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

by Chester D. Campbell

"I was thinking in terms of a little farther out, say twenty-five kilometers."

  "You must fly up this way quite a bit," she said, looking around curiously.

  He shook his head. "Not really. But I had a passenger recently who wanted to look at some property in a canyon off in that direction."

  She paused a moment, pondering. "With a large cabin by a stream? A few smaller buildings?"

  "Yeah," he said, betraying his excitement, "that was it. Who's the owner?"

  "Rafael Madero, a friend of my late husband. He's a big politician."

  "That figures. It would make a dandy hideaway for a bunch of politicos to plot their strategy. Do you know if he rents it out?"

  "I think so. Was your passenger interested in renting?"

  "Possibly. He wasn't an easy one to figure out. A real weird character."

  Her eyes twinkled. "Like me?"

  "I wouldn't say that. The only thing weird about you is the company you keep."

  "Meaning you?"

  "Yeah. A guy like me could ruin a girl's reputation." Just then he spotted a sprawling hacienda ahead with a large central courtyard and stables and a cattle pen nearby. "Is that your place?"

  "Yes. We can land wherever you think best. Just stay away from the horses and the livestock."

  Roddy picked an open spot near a cluster of vehicles and maneuvered the chopper in for a landing, kicking up a cloud of reddish dust as they descended.

  By the time he had shut down the engine and helped Elena out onto the ground, a burly, bearded man was walking toward them leading a pair of saddled horses. She glanced around at Roddy with an impish grin.

  "I hope you like to ride."

  "Lord, I haven't been on a horse in twenty years," he said, rubbing his chin uncertainly. "I hope the critter isn't too frisky."

  "This is Paco," she said, hugging one of the sleek, brown animals. "He's as gentle as a lamb."

  "Buenas tardes, Señora," the big man greeted her. His teeth glistened like ivory carvings. His dark face was shadowed beneath the wide-brimmed gray sombrero. The leathery skin marked him as a man who lived his life in the sun.

  Elena introduced him. "Colonel Rodman, this is Miguel Cordero. Miguel is in charge of our cowboys here. I'm going to show Colonel Rodman around the ranch," she said. "Tell Rosa we'll be back in about an hour."

  Miguel held the reins while Elena sprang deftly into the saddle. Then he helped Roddy maneuver himself onto Paco.

  "Paco," said Roddy thoughtfully. "Isn't that short for Francisco?"

  "Right," said Elena, nodding. "But he's like me. He doesn't stand much on ceremony."

  The main part of the ranch sat on a plateau. As they rode over grassy fields that rolled up and down the low hills, the horses' hooves kicked up clods of red volcanic soil. In the distance, forested mountains rose in folds like mounds of dark green cake frosting. After about twenty minutes, they stopped and dismounted beneath a clump of oak trees, where an outcropping of rust-colored rock marked the edge of a small canyon. The view across to the mountains was like a photo from a travel brochure.

  Roddy rubbed his backside and grinned. "I'll probably regret this tomorrow. But I can see why you like to come out here and ride. What a gorgeous view."

  Elena perched on the edge of the rock formation. Roddy moved close to her. When he reached up to put an arm around her waist, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He pulled her face down and kissed her quite thoroughly on the lips.

  "I feel like Eve," she said, breathing heavily, when he released her.

  "Eve?"

  "You're my forbidden fruit."

  He thought back to the conversation with Dutch Schuler's father-in-law. "General Wackenhut told me you were ostracized for marrying outside your caste."

  She gave him a bit of a pained frown. "I wouldn't call it a caste. But, maybe you're right. My parents had picked out a nice young man from one of our kindred families. I didn't want to have anything to do with him, though. I was determined to make my own decisions. But when I married Ramon, it was as though I had committed the cardinal sin. I was shunned like a leper."

  "Didn't you have any contact with your parents all those years?"

  "Oh, there was contact. Particularly with my mother. But it was very strained, strictly at arm's length. I was never invited to come back home. Not until Ramon died."

  Roddy looked at her thoughtfully. "I'll bet I could make things that bad for you again."

