"Good luck, friend."
Yuri sat at his desk and stared at the photos of the former KGB officers, but nothing registered in his mind except the ghastly news that Oleg Kovalenko had related. It was ridiculous, and yet it was completely believable. Obviously the anonymous caller had set him up. Who could have done it, and why? Did someone want him out of the way? He didn't know anyone in Brest other than Vadim Trishin.
And then he remembered the black Chaika with the two men in front he had spotted at the park. They had probably been at the vacuum cleaner factory and at the restaurant. What he had dismissed as absurd now appeared something quite different. They had been tailing him, perhaps all the way from Minsk. He realized now that he had not thought to look for them as he and Trishin had walked back to the apartment. If they had seen him leave for the fortress, they could easily have followed Trishin inside and killed him. But why?
He became suddenly conscious again of the photographs on his desk. Were these two involved somehow? Yuri knew that he could have stirred some waves with his three-day trip to Kiev. What if the militia captain who "loaned" his uniform had not done it so innocently as he claimed? He could have learned that a Minsk investigator was muddying the waters. If this was really a widespread conspiracy, as Borovsky feared, it could have marked him as someone to watch.
Following that line of reasoning, he soon came up with a motive for Vadim Trishin's murder. If the men tailing him assumed he had gone to Brest in pursuit of information regarding Major Romashchuk, they could have questioned Trishin to find out what he knew. Then they killed him, both to shut him up and to have a method of getting Chief Investigator Shumakov off their backs. Yuri knew it would be better than simply eliminating him. He would not only be out of the way but whatever he had turned up so far might tend to be suspect.
He realized that selling this possibility to the Brest prosecutor was likely the only defense he could mount to a highly circumstantial, but seemingly airtight, charge of murder. Then it occurred to him that he could not explain any of this without divulging state secrets that he had been forbidden to discuss with anyone but General Borovsky.
That left only one option. He had to get to the General before the Brest militia and convince him that a leak had developed in their security, that he was being framed for a murder he did not commit. He hurried down the hall to Borovsky's office, only to learn that the director was out again. He wasn't expected to return until late afternoon.
Back at his desk, Yuri thought of Larisa. He had to tell her also. He didn't want her hearing it from anyone else. The detective had been gathering evidence in Kiev this morning. Probably someone from Brest was already on the way to Minsk.
Larisa had been told two visitors were awaiting her in a small conference room near the hospital administrator's office. She had no idea who it could be. When she entered the room, she found two men seated at one end of a long, oval-shaped table. They stood and turned toward her. They were unsmiling, dressed in conservative business suits, their watchful eyes following her like two hawks perched on a fence rail. She shuddered at the chill they gave to the room.
"You are the wife of Yuri Danilovich Shumakov?" one of them asked. He was about Yuri's size, with a disagreeably testy voice.
"Yes." She frowned. Had Yuri been in an accident? Had he been shot? These two had the flinty look of bearers of bad tidings.
"Please sit down. We're from the Brest Militia. My name is Moroz. This is my partner, Olenev."
The partner, stocky with thinning black hair, bobbed his head silently.
"From Brest?" she said, feeling a bit confused. "What do you want with me?"
"Just a few questions, please. Your husband made a trip to Brest last Friday."
It wasn't a question. She nodded.
"Do you recall what time he returned?"
She arched a finely drawn eyebrow. "It was late in the evening. Around nine, I believe. Why?"
"We'll get to that in a moment. Did he act unusual in any way when he arrived home? Did he talk about what he had been doing?"
Her anxiety was growing. Not knowing the motive behind these questions, she spoke hesitantly. But she never entertained a lie. It was not her nature. "No, he didn't talk much, had very little to say. He was tired, worn out from the trip." She shrugged. "He didn't really feel like eating and went straight to bed."
"Something was troubling him?"
She remembered how worried she had been about him that night. "Very much so." Then she stared with frightened eyes, her voice a wistful plea. "Tell me what this is all about, please. Has something happened to Yuri? Is he all right?"
