"I always travel prepared for any eventuality. I'll have to talk to him first, though."
"Why?"
"He was with another man. Somebody I couldn't identify."
"Damnit!" The tone became more urgent. "Do you know where he is now?"
"In a room two floors beneath mine."
"Then you'd better get on it right away. And I'd suggest you put a little distance between the two of you. We can't afford even a hint of your involvement."
"Don't worry. I already have a plan."
Nearly an hour later, Bryan Janney chanced to look around and noted the red message light blinking on his room telephone. He was seated at a table that held the briefcase-size laptop computer. A lightweight printer sat on a padded chair beside the table, perforated fanfold paper feeding in from one side and snaking down to the floor on the other. He was printing out portions of the book manuscript for Roddy Rodman.
The phone hadn't rung since he had returned to his room following a quiet meal at the hotel restaurant. Why had they turned on his message light now?
He walked over to the phone and called the front desk. "This is Mr. Janney in 212. What's my message light doing turned on?"
"Your friend said he had attempted to call but found your telephone busy. He left a message for you."
My friend? Must be Colonel Rodman, he thought. But he hadn't been on the phone. Rodman must have gotten the wrong room. Has he turned up something new on Adam Stern, he wondered? Or the cabin in the mountains?
"What did he say?"
"One moment, señor."
Janney glanced around at the printer. It was still rattling away, though the padding of the chair helped cut down the noise level. He doubted it would bother anyone in an adjacent room. He didn't give a particular damn if it did.
"The message merely says, 'Bryan, I'm here.' And then his signature, Baker Thomas."
The hair suddenly tingled at the back of Bryan Janney's neck and a shudder ran through his body. Baker Thomas...Adam Stern.
"Do you have his room number?" the clerk inquired.
"Uh, I don't need it. Thanks," Janney mumbled in a choking voice. He almost dropped the phone his hand trembled so.
He began to breathe hard and stared about the room frantically, as though expecting the sinister face to pop up from under the bed or out of the shower. He had miscalculated. Stern must have spotted him at the restaurant, which meant the FAR emissary did know what he looked like. And if this cute little ploy was intended to intimidate him, Stern had succeeded admirably.
Janney tried to calm himself. He was almost hyperventilating. Think.
The only thing he could think of was that he had no desire to confront "the enforcer." One of his sources claimed to know of a man Stern had eliminated. Spell that "k-i-l-l-e-d!"
One imperative quickly lodged itself in his mind. He had to get out of here at once.
He shut off the printer and computer, stowed them in their cases, stuffed his clothes into his bag and grabbed his shaving kit from the bathroom. Then, hesitantly, he stuck his head out into the hallway. Seeing no one, he gathered up everything and started off toward the elevator with both hands full. Halfway there, he decided the elevator was too dangerous and turned toward the stairway.
Leaving his belongings in the stairwell at the first floor exit, Janney hurried into the lobby. He found a gray-haired couple and a few business types chatting. No sign of Stern. He walked over to the desk as casually as he could manage and told the clerk an unexpected problem had arisen. He had to return to the U.S. immediately. He hoped that news would throw Stern off the track.
When he had checked out and paid his bill, he returned to collect his bags and left the hotel through a side exit off the stairway. The sidewalk was deserted here. He waddled as fast as his short legs would allow under the burden of his luggage. With both the laptop and printer cases gripped in one hand, it felt like the sharp edge of a plastic handle was cutting into the soft flesh. He was panting and sweating by the time he found a taxi. He gave the driver the name of a less expensive and less fashionable hotel farther to the south that he had noticed on the way into town. Once safely checked in there, he would regroup and decide on his next move.
As the taxi rolled past a gaily decorated plaza where young couples strolled arm in arm and the sound of mariachi bands stirred the night air, he began to wonder if he hadn't reacted too hastily, out of unreasoned fear. Surely Adam Stern would not be so stupid as to make some rash attack on an American journalist here in the heart of Mexico. Then it occurred to him that it might be a smart move to give Colonel Rodman a copy of the entire manuscript, all that he had completed. If Stern should accost him, he would have a credible threat of exposure, as good as an ace in the hole.
