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

by Chester D. Campbell

  After securing the blower to the floor of the minivan with heavy strap iron, Romashchuk reinforced all of the joints with duct tape. Then he looked out the sliding door at the brown-skinned Peruvians who had been watching in silence.

  "Shall we give it a try?" he asked in Spanish.

  They looked around at each other. It was Pepe who replied with a nod. "Let's hope it works."

  "Hand me that sack of flour," Romashchuk instructed, pointing to a pile of odds and ends and leftover materials on the shop floor.

  Taking the sack, he removed the plastic canister, poured in the flour, then re-attached it. He started the van and backed out into the storage yard. There was a slight breeze blowing away from the building. Perfect. He moved into the back of the van and tugged on the starter cord. The small engine roared to life and began to buzz with the unique popping sound made by gasoline blowers and trimmers.

  Romashchuk yelled out the open window, "Test commencing!"

  He depressed a trigger-like lever and a cloud of white dust began to pour out behind the van. It drifted toward the rear of the lot like a morning fog settling in a valley. Romashchuk released the trigger and smiled.

  "Everything is ready. Two of you will ride in here, three in the dump truck."

  In Alexandria, a pleasant looking, well-dressed young man knocked on the door just as Lila Rodman was about to leave for the grocery to pick up a few items for the picnic lunch tomorrow. She opened it and smiled through the screen that covered the top portion of the black wrought iron security door.

  "I'm looking for Mrs. Karen Rodman," said the man, a bit wide-eyed, obviously struck by the smiling young beauty.

  "I'm sorry, she's already gone to the shop." Seeing the uncertain expression on his face, Lila added, "She and a friend are opening a dress shop day after tomorrow."

  He nodded. "Are you her daughter?"

  "Yes. I'm Lila Rodman."

  "Special Agent Hugh Nivens, FBI," he said, holding out his ID. "Could I talk with you for a minute?"

  She smiled. "Go right ahead, Mr. Nivens. My mother said don't let any strange men in the house. She didn't say I shouldn't talk to them through the screen door."

  He shrugged. "Has your father been here in the last few days?"

  Lila frowned. Why was this FBI agent asking about her Dad? The government had caused him more than enough trouble in the past. Why didn't they just leave him alone?

  "I presume you know he's been living in Mexico," she said. "He came by to see us last Wednesday. What business is it of the FBI?"

  "Did he say where he was going or when he would be back?"

  Lila frowned. She didn't like it that he hadn't answered her question, but she saw no reason not to answer his. "He had to go somewhere to interview for a new job. I'm not sure where. Mom said he would be back by tomorrow. Now will you tell me why you're so interested in my Dad's whereabouts?"

  Agent Nivens looked at her curiously. "You really don't know, do you?"

  "Know what?"

  "That Colonel Rodman is wanted by the Mexican police?"

  "Wanted? Why on earth would they...?" Her voice trailed off.

  "He's charged with the murder of a woman in Guadalajara. If you hear any more from him, I would—"

  "Liar!" she raged. "My Dad wouldn't hurt anybody. If the Mexicans think he did, they're crazy. Please get out of here."

  She stepped back and slammed the door in his face.

  Then, as the enormity of what he had said began to sink in, she fell across the sofa sobbing.

  67

  Adam Stern had driven back to his hotel the night before in a car from Advanced Security Systems. After breakfast, he drove to Alexandria to deliver the photograph of Burke Hill to the gun shop. Then he detoured by Falls Church, where he located the Hill home and cruised past it slowly. Across the street and one house down sat a telephone company truck, its occupant working away on a pole, a head set covering one ear. No doubt one of those "friends in the looking business," he thought.

  He drove back across the Fourteenth Street bridge and turned east toward Haskell Feldhaus' operation. He wandered randomly through the nearby streets, alert for any sign that Burke Hill might have returned for a closer look at Advanced Security Systems. Finding no evidence of Hill anywhere in the vicinity, he turned up the street beside the storage yard and saw the blue minivan parked behind the shop. Evidently Romashchuk and his crew were inside working on the dump truck.

  Back at his hotel room, Stern turned on the television, curious to know if there was any news from Belarus. He picked up the remote and flipped through the channels until he found CNN's Headline News. A short piece on preparations around the country for Independence Day celebrations sparked no interest, but this was followed by a correspondent in Minsk speculating on what would come out of the upcoming CIS summit gathering. Stern probably would have paid no attention to the following forty-second sound bite if it had not come on the heels of the CIS story. But as he listened to the attractive lady anchor in Atlanta and watched the striking pictures on the screen, it quickly became clear that this was news with a direct impact. The camera showed a battered piece of steel guard rail, then slowly zoomed out to reveal a perilous roadside drop-off that overlooked a deep, sweeping valley. As the newswoman described what had taken place, the picture switched to a shot from a helicopter. Wreckage of a truck lay smashed in the dense forest below. Although only yards from a nearby road, it had not been spotted earlier because of the trees.

  "Tennessee State Troopers initially thought the truck had accidentally gone off Interstate Forty during a heavy thunderstorm Saturday afternoon," she reported in an ominous tone. "But when weapons and bullet holes were found, the FBI was called in. The victims were identified as members of the so-called 'Vietnamese mafia' from Chicago. Although no drugs were found in the wreckage, an FBI spokesman said the accident probably resulted from narcotics warfare between rival factions."

  Stern immediately recalled Major Romashchuk mentioning the storm they had encountered in the area Saturday afternoon. It occurred at the time the people sent by Feldhaus' contact should have been closing in on Rodman and Shumakov. The TV report said the wreck victims were from the Vietnamese mafia in Chicago. It had to be the same people. But shots? Who had fired the shots?

  As he thought of Burke Hill renting the black pickup truck in Knoxville that same evening, it occurred to him that Hill must have followed Romashchuk on to Washington. But the only way he could have picked up the Major's trail was through Colonel Warren Rodman and Investigator Yuri Shumakov. Apparently they had not been eliminated. Their pursuers had died instead. He called Haskell Feldhaus to give him the bad news. He also called one of the Foreign Affairs Roundtable's members with a vested interest in Warren Rodman.

  The large two-story, four-bedroom colonial style house stood on the edge of Falls Church, its lower floor mostly hidden from view by a high brick wall. A real estate developer had built it for himself during a booming period for the home building business. Caught in a credit crunch later, he had declared bankruptcy. Drs. Chloe and Walter Brackin had secretly admired the house ever since moving to the area. They didn't need a four-bedroom house, but it became available at a bargain price, and they could afford it. So they bought it.

  Now some of that extra space was getting put to use as Burke, Roddy and Yuri set up headquarters there. Chloe and Walt had been at the Hill home the previous evening when Burke and Yuri returned from the encounter with Adam Stern. The Brackins had been listening to Colonel Rodman's helicopter tales, which he had been encouraged to relate after learning that Walt Brackin had served as a doctor in an Army Special Forces medical unit.

  Burke had elected to tell his friends the bizarre story of events over the past week, withholding only the part about the nerve gas. He didn't feel it fair to saddle them with that gruesome knowledge. He asked their help on two counts. One involved sheltering the trio of "wanted" men. It would no longer be safe to remain at the Hill home. Knowing Walt's pen
chant for shooting everything in sight with his top-of-the-line camcorder, Burke also outlined a movie project they could undertake for him. Chloe and Walt had readily agreed to both requests.

  The fugitives spent most of the morning attempting to agree on the best approach to locating and neutralizing Nikolai Romashchuk and his terrorist team. Yuri, imbued with the Russian penchant for intrigue, suggested looking for an employee of Advanced Security who might be enlisted to obtain inside information. Burke pointed out the holiday would likely make that difficult. Roddy preferred aerial surveillance. Since that option was not available, he recommended surreptitious surveillance from the ground. Accustomed to having the services of professional intelligence specialists as close as the telephone, Burke felt frustrated. But knowing their basic need was for information, he agreed to Roddy's call for a surveillance operation. Before they could get started, Lori called from her office.

  "I have two things," she said. "One is bad; the other doesn't sound too good."

  "Give me the bad news first," Burke said.

  "The FBI came looking for Colonel Rodman this morning."

  "Where?"

  She told him that Karen Rodman had called after hearing from Lila about the young agent's appearance on her doorstep. Karen had finally managed to mollify her daughter after explaining why they had not told her earlier about Roddy's troubles in Mexico.

  "Needless to say, they'll be looking for him tomorrow for sure," Lori added.

  "Sooner, I'd venture. They probably already have the phone tapped."

  "She anticipated that. She gave me the phone number for the dress shop and said he could call her there. Do you think our phone is safe?"

  "I wouldn't count on it. Stern probably recognized me last night. He could have passed the word on to Pickens or McNaughton."

  "That may be what this other call is about. It was an ominous-sounding guy, said you would know him. He left a phone number. The name is Murray Bender."

  "He's the ex-CIA man Roddy got my name from. I'd better see what he wants."

  When he dialed the number, Bender answered promptly.

  "This is Burke Hill. What can I do for you?"

  "You can be very damned careful and try not to get yourself killed."

  Burke frowned. "Would you like to clarify that?"

  "I think you know that I deal in information. I have all kinds of clients, legitimate and otherwise. I just had a request from a guy who calls himself Max. I've never met him, have no idea what he looks like. I only know him by reputation. He's a hit man. Noted for using explosives. A very resourceful character. He was asking for information about you."

  "You mean there's a contract—"

  "Does Adam Stern know of your connection with Colonel Rodman?"

  "I'm afraid he does."

  "Then he's probably responsible. Be careful, Hill. This man is deadly."

  After hearing Burke's account of what he had just learned from Lori and Bender, Roddy leaned his elbows on the table and shook his head. " I'm sorry I got you into this, Burke."

  "If you hadn't, the chances of stopping Nikolai Romashchuk would have been nonexistent. I'll worry about Max later. He won't find me at home. You'd better call your ex-wife. Then we need to get moving."

  Roddy got Karen at the dress shop and asked about the FBI agent.

  She repeated what Lila had told her. "I haven't been this frightened since the mission to Iran, Roddy. I hope this will soon be over."

  "Don't worry. It's all going to work out okay." He tried to sound convincing, though he hadn't convinced himself.

  "Dutch Schuler called this morning before I left. He reminded me that I had said you might be here for the Fourth."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I said I didn't know. You might. He left his number at the transient quarters at Andrews. Wanted you to call if you came in."

  "I'd like to talk to him, but it would be damned risky at this point."

  After giving him the number, she added in a pleading voice, "Don't take any unnecessary chances."

  Driving the brown Honda Roddy had picked up in Knoxville, which fortunately had West Virginia plates, Burke and his two companions stopped at a Wal-Mart and a military surplus store to replenish their wardrobes. When they started out for the neighborhood where Advanced Security Systems was located, Walt Brackin's ten-speed bike protruded from the trunk. Burke was dressed in blue shorts and a white T-shirt emblazoned with "NAVY" in large blue letters. He wore large, dark sunglasses and a black baseball cap. Rodman had become an electrician, wearing denim work pants and shirt, an assortment of tools hanging from his waist, including a large roll of black electrical tape that swung on a chain. Shumakov wore the camouflage uniform and combat boots of an Army sergeant.

  They parked in front of a vacant building three blocks beyond Advanced Security. Burke unloaded the bicycle and hooked one of the small radios on his belt. He stuck the earpiece in his ear, hoping to look like a biker from the Navy Yard enjoying music while getting his exercise. He also attached a lapel mike inside the top of his T-shirt. He hadn't intended to go armed, but as a result of Bender's call, he carried a small Beretta in his pocket.

  "I'll let you know if I see anything. Then we can proceed according to plan," he said as he hopped on the bike and began to pedal up the street.

  Even if he had intended to do any serious biking, which he hadn't, the blazing afternoon sun assured he would attempt no speed records. He felt the perspiration trickling beneath his shirt and hoped it wouldn't foul up his microphone.

  The street had a mixture of modest houses which served as single or multi-family residences and larger ones that had been converted to business use. Two pre-teen black boys soon roared up on their smaller bikes and grinned at him.

  "Whatcha listening to, admiral?" one of