She had provided all the confirmation the militiamen needed, and for the first time Moroz showed evidence of emotion as he replied, "I regret to inform you, ma'am, but your husband faces a charge of premeditated homicide."
"Yuri?" she gasped. "Murder?"
"Of one Vadim Trishin, a resident of the City of Brest."
When he called the hospital, Yuri was told that Larisa had been summoned to the administrator's office but should be back at her post shortly. He asked that she return his call as soon as possible.
She called back about five minutes later. He could sense the tears in her voice.
"Yuri, what have you done?"
His heart sank as he realized what lay behind the summons to the administrator's office.
"Have you talked to someone from Brest?" he asked.
"Yes. Two militiamen. Detectives, I suppose. They said—"
"Don't believe them, Larisa. I didn't do it. Vadim Trishin was very much alive when I left him in front of his apartment."
"Then why were you so upset when you came home? You wouldn't talk...you couldn't eat..."
"Did you tell them that?"
"Yes. They asked if you acted strange, if you were upset. You were, Yuri."
He felt the hole he was in sinking a little deeper, the noose pulling tighter about his neck. "You've got to believe me, Larisa. I can't explain it all now, but I received some depressing information from Vadim. I knew that Anatoli's reputation could be smeared if I pursued my investigation any further. But now it's tied in too closely with the situation I'm looking into for General Borovsky. I couldn't see any way out of it."
She gave a long sigh, then said, "I couldn't believe you would kill anyone except in self-defense. But they were so...what are you going to do?"
"Did the detectives say they planned to arrest me?"
"They said you faced a charge of premeditated homicide."
"That means they're probably on the way here now. Oleg Kovalenko called from Kiev and said a detective had questioned him. He found out that someone anonymously tipped the militia that I was the likely culprit. I've been set up, Larisa. I wanted to explain things to General Borovsky and try to get his help, but he isn't here. The only chance I've got is to prove who killed Trishin. I can't do that if I'm sitting in a jail in Brest."
"Then what can you do?"
"Run, I guess. Hide. Until I can work this thing out."
"Where will you go?"
"I don't know. But I'll call you when I can. And, Larisa, don't let anyone tell the boys their father is a murderer. Tell them I love them. And I love you."
"I love you, too, Yuri. Please be careful."
He hung up the phone and glanced at his watch. He didn't have any time to waste. If they were coming to arrest him, they would probably stop and pick up somebody from the local militia first.
The phone rang and he lifted it hesitantly. Instead of giving his name as usual, he answered with a soft, "Hello."
"This is Selikh, your favorite forensic technician," said a jovial voice. "When you said exotic, you were not just kidding. We're both lucky that little piece of cloth contained only the merest trace of the compound I found, or we'd both be candidates for that casket it came out of."
Yuri shuddered. He hadn't thought of that possibility. "Can I take a guess?"
"Be my guest."
"A nerve g
as agent?"
There was a new admiration in Selikh's voice. "I knew you were sharp, Chief Investigator Shumakov, but you surprise me. You're right. It's an organophosphorous compound, probably developed at the C/B warfare labs near Kharkov in Ukraine. It is likely the most deadly nerve agent in the inventory."
"Really?"
"Yes. While working on my graduate degree, I participated in a project involving chemical weapons. Some of my classmates were assigned to Kharkov. If you're interested in the details on this cloth sample, I discovered—"
"Thanks, Selikh, but I'm in a bit of a rush right now." He was not the least bit interested. Organic chemistry was completely beyond him. "Do you have any idea if what you found, that minute amount, could have leaked out from something like a chemical mortar shell?"
"Perhaps if it was old and not handled properly, I'd say that's a possibility."
"Would there be a danger of additional leakage now?"
"I'm really not an expert on military munitions. But I would again hazard a guess that it would depend on how carefully the weapons are handled. Do you know how they were packaged?"
"I have no idea," Yuri said. "Look, I want you to hang onto what you have until I get back to you. Don't mention anything about this to anyone. It involves a highly classified investigation for the Belarus KGB. And one other thing, Selikh. Don't believe the things you're going to hear about me shortly. It's all a smokescreen."