Anyway, he reassured himself, Stern would have to find him first. He turned to look through the rear window. What he saw was the normal evening traffic for a lively city of five million inhabitants. What he did not see was two cars that had earlier waited near the hotel, one at the front and one in view of the side entrance.
The rooms were smaller here. Instead of a writing desk, there was only a tiny round table, barely enough space for his laptop. He had registered under the name of Bruce Jones. It fit the "BJ" initials on his luggage. He used the address of his brother in L.A. At least it was the last address he had for him. How long had it been since he was home? It made no difference. His family still called him Addy, a name he hated. They ignored him until he had started making good money at the newspaper. They would really come banging on his door when he made it big with these new books.
He pulled off his red and yellow knit shirt and threw it on the bed. Although the night air outside was fairly cool, his shirt was soaked with sweat. Damn Adam Stern.
He plugged the printer into his computer and pressed both power-on buttons. The familiar sound was reassuring as both machines whirred to life. It was around midnight, but it was important that he get this material printed out. Nothing was going to stop him now. He pushed a high density floppy into the disk drive and was about to open his word processing program when a knock sounded at the door.
Bryan Janney held his breath for a moment as his heart seemed to falter. Then he struggled to breathe normally and admonished himself for giving way to senseless panic at the first random sound. He had left Stern cooling his heels at the hotel. He was certain of it.
He walked to the door, which had no peephole, and called out, "Who is it?"
"Señor Jones?"
He didn't recognize the voice. He thought it had a Mexican ring to it. "Yes?"
"You forget to sign the card."
He frowned. "What card? I signed the registration."
"The tourismo card. It is required by the federales."
Janney had heard of the federales, the Federal Judicial Police. His inclination was to say to hell with the federales, but he accepted that the bureaucracy here was at least as burdensome as it was at home, and probably moreso. He unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Adam Stern stepped into the doorway, a deadly-looking semiautomatic in his hand, its barrel lengthened by the menacing addition of a silencer. "Don't utter a sound, Mr. Janney, or it will be your last," he said in a cold, deliberate voice.
Janney could almost feel the malevolence in those eyes of bluish granite. His chin quivered uncontrollably. His feet shuffled backward as Stern advanced toward him. Then he saw the other man, the one dressed like a rancher who had been with Stern at the restaurant. Both men came into the room. The stranger closed the door.
"I see we have a computer," said Stern, his gaze quickly taking in the small room. "No doubt it contains your imaginative writings about the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. Please sit down, Mr. Janney."
He gave the writer a slight push, which was all it took to send him sprawling backward onto the bed. Stern placed one foot on the chair beside the table, leaning the hand that held the gun on his upraised knee. The barrel had not wavered from the ample target provided b
y Janney's stomach.
"We have a few questions," he said as Janney struggled to sit up on the side of the bed. "If you cooperate, the chances are good you will leave this room alive. Who was the man with you when you came to the restaurant to spy on us."
"I wasn't spying," Janney said. He wanted badly to believe the part about leaving the room alive. "I was only—"
"The name," Stern demanded.
Janney had no desire to cause Colonel Rodman any trouble. Maybe he could bluff his way through this. "It was a tourist I met at the hotel. He had a rental car and we decided to stop there for a drink. Then I saw you."
"Your chances are growing slimmer, Mr. Janney. What is the man's name?"
"Bradford," he blurted. "Robert Bradford." It was the name of his former managing editor at the newspaper.
"We'll see." Stern handed the pistol to Romashchuk. "If he moves, kill him."
He found a directory, checked the hotel number and dialed it. After a few moments, he said, "I'd like to speak to Mr. Robert Bradford."
As the room fell silent, sweat began to break out on Janney's forehead. He felt his hopes fading like a pair of stone-washed jeans.
