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

by Chester D. Campbell

  "Where's Manuel?" Roddy asked.

  "I thought it was time you realized I do know how to open a front door," she said half-jokingly. "Actually, since I had to be away this afternoon, I decided to give everyone the day off. Come on in."

  Roddy introduced Yuri Shumakov as his passenger from the morning flight, then asked if he could use the telephone.

  "I need to make a call to Mexico City first. That okay?"

  "Certainly," she said, nodding.

  Roddy thought she looked oddly preoccupied.

  "Use the phone in my father's office," she added.

  He sat down at the heavy wooden desk and pulled a scrap of note paper from his shirt pocket. It contained the number for Worldwide Communications Consultants' Mexico City office. He dialed the number, then leaned back in the plush leather chair. He found his gaze leveling on the portrait of Elena's father that hung over the desk. Studying the stern-set jaw and unsmiling eyes, he detected something of the same implacable demeanor that he had noticed in Elena this afternoon.

  When Burke Hill came on the line, Roddy introduced himself in a calm, deliberate voice. He knew his strange story would require all the salesmanship he could muster. "This is Colonel Warren Rodman," he said, "U.S. Air Force Retired. I got your name from a former CIA officer named Murray Bender. I'm not sure whether you know him, but he recommended you as someone I could trust."

  "Trust for what?" Hill asked. "I don't think I know the gentleman. I wonder why he would suggest you call me?"

  "He said you had saved the President's neck a few years back. Said you weren't controlled by anybody, but you had connections right to the top of the government."

  "Well, I'm flattered, but I believe he has sort of overrated my importance. What was it you wanted to talk about?"

  "I live on Lake Chapala, near Guadalajara, where I have a part-time job flying helicopters," Roddy explained. "In the course of taking a couple of different passengers to an area up near Tequila, I've gotten involved in a real sticky situation. Believe me, Mr. Hill, it was totally unexpected, something strictly out of left field. I learned there is a former major from the old KGB over here. He has some deadly chemical weapons stolen several years ago from the Soviet arsenal. From what I saw this morning, he's apparently involved in teaching some people to use them. I have no idea who they are, but it looked like they were firing from mortar tubes in the back of a truck."

  "Damn, Colonel. Sounds pretty ominous. I believe you need to contact the Mexican authorities. I don't see anything I could do for you."

  "There's another dimension to it, Mr. Hill. One that complicates matters. This Russian–or Ukrainian–met here last week with a man named Adam Stern of the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. They have something to do with what's going on."

  "I find that hard to believe," said Hill skeptically. "I'm quite familiar with the Roundtable."

  "I know how you feel. It struck me the same way. But, unfortunately, I stumbled into the fact that Stern killed an American while he was here. Made it look like a suicide. It was a writer from New York named Bryan Janney. He was involved in researching a book on the Roundtable. Before he died, Janney told me the organization isn't what it purports to be on the outside. Murray Bender confirmed it."

  "The ex-CIA man?"

  "Right."

  There was a long pause, and Roddy had begun to wonder if Burke Hill was still on the line. Then he heard a deeply concerned voice say, "This training, as you called it, was taking place near Tequila?"

  "Right. In a barranca, a canyon, north of the town."

  "And you saw it, yourself?"

  "No more than a couple of hours ago."

  "Is there any chance of your coming to Mexico City?"

  "I can fly in this afternoon," Roddy said with relief. I'll bring along a man from Minsk, Belarus, who knows all about this major and how he got the weapons."

  "Call me back and let me know what time you'll get here," Hill instructed.

  When he returned to the sitting room, Roddy found Elena had just brought in a pot of coffee and some cakes.

  "Did you two get acquainted?" he asked.

  Elena shook her head. "Not really. I've been back in the kitchen."

  "Okay," he said, frowning, "let me tell you about that barranca."

  "Wait!" She held up her hand as she brought a cup of coffee to him, then sat beside him on the sofa. "I must tell you something first. But before I do, you must understand that it has nothing to do with how I feel about you, or with the offer I made last night. I hope what I have to confess won't change anything between us."