Hopefully that would keep the forensic specialist quiet. Yuri quickly began to gather up his files and stuff them into his briefcase.
Yuri grabbed his briefcase and hurried out the door. With confirmation of his suspicions that General Zakharov's crew had stolen the C/B weapons from Anatoli's building, he decided to try General Borovsky once more. But as he started down the corridor toward the General's office, he glanced at his watch and got a shock. The conversation with Selikh had taken much longer than he had thought. The officers from Brest could be expected at any minute. And if Borovsky was still not in, his secretary would realize that Yuri was leaving. She would give that information to whoever came looking for him. He needed as much of a head start as he could manage. If they thought he was still around the building, or had just stepped out for a few minutes, they would likely wait in his office. He spun on his heel and headed for the back stairway.
At that moment, a Brest Militia car pulled up in front of the building at 30 Komsomolskaya Ulitsa and parked behind a Moskva sedan driven by a local militiaman named Yatsov. Detectives Moroz and Olenev climbed out and walked over to join Yatsov. The three men moved quickly into the building.
Mexico 's Western Highlands
25
Long green mango leaves shaded one side of the street. On the other, a profusion of bougainvillea blossoms painted a white wall with splotches of blazing red. The morning air was coated with the sweet scent of tropical flowers as a tanned figure with short brown hair, walking with a virtually imperceptible limp, emerged from the modest two-bedroom house behind the wall and stepped into his small blue Toyota. After three years on Lake Chapala, about forty kilometers south of Guadalajara, he seldom gave thought to the perpetual springtime that had been one of the area's initial attractions. It had simply become part of the background, like canned music in a shopping mall.
With its mile-high altitude and the latitude of Hawaii, this area of Mexico's Western Highlands had lured one of the world's largest colonies of expatriate Americans. Prominent among them were several thousand military retirees. And on this mild, cloudless morning in mid-June, Roddy Rodman headed for a small hotel in the lakeside town of Ajijic for a biweekly breakfast with several others who, for one reason or another, had shed the Air Force blue.
There were five this morning, seated in wicker chairs at a round table in the outdoor section of the restaurant. One of the faces was new to him.
"Hey, you're late," Herb Derry said. "Better grab a seat while there's still enough huevos to go around."
"You trying to egg me on, Herb?" Roddy joked.
A retired major and former maintenance officer, Derry was a gregarious operator known for his ability to get anything fixed from a souped-up Porche to a pesky parking fine. His most prominent feature was a beer belly that gave his shirt the look of a half-filled flour sack slung over his belt.
Everette Marcuse, white-maned, distinguished looking, a weatherman who had made a lengthy and painstaking study of the meteorological charts before selecting this spot for his golden years, waved a hand toward the stranger seated beside him. "Meet my new neighbor. He and his wife just moved in next door. Colonel Warren Rodman, Chief Master Sergeant Clinton Black."
Roddy caught the flicker of recognition in the sergeant's dark eyes and thought immediately...he knows. The others were aware of his court-martial, but it was a subject that had been quietly laid to rest. No one dared or cared to resurrect it.
Black smiled, stood and stretched an arm across the table. He had light brown skin and thick, black hair. Give him a trumpet, dress him in black bolero pants and jacket and he'd look right at home in a mariachi band, Roddy thought as they shook hands.
"Nice to meet you, Colonel," he said.
"Forget that Colonel stuff. The name's Roddy. Where're you from?"
"Fresh out of the Pentagon," the sergeant replied. "And you can call me Clint."
Herb Derry cocked an eyebrow. "Clint Black, huh? You must have done some moonlighting in the country music business."
The sergeant grinned. "I play a pretty mean guitar, but I'm afraid you're talking about the rich Clint Black."
"He just retired from the Air Staff," Marcuse enlightened everyone. "He was senior intelligence NCO."
