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

by Chester D. Campbell

  "What did you find out?"

  "That it was killed by the publisher."

  Roddy frowned. "Why'd he do that?"

  "He was a member of the organization I was looking into. Obviously I was hitting too close to home."

  Janney jerked a map from his briefcase, held it out for Roddy to see and jabbed a beefy finger at a red "X" marked in the mountains a little more than 100 kilometers northwest of Guadalajara. "Here's where I want to look around, just from the air."

  Roddy studied the map. He knew the area, higher up in the southern stretches of the western Sierra Madres, but had only flown over it a few times. It was rugged country, with peaks above 8,000 feet. He wondered what Janney was looking for, but true to his spec ops training kept his questions to himself. If the man wanted him to know, he would tell him.

  "Okay," Roddy said. "Let's go."

  He did a thorough preflight of the small chopper, checking fuselage, fuel, engine and controls. When he was satisfied everything was functioning properly, he climbed in beside his passenger, gave him a set of headphones with a mike, showed him how to use it and fired up the engine. He had already checked the weather and found it clear and sunny within 200 kilometers of Guadalajara. It stayed that way virtually year-round, except for brief afternoon or evening periods during the rainy season, which was now just beginning. With clearance from the tower, Roddy throttled up and lifted directly off the ramp like a buzzing insect.

  Janney grinned as they made a tight turn and headed away from the airport at low altitude. "This is the way to see the countryside," he said over the intercom.

  "It's old-fashioned, 'seat-of-the-pants' flying," said Rodman. "Good for rubber-necking. When we get where we're going, I can drop right down on the deck if you'd like." His eyes swept the area as they crossed the teeming southwestern suburbs.

  "Not too low at first, thanks. Depends on what we see. Could be some people around, in which case we don't want to put them on alert."

  Roddy leveled off below 1,000 feet and headed in the direction of Highway 15, the main route that led up the west coast to the U.S. border at Nogales, Arizona. He took up a course paralleling the highway and the railroad. Just west of Guadalajara, they passed the 8,500-foot Volcano Colli. Soon they were flying over the low hills of tequila country, where rolling fields spread out below with row after row of the bluish, bayonet-like leaves of the agave maguey cactus, producer of the sap from which Mexico's national beverage was distilled. There were a few ranches around as well, and herds of cattle grazed leisurely in the sprawling countryside as the mountains rose dramatically beyond.

  Roddy described what they were seeing as Janney soaked up the view and the rotor blades whacked noisily overhead. He finally lapsed into silence and began to chew over the writer's earlier comment concerning not putting people on alert. He hadn't heard remarks such as that since back in the days when he flew Pave Lows. It usually meant avoiding situations that might draw hostile fire.

  He wasn't getting paid enough to risk another ambush. If that was what lay at the end of this flight, he was prepared to abort now. "I hope your comment about putting people on alert doesn't mean somebody's liable to take a shot at us," he said.

  Janney shrugged his rounded shoulders. "I hardly think so. But I really don't know what they have going on. A source tipped me that something important would be taking place around there. He said it was of vital interest to a guy named Adam Stern and his employers at the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. That's the organization I've been gathering information on. Stern flew in here shortly before I did."

  "I'm not familiar with that outfit," Roddy said with a shake of his head.

  "Most people aren't. But they damn well will be when I get this book written. It's an organization supposedly dedicated to studying foreign policy issues and their ramifications. But the picture I'm getting is of an outfit with a hidden agenda. It's dominated and controlled by international bankers and industrial monopolists. They're what I call cartel capitalists and corporate socialists. Their goal appears to be control of the world economy through manipulation of governments around the globe. Manipulating them into the socialist camp."

  "Manipulating governments? That sounds pretty heavy. I trust they don't plan to try anything like that in the good old U.S. of A.?"

  Janney gave him an indulgent smile. "We're their major practice field."

  "You're kidding."

  "Hardly. FAR members have been key advisers in the past several administrations. They dominate the State Department. They include some of the top military brass."

