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

by Chester D. Campbell

  "With what you have on him, there has to be a better way, Burke," she said.

  They discussed the possibilities as Walt drove on to the Capital Plaza Hotel.

  77

  Extra security people were on duty at the hotel, carefully screening everyone who came through the entrance. Roddy's sling drew close scrutiny, but since neither he nor Burke looked Latin, they were not detained. Burke stopped at a beverage shop off the lobby, then used a house phone to call Room 333.

  "Hello," snapped a curt Adam Stern. He obviously was not in a pleasant mood.

  Burke disguised his voice. "This is Room Service, Mr. Stern. We're sending up a bottle of champagne that was ordered for you. There's a gift card with it. Just wanted to be sure you were in."

  A few minutes later, he stood in front of Room 333 and knocked. He held the champagne in front to hide his face. Roddy stood to the side, out of view of the peephole.

  The door opened and Stern stepped into the doorway, glancing at Burke, then looking around to see Rodman against the wall. He reached behind his back and produced a semiautomatic pistol, with which he waved to the pair in the hallway.

  "Inside."

  Burke walked in and sat the bottle on a table. "If this is the way you treat all your guests, you must lead a pretty lonely life."

  "I only use this on visitors who lie and come to me under false colors." Stern closed the door. "Up against the wall. You know the drill."

  "We aren't armed," Burke said, but they placed their hands against the wall while Stern patted them down.

  They were in the parlor of a suite, which also included a small wet bar and refrigerator, a large TV tuned to the news and a wooden table with four chairs. Stern waved the gun at the sofa.

  "Sit," he ordered. He aimed the remote at the TV and turned up the sound, then perched on the corner of the table, placing them between him and the television. He kept the gun pointed at their backs. "Let's watch this a moment. It should be instructive."

  The camera showed bodies sprawled grotesquely along the edge of the Capitol lawn as a newsman's voice reported dramatically, "Scores of concert-goers died tonight on the Capitol lawn near Constitution Avenue, apparently victims of a terrorist bomb that showered the area with droplets of a deadly nerve agent. The compound, designed for use in chemical warfare, is believed to have been set off by members of The Shining Path, a Maoist-oriented Peruvian guerrilla group. A caller to the American Embassy in Lima claimed the group was responsible."

  The scene shifted to a harried nurse in an emergency room, a mask dangling around her neck, as the reporter continued. "Police are inclined to agree, considering what happened around the Washington Monument a short time before the Capitol attack."

  The back of one hand brushed an errant lock of blonde hair out of the nurse's perspiring face. "We've had a steady stream of people who have absolutely gone bonkers," she said. "They're in a state of wide-eyed panic. They're apt to take weird, completely irrational actions. Like suddenly stripping off their clothes."

  The scene switched to an ambulance being unloaded. The victim on the stretcher was completely immobilized with straps tightly cinched about his body. "They're getting sedatives, tranquilizers, whatever will calm them down," said a paramedic. "It's really a jungle out there."

  "These scenes were repeated at hospitals all over the District tonight," said the sober-faced anchor as he came on the screen, "after two men, tentatively identified as Shining Path terrorists, drove past the crowd, blowing a cloud of white dust from an exhaust pipe. Called a 'neurotoxin,' the compound attacked the victims' central nervous systems, creating an unreasoned sense of fear. Literally hundreds of people have been treated at the scene and in local hospitals. Several District of Columbia officials are calling on the federal government to mobilize the National Guard to prevent further terrorist acts."

  Stern turned down the volume. "That wasn't the way we expected it to go," he said, a scowl on his face. "What did you think you could accomplish by coming up here?" He moved around to face them.

  "I suppose you've already heard from your cleanup crew," Burke said, arms folded, eyes boring into Stern with a cold stare. "Your scheme to eliminate the congressional leadership didn't work."

  "In the first place, it wasn't my scheme. And secondly, what makes you think it was aimed at eliminating those congressmen?"

