a truck. I tracked him halfway across the United States. I saw the same kind of truck he plans to use here."
"Did you know that Perchik has been looking under every rock for you?"
"Based on what I learned tonight, I'm not surprised. Now I know who killed Vadim Trishin. It was two former KGB men named Maximov and Metreveli. They were with Romashchuk and General Zakharov when they stole those weapons. The Major admitted he was the one who killed my brother."
General Borovsky hesitated as if debating his options. "I would have to get Latishev's approval to take action against General Nikolsky. As for Prosecutor Perchik, I'm sure the Chairman would believe anything about him. That son of a bitch has been giving both of us hell lately. He practically accused me of assisting in your escape." His voice lightened a bit as he added, "I'll be interested in hearing how you managed that, Shumakov. But this attack you say he's planning there, have you warned the Americans about it?"
"Unfortunately, I am hardly in a position to make any official contacts. As you probably know, I'm on the Interpol wanted list. But I have two American friends who are working on it right now. There isn't much time for them, or us. I urge you—"
The blast of a gunshot nearby reached his ears simultaneously with an explosion of pain. The bullet struck a rib, created havoc with a vital artery and pierced a lung before burying itself in the hard surface of the desk. Yuri dropped the phone, momentarily paralyzed. He squeezed his eyelids shut against the pain. He heard General Borovsky shouting his name but was powerless to reply. It seemed to take all of his effort just to breathe. He had fallen forward with one arm against h
is chest and he felt the blood flowing warm and sticky over his hand. The sensation triggered an odd quirk of memory. He was suddenly transported back to his mother's kitchen as a boy, poking his fingers into the bowl where she was mixing medivnyk, a Ukrainian spiced honey cake, warm, thick and sweet. Then everything went black.
Romashchuk grabbed the phone and demanded in Russian, "Who is this?"
There was a pause, then a voice said, "Major Romashchuk?"
He dropped the instrument onto its cradle with an angry curse. While freeing his hands after regaining consciousness, he had heard Shumakov talking in Russian. Apparently the investigator was attempting to convince someone of what was about to happen. Was it someone at the Belarus Embassy in Washington, he wondered? Would anyone believe a fugitive murderer? Not likely, he thought. But they had obviously been given his name.
Regardless of what Yuri Shumakov had done, he needed to get to Maryland Avenue as quickly as possible. He had to make certain the attack went off as planned. The whole elaborate scheme General Zakharov and his colleagues had worked on for so long hung in the balance.
The blow from the wrench had left the Major with a damnable headache. If it was Rodman who had struck him, he was obviously gone now. A check of the monitors showed the gate wide open and the car missing. He looked at Yuri Shumakov lying face down, blood spreading in a crimson pool across the surface of the desk. He was still breathing, but from the sound of it, he couldn't last long.
"Sweet dreams, Shumakov," he said in a mocking voice. "You should have known I'd carry more than one gun. You have nearly made me late for the 1812 Overture. I'll dedicate the cannon fire to you. It will hide the mortars, but not their sting."
This time Nikolai Romashchuk would leave nothing to chance. He took the pistol and fired another round into the investigator's back.
After locking the disabled Blazer, Hill started walking in the direction he hoped would provide the gas station and telephone he badly needed. The first few blocks brought him through a residential area, with nothing more than a small store that was closed. Since it was not yet dark, people still strolled along the sidewalks. He encountered a Chinese couple and asked directions to a service station. After considerable head-scratching and consultation in Chinese, they confessed they were only visiting. They could not agree on where they might have seen gas available nearby. He finally came across a Jamaican who knew exactly where it was, Mon.
He located the gas pump at a convenience store nearly a mile from where he had left the Blazer. There was a pay phone inside. He consulted the little black notebook in his shirt pocket for the White House switchboard number and the special extension used for National Security Council emergency calls.
"This is Burke Hill," he told the NSC duty staffer. "I worked with Dr. Wharton two years ago in the wrap-up of Operation Hangover. I have a damned urgent message for him."
"I'm not familiar with Hang—"
"It was highly classified," Burke said.
"Most of what we deal with is highly classified. I was going to say I've heard your name. However. Dr. Wharton is out of town. Where could he reach you?"
"I'm at a pay phone near Virginia Avenue. Please tell him it's vital that I talk to him in the next few minutes. I'm trying to avoid a catastrophe."
"Give me your number and I'll see what I can do," the man said, though he didn't sound totally convinced.
Burke had anticipated the National Security Adviser would be out of town, most likely with the Foreign Affairs Roundtable in Colorado. But it was Wharton's job to be on call constantly should the President need him. Surely, he thought, the former college professor wouldn't be in the loop for Romashchuk's operation.
He walked over to the cashier and explained that he had run out of fuel.
"We have plastic gas cans at the end of Aisle 2," the short, chubby woman with frilly blonde hair said, pointing. "They're ten dollars."
Burke would have paid fifty if necessary. He grabbed the can and tossed her a twenty. "I'm going out to fill it up. I'm expecting an important call on that phone over there. Would you answer it for me, please, if it rings before I get back inside?"
