"I take it that means strictly between you and me?"
That was what he liked about Brittany. You didn't have to draw her any pictures. "Right. If anybody shows an interest in what you're doing, I want to know."
"I don't see any problem."
"Good. I'm concerned about a guy named Adam Stern."
After Brittany had left, Burke placed a call to his son, Cliff Walters. He had been given his mother's name while only a tot, after she and his father were divorced and Burke had disappeared into the limbo of an FBI undercover operation. Cliff was now a special agent in the Bureau's Philadephia Field Office. He and Burke had become reacquainted during Operation Hangover two years ago. Cliff was not in but returned the call along the middle of the afternoon.
"You don't usually call me at work," Cliff said. "Anything wrong?"
"No, I just needed a little unofficial official help."
"That sounds like trouble." He had never forgotten the shocking and dramatic encounter with his father in San Francisco, while he was investigating a Korean-American suspect and Burke was involved in the secret Korean operation for the White House. Cliff had been temporarily sidelined on orders of the President's National Security Adviser.
"Hey, would I cause my son trouble?" Burke protested with a chuckle.
"What do you need, Dad?"
"To know what the Bureau's files say about a guy named Adam Stern. He's an investigator of sorts with the Foreign Affairs Roundtable in New York. I could ask one of my old buddies here to check the computer on him, but I don't want to have to answer any questions."
"I'm not familiar with the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. Is it a non-profit organization?"
"Right."
"Good. That'll give me an excuse. I'm working a case involving some non-profits. I'll call you back."
Burke told Evelyn he had a luncheon appointment and left. Outside he hailed a taxi and instructed the driver to take him to National Airport. He found Roddy Rodman and Yuri Shumakov waiting with their bags near a restaurant off the main concourse. After they were seated and had ordered sandwiches, Burke took two envelopes from his attache case and handed one to each. "Here's your new identification papers."
Rodman was now known as "Phillip Fortune." Shumakov was "Viktor Burdin."
"Your plane tickets to San Antonio are also in there," he said. Lori had prepared them at home earlier, where she had an office complete with on-line computer and a printer that could imprint tickets. He also handed Roddy a Master Card. "This was issued to my wife's company, Clipper Cruise & Travel. You'll need it to pick up the rental car she's reserved for you. And you can use it along the way for gas and accommodations."
"Your wife is doing all of this for us?" Yuri asked in disbelief.
Burke smiled. "Not entirely for you. As I told Roddy last night, I have a vested interest in this deal. I've been asked to become a member of the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. I want to know just what the hell is going on here before I do anything. Of course, from the looks of it, somewhere along the way we'll undoubtedly have to notify the police or the FBI."
He would deal with that when the time came. Romashchuk had not likely gone to all this trouble just to intimidate someone. But as long as he posed no immediate threat, Burke would be content to monitor his activities and hope he would somehow reveal his intentions. It was a calculated risk, but to make a move too quickly could have disastrous results for Roddy and Yuri. Plus it could spoil his chances of tracking down the link between Romashchuk and the Roundtable.
The waitress brought their sandwiches as they were looking over the new documents. Burke spread a thick layer of mustard on his corned beef and began to outline his plan. Chief Investigator Shumakov was experienced at surveillance. He and Roddy were to pick up the rental car, then check with the Krueger Produce Company to find out where the trailer filled with melons would be unloaded. They would stake out the area and wait for Romashchuk and his crew of guerrillas to arrive and retrieve their crates of weapons. After that, they would follow the group and report back to Burke on where it was headed.
Finally he took a small portable cellular telephone with a spare battery and charger from his attache case. He handed it to Roddy. "You can use this in the big cities and in a lot of the outlying areas. You have my numbers both at home and at the office. Better check with me whenever you get the chance. If anybody's looking for you, I'll let you know. But you shouldn't have any problems as long as you use those new identities."
Shortly after returning to the office, Burke received a call from his son in Philadelphia.