  Rodman spoke up. "That's what Major Romashchuk told Yuri Shumakov. It was just before I sneaked up and whacked him over the head with a wrench. He said killing the congressional leadership with the nerve gas would create panic, dissuade the President from sending help to the Commonwealth of Independent States."

  Stern snarled. "For your information, and I don't give a damn if you believe it or not, the bastard lied to me. He never told me about the nerve agent. He only mentioned a neurotoxin, said it would create fear and panic but would wear off after a few days. I wouldn't have approved it if I'd known he planned to use anything lethal."

  Burke gave him a look of disgust. "I'm touched by your concern. You didn't show the same restraint when you hired that Max character to take care of me."

  "Or when you used that drug to fake the suicides of Bryan Janney and Colonel Bolivar," Roddy added.

  Stern's features relaxed into a diabolical smile. "You can't prove any of that. And as for what happened tonight, the Shining Path has already taken credit for it. No evidence exists of any mortars or chemical shells. No dump truck or former KGB major."

  "That was impressive," Burke admitted. "How did they get there so damned fast?"

  "They are employed by an associate of mine. I had him standing by just in case anything should go wrong. Now it will be my pleasure to have the 'cleanup crew,' as you chose to call them, complete the job. They will be here shortly to eliminate all evidence of you and your troublesome theories."

  Burke leaned back and shook his head. "I wouldn't advise that, Mr. Stern. If you know of a guardian angel, you'd do well to assign him to look after Roddy and me."

  "Tell me another joke, Hill. You're as good as dead."

  "If I am, then you're headed for prison. Maybe the electric chair. I have every bit of evidence that's needed to prove you murdered Lt. Col. Juan Bolivar. Hotel records showing you were in Washington the night he died, and left the next morning. Videotape of the pharmacist identifying your photograph as the man who posed as Juan Bolivar and bought Dalmane pills. Videotape of the leasing agent in Silver Spring confirming that no Dr. Morton Hailey ever had an office at that address. Phone company records showing the telephone number on the prescription pad was active only during the month of Bolivar's death. And a retiree from the Pentagon to whom the Colonel confessed just before he died, told the whole bloody story of Roddy's frame-up. I don't think there's a jury in the country who wouldn't convict you and levy the maximum sentence."

  Adam Stern sat there for a moment as cold and unyielding as a block of granite, his eyes chips of blue ice, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "You'll never get it to the right people."

  "Want to bet your life on it? Everything is sealed and in the hands of a lawyer," Burke said. That was a bit of an exaggeration, but it would be true as quickly as Lori could deliver the package to the lawyer. "He has been instructed that should anything happen to me or any of my family, or to Roddy or any of his family, copies will be sent to the local district attorney, the chief of homicide in the Metropolitan Police and an editor at The Washington Post. I've added a note that the Guadalajara police can probably duplicate the evidence in the case of Bryan Janney."

  Stern walked over to the table, grabbed one of the chairs, spun it around and sat in it backward, resting his chin on the high back. He held the gun up, flexing his wrist back and forth like a nervous twitch. "So you think I'll simply let you walk out of here?"

  "No. I think you'll get on that phone and call your boss. I want to talk to him."

  "Laurence Coyne?"

  "The big boss. Bernard Whitehurst. Have you told him what happened to the grand s
trategy tonight?"

  "He knew nothing about what was planned."

  "You're probably right about that. It's called 'deniability,' isn't it? But Romashchuk confirmed the Roundtable leadership helped bankroll his operation, as well as what was taking place in Minsk." Burke's voice hardened. "Get Whitehurst on the phone."

  Stern hesitated at first, hatred filling his eyes, but finally yielded and placed the call.

  Burke took the phone. "Burke Hill, Mr. Whitehurst. I trust your meeting has been going well?"

  "Very well, thank you," the banker said in a syrupy voice. "I'm surprised to hear you are back in Washington. Nathaniel told me you were taking care of business in Korea."