A few moments later, Stern spoke into the telephone again. "I see," he said, nodding. "Thank you." If looks could have killed, Janney would have been dead right then. Stern stared at him through eyes that could have passed for evil incarnate. "As you know, no such person exists. This is your last chance." He took the gun back and aimed it at the center of the flabby chest.
Janney crumbled suddenly and began to sob. His voice cracked as he spoke. "His name is W-Wa-Warren Rodman. He's a helicopter pilot. Works for Aeronautica Jalisco at Guadalajara airport."
Minsk , Belarus
30
Dark clouds hovered overhead as large raindrops danced on the pavement of Komsomolskaya Ulitsa, leaving Minsk in a mood as melancholy as a Chekhov play. For the head of the Belarus KGB, watching the wind-driven droplets hit the window and disintegrate, it was a performance he would prefer to have skipped. If it kept up much longer, Dynamo Stadium would be a quagmire. To further darken his outlook, that bastard Sergei Perchik had been on the phone again. In his patently abusive manner, he had demanded information that might lead to the arrest of Chief Investigator Yuri Shumakov.
"I have no information on the man's whereabouts," Borovsky had protested. "I have not seen or heard from him since he disappeared a little over a week ago."
"He told me you had sent him to Kiev. What was he doing down there? Perhaps I could send someone to pick up his trail if we knew where to look."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Prosecutor. I can't tell you anything about his investigation. You will have to talk with Chairman Latishev about that."
"You have been nothing but evasive with me, General Borovsky. I was led to believe we had entered a new era of cooperation between the organs of state security and the people's prosecutor. I find your attitude completely irresponsible."
Perchik had ranted on about the lack of cooperation from the KGB and threatened to lodge a formal complaint with Latishev. Borovsky detested the man but would gladly have given him any information he had on Shumakov just to get him off his back. But the fact was the investigator had left him in the dark as much as anybody. Unfortunately, his disappearance had come just at a time when they appeared to be on the threshold of a break in the investigation.
Borovsky had received a complete report from the Brest Militia on the murder of Vadim Trishin. He had considerable difficulty squaring what he knew of Yuri Shumakov with the brutal act that was described in the report, although he recalled the investigator's remark that he had "a score to settle" regarding his brother's death. Borovsky had talked with Shumakov's wife, a nurse as attractive as she was intelligent, who seemed fully convinced of her husband's innocence. According to her version, the anonymous phone call to the Brest Militia was evidence of someone deliberately attempting to frame Yuri for the murder. But who, or why? She could offer no suggestions, and Borovsky certainly had none.
Meanwhile, Chairman Latishev was pressing him to follow up on what Shumakov had learned. He was anxious to establish just what General Zakharov and Major Romashchuk were involved in, who their accomplices were and whether it would have any ramifications for the July fifth CIS meeting, now barely two weeks off. Borovsky had dispatched a new man to Kiev but got no help from Shumakov's contact, Oleg Kovalenko. The KGB officer reported that Kovalenko, a huge bear of a man, had threatened to bodily throw him out of the office when he declined to divulge just what the investigation was about. The Kiev chief investigator accused the authorities in Minsk of carrying out a witch hunt against his friend Shumakov.
If all of this wasn't enough to give him ulcers, the General had begun to pick up disturbing rumbles about unrest among the military. Latishev had called in General Nikolsky to question him about a speech he had made at Chelyuskintsev Park. The general assured him his only concern was for the morale of his troops. Borovsky wasn't so sure of that. What he had heard sounded more like a call to arms for reconstituting some sort of central army, an idea that ran completely counter to the aims of the leadership among most members of the commonwealth. If that kind of thinking had infected much of the military, there could be trouble ahead.
When his secretary came in with a stack of papers to be signed, she remarked grimly, "Prosecutor Perchik is a rude, thankless man. I hope you don't have to deal with him often."
