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

by Chester D. Campbell

  As she paused for a moment, Roddy noticed a flash of hardness in her eyes.

  "The ladies have forgiven me," she said, then added a contemptuous chuckle. "Not that I gave a damn what they thought. But, you see, we are somewhat alike. I, too, have a skeleton in my closet."

  He cocked his head to one side and studied her with a curious look. "You fascinate me, Señora."

  She set down her cup and leaned toward him with a hand out in a warning gesture. "If you're going to be Roddy, you will have to call me Elena. Okay?"

  He nodded with a grin.

  "And why should I fascinate you?"

  "You aren't at all what I expected. A friend told me some of the things that had been said about you in financial circles. I don't find you that way at all."

  "Because you don't have to deal with me in a business context."

  He shrugged. "Possibly. But I believe this is the real you. What was it they said, 'tough as nails'? I'll bet you can be that way if you have to. But I think underneath you're really a warm, amiable, caring lady."

  "You're too flattering," she said with a shake of her head.

  "No, not flattering. Just observant."

  "Tell me about yourself," she said, reversing the subject. "Do you have a wife, children?"

  "Ex-wife," he said with a wave of his hand, "and two grown daughters, back in the States. As you know, I fly helicopters for Aeronautica Jalisco. Part-time. I'm afraid my life hasn't been too exciting. Nothing like yours. I understand you're involved in your father's businesses."

  She nodded. "I'm chairman of the food export business, but not concerned with day-to-day activities. However, I'm more intimately involved with the cattle operation. I was raised with horses. I go out frequently and ride about the ranches. It gives me an opportunity to unwind while staying abreast of what goes on. The scenery in the mountains is fabulous. I love it."

  "I can agree with that. I've seen a lot of it from the air."

  She raised a well-drawn eyebrow. "Now there's an idea. Maybe I should buy a helicopter and hire you to fly me around my properties. They're spread out over the area."

  He knew she was merely making conversation, but it sounded like a great idea to him.

  When they had finished their coffee, Elena suggested they go for a tour of the mansion. But as Roddy started to get up, his right knee gave way and he stumbled, nearly falling, though he quickly regained his balance. He gave her an embarrassed grin.

  "Are you all right?" she asked with a worried frown.

  "No problem. Just my gimpy leg. Sometimes, when I sit awhile and start to get up, the knee doesn't hold. It's like a 'football knee,' only it didn't result from a football injury."

  "Was it from the helicopter crash?"

  "Yeah. I was pretty badly banged up."

  "Broken bones?"

  "The leg and several ribs. I also had a severe concussion and suffered from post-traumatic syndrome."

  Elena was an attentive listener, and he soon found himself relating the agonizing aftermath of the plunge into the Zagros Mountains. After he had told her of the severe headaches, the confinement in a wheelchair and the trauma of hearing that he would never return to flying status, he confessed, "It nearly left me an alcoholic."

  "I can see why," she said sympathetically. "Is that what led to the divorce?"

  "Right. I don't blame her. I doubt if anybody could have lived with me during that period."

  "You have obviously made quite a comeback. I admire your fortitude." As they talked, Elena led the way to her father's book-lined study, then into a formal dining room that contained several large paintings, including one by José Clemente Orozco, Guadalajara's famed muralist.

  "I don't picture your father as a man who would condone leftists," Roddy said. "Did he have any problem with Orozco's communist leanings?"

  "My father was a forgiving man," she said. It sounded a bit rueful. "But Orozco is universally admired for his work, not for his political beliefs. Incidentally, why did you become an expatriate? I'm sure political beliefs were not involved there. Was it our weather?"

  He chuckled. "It was Dutch Schuler, General Wackenhut's son-in-law. He saved me from myself, talked me into coming down here to further our recuperation."

  "Was he in the crash, also?"

  "He was my copilot. He suffered shoulder and internal injuries. He's an expert tennis player, and I was afraid he would never play again. But down here he regained his form, and I pretty well got my life back together. I owe a lot to Guadalajara and Lake Chapala."

