Sarge could have cared less. He was fed up with gutless police officials, corrupt administrations and councilmen who pandered to every petty crook, addict and queer who screamed "civil rights." They had created a system that had allowed the dope peddlers and street gangs to take over the cities. But the account of why he had been fired turned out to be just the right recommendation for the head of Advanced Security Systems. He was looking for smart cops who weren't afraid to push past the barriers thrown up by officialdom. And his two operatives at the fashionable home in Falls Church were prepared to do just that.
Sarge moved to the edge of the crowd where he could see the caterer's large truck parked beside the garage. They had carefully observed the comings and goings of waiters dressed in crisp white jackets, determining that the uniforms were stored in the truck. He watched Art stroll casually through a group of food service people around the terrace, nodding and smiling like he belonged there. They had noticed a few security types wandering about the perimeter of the lawn, apparently to keep out party crashers (their own invitations had been pilfered from Clipper's main office in Rossyln). No one seemed to be paying any attention to the muscular young man who was now almost to the truck.
"You're looking good," Sarge advised as he raised his left hand to his face.
A few moments later, Art reappeared around the truck in a white jacket. Speaking into his microphone, he muttered, "I'm going in."
A tent was set up just outside the kitchen, where the waiters filled their trays with drinks. Another adjacent to it contained a trailer used to store garbage-packed plastic bags. Art was checking out the tents when a short, chubby woman with flaming red hair grabbed him by the arm.
"Where's your damn badge, fella?"
Art gave her a surprised look and glanced down at his chest innocently. "Damn, it must have come off over near the London pub. Some nut ran into me and spilled a whole tray of drinks."
She shook her head and glared. "Go inside and get Dolly to make you another one. If one of the security people sees you without a badge, he'll throw your ass out."
Fat chance that, Art thought grimly. But he glanced at the name "Mavis" written on her badge, turned and headed for the kitchen door. It was just the entree he needed.
Inside, he found the kitchen being used as an operations center. Five women poured over clear plastic charts made up for each area, making grease pencilled changes under columns headed "Used" and "Inventory." A sixth stood by observing the others. She was a white-haired, grandmotherly looking woman. Art noted she wore a Clipper Cruise & Travel badge lettered "Brenda Beasley, Executive Assistant." Evidently she was keeping an eye on the catering crew.
A big-busted blonde wearing a badge with the name "Dolly" looked over at him. "What's the problem?"
Art twisted his face in his best expression of pain. "Mavis said you would make me a new badge. I lost mine when some dude ran into me and nearly knocked me down around London."
Dolly gave him a the-kind-of-help-you-have-to-put-up-with-these-days look. She fished into a plastic box and pulled out a blank badge with the caterer's logo at the top. "What's your name?"
"Fred Nelson," he replied.
Dolly was holding a felt-tipped marker, and she tweaked the tip of her nose with the non-business end. "Fred Nelson? I don't recall...hell, I guess we scraped the bottom of the barrel for this affair."
She wrote the name on the badge and handed it to him. The wall phone over the kitchen counter rang as Art pinned the badge on his white jacket. Brenda Beasley answered it, then held the instrument out toward Dolly.
"It's for you."
Dolly began to talk animatedly about supplies that should have been delivered already. She had obviously dismissed any further thoughts about "Fred Nelson."
Keeping clear of Dolly's field of view, Art approached Brenda Beasley. "Mavis asked me to call about a truck she needs. Is there another phone line?"
"Yes," replied the white-haired woman, "they have two lines. You can use the phone in the family room through that doorway." She pointed.
"Thanks."
Perfect. He hurried into the family room and found the phone on a table near the fireplace. There was a pass-through window between kitchen and family room, but it had been closed with a sliding panel. Working quickly with well rehearsed fingers, he placed a tiny transmitter around the wire just inside the base of the instrument. It would not only pick up telephone conversations on either line but anything said within the room as well.
When he had finished, he raised his arm and said, "All done. I'm coming out."