She gave him a disapproving frown. "Do I look like a secretary?"
He threw another twenty onto the counter. "Is that enough for five minutes of secretarial time?"
She picked up the bill and shrugged.
The can held a little over two gallons. Burke was back in a minute. The cashier advised him that the phone hadn't rung. But she eyed him curiously as she handed over his change. He hurried over to the telephone and started to take out the small radio to listen for any word from Roddy and Yuri. But when he noticed the cashier still watching with a wary look, he changed his mind. He realized she already harbored grave doubts about him. A radio would likely convince her that he was involved in a drug deal, probably cause her to call the police.
After five interminable minutes, he flinched when the telephone finally rang.
"This is Burke Hill," he said.
"What the hell is going on, Mr. Hill?" Dr. Wharton had a gruff, demanding voice. He was still the same tough taskmaster who could easily intimidate a roomful of political science students. He rarely relaxed and just as rarely spoke in gentle terms.
"I don't have time to go into a lengthy explanation," Burke said, his voice coming in a rush. "Suffice it to say I've encountered an operation run by a former Soviet KGB major. He has a team of terrorists somewhere near the Capitol. They're ready to fire nerve gas mortar shells into the symphony audience. You're the only person I could think of with the power to act quickly enough to stop them."
"Mortar shells with nerve gas? That's damned imaginative, Hill. What have you been drinking?"
"I'm not drunk, doctor. I'm deadly serious and—"
"Why haven't you called the FBI or the Metropolitan Police?"
"I was afraid they wouldn't believe me. I didn't feel I had time to establish my credibility. But I thought you knew me well enough to trust me."
Wharton grunted. "Where did you hear about this supposed attack?"
"From a retired Air Force officer, Colonel Warren Rodman. He saw them train in Mexico and—"
"Do you know who Rodman is?" Wharton asked. "He's the bastard who screwed up Operation Easy Street in Iran. He got himself court-martialed for that. The man suffered a concussion that must have scrambled his brain. He's an alcoholic and now he's wanted for murdering a woman in Guadalajara."
"He recovered from his drinking problem, Dr. Wharton," Burke said. "That murder charge is a mixup. The real murderer—"
"Listen, Hill, I have been warned about Colonel Rodman's delusions. I suggest you take heed as well. The man is practically a basket case. If you know where he is, you'd better contact the FBI. You may be leaving yourself open to prosecution for harboring a fugitive."
Burke heard the line go dead. He felt his hopes dying with it. Bernard Whitehurst and his confederates had done their job well. Those who dared oppose them were painted as unreliable at best and criminally insane at worst. They had effectively shut him off at all of the obvious places he might turn for help. The FBI, the CIA, the White House were all out of reach. He suspected the Metropolitan Police had been warned of the presence of alarmist kooks who saw terrorists hiding under every rock. No one would believe him, and that left Lori and the twins and the Brackins sitting defenselessly in the middle of a doomed crowd. They had a telephone with them, but he had no idea of the number.
He grabbed the gas can and ran out of the store, fighting against a rising sense of panic.
72
When he left the security firm, Roddy Rodman's first thought was to link up with Burke Hill and start searching the Capitol area for the yellow dump truck. He knew they were up against a ticking time bomb. The truck was probably already in place. Its lethal barrage could be fired at any moment. And it would not be easy to locate. Traffic tonight was likely bumper-to-bumper around the Capitol, the Mall and the Washington Monument. With mortars, the t
errorists could be located anywhere within a couple of miles, though he reasoned they would not want to stretch the range too far and risk missing their target.
As he headed for downtown Washington, he keyed the mike on the small radio and called for "Hawk." No answer. He tried twice more with the same result. As he laid the transceiver on the seat beside him, he became aware of a vaguely familiar sound in the distance. He switched off the air conditioner and lowered the window.
It was a helicopter, flying low. He knew immediately why it had caught his attention. The sound was unmistakably that of an MH-53J. He pulled to the curb and stopped, then stuck his head out the window and looked up. There it was, a big, dark green bird cruising southeast a few hundred feet above the treetops. It was headed in the direction of Andrews Air Force Base, located in Maryland a few miles from the District border.
The sight and sound of the chopper triggered an idea that sent Roddy scrambling for the cellular phone. He called information for Base Operations at Andrews, then quickly dialed the number.
"Base Ops, Sergeant Yokley," a deep voice answered.
"This is Colonel Rodman, Sergeant. I'm not far northwest of you. Would that have been Major Schuler in the MH-53J that just went over, headed your way?"
"Yes, sir. He should be on the ramp about now."
"I need to talk to him right away. The moment he comes in, tell him to call Colonel Rodman." He gave the number of Burke's cellular telephone.
A few minutes later, it rang.
"Colonel?"
"Dutch, thanks for calling. I don't have time for a long explanation, but I need you and that Pave Low. Unless we do something in a hurry, literally thousands of people are going to get slaughtered on the Capitol lawn."
"Slaughtered? What are you talking about?"
"There's a team of terrorists about to launch a mortar attack on the symphony concert. They've got nerve agent shells."
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 46