"Looks like you've picked an untouchable," Cliff said.
"That's not a term we used in my day."
"Well, it fits this guy. When I tried to open Mr. Stern's file, I got a message saying, 'For information on this subject, contact the Senior Undersecretary of State.' That means ordinary mortals, keep your cotton pickin' hands off."
"The Senior Undersecretary. That's the number two man at State. Would a message like that indicate CIA?"
"Possibly. Or some State Department intelligence organization."
"Okay. Thanks, Cliff. Say, do you have any plans for the Fourth?"
"With my seniority," he said glumly, "I'll probably be working."
Burke hung up the phone and considered that cryptic message in the FBI computer. If Stern did not still have some high connections, that message would have been erased several years ago when he departed the CIA for the private sector. It was a message with highly disturbing overtones. It meant some top people in the FBI and the State Department did not want anyone nosing into Mr. Stern's affairs. He did, indeed, appear to be an untouchable.
56
Jetting about the country was normally a relaxing experience for Nate Highsmith. It was one of the perks of wealth and power that he particularly enjoyed. There was a pull-down table where he could work. He could catch up on his reading or listen to music or eavesdrop on the air traffic control frequencies. But the flight back from New York that afternoon proved anything but soothing. Nate spent most of the time mulling over what to do about Burke Hill.
The difficult part was that he had come to depend on Burke as a steady, calm hand in a crisis, an innovative intelligence pro, a knowledgeable financial officer and a caring, faithful friend. Why had he lied about the twins? He could have diverted the airplane on his own initiative without saying a word. So why did he feel the necessity of justifying his action? And what did he intend to do about this discovery of some "shady" business in which he thought the Roundtable was involved?
He recalled his first introduction to Burke when Kingsley Marshall, the CIA Director, gave him several dossiers on prospective employees he might use in setting up Worldwide Communications Consultants. Marshall told him how Hill had tracked down the Jabberwock conspirators, one of whom was the CIA's own counterintelligence chief. But what had impressed Nate Highsmith most was how Burke had doggedly struggled to make his own way despite all the obstacles. Both parents had died just before his graduation from high school. He worked as a clerk for the FBI while going to George Washington University, then scored high marks in agent training. For thirteen years, he compiled an excellent record with the Bureau. He spent the last few of those years working in a group under direct control of the whimsical J. Edgar Hoover, carrying out assignments that were frequently illegal, or at best unethical, on the strength of the great man's word that they were proper and in the best interests of the nation. Nate knew that in later years, it was a subject that caused Burke no small amount of pain. His career had been shockingly terminated by the impulsive Director in an attempt to cover up the failure of Hoover's ill-considered scheme to infiltrate the Mafia. Hoover blacklisted him and used the FBI to thwart every attempt to restart his career in other areas.
After several years of self-imposed exile, Burke had taken on the Jabberwock conspirators in an Indiana Jones crusade. In the process, he proved Hoover's "failure" accusation patently false. He showed that he had ris
en above the slavish path of mistaken duty forced on him by the powerful, charismatic Director. Clearly, he was now his own man, someone with an ingrained sense of what was right and proper, a person no longer intimidated by the trappings of power and prestige.
As he considered it, Nate realized it was these same qualities that were the likely source of the current problem. He would have to tread carefully through this emotionally-charged mine field. For the sake of their continued longterm relationship, he thought it best not to confront Burke with any accusations but to give him every reason and every opportunity to come forward on his own.
It was late afternoon when Toni Carlucci called Burke with word that he was wanted in Nate Highsmith's office. Burke had been concerned over the best approach to tracking down the details on Adam Stern ever since talking with his son. Maybe it was time to get things out in the open and confront Nate head-on with what he knew concerning the mysterious FAR agent. But as he walked down the corridor to Nate's office, he thought of Brittany and decided to wait and see what she was able to dig up.
Toni was on the phone but nodded toward the door to Nate's office. When Burke entered, he found Highsmith scanning a thick amber file.
"How was New York?" Burke inquired casually.
"Same as ever. Rushing, crowded. When I lived there, I thought it was the greatest place in the world. From this vantage point, I'm not so sure."
"The place is a bit much for me," Burke said. Then, like donning a bright new tie, he promptly put on a winning smile. "Say, I've got some good news to report."
"What's that?"
"The twins are going to be okay. The tests came back negative. Probably just had a virus of some sort. Antibiotics should take care of everything."
"Glad to hear that," Nate said, though his frown did not convey that feeling with any degree of intensity. Then a smile slowly began to creep across his face. "I have some good news, too. Bernard Whitehurst informed me that I've been selected for a vacant seat on the Foreign Affairs Roundtable board of directors."
Burke's expression reflected more surprise than pleasure. "That's great, Nate. Congratulations." This added another complicating factor to the equation, he thought. It effectively removed any doubt that Nate should be on the inside when it came to operations involving FAR staff.
"This will give you a direct link to the board's activities," Nate said, as if he were offering Burke a key to open the inner sanctum. "If you ever have any questions or any problems about projects the Roundtable is involved in, you know you can come to me. I'll be happy to address any concerns."
"Sure, Nate. Thanks." He attempted to sound upbeat, but he was confused. Had he said anything that might indicate a problem with the Roundtable?
"I think I should take you to the Federal Club and let you meet more of our members," Nate continued, watching Burke carefully as he spoke. It was an exclusive private club where Nate frequently went for lunch. "The next time Laurence Coyne comes down, he'll probably bring Adam Stern with him. I'd like you to meet Stern."
The mention of Stern's name sent Burke's eyes snapping open like a high-speed shutter. The picture they got was a murky one. This little chat had suddenly taken on a disturbing tone. The talk about possible problems or questions concerning Roundtable projects, the sudden tossing in of Adam Stern's name. It sounded as though Nate was aware of what he had encountered in Mexico. But that was out of the question. Unless, he reflected, Roberto Garcia had gone back on his word. Burke had been certain Roberto would remain silent, even though the Mexico City manager was obviously quite concerned that the Shining Path guerrillas were entering the U.S.
"Adam is a former CIA officer," Nate was saying. He glanced away for the first time, as though he had already seen what he was looking for, and wasn't pleased with what he saw. "He's involved in a number of Roundtable projects. After you begin to take part, you'll better understand how vital the organization is to the establishment of world order. I daresay, to the very future of mankind. Of course, you and I, of all people, realize that only those with access to all the facts can make informed judgments regarding particular operations. As you well know, when someone sees only a part of the picture, it is difficult to understand exactly what is taking place and why. But I can assure you, whatever the Foreign Affairs Roundtable gets involved in, it is designed to further the interests of the United States as well as the world at large. Oh, and incidentally, I wanted to caution you about the possibility of an Amber Group operation accidentally running afoul of something the FAR is involved in. If that should happen, I'm sure I can count on you to inform me immediately."
Burke was so distressed by what he was hearing that it took a moment to realize the last comment required an answer. "Ah, yeah, Nate. Right. You can count on me."
Now he was positive. Nate had to be aware that he knew something about Adam Stern's involvement in Mexico. And that would mean Nate had knowledge of Major Romashchuk's activities. That little speech was clearly designed to allay his fears, to convince him that without access to the big picture, he could not properly judge what was going on. But how could a group of Peruvian terrorists armed with chemical weapons possibly be involved in anything designed to further the interests of the United States, not to mention the world at large? There was no way.
He wondered again if Roberto had gotten cold feet and called Nate. If so, Garcia must have heard the same song and dance intended to stop him from pursuing the matter further.
From what had been said, it seemed that Nate expected him to confess to how he had stumbled onto the Stern-Romashchuk operation. That would mean telling about his encounter with Colonel Rodman and Yuri Shumakov. Burke couldn't bring himself to do that. Evidently the purpose of this discussion was to get him to open up and tell exactly what he knew. He didn't intend to play that game.
"I'll keep everything you've told me in mind," he said solemnly. "Did you need me for anything else? I've got some calls to make."
Nate shook his head, somewhat sadly. "No, that's all."
Mexico-Texas Border
57
The caravan of eighteen-wheelers from San Miguel de Allende pulled into the Mexican customs compound at Nuevo Laredo on the Texas border around four. They had left San Luis Potosí early that morning, but the journey was nearly over. The lead truck was driven by a young mestizo called Pele. He was a bit nervous until he saw a familiar face on the agricultural inspector walking toward his rig.
"¡Amigo!" he called with a broad grin on his own squarish brown face.
"Mario," said the inspector. "Haven't seen you lately. Where have you been?"
The young driver climbed down from his elevated perch in the tractor. "I've been going south recently, but I'm headed for San Antonio now." A couple of years ago, he would have had to unload no farther than ten miles across the border. But thanks to the North American Free Trade Agreement, Mexican drivers could now continue on to their destinations.
The inspector checked his papers. "Melons, eh? Let me take a look at a sample crate." His job was to inspect for grade. Although most fruits and vegetables entered the U.S. through Nogales, Arizona, there was enough produce traffic here to keep the few inspectors busy. Like their American counterparts on the other side of the border, they would only do spot checks unless they had some reason to dig deeper.
Mario was anxious to get on across the Rio Bravo, or the Rio Grande as the gringos called it, and go through U.S. Customs. He had been hesitant about this run when they first approached him. But with the size of the bonus promised, and the assurance that the odd-looking crates beneath the melons did not contain narcotics or anything a sniffing dog could detect, he had been satisfied that it was well worth the risk. When the inspector gave him a thumbs up a few minutes later, he climbed back behind the steering wheel and headed for the border, a happy grin on his face.
Adam Stern stood at his office window, his gaze sweeping from the earthbound traffic that clogged the Queensboro Bridge to the airborne glut that swarmed aroun
d La Guardia, looking like hornets seeking entry to their nest. But his mind was elsewhere. General Zakharov had called about the problem of Colonel Rodman and Yuri Shumakov. Stern was not worried about them as long as they continued to hide out in Mexico. But this damnable Burke Hill was another matter. Bernard Whitehurst had given Hill's boss the job of looking into the possibility that his actions might cloud their plans. Stern would much rather have taken care of the situation his own way, but both the Chairman and Laurence Coyne had vetoed it. Hill was no candidate for suicide, Coyne chided. Whitehurst cautioned that the man was too well known to risk some overt action that might go wrong at this stage, possibly blowing the whole operation. But if Nathaniel Highsmith couldn't control him, or if he showed signs of interfering with Romashchuk's mission, they would be forced to re-evaluate.
The telephone interrupted his thoughts. He turned back to his desk.
"Adam," said a low, husky voice, "this is Brad. I have some information that may or may not indicate a problem."
He recognized Bradford Pickens, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, a former Chicago police commissioner who had earned a reputation as an uncompromising, tough-on-crime administrator. He was also a loyal, dedicated Roundtable member. "What's up?"
"An agent in Philadelphia queried the computer for your file today. He got the message to contact the State Department. I don't know if he followed up. You might want to check it out."
"Any idea what his interest is?"
"He's working a case involving some non-profit organizations, so it could be related to that. The Roundtable isn't one of the targets, however." He gave a slight chuckle. "I wouldn't let things get that far out-of-hand."
"Do you have the agent's name?"
"Special Agent Clifford Walters. Does that ring a bell?"
"No, but I'll look into it in the morning. By the way, there are two men the police are looking for down in Mexico who could cause us some trouble. One is an American named Warren Rodman, the other a Belarusian named Yuri Shumakov, alias Ivan Netto. There's a chance the Mexicans may want to look for them here. Let me know if you hear anything."
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 35