Mexico City , Mexico
32
Worldwide Communications Consultants' Mexico City manager, Roberto Garcia, a handsome, polished Latino, met Burke Hill at the airport. Like Burke, he had an FBI background. They had, however, come from two different eras. Burke worked under Hoover, the dogmatic, legendary director, at a time when the Bureau and the CIA would hardly communicate with each other and agents often operated with few holds barred. Garcia was a product of the post-Watergate FBI run by Judge William Webster.
After checking into his hotel, Hill rode with Garcia to the Worldwide office located in a modern building on Avenida Juárez, not far from the Torre Latinoamericana, for many years the city's tallest skyscraper.
"Is this a routine audit, Burke, or are you looking for something?" Garcia asked pointedly as they drove through the crowded streets.
"Don't worry, Roberto. I expect to find everything shipshape."
"I certainly hope so." The manager ventured a wry grin.
"How is it going on the Amber side? Anything I ought to know about?"
"We aren't doing much in Mexico. The Agency has no real problems here now."
Worldwide's clandestine job was to supplement CIA efforts in areas where the embassy stations were having difficulty with "assets of uncertain reliability," as Nathaniel Highsmith, the company's founder and president, would say. Burke put things more bluntly. He called it plugging holes created by blown agents. The shifting alliances of the post-Cold War world required constant monitoring by the intelligence establishment to prevent some crisis from blindsiding the White House.
"Got problems anywhere else?" Burke inquired.
"Peru," said Garcia uneasily. "El Sendero Luminoso is kicking up its heels again."
"The Shining Path?"
"Right. We hear they're making efforts to branch out into other countries. We picked up a rumor of a group being sent to Mexico, but haven't been able to confirm it. Supposedly they were headed for the State of Jalisco. That's the Guadalajara area."
"I read a recent report on Shining Path," Burke said. "They're really bad news."
Garcia swung his car into a parking garage and blinked at the semi-darkness. "I presume your people in Moscow have their ears to the wall with this Minsk meeting coming up in another week."
"Nobody's really sure what to make of it. Those Commonwealth Coordinating Committees seem to have their own agenda. It doesn't necessarily coincide with what some of the governments want. It looks like there will definitely be some consolidation among the commonwealth countries. On the economic front particularly."
"I read the other day that some factions of the military might be playing footsie with the old hardliners."
Burke nodded. "That's a potential problem. But the U.S. is on good terms with most of the old Soviet republics. And we've established a reputation for moving pretty quickly in defense of our friends. I understand the President gave Chairman Latishev of Belarus some reassuring words, about how he would react to any threats. The conventional wisdom is that nobody's likely to choose a military option while we stand in the wings, aircraft carriers at the ready, looking calm, cool and collected."
The sound of banging glasses as patrons of the Veracruz sidewalk cafe signaled waiters for refills of steaming café con leche broke into the din of chattering voices. Yuri Shumakov found the uninhibited nature of the people and their town fascinating. It was quite un-Ru
ssian. Rather coarse and unkempt, like many of the polyglot sailors who frequented the waterfront. Veracruz had a tawdry charm that was like nothing Yuri had encountered before. He wished that he could understand the Spanish being babbled around him, though he had picked up the sound of other languages as well. He had even heard Russian spoken by a couple of burly men who were probably sailors from a freighter in the harbor.
The restaurant faced the zócalo, or main square, in sight of the dun-colored city hall. It was the heat of the morning that struck the fugitive investigator as the most conspicuous feature of the place. He wondered how the jarochos, as the natives called themselves, could sit there and consume so much hot coffee in such a climate.
But the climate was a minor concern. He marveled at how he had managed to get this far from home without being snatched up and thrown into some dank, musty jail. He was, after all, an international outlaw. He had no doubt that his name was listed among the wanted men of Interpol. But he had reached Veracruz with a passport identifying him as Ivan Netto, a naturalized American of Russian birth. In fact he had a complete set of identity papers, including a Georgia driver's license bearing an Atlanta address. They had cost him dearly, but they had been crafted by a skilled forger who had formerly worked for the KGB. The man possessed files of passports and other papers stolen from American tourists. His work was guaranteed to stand up to the closest scrutiny.