  "Like who?"

  "General Wing Patton for one, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Matter of fact, his father-in-law, who died recently, was one of their ringleaders. General Frederick Parker Strong, former JCS chairman, former Secretary of State, elder statesman par excellence."

  "Damn. I wouldn't put it past that bastard Patton."

  Janney suddenly began to contemplate Roddy with a new intensity. Then his eyes slowly widened with the dawning of understanding. "You're Colonel Warren Rodman."

  Soberly, Roddy cut his eyes toward his passenger. "You were expecting maybe Mrs. Nussbaum?"

  Janney grinned. He had a twisted way of smiling that came close to a sneer. "The pilot of the Easy Street mission. Hell, yes. The man General Patton accused of causing the mission's failure. As I recall, something about tuning to a malfunctioning communications satellite."

  "FLTSATCOM. He never told me about that damned channel switch," Roddy said, suddenly serious. "He flat lied on the witness stand."

  "I can believe it. You were the fall guy, weren't you? You took the heat off the General. That's the sort of manipulation I'd expect from Adam Stern."

  "The guy you mentioned while ago?"

  "Right. He does most of the dirty work for the Roundtable."

  Roddy consulted his navigation chart, then glanced back at Janney's map. They were near the town of Tequila, home of the famous brew. "Here's where we part company with Highway 15."

  He swung the helicopter onto a northerly heading that would take them directly to the valley marked by the "X" on Janney's map. The terrain below became more rugged as they climbed to maintain their clearance above the ground. It was covered with dense woods that made it resemble a speckled green carpet.

  As they approached the target area, Roddy put the chopper into a gentle climb until he spotted the canyon with its precipitous sides, what was known in Mexico as a barranca. It was accessed by a primitive dirt road at one end. A large cabin and two smaller outbuildings were nestled in a clearing along a stream in the center of the secluded valley, which was wooded over most of its length. Both men scrutinized the layout as they flew across the end where the road entered.

  "I don't see any activity," Roddy said, swinging his head from side to side. There were no people in sight. No vehicles. No animals.

  "Neither do I," Janney agreed. "Let's make another pass. Take her down for a closer look this time."

  Roddy turned the chopper and sent it into a sharp descent as he began a sweep that took them the length of the canyon just above the treetops. The gorge plunged about 150 meters from the rim and was around 800 meters long. Now they could see fresh tire tracks pointing at the cabin, parallel lines scribed in dirt that had been softened by an evening shower. Roddy slowed to a near hover and dropped until the rotor's downwash began to kick up reddish volcanic dust. Janney pointed to the rear of the house.

  "Looks like fresh piles of horse shit, and hoof prints." He was swinging his head around excitedly. "Somebody has definitely been here not long ago."

  "I don't see anything to indicate what they might have been doing. Do you?"

  Janney frowned. "No. Maybe we're too early. Give him a little time. Might be a good idea to try again tomorrow or the next day."

  "Seen enough for now?"

  He nodded. "Let's get back to Guadalajara."

  2 8

  It was late afternoon when they landed at Miguel Hidal
go Airport. Roddy jokingly complained that he had missed his siesta. In fact, he had planned a trip into Guadalajara to pick up a few items at the sprawling Mercado Libertad, a four-story complex of market stalls where you could haggle over everything from dried iguanas to jewelry to fancy saddles. He offered Bryan Janney a lift to his hotel, which was located on the fringes of the historic district not far from the market.

  Traffic was heavy along Avenida 16 de Septiembre, which reminded Roddy why he normally chose mid-morning for his junkets into the city center. Guadalajara was called the most Mexican of Mexican towns, but its explosive growth as the country's second largest city made it appear as two cities in one, the crowded, sprawling suburbs and the colorful historic center, a collection of traditional Spanish colonial buildings of weathered beige sandstone.

  Janney's hotel was not one of the top-rated lodgings, but it offered comfortable, reasonably-priced rooms, accompanied by a decent restaurant and bar. Located on a quiet side street, it presented some of the classic charm of old Mexico. Roddy parked near the entrance and turned to his passenger.