  "I believe the credit for your recovery must go to you. I don't know how I would manage under such trying circumstances. The closest I've come to it would be the automobile accident that killed my husband. Fortunately, I came out of it with nothing more than cuts and bruises. And shock, of course."

  Roddy followed her into a more modest breakfast room with glass doors opening onto a flower-lined central courtyard.

  "It must have been a terrible shock to realize that your husband was dead," he said, a pained look on his face.

  She nodded. "It was bad, but the sadness did not linger so long as it might have. Our relationship had been deteriorating for some time prior to the accident. He had become so wrapped up in his causes that he seemed to lose interest in me."

  Roddy's eyes took in the shapely figure and her attractive face. He gave her a skeptical look. "Lose interest in you? I find that hard to believe."

  She smiled. "You don't know what a hellish bitch I can be."

  "Sure. Hell hath no fury—"

  "Like a scorned woman. If we're going to indulge in cliches, don't forget that beauty is only skin deep."

  "Ah, but what skin."

  She laughed, a happy, bubbling laugh. "I think you could be a naughty boy, Roddy."

  "Possibly," he said, shrugging. "It's been so long, I can't remember."

  They walked through a recreation room that adjoined the swimming pool and finally a spacious, modern kitchen.

  "Some of the other rooms in the back are servants quarters," she said. "For the rest of the tour, we go upstairs."

  She showed him her parents' large bedroom, still furnished as when they were alive. He saw the nursery with its pink crib, stuffed animals and toys she had used as a child. There were spacious guest rooms and more bathrooms. Then Elena ushered him into a bedroom that more closely resembled a suite in a fancy hotel. It had a totally feminine look, an odd contrast of old and new. Polarities, he thought. The kingsize bed was solid oak with intricately-carved designs, covered by a white spread decorated with purple roses. Lampshades on the bedside tables were a matching lavender. A table and chairs sat at one side, flanked by a large projection TV. One door opened into an oversize bathroom with both shower and jacuzzi. Another revealed a large, walk-in closet. The opposite side of the room featured a set of glass doors shrouded by curtains.

  "This has to be your room," Roddy said. He noted framed photographs of her parents and a smaller one of a man he presumed to be Elena's late husband.

  She smiled. "It's my sanctuary. When I get fed up with the world, I retreat here. Come look at the view."

  She switched off the lights and opened the glass doors, revealing a long, black wrought iron balcony. Roddy followed her into the cool darkness and leaned against the railing as his eyes took in the yellowish glow and the speckled gleam of Guadalajara at night. A breeze whispered through the trees, the rustle of the leaves making the distant lights appear to be winking at them.

  "Magnificent. You've got a ringside seat, Elena," he said softly. It was like looking down on a plaza filled with people holding lighted candles.

  "It gives you a feeling of belonging, yet being apart from it all."

  He gazed down at the neatly manicured grounds below and grinned. "I feel like Juliet on the balcony."

  She moved closer until the delicate odor of her perfume scented the air around him. When she tilted her head back to gaze at the iridescent sky, the softness of her hair brushed again
st his cheek.

  "Balconies are romantic," she said dreamily. It was almost a sigh. "Nights like this are surely made for romance."

  Roddy nodded. "What's that old saying, if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with?"

  She turned to him, her face so close he could see every flawless feature in the glow of the night sky. He saw that hint of a smile on her lips and in her eyes that had snared his attention when he first encountered her in the sitting room.

  "They could both be the same," she said in her throaty voice, "the one you're with and the one you love."

  He wasn't sure who made the first move, but suddenly she was in his arms. They kissed hungrily, as if this were something both had been starved for. The firmness of her breasts pressed provocatively against his chest. When her lips finally began to move slowly away, he kissed the closed lids of her eyes, the smooth skin of her face and neck and felt her bite gently at his ear.