  "Confess?" Roddy said, unsure if this was more of the new Elena he was just coming to know.

  "I have to give you a little background. I think I mentioned that my father was involved in a meeting each year of an organization that included Americans and Europeans. He had a very old and dear friend he always went with, Eugenio Santin, a top executive in the Bank of Mexico. We are unrelated, but Santin treated me as though I were a niece. About a week ago, he called and said he had an important favor to ask. Someone connected with the organization needed a person to make the acquaintance of a Colonel Warren Rodman." She gave him an apologetic smile.

  Roddy had grown increasingly concerned as she talked. Now he stared at her in disbelief. "And that's when you called General Wackenhut?"

  "Yes." She folded her hands nervously. "It sounded like something interesting, a change of pace. I'd been bored to death for a good while. So I invited you over." When she looked back at him, her eyes had softened with the hint of a tear. "I know you must think I'm terrible, but I had no idea it would turn out the way it did."

  Roddy shook his head. He wasn't hearing what Elena was attempting to say, only that she had enticed him into her confidence for...he suddenly remembered something Murray Bender had told him. "What was the name of the organization your father and Santin were involved in?"

  "Father told me about it shortly before he died. It's called the Council of Lyon. He said they were concerned with maintaining relations—"

  "Damn it, Elena, what have you done to me?" Roddy groaned, feeling as though she had just slipped a dagger between his ribs. "What did Santin want to know about me?"

  "He said an American affiliated with the Council had asked him to help someone who was here on a project. This man was involved in some kind of business arrangement taking place at Rafael Madero's cabin. The man called me. He wanted to find out if you showed any interest in the barranca and what was going on there."

  "Did the man give you his name?"

  "It was Gruber."

  Gruber, a.k.a. Nikolai Romashchuk. Roddy caught the flash of concern on Yuri Shumakov's face. They were speaking in English for his benefit. What a stupid fool he'd been, Roddy thought. He had let his ego convince him that Elena's actions had been dictated by her heart, not her perfidious head. He leaned back on the sofa, putting a hand over his face, rubbing his forehead. It felt like one of his old post-traumatic syndrome headaches was about to break loose.

  "I'm sorry," she said contritely. "I hate myself for what I did. I'll tell them—"

  "You've told them too damned much already. Do you know what we saw at that barranca this morning? Your Mr. Gruber was teaching some guys how to fire mortar shells out of the back of a truck. Shells filled with nerve gas. When we flew over, they shot at us with automatic weapons. One shot blasted through the fuselage just barely missing our heads."

  He told her quickly who Gruber really was and why Yuri had come to Mexico.

  Elena gasped in horror, jumping to her feet. "You must get out of here! Now!"

  "Why?"

  "A little while before you got here, Gruber called to see if I had heard from you. When I told him you were coming over, he said he wanted to talk to you, but not to tell you about it. Just be sure you stayed until they arrived."

  "Who is they?"

  "I don't know. But they could be here at any time."

  Shumakov gave Roddy a worried look. "Does
Romashchuk know what kind of car you drive?"

  "Obviously Adam Stern told him everything about me."

  "Take my car," Elena said quickly. Her purse lay on a table nearby and she pulled out a key ring with a Mercedes emblem on it. "If you should pass them, they won't know it's you. When you find someplace to hide, call and let me know you're safe. I'll worry about getting the car back later."

  Roddy hesitated. He was still furious at what Elena had done. He wasn't interested in any help from her now. But Yuri took the keys and handed them to him.

  "I think it is a good idea, Roddy. We had better go."

  Elena reached out her hand, but Roddy turned away. "I'm going to cancel my business meeting," she said. "I'm staying here until you call and say you're safe."

  Out front, they quickly transferred their bags from the Toyota to Elena's shiny red Mercedes. Roddy started the car and swung onto the driveway that led out to the large black wrought iron gate that provided the only break in the high wall surrounding the compound. When he reached the gate, which stood open, he turned in the direction of Avenida Lopez Mateos, a main artery to the south. As he entered the street, a Jeep Cherokee approached slowly, headed toward them.