  "Give me a call when you're ready to take another look at that barranca."

  "Maybe tomorrow. Enjoyed the ride. How about coming in, let me buy you a beer?"

  "Thanks. I'd better get on to the market. I need to head back shortly."

  "I promised you a full rundown on the Roundtable," Janney recalled. "I'll print out some of my golden prose and bring it along next time. I always carry my laptop with me. Have a small dot matrix printer in the room, too, and a box of floppy disks with untold hours of research. Everything I've written on the book so far."

  Roddy nodded. "Fine. I'd like to read it. From what you've told me, sounds like you may be onto something big."

  "Biggest damned conspiracy I've ever..." Janney lapsed into silence, then spoke in a half whisper. "See the guy who just came out the front door? That's Adam Stern. I didn't tell you he's former CIA. He traveled down here under the name of 'Baker Thomas.' One dangerous sonofabitch. I assure you it isn't healthy to be on his list. I've heard some of the FAR leaders call him 'the enforcer.'"

  As they watched, a charcoal gray Ford pulled up to the hotel and Stern, a sober-faced, casually-dressed man of medium height, climbed into the front seat.

  "It's a rental car," Janney mused, noting the sticker on the rear bumper. He jotted down the license number in a small notebook. "Wonder who he's meeting?"

  "Must not be from around here," Roddy said.

  "Probably another foreigner." He looked at Roddy as the Ford started to pull away. "You're an old special operations hand. Had any experience following people?"

  Roddy gave him a skeptical grin. "Following...as in 'tail that man?' Sorry, I just drive helicopters."

  "How about giving it a try?"

  "What's so important about this?"

  Janney's eyes were now glued to the Ford. "I've got a feeling it could damned well be a crucial development, Colonel. Don't let them get out of sight."

  What the hell, Roddy thought. He didn't have anything better to do. If Janney wanted to play secret agent, he would humor him for a little while. He angled away from the curb and started trailing the charcoal gray car, which was now approaching an intersection at the end of the block.

  Fortunately, the task was simplified when the Ford pulled over and parked at a restaurant and bar a short distance away. The driver, a dark-haired man wearing jeans and a long-sleeve blue shirt—he might have been a rancher, but he didn't look Mexican—got out and walked in with Stern. Roddy drove on past as the men entered.

  "Turn around and double back," Janney said. "We'll park and go in. I want a closer look at his buddy."

  "You sure that's a good idea? Would Stern recognize you?"

  "It's possible he knows of me, that I'm doing research on the Roundtable. I doubt I've made enough waves yet for him to be on the alert for me. He probably doesn't know what I look like, or give a damn. We'll just stay a few minutes."

  Roddy didn't relish the idea of being an innocent bystander gobbled up in some fanciful game played by this beefy journalist. If it got any more involved than this, he would bow out. But he turned the Toyota around and drove back to the restaurant.

  Inside, the place was decorated with bullfight posters and large tropical plants. The dining room was virtually empty, but the lounge appeared an oasis for the thirsty. Two burly ranchers with dusty boots, their big hats covering the chairs beside them, occupied the table next to Roddy and Janney. An empty table sat between the ranchers and the one where Adam Stern huddled with his bland-faced companion.

  Janney ordered two beers, then reached into a pocket and took out something that startled Roddy. It was a camera. Very small, but quite obviously a camera. He held it in both hands, leaning across the table on his elbows. The camera was hidden by his plump fingers, but he was unquestionably pointing it toward the nearby table.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Roddy asked.

  "It's a Minox with high speed film," Janney replied, exhibiting a bit of irritation that anyone should question his actions. "They can't see the damn thing."

  Roddy wasn't so sure. He cast a surreptitious glance toward Stern's table, but one of the ranchers blocked his view. He saw Janney separate his fingers to clear the lens and fire a couple of quick shots.