He shrugged. "He's after me to give him information on Yuri Shumakov. Hell, I don't have anything to give him."
"Maybe Shumakov talked with someone else in the building," she said.
Borovsky thought about that for a moment. "Good idea. Let's send a memo around. If anyone has information about him, instruct them to contact me."
The memo had hardly had time to circulate among the various sections when Paul Kruszewski, the plump identification specialist with Polish ancestry, appeared at the General's office.
"I did some telephoning to Gdansk for Shumakov the last morning he was here," said Kruszewski.
Roddy Rodman awoke early, put on his morning coffee and sat down to a heaping bowl of cereal. A creature of habit, he began his usual rehashing of the previous day, with a look ahead at today's agenda. He recalled the writer from New York's comments about General Patton. Would Bryan Janney be interested in Clint Black's revelation, he wondered? The chances were slim to none he could do anything to affect Roddy's case, but the fat man might find the JCS Chairman's pressure on Lt. Col. Bolivar to lie on the witness stand useful fodder for further research.
When he finished breakfast, he called the hotel and asked for Janney. There was a short pause, and then the operator informed him that Señor Janney had checked out late last night.
Roddy sat there with a puzzled frown. It was early evening when he had dropped Janney at the hotel. The man had said nothing at all about the possibility of leaving anytime soon. His last words were something to the effect that he would be calling today or tomorrow about another flight into the mountains. What had changed his mind?
When he arrived at the Aeronautica Jalisco hangar later in the morning, he was hailed by Pablo Alba, the firm's pudgy, affable director of operations. Alba was the quintessential tapatío, with profuse black hair, a bushy black mustache, a glued-on smile and a jocular manner that gave the impression he was always on the lookout for a fiesta. After four years at the University of Colorado, he spoke fluent American.
"Roddy," he called out from across the open bay, "some gringo from up north was inquiring about you earlier this morning."
Rodman walked over to the office door where Alba stood. "Bryan Janney, the fat guy I flew yesterday afternoon?" Maybe he hadn't left Guadalajara after all.
Alba shook his head. "I believe he said his name was Thomas."
"Thomas who?"
"No, no. Last name Thomas. Said he was a private investigator checking you out for some company back in the U.S. He wanted to know how long you had worked here, where
you lived, things like that. Are you thinking about moving back?"
"Hell, no. I have no idea why he would be asking about me. I haven't—"
Alba stopped him with a raised hand as María waved a telephone from behind the large office window. "Sorry, got to catch a call."
As Roddy turned away, the name "Thomas" suddenly snagged on the jagged edge of a half-forgotten comment. He spun around and rushed after Pablo Alba, overtaking him just as he was about to answer the phone.
"Was the name `Baker Thomas'?" Roddy asked, the words coming in a rush.
"Right. Baker Thomas. That was it."
A man obviously lost in thought, Roddy wandered aimlessly between the parked aircraft across to the hangar lounge. What the hell was going on here? Bryan Janney had disappeared. Now Adam Stern comes around asking questions. He saw no way Stern could have gotten his name except from Janney. But after what the writer had said about the man yesterday, it seemed inconceivable that he would have volunteered any information. And why was Stern using some fictitious excuse about being an investigator for an American company?
Roddy wondered if the hotel operator might have made a mistake. Using the phone in the lounge, he called again, this time asking for the front desk.
"This is Mr. Rodman with Aeronautica Jalisco," he told the clerk. "One of your guests chartered a helicopter from us yesterday. I need to leave him a message. His name is Bryan Janney, an American."
"I'm sorry, señor," the clerk replied in a voice that sounded truly regretful, "but that would be impossible."
"What do you mean?"
"Señor Janney checked out of our hotel last night. He told the night clerk he had to return to the U.S. immediately, but that is not what he did."
Now Roddy was really confused. "What did he do?"
"The police were here a short time ago. They said after leaving here, he checked into Motel La Palma. When the maid came to clean his room this morning, she found him dead."
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 20