Although he was strictly on his own now, Yuri had made it out of Belarus with the help of several others. It began with Detective Omar Khan, who had called Larisa to urge that Yuri give himself up. Khan feared his favorite investigator might run afoul of some trigger-happy militiaman. But after Larisa had explained Yuri's position, that he saw no way to absolve himself of the murder charge without tracking down the responsible party, Khan had decided to help. He knew where the police were watching and searching, and he suggested a mosque as a place Larisa could safely meet with her husband. Yuri told her he needed to get to Mexico and find out who would receive the shipment from the former KGB officers. He hoped that person could lead him back to Major Romashchuk and General Zakharov. He was certain they could identify Vadim Trishin's murderer. But it would take a substantial sum of money to obtain a false identity and pay for the trip. With the help of her brother, Larisa had raised the cash. They had slipped him out of the country, again with Khan's assistance. He had flown from Kiev to Madrid, then to Mexico City. Arriving in the capital early this morning, he had rented a small blue Ford and driven to Veracruz, where the Bonnie Prince was to arrive the following day.
Leaving the restaurant, Yuri walked across the zócalo to a low building that housed offices of several shipping agents. Checking the directory, he found "Gerardo Salinas...202." He walked up the stairs and noted the name on the door.
"Do you speak English?" he asked the attractive, dark-skinned girl who sat behind a paper-strewn desk.
"I do," she replied with a bright smile wreathed by long black tresses. "Can I help you?"
"My name is Ivan Netto. I am an importer from Atlanta, Georgia. I have been dealing with North Star Trading Company, and I was told I might be able to find their representative here."
"You must be looking for Klaus Gruber. He called the other day about picking up a shipment due in on the Bonnie Prince tomorrow."
Yuri smiled. "Gruber. Of course. Is he in Veracruz now?"
"No, he won't be here until tomorrow. He called from Guadalajara. I made him a reservation at the Posada Zamora for a noon arrival. The ship docks in the afternoon. Shall I ask him to contact you?"
"No, that won't be necessary. I'll find him." Then Yuri struck a pensive pose. "Tell you what, don't mention anything at all about me. I want to surprise him."
Her eyes twinkled. She obviously had no problem with indulging in a little chicanery. It was pretty mild compared to some of the other things that went on around here.
"Does it take long to get shipments cleared through customs?" Yuri asked.
"Not with generous mordida."
"What is mordida?"
"You must be new here. Literally it means 'bite.' I believe norteamericanos call it 'bribe,' or 'payoff.' It is part of the cost of doing business."
Yuri smiled. "Is it possible to get your shipment straight off the boat without the inspector looking at it?"
"If you take care of the inspectors like Señor Salinas does."
He was certain Klaus Gruber would be prepared to pay. He thanked the girl for her help and left.
Yuri Shumakov spent most of the afternoon checking out the dock area where the Bonnie Prince would tie up. As he sat in the small car, he thought of Larisa back in Minsk. He was thankful for the changes the past few years had brought to his country. Had he skipped out like this in the old days, the state would have exacted its retribution on his family. At least he could take comfort in the knowledge that they were safe and sound.
He recalled how Detective Khan had described Sergei Perchik as being filled with rage over the case. The prosecutor informed his staff that he had never been so embarrassed by anything. He had thrown every available man into the chase for the accused murderer. Yuri could only imagine that he was near apoplexy at the realization his once-trusted investigator had not only fled into hiding but succeeded in escaping the country. It renewed his determination to track down the people who had framed him for Vadim Trishin's murder.