Derry exaggeratedly slapped a palm against his forehead. "Intelligence! Hey, we can sure use a bit of that around here. Why did you decide to become a tapatío, Clint?" he asked, using the nickname for Guadalajarans.
"Actually, it's sort of a homecoming. My mother grew up on a ranch near Guadalajara. I'm half Mexican to start with."
"You just plan to enjoy your leisure, Clint? Or will you be like some of the guys and try to work a little to keep out of the wife's hair?" Roddy thought the Sergeant had a rather youthful look.
Black gave a slight chuckle. "For the present, I'm only interested in taking it easy. Take awhile to acclimate my wife to the surroundings, I imagine. She's a New Yorker."
Derry, who had an irresistable urge to explain the nuances behind everyone's behavior, quickly elaborated on Rodman's comment. "Roddy couldn't give up driving airplanes. I think he frowns on us deadbeats who just enjoy spending Uncle's money. Of course, most of us couldn't get working papers for anything but teaching English anyway. He's obviously got connections. Only an FM3 but he's a legal part-time jockey at Miguel Hidalgo Airport."
FM3 status granted a five-year residency permit, but no employment without working papers.
"I merely applied for a job with a guy who knows his way around the system," Roddy replied with a grimace. "I enjoy flying sightseers, whatever else comes along. I've got two students to work with this afternoon. Jockeying a little two-seater Bell is quite a come-down from a Pave Low, I'll admit. But with my bum leg, I'm happy as hell to be flying anything."
The other two breakfast companions were an ex-colonel named Barberry, a former flight surgeon and look-alike for M.A.S.H.'s Alan Alda, and Will Ullman, a stocky, muscular man who had been a chief master sergeant in the Security Police. No one was quite sure under what circumstances he had left the service.
"What did you do about your daughter's graduation?" Barberry inquired. He had missed the last breakfast and hadn't talked to Rodman since the middle of May.
Roddy frowned. He had wrestled with that one for quite awhile. Lila, his younger daughter, had written and called regularly ever since he had come to Mexico. She had wanted him to come back for her college graduation. But he still wasn't ready to face the family he had left behind. He couldn't shake the feeling that where they were concerned, he had been an abjec
t failure. Going back would put him at risk for the one thing he didn't think he could take—rejection. Not from Lila, certainly. But he knew he had a problem with Renee, and he wasn't sure about his former wife. Just thinking of Karen brought a hollow ache inside. That was one wound that time had not healed. He kept telling himself that one of these days, he would go back and make amends. But not now. It would have to be some other day.
"I called Lila and told her I wouldn't be able to make it," he said with a contrite look.
"I don't think he's been north of the border since he came down here a few years ago," Derry told Clint Black.
It was true. At first he had used the excuse that he needed more time to rehabilitate his leg. But now about the only problem the leg presented was, as the doctors had promised, a tendency to be arthritic. It had become a handy early warning mechanism for approaching cold fronts. Once in a great while it would throw him off balance, like a trick knee from a football injury. Considering all he'd been through, though, he was in much better shape than he might have ever hoped for. The mental and emotional price had been the highest to pay. The bill collector had really socked it to him with that guilty verdict in the court-martial. He had promptly drunk himself into oblivion. When he sobered up a few days later, he found a note from Karen advising that she was filing for divorce. It provided the final needle jab that finished deflating the sagging balloon of his self-esteem. It left him, almost literally, flat on his face.
The court's sentence had cost him a substantial loss of position on the promotion list for general. It effectively notified him that his career was over. And when he put in for a disability retirement, it was approved so fast the ink had hardly dried on his letter of request.
Roddy rented a small apartment at Fort Walton Beach and initially maintained his officer's club membership at Eglin. He quickly became a fixture at the bar, until the second spectacle created by his toppling off a barstool. He claimed it was caused by his bad leg. The club manager assured the board that it was the result of too many double shots of Scotch. They requested that he take his business elsewhere. He shifted his base of operations to a small, dark bar near the beach, where it appeared he was intent on fulfilling Karen's prophesy that he would end up in the gutter.
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 17