  She grinned. "Much worse. Some of my uncles and cousins would suffer terminal mortification if they knew I was having an affair with a norteamericano."

  Roddy screwed his face into a rumpled grimace. "Are we really all that bad?"

  "They say you took half our country back in the Nineteenth Century. Then you invaded us numerous times. And you've always interfered in our political and economic endeavors."

  "Do you feel that way, Elena?"

  "My father always preached tolerance."

  "And then acted intolerant against you."

  "Not without good cause."

  "Such as?"

  "I was rebellious. Most people have a problem tolerating rebellion."

  He nodded. "The Air Force certainly did where I was concerned."

  She slipped down from the rock and put an arm around him. "My father taught me to respect our northern neighbors. He fought in Europe during World War II with the U.S. Army. He made a lot of friends in your country who helped build his export business after the war. He used to travel every year to a meeting with his important friends, sometimes in Europe, sometimes in the U.S."

  Roddy hugged her tightly. "Just the same, I don't want to cause you any problems."

  "Don't worry about it. This will be our little secret."

  37

  Nikolai Romashchuk's yellow dump truck reached the outskirts of Guadalajara late that afternoon. Yuri Shumakov was impressed by all the colorful tropical flowers that sprang up in every direction, but he found it necessary to concentrate on closing the distance between his small blue Tempo and the big Ford truck. The traffic had begun to pack in like race cars on the pace lap. He was keeping a watchful eye for any hint of a change in direction. In fact, he became so intent on observing the truck's movements that he failed to notice an erratic Volkswagen bug that switched lanes abruptly, attempting to swing in front of him with only inches of clearance. By the time he saw the car, it was too late. With a screeching, crunching sound that stiffened the hairs on the back of Yuri's neck, the Ford plowed into the VW's back fender.

  The two vehicles skidded to a halt in the middle of the busy street, resembling a couple of small bulls locking horns. Shaken but unhurt, Yuri jumped out of the car as the door to the Volkswagen swung open. Out lurched a young Mexican with long hair and a fixed, vacant smile. Yuri was only too familiar with the look. It was either alcohol or drugs.

  The youth stared at his crushed fender and began to babble in Spanish. Yuri shook his head and said one of the few phrases he knew, "No hablo Español."

  A transito, traffic cop, dressed in dark blue pants and sky blue shirt, showed up a few minutes later. Yuri had been told to have his insurance policy handy if he were ever in an accident, and he waved it in front of the officer like a matador trying to get el toro's attention. All he managed to get from the cop was a stream of Spanish, at which he threw up his hands and assumed a bewildered look.

  The policeman finally conveyed with hand gestures that Yuri should go over to the side of the street and wait while the law dealt with the obviously spaced out VW driver.

  With the help of another officer who stopped to see what was going on, and possessed a passing knowledge of English, the frustrated policeman finally advised Yuri to take his scratched and dented rental car out to the airport, where it could be swapped for another. By this time, Yuri knew there was no possibility of finding the yellow truck, without an unbelievable dose of pure luck, a commodity of which he felt sadly lacking. So he got back into his car and followed the directions to Miguel Hida
lgo Airport.

  The attractive, dark-skinned girl at the car rental booth in the international terminal helped him fill out the necessary forms regarding the accident and provided him with the keys to a Nissan Sentra. Concerned that his cash supply was rapidly dwindling, Yuri asked the girl about a cheap motel in the area. She suggested he try Motel La Palma. As she was showing him how to find it on a map in the Guadalajara driving guide, Yuri saw a highway marked "to Tequila" and remembered the red circle on the map in Major Romashchuk's truck.

  "Is there something in here that shows the town of Tequila?" he asked.

  She turned to another page. "You go out this way on Highway 15," she explained, running her finger along the black line. "It's about 56 kilometers. Are you going to visit the Sauza Distillery?"

  He gave her a puzzled look. "Distillery?"

  "Where they bottle Tequila, Mexico's most famous drink."

  "Oh," he said. He had heard of Tequila. It was the vodka of Mexico, he thought. But he pointed to the mountainous area north of the town. "What is in here?"