  Roddy was lost in the mystery of the moment. It would not be until later that he thought about Karen and how loving her might compare with the consuming presence of this passionate, exciting woman. For now, everything else was blocked out of his mind. It had been so long since he had experienced the exhilaration of being wanted, no, being desired, that he could feel nothing but an insatiable yearning to find ways to share the limitless heights of pleasure he was prepared to scale.

  After a timeless moment in which his hands had begun the gentle exploration of her body, Elena pushed him toward the bedroom doorway. It was not the way she had envisioned the night ending, but Roddy was right about her being warm, amiable and caring. He could have added passionate. And once those long-suppressed passions had been set free, they buried her inhibitions like hot lava rolling over a restraining wall.

  "Make love to me, Roddy," she said, her voice a breathless rush. And they crossed to the rose-covered bed, leaving a trail of hastily discarded clothing.

  Mexico City

  36

  Yuri Shumakov checked out before daylight and drove nervously back to the motel where he had last seen the yellow dump truck. He did not relax until he found it in the same spot where the Mexican driver had left it the evening before. Parking his rental car in a secluded area that still provided a view of the motel parking lot, Yuri sat and waited. His thoughts drifted toward home. He wondered if the charges against him had caused Larisa any difficulties at the hospital. And what about Petr and Aleksei? School age youngsters could sometimes be devastating in their insensitivity toward their classmates' family problems. Had they been the target of taunts about their father? He realized he wasn't even certain of the time of day in Minsk.

  He wondered about General Borovsky's investigation. Had it turned up any traces of General Zakharov? Maybe he should call and let the General know he was following Major Romashchuk. No, he decided, it would be too risky. Anyway, would Borovsky believe him now? The tale of stolen chemical weapons shipped halfway around the world would certainly sound farfetched, not to mention self-serving.

  It suddenly occurred to him, accompanied by a sinking feeling, that he was still no closer to solving his own dilemma, finding the identity of the killer who had butchered Vadim Trishin. And with most of the labyrinth called Mexico, Distrito Federal, still ahead of him, there was no guarantee he would manage to stay on their tail across the sprawling capital city.

  Just before seven o'clock, he saw Romashchuk and the Mexican wander out toward the truck. The Major glanced around the parking area before getting in, but he did not appear overly concerned about the possibility of anyone keeping an eye on him. Yuri watched them pull out onto the highway, then waited as long as he dared and eased out into the traffic a few car lengths back.

  Traffic was heavy, but the truck rolled along at a leisurely pace, making Yuri's job relatively easy. A short distance before the airport, he followed the green tarp as it turned south and then west on the Viaducto Miguel Alemán, which the map showed cutting straight across the southern half of the city. On the western side, a couple of turns would lead onto Highway 15, the route to Guadalajara. Everything went smoothly until they approached the major intersection where Miguel Alemán crossed Avenida de los Insurgentes, with a couple of side streets joining in to confuse things.

  Yuri was forced to jam on his brakes as traffic came to a sudden halt. After a few minutes, the line of vehicles moved slowly again, then just as abruptly stopped. He was close enough to the intersection now to see there had been a major pileup. A station wagon lay with wheels turned to the sky like a large turtle flipped on its back. At least three other cars were involved. As he checked the vehicles up ahead, he realized with a start that the dump truck was no longer in sight. It had apparently been directed around the accident to make maneuvering room for wreckers. If he lost it, how would he ever track down the man who was the key to his salvation?

  Yuri sat there sweating from the heat and the frustration for at least twenty minutes.

  Finally under way again, he kept his eyes darting about, searching for road signs. When he reached the intersection with Highway 15, Romashchuk was nowhere to be seen. Yuri turned toward Guadalajara and pushed the Ford as fast as he dared. The highway was heavily traveled, with a steady stream of cars and trucks, everything from pickups to eighteen-wheelers. After nearly an hour, he began feeling discouraged. Had they crossed him up and gone off in a different direction? His grand plan appeared to be on the verge of a roadblock. And then somewhere beyond Toluca, about ninety kilometers west of the capital, he finally caught sight of the yellow truck. It gave him a feeling of overwhelming relief. He began to breathe more easily and suddenly realized how the tension had made his muscles resemble iron bands.