  "It's Romashchuk," Yuri muttered in a hoarse whisper, as though the people in the other vehicle might hear him.

  Roddy swung his head around and locked eyes with the Major. He jammed his foot on the accelerator, and the Mercedes surged forward. Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw the Jeep circle around in the street, barely missing Elena's wall.

  "They've turned around!" Yuri shouted as the van-like vehicle picked up speed behind them.

  "I doubt they can keep up with this car on the open road," Roddy said. The only trouble was that there were no "open roads" around here.

  He had to slow down at the intersection with Lopez Mateos or risk colliding with the oncoming traffic. But he quickly darted into a small gap between cars, causing Yuri to flinch at the memory of the youth he had smashed into the day before. It was still early afternoon, but the traffic flow was enough to preclude any effort to take on the Jeep in an all-out run for the roses. The best Roddy could do was attempt to gain a little distance by weaving in and out among the cars and trucks ahead. He picked up some nasty looks from truck drivers who took him for a macho maniac as he barely squeezed by without scraping fenders.

  "They're gaining on us," Yuri said.

  Then Roddy suddenly realized they were only a couple of blocks away from a major intersection. Unless he was extremely lucky, they would be forced to stop for a traffic light. And if Major Romashchuk was the diabolical bastard Yuri described, he might just ignore the oncoming traffic, swing into the other lane and overtake them.

  On an impulse, Roddy saw an opening and darted across into the next side street. He found they were in a residential area of neat, one-story ranch style homes with well-kept lawns and a profusion of flowers.

  "They're still behind us," Yuri said.

  Roddy could see the Jeep in his mirror, racing along no more than half a block behind. He tried to recall the tricks used in chase scenes in movies he had seen, but all he could think of was to keep making turns and attempt to outrun his pursuers. He spun the steering wheel to the left at the next corner and skidded around, the tires on the right side of the Mercedes digging into the soft dirt of someone's carefully tended lawn.

  He cut left again at the next street, then right. And suddenly he found himself slamming on the brakes at sight of a cluster of kids in the middle of the street. He gave a blast of his horn and they began to scatter, but by the time he was able to accelerate again, the Jeep was bearing down on his rear end. Then, in the mirror, he saw the brown face and bushy mustache of the Mexican in the passenger seat leaning out the window, accompanied by a large hand that held a long-barreled revolver.

  The bullet crashed through the back window and angled just past Roddy's head, exiting through the open driver's side window. He tried his best to shrink into something smaller, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell, but only managed to duck his head slightly, taking his eye off the road ahead just long enough to sideswipe a car parked along the street.

  "Damn," he cursed. "If they don't kill us, I will."

  As he fought the wheel to straighten up, he realized his wild gyrations had caused the Mexican to hold off shooting again. The guy probably figured they were about to wreck anyway, Roddy thought. Then he caught a glimpse of Yuri Shumakov turned around in the seat, standing on his knees, facing the broken rear window. He saw the gun in the investigator's hand just as three quick shots blasted away. One shattered the Jeep's windshield a little off-center, toward the driver's side. The second pierced the radiator, spewing an eruption of steam like a mini-geyser imbedded in the front of the vehicle. The third punctured the left front tire.

  "Where the hell did you get that?" Roddy asked, swerving right at the next intersection.

  Yuri smiled, turning back around in the seat, holding a .357 magnum Rossi, a Brazilian-made six-shot revolver. "I bought it from a couple of drunken Russian sailors in Veracruz. They were so happy to hear somebody speak their language, I could have bought the shoes off their feet if I had asked. I knew I would need a gun when I confronted Major Romashchuk."

  Watching in the mirror, Roddy saw the Jeep had slowed, and as he swung into the next street, it disappeared from view. Looking at the splintered back window and considering what a mess the right side of the car must be, he began to feel a bit guilty about the way he had treated Elena. But thinking of the bullet that barely missed his head, he knew it was her fault he had nearly been killed.