  "I'm afraid I found things a bit more pressing in Washington. Mr. Stern tells me you knew nothing about what Major Romashchuk had planned here tonight. I'll accept that you didn't know the details, only that something disruptive would take place."

  "I'm afraid I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr. Hill."

  "On the contrary, I'm quite certain you do. That's why all of the Roundtable bigwigs are out in Colorado, out of harm's way and safe from any complicity in the deal. And that's why Nate suddenly ordered me to fly to Seoul."

  "That's preposterous!"

  "Oh, is it? Well, let me tell you what I've compiled on your Mr. Adam Stern." He repeated what he had told "the enforcer" about the evidence he had placed in the hands of an attorney. "Colonel Rodman can testify that Stern met with Major Romashchuk in Mexico. And Señora Elena Castillo Quintero, she's the one Romashchuk murdered and left Roddy to take the blame for, she told him that her father's old friend in the Council of Lyon, one of your comrades, asked her to spy on him for the Major. I also have photographs, among others, of Stern and Romashchuk with the blue minivan at Advanced Security Systems. I'd say we can make a pretty good case for duplicity by leaders of the Foreign Affairs Roundtable."

  "What is this, some kind of blackmail attempt?"

  "I don't trust your man, Stern. I want to be sure nothing happens to Colonel Rodman or myself, or our families."

  "Are you suggesting that I guarantee your safety?"

  Burke smiled. "That's not bad for a start. But there's more. I want General Philip Patton out and Colonel Rodman's case re-opened. Patton was the bastard who screwed up that Iranian operation. Roddy should be exonerated. I don't care how they manage it. I'm sure your friends can think of something."

  "General Patton has about outlived his usefulness anyway," Whitehurst replied calmly. "That is your bargain?"

  To this man, thought Burke, people, economies, governments, everything was reduced to little more than pieces on a game board, to be bargained over or discarded, depending upon their usefulness, or lack of it, at the moment. He shook his head. "Sorry, I'm not finished. I don't want any action taken against Major Peter Schuler, who flew us in his helicopter tonight. He was Roddy's copilot in Iran. I also want Yuri Shumakov's body sent back to his family in Belarus, and I want Brad Pickens to convince the Mexicans that Roddy was not the one who killed Elena Castillo Quintero."

  "Are you quite finished?" The edge to Whitehurst's voice indicated he had heard about enough.

  "Yes."

  "Well, it is customary for the blackmailer to hand over the incriminating photographs when his demands have been met. I will expect your evidence to be delivered to my office."

  "The key phrase there, Mr. Whitehurst, is 'when the demands have been met.' This is a long-term proposition. I'll be happy to send you a copy, but the originals remain with the attorney."

  There was a long pause, indicative that Bernard Whitehurst was attempting to find an escape valve that would release him from this dilemma. Obviously, he failed. "All right, Hill. You win this round. Put Adam Stern back on the line."

  "Yes, sir. But first, I have one other request. Tell Nate Highsmith he'll have my resignation on his desk in the morning."

  7 8

  On their way down in the elevator, Roddy Rodman shook his head, appearing still in a state of shock. "Why didn't you just turn Stern over to the cops?" he asked. "Out of circulation, he couldn't have bothered your family."

  "You'd think not," Burke said. "But a guy like that has very long arms. I wouldn't trust him in jail or anywhere else. Anyway, that wouldn't have helped you or Dutch, or Yuri's family. You all deserve a break in this."

  When they reached the lobby, he headed for the telephone alcove. "I have one more call to make before we leave here."

  Belatedly he had thought of someone else atop the power structure who was in a position to get things done. It was Tilman Suskind, the President's Chief of Staff. He was a quick-witted, acid-tongued Missourian Burke had met during the wrap-up of the Hangover operation. That had been two years ago, back when the administration was new and the White House staff had not yet become completely blase about strolling the historic corridors of power. Tilman was a straight-shooter then, and he hadn't changed since. Burke knew he was not a member of the FAR.

  "Thanks for talking to me," Burke said. "I know there must be a hundred people after your ear right now."