  She smiled. "Scenery. Mountains and trees and canyons. Maybe a ranch. Not much else."

  "How does one get back there?"

  She shrugged. "There's probably a dirt road that wanders through the mountains. But you aren't supposed to drive your rental car on roads like that. If you want to see such an area, I'd take a helicopter."

  "Where would one find a helicopter?" He had always thought of such things as the province of the militia or the KGB or the army.

  "There's a company called Aeronautica Jalisco located on the other side of the airport. They rent helicopters. I'm sure they could arrange a sightseeing flight."

  After he had located the green Nissan Sentra, he began to consider his options. Thinking about that red circle on the map, he realized it was his only clue to the possible whereabouts of Nikolai Romashchuk. Of course, he could try calling the girl in the Veracruz office of the shipping agent. She might have an address in this area for the supposed German businessman, though he had serious doubts that she would. What was Romashchuk up to, he wondered? Did he plan to store the C/B weapons in a cave in the mountains, or was he making a delivery there? The more he thought about it, the more clearly he comprehended one central fact. If he wanted to attempt to locate a yellow dump truck in the wild mountain country north of Tequila, a helicopter would certainly be the best tool for finding it. He drove around the airport perimeter in search of a fixed base operator named Aeronautica Jalisco.

  After landing and getting the chopper bedded down, Roddy walked Elena to her Mercedes, then headed for Lake Chapala. He was in an upbeat mood and sang lustily in the shower, then donned a fresh guayabera shirt. The phone rang while he was dressing. It was his daughter Lila.

  "Hi, Dad. How are things south of the border? Been taking a siesta?"

  "Hey, don't give me that crap. I've been working, just like people in the States. Life goes on around the clock here, too."

  "You're trying to disabuse me of all my nice mental images about Mexico," said the lively voice. "Sleepy little towns and guys stretched out in the sun with sombreros over their faces."

  "If you had to fight with some of those guys in traffic, you'd think sleepy. When do you start your new job?"

  "Toward the end of August. Teachers are like retirees during the summer. Just take it easy and bum around."

  "Ha! I wouldn't know," Roddy said with feigned displeasure. "I work, remember? Driving helicopters."

  "Yeah, wish you'd fly up this way. Oh, the big news. Mom and a lady she met at church are opening a dress shop. Can you feature her as a big business tycoon?"

  "Don't disparage your mother, Lila. She's got a lot of ability. She'll do well. It's something she's always wanted to do."

  "Sure. I bet she'd do better, though, if you were around to help."

  Roddy grinned. Lila the matchmaker. She had always urged him to come back.

  "I might bother her boyfriends," he said lightly.

  "Get real, Dad. She hasn't encouraged anybody. The only guy she went out with more than a time or two in Gainesville turned out to be married. She told him to get lost. What about your love life?"

  "What makes you think I have one?" he said defensively.

  "Just asking."

  "Well, I have no real entanglements," he said, not at all sure of its truthfulness.

  "Why don't you come up and join us for the Fourth of July? We plan to get together with Renee and Jim. May even go into Washington for the big concert at the Capitol."

  "I don't know, Lila. I'll think about it."

  "Don't just think about it, Dad. Make a reservation. A few more days and it may be difficult to get a flight."

  "How do you like living in Alexandria?" he asked, changing the subject.

  "Great. We're far enough out that you don't feel so crowded, but it's just a hop and a skip from everything. Promise me you'll really consider coming up for the Fourth."

  "I'll let you know. I promise."

  What timing, he thought as he finished getting dressed. He was happy to know things were going well with his family, but it didn't help his confused state of mind. Elena had invited him to dinner, and he had finally agreed to spend the night this time. No creeping drive home in the wee hours.

  An interesting coincidence occurred over the telephone lines in Guadalajara that evening. Two calls were placed to phones in Minsk, capital of the Republic of Belarus. Both callers spoke in Russian, and the conversations began almost identically.

  The first call was placed around five p.m. from a residence in Sector Libertad, the northeastern quadrant of the city.

  A somewhat sleepy voice answered, "Hello."

  "This is Herr Gruber," said the party in Guadalajara. "I hope I didn't wake you."

  "I haven't been to bed yet. I've been waiting up to hear from you. How did it go?"

  "We just arrived a short time ago," reported the bogus German. "Mission successful. We have the goods here in Guadalajara. We'll be taking them to the mountains early in the morning."

  "Are your support people in place?"

  Romashchuk chuckled softly. "Support people" was an interesting euphemism for Peruvian guerrillas. "Yes, sir. We will start familiarizing them with their assignment tomorrow."

  "Good. What have you done about the individual our friend suggested keeping an eye on?"

  "That's taken care of. I should know soon if he is really a problem. How are things progressing over there?"

  A smile was detectable in General Valeri Zakharov's normally dour voice. "Our brain trust met earlier this evening. Everything is in readiness. Everyone is anxious to get on with the job. We anticipate things running smoothly, so long as your part of the operation goes as scheduled. You're sure no one took any interest in your delivery?"

  "Reasonably certain. We noticed a particular blue Ford on a few occasions along the way. There is a great deal of traffic on that highway, so it's hard to tell—"

  "That isn't good enough."

  "I know. If he shows up again, we'll take care of him. It was a lone male driver. He would disappear for long periods of time. We saw no more of him after arriving in Guadalajara."

  "All right. But don't take any chances. Check in with me before you leave there."

  The second call was placed from a 24-hour telephone shop in the vicinity of the Motel La Palma, where long distance calls could be made and paid for in cash. It occurred around ten p.m.

  "Hello," said a groggy voice.

  The caller from Mexico said, "I hope I didn't wake you."

  "What time is...oh, it's time I got up anyway. Who is this?"

  "Your friend in Mexico."

  "Damn," said Detective Omar Khan. "You really made it?"

  "Of course I made it. What kind of question is that?"

  "Sorry. We've been wondering."

  "Who is `we'?"

  "I don't think we'd better use any names."

  "You think somebody is tapping your line?"
/>   "No. I don't know why they would. It just seems prudent."

  "Very well. Are you referring to a certain medical person?"

  "Yes, you could say that."

  "Well," Yuri Shumakov said somewhat anxiously, "tell this person I love her and miss her and I'm rapidly running out of cash. I need help."

  "I'll see what I can do. Have you had any results so far?"

  "You're damned right." Now there was excitement in Yuri's voice.

  "Remember my telling you about the guy whose trail I turned up in Kiev? He's here."

  "In Mexico?"

  "Right. I lost him this afternoon, but I'm hopeful of tracking him down in the morning. I haven't figured out yet just how to get the information out of him that I need. But as soon as I can pin him down, I'm going after him."

  "Best be careful, my friend."

  "Don't worry. I'm well aware of the kind of man he is. Look, if anyone can come up with some money, it can be wired to me through Banamex, that's a major Mexican bank, in Guadalajara."

  He gave Omar Khan the address of a bank branch located near the motel.

  "Sounds like you need it right away," said the detective.

  "Just as fast as you can get it here. Use the name on my passport. It's the middle of the evening now. I'll check with the bank tomorrow afternoon. If there's no word, I'll check back again the following morning."

  "We should be able to get something to you by then."

  "Thanks. I appreciate it. I'll call on my Cossack roots and dance a prysiadka at your wedding."

  Kahn laughed. "Happily, I have no plans for such an event in the foreseeable future. Take care."

  38

  It was seven-thirty when Roddy rang the bell at Elena's massive front door. Manuel beckoned him inside and silently led him through the breakfast room onto the courtyard, where he found an exquisitely set table for two, complete with candlelight and wine. Manuel pulled back a chair.

  "Please have a seat, Señor. The Señora will join you shortly."

  When Elena appeared about ten minutes later, she wore a long, cream-colored dress with full sleeves and a square-cut bodice. Its only decoration was a simple embroidered pattern around the ends of the sleeves, over the shoulders and across the bust. She might have been a peasant girl dressed for folk dancing, but the simple understatement made her natural beauty more dazzling.