  The waiter brought their beers and Janney kept his eyes focused on the other table as he gulped his down . It wasn't Roddy's idea of the way a surveillance operation should be run. But he wasn't an investigative reporter. Maybe they did things differently from cops and professional spooks.

  "Did your source give you any idea what might be going on at that cabin up in the barranca?" Roddy asked.

  "Only that it involved some kind of secret scheme with international ramifications. With Stern in it, I'd expect something treacherous."

  "Then we'd better be a little more cautious if we fly up that way again."

  "Right," said Janney, pushing back his empty beer. "I guess we've seen enough of this place."

  29

  Major Nikolai Romashchuk glanced around as the two men moved toward the entrance to the restaurant. Adam Stern followed his gaze.

  "Did you notice the fat one looking us over?" the Major asked.

  "Yes. I'm sure I saw him around the hotel this morning."

  "Do you think he followed us here?"

  "Possibly. But I saw nothing of him as I came through the lobby, or out front."

  Romaschchuk didn't believe in coincidence. He frowned across at his companion. "What about the other one?"

  "I didn't get a good look, but nothing about him set off any alarm bells."

  "What are you going to do?"

  Stern rubbed a finger across the bristly curve of his chin, where a heavy growth of beard required an extra shave in the evening to maintain a trim appearance. "I'll check into the gentleman when I get back. He shouldn't be hard to find."

  "Then I suggest you find him. We don't need any complications at this stage."

  "Agreed," said Stern in a testy voice. "So you plan to train these Peruvian guerrillas in the mountains where we're going tomorrow," he said. "What does this deception operation involve?"

  Romashchuk grinned. He enjoyed deception. This trip he was traveling as a German businessman. "General Zakharov likes to call it the 'Red Ruse,'" he said. "Our Shining Path delegation will create a bit of panic that—"

  "Panic?" Stern turned a critical eye."Doing what?"

  "Spreading around a compound developed in one of the old Soviet C/B warfare laboratories. We acquired a quantity of it, called a neurotoxin. It's a powdery substance that is easily absorbed by body tissues. It affects the brain in a way that brings on an irrational fear, leaves a person confused and subject to erratic ups and downs in mood. It wears off after a few days, but by then it will have served our purposes." He saw no need to go into the other "compound" they had "acquired." Let Adam Stern find out at the same time the rest of the world did.

  "Where
do you plan to use it?"

  Romashchuk smiled. "The place that should cause America the most panic."

  The telephone rang in the posh Manhattan apartment around eleven p.m. Actually, it was more of a chime than a ring. The musical tones had a melodic quality that helped soothe the sensibilities of the overburdened lord of the manor. Seated in a reclining chair, a hefty report dealing with the latest Japanese incursion into the U.S. market spread open across his ample belly, he lifted the phone off the solid cherry table and adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses.

  "Yes?"

  "We have a problem," said the voice from Mexico, where it was one hour earlier. Neither man used names. Each was quite familiar with and instantly recognized the other's voice.

  "What's the problem?"

  "Remember telling me about the journalist who was nosing around in our business?"

  "The former reporter from here?"

  "He isn't there at the moment. He's down here."

  "You saw him?" The voice had taken on a hard, metallic quality.

  "Apparently he followed me to a restaurant where I met with our foreign friend."

  "He saw the two of you together?" The sound of disbelief had crept in.

  "Right. I think he knows too much."

  "I would have to agree with that."

  "How much do you know about him?"

  "According to his former publisher, he's a hell of a writer but personally an egotistical bastard. Didn't get along well with his colleagues. He was estranged from his family in California. Hasn't been back out there in years."

  "Who's involved in his current project?"

  "From what I've heard lately, he appears to be working strictly on his own. He wrote a book on some of the stories he handled for the newspaper. It's currently in the editing phase at a publishing house. As best we can tell, he hasn't talked with them about the current project."

  "So what do you recommend?"

  "I suggest you treat him the same as the Air Force lieutenant colonel. Do you have what you need?"