  When Roddy arrived at Aeronautica Jalisco at mid-morning, a pixie-eyed María handed him a note with a mischievous grin. "This lady has called twice for you. Sounds serious."

  He spotted the name "Señora Castillo Quintero" and smiled. "She's a businesswoman. Probably wants me to fly her someplace."

  It had been quite late when he got home from Elena's. Anybody with any sense knew you didn't drive in rural Mexico after dark. The warm pavement, heated by the sun during the day, provided an irresistible sleeping place for roaming livestock during the cool nights. It had taken Roddy twice the usual forty-minute drive. But he was determined to get off to himself and sort out his thoughts. He had sat up another hour drinking coffee and pondering the confused state of his emotions. The exercise produced nothing but continued confusion. Elena had made him feel more alive and vibrant, more like a fully-recovered, full-fledged man than he had felt since the tragic conclusion of Operation Easy Street. But he remained plagued by General Wackenhut's admonition and by unsettled notions about Karen. He had no desire to be the guy who screwed up relations for the American community, and he wasn't sure he was ready to give up on the quest to regain the love and respect of his former wife. But of one thing he was certain, what had happened in Elena's bedroom could not be brushed off as a casual encounter.

  He had awakened late that morning, downed a cup of coffee and a sweet roll and hurried out to the airport. He took the note into the lounge, sat down at the phone and dialed, letting the memory of Elena's gentle touch, the softness of her body and the fragrance of the flower in her hair linger in his mind as intimately as a whispered confidence.

  "I worried about you driving home so late," she said when she came on the line. "You should have stayed here. You could have had your choice of bedrooms."

  Roddy grinned at the thought. "What would Manuel have said when I showed up for breakfast?"

  "He's accustomed to looking askance at my unorthodox behavior. Anyway, I called to see if you could fly me up to one of the ranches? It's near Tequila."

  Despite what he had said to the secretary, he had not really expected this. Now it made him wonder if she might have been serious about buying a helicopter.

  "When did you want to go?" he asked.

  "How does one o'clock sound?"

 
He had already checked the schedule and knew the chopper was available. "Sounds like a winner. Saves me looking for an excuse to lure you out of that castle."

  "You don't need an excuse, Roddy," she said in a seductive tone.

  After he hung up the phone, he stood and stared at his reflection in the glass door of a tall bookcase. An imperfection in the glass distorted his features comically. He realized that his feelings toward Elena Castillo Quintero were every bit as confused as that mirror image of his face. His natural inclination was to think relax and accept your good fortune. But he could not so easily dismiss Karen from his mind.

  Elena wore a black bolero jacket over a yellow shirt. These were complemented by designer jeans and hand-tooled leather boots. She looked radiant. Roddy had to restrain the urge to plant a big kiss on her right there in the middle of the ramp. He strapped her into the chopper, climbed in beside her and soon lifted off for Tequila. When they were clear of the airport, he shoved an aeronautical chart in front of her and asked where the ranch was located. He got a disapproving frown in reply.

  "I'm not a map person," she said. "It's to the north of the town."

  That, he realized, would put it in the vicinity of the barranca he had flown over with Bryan Janney. Roddy had been unable to dismiss the doomed writer and his disturbing story. He was appalled at the idea of letting Adam Stern get away with murder, but he wasn't prepared to risk getting his head lopped off by poking his nose into the murky business until he knew a lot more about what was going on.

  During the flight up, Elena told him about the family ranches, five large spreads, covering thousands of hectares and stocked with cattle that also numbered in the thousands.

  As they were approaching the area of the ranch, which he had determined lay beyond the highway running north of Tequila, Roddy pointed toward the panorama of green mountains that spread off to the right side of the chopper. "Who owns the land over there?"

  She glanced out the window. "I do, back about eight or ten kilometers."