33
Well before noon the following day, Yuri bought a newspaper and claimed squatter's rights on a bright yellow overstuffed chair that faced Posada Zamora's dull brown registration desk. He had already noted Mexico's penchant for contrasts or, as Octavio Paz called them, polarities. Bright and dull...shadow and light...festive and somber. And, as he would soon learn, life and death.
Shumakov told the clerk he was a private investigator and slipped the man a good-sized tip to signal when Klaus Gruber checked in. A little mordida of his own, he thought with a chuckle. Whenever a new arrival approached the desk, Yuri would lower his newspaper and glance over it toward the clerk, who stood smiling benignly.
At around twelve-fifteen, two casually-dressed men walked up to the desk. Yuri once again dropped the paper a few inches. After handing them registration cards to fill out, the clerk looked at his watch for a moment, then tapped the crystal as if it had stopped. Yuri quickly discarded the newspaper. It was the signal.
He walked over to a display rack that held tourist brochures, where he could get a better view of the men's faces. The first one was a large man, brown-skinned, with a thick, black mustache. Probably Mexican, he decided. When he got a good look at the second, he felt the rush of blood surging through his body. He sensed a sudden warmth despite the air conditioning in the lobby. He was staring at the face in the picture he had studied back in Minsk, former KGB Major Nikolai Romashchuk.
Yuri was hardly prepared for this. Fortunately, he started looking away just as the Major's head turned toward him.
Yuri began to walk across the lobby as casually as he could manage. When he reached the other side, he turned around slowly. As he did, he spotted the pair of new arrivals heading back toward the hotel entrance. He followed as they walked outside and saw them climb into a yellow dump truck, its bed covered with a green tarpaulin. As they drove off, presumably to park the truck, he stepped outside. A hotel bellman, who had gone out to see if they needed help with their luggage, was looking off in the direction they had taken.
"Do you speak English?" Yuri asked.
"Sí. Some."
"Did you notice where that truck was from?"
"The license plate come from Guadalajara."
Was that where Romashchuk intended to take the stolen C/B weapons? Would he deliver them to some dissident group? As Yuri walked back toward the zócalo, he realized this new development would require a change of plans. His original intention was to confront Klaus Gruber and, by trick or force, ferret out a way to locate Romashchuk or General Zakharov. But now there was no middleman. Instead, he would need to d
evise a way to compel the Major to identify Vadim Trishin's murderer.
Presence of the Mexican added a complication. First he thought of going to the local authorities and telling them about the weapons hidden among the binocular lenses. Let them arrest Romashchuk and his accomplice. As a quid pro quo, Yuri would ask the right to interrogate the Major about the homicide.
Then he considered the down side of that scenario. Major Romashchuk could simply turn the tables on him and inform the Mexican police of Yuri's true identity, that he was the one wanted for the murder. A check with Interpol or the Minsk militia could land him in a jail cell along with, or instead of, Nikolai Romashchuk.
He finally concluded his best option was to follow Romashchuk after he picked up the weapons and watch for an opportunity to corner him. It would not be easy.
The Bonnie Prince, a Mexican pilot aboard, eased up to the Veracruz pier late in the day. Yuri found a foreman who spoke English and learned the unloading would not begin until early the following morning. With that in mind, he climbed into bed at an hour when the jarochos were just getting unwound for the evening. He was up the next morning before daybreak, checked out of his hotel and claimed a parking spot he had scouted out the day he arrived. It was opposite the waterfront where he could observe comings and goings around the Scottish liner. Then he sat back and nursed a strong mixture of coffee and milk in a styrofoam cup as he began the tedious wait for the dump truck. It finally appeared about an hour after the crane operators had started the methodical task of transferring cargo from ship to shore.
The truck parked about seventy meters beyond where Yuri sat. As he watched, Major Romashchuk and his Mexican driver walked toward the bustle of activity at the pier. They stopped to speak to a longshoreman, then headed for a building nearby. Probably delivering mordida to the customs inspector, Yuri speculated. He found it necessary to move away from his car to keep them in view, and as he saw them enter the building, he made a sudden decision to check out their truck.
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 22