  "The ear I can handle. It's the ones after my ass I can do without."

  "Well, I've got some information about what happened tonight that the President needs to know."

  "You talking about this nerve agent and panic gas business with the Shining Path idiots?"

  "Yeah."

  "The District wants us to call out the National Guard. The media are demanding we put the Army out in the streets. The congressional leaders are demanding FBI protection. They want us to seal Washington off to prevent another attack. Talk about your panic."

  "I don't think there will be any more attacks. This isn't at all what it appears to be."

  "Oh? Then what the hell is it?"

  "A ruse. An effort to immobilize us while a bunch of hardliners stage a coup to take over the Commonwealth of Independent States."

  "The hell you say. If that's so, why hasn't Kingsley Marshall warned us about it? What's wrong with his high-powered brain trust out at Langley, or are you people fronting for him on this?"

  "I haven't had a chance to talk to the Director," Burke said. That was true. He didn't add that he hadn't made the attempt. "I suppose he's out in Colorado with the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. Can I talk to the President?"

  "Somebody had better tell him what's going on. The NSC doesn't appear to know any more than what they've heard on the news. The FBI got their information from the Metropolitan Police. Will Highsmith be with you?"

  "No. He's also in Colorado."

  "Damn near everybody is in Colorado. I just talked to Dr. Wharton and told him to get his ass back here. The President just flew in from Camp David. The Secret Service wanted him to stay there, where it would be safer. He insisted he should be at the White House. Can you be here in twenty minutes?"

  "Sure. I'd like to bring Colonel Rodman with me. He's retired Air Force. He's been working with me on this."

  "Okay, Hill. Twenty minutes."

  The President sat behind the big oak desk in the Oval Office, a frown tugging at the corners of eyes the color of brown sugar. But there was no sweetness in them tonight. A tall, husky man with rapidly graying hair, he had won the election on the strength of a pledge to return the government to the people. Once he got in office, however, he had found that no simple task. All the advisers said he needed experienced people to get things done in Washington. Those experienced people all had backgrounds in the establishment. He soon found himself a captive of the same circle of "wise men" who had been in control for years. Midway through his term, he had about decided upon a course that, if successful, could ease out some of the old insiders and bring in new people he trusted, people who truly thought the way he did. Independently.

  When he received the first fragmentary reports of what had happened in the capital tonight, he feared that it might weaken his hand. What kind of government was he running if a band of Peruvian terrorists could come in and cause so much turmoi
l? He was anxious to know the real story, which Tilman Suskind had promised he would get from Burke Hill. The President's head was cocked slightly to the left as he faced his visitors. It was a habit he had acquired over the years when receiving unwelcome news. What he had just heard certainly fell into that category.

  "You're telling me these terrorists, armed with nerve gas and neurotoxins, were part of an effort to disrupt our government, to preclude our intervention on behalf of the CIS?"

  "Yes, sir," Burke said with a nod. "There were five Peruvians, led by a former KGB major. He was part of the conspiracy in the former Soviet republics. Two of them spread the neurotoxin. The others were armed with three mortars and chemical shells. They managed to fire one round into the symphony audience before we could stop them."

  "Before you could stop them? How?"

  Burke told him about the Air Force helicopter with tear gas grenades and his and Roddy's encounter with the people in the dump truck.

  The President leaned forward on his desk. "How come Dr. Wharton's people haven't mentioned anything about this?"

  "They didn't know. The police were not involved. And I can't explain what happened when it was over." He told about the "cleanup crew" that had appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly with all the evidence, including the body of Major Nikolai Romashchuk.

  "That sounds too much like a CIA operation," the President said, even more deeply troubled.

  Burke shook his head. "I don't think so. Their leader may have been former CIA or Special Forces. But I'm inclined to believe they were a renegade group, maybe hired by the ex-Soviets who were behind the plot."

  "How did you find out about the CIS-Soviet connection?"

  "I'll let Colonel Rodman explain. He was more involved in that part of it."