  "Where will we go?" Shumakov asked.

  "We have to get to the airport. I called that Hill guy I told you about and he wants us to come to Mexico City."

  "Will the airport be safe?"

  "I don't know. We'll find a telephone and call my boss. Tell him to warm up a plane and stand by.

  43

  It was half an hour later when an incensed Nikolai Romashchuk, accompanied by Julio Podesta, trudged up the long, curving driveway to the almost regal looking home of Señora Elena Castillo Quintero. They had abandoned the disabled Jeep just ahead of the arrival of a squad of policemen, who had been summoned by several alarmed residents. They feared it might be another skirmish in the drug war that had accidentally killed Guadalajara's archbishop, Cardinal Juan Jesus Posadas Ocampo, just outside the airport two years earlier. After making their way back to a commercial area, the Major and the Mexican had hailed a taxi, which dropped them off in the vicinity of Elena's house.

  "That's Rodman's car," Romashchuk observed coldly as they approached the front of the mansion.

  He rang the bell. The door was opened shortly by an attractive, dark-haired woman in a green suit. The Major's tone was coolly polite. "Señora Castillo Quintero?"

  "You must be Herr Gruber," she said, her dark eyes like obsidian chips.

  "Yes. May we come in?"

  She didn't budge. "Señor Rodman and his friend left some forty-five minutes ago. I was not able to get them to stay any longer."

  "I see he left his car," Romashchuk said, nodding toward the Toyota.

  "He said it wouldn't start, so I loaned him mine."

  "The red Mercedes?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "Yes. How did you know?"

  He finally smiled. "I suggest we go inside and discuss what we both know about Señor Rodman."

  Reluctantly, she led them into the sitting room and took the chair opposite the sofa. "What sort of business have you been working on at Señor Madero's cabin?"

  "I am not at liberty to say. What I am concerned about, though, is why Rodman and his friend fled the moment they saw us driving toward your house." He strongly suspected the reason was that she had warned them off.

  "You saw them in my car?"

  Nikolai Romashchuk's eyes narrowed. "We followed them, Señora. I wanted Rodman to stop so we could talk. Regrettably, he made some foolish moves and your nice, expensive car did
not fare too well."

  She stared at him in near panic. "They wrecked?"

  "Not exactly," said Romashchuk, suspecting her concern was not for the Mercedes. "He bounced off a parked car. Unfortunately, we also had car problems, with the result that we lost them."

  Elena's eyes flashed. "I was told you were involved in some harmless business deal. I did not agree to cooperate with any intention that Colonel Rodman might be threatened or harmed."

  The Major dropped any pretense of politeness. "I don't give a damn about your intentions, Señora. All I'm concerned with is Rodman's whereabouts and what he knows about my business."

  "You mean the business of stealing Soviet chemical weapons? Of firing mortars from the back of a truck?" Elena's voice dripped with sarcasm.

  The Major smiled. That answered one of his questions. And it made the answer to the other one more critical than ever. Rodman had to be found and neutralized as quickly as possible. "Where was Rodman going?" he demanded.

  Elena sprang up from her chair, eyes blazing. "Damn you! Get out of my house! I'll tell you nothing."

  Romashchuk turned to the burly Mexican, who stood near her. "Julio, see that the Señora stays in her chair."

  The burly Mexican reached over, grabbed her shoulders with his powerful hands and shoved her down into the chair.

  Elena rubbed a shoulder and her voice shook with a combination of hurt, fear and anger. "The servants will be here any moment and you will pay for this."

  Julio grinned. His uneven teeth made his mouth resemble a child's attempt at drawing a jack-o'-lantern. "If the servants were here, you would not have come to the door," he said.

  "Where was Rodman going?" Romashchuk repeated, leaning forward threateningly.

  "He didn't tell me where he was going. There are thirty to forty thousand Americans and Canadians living in Guadalajara or around Lake Chapala. He certainly has many friends among them. He could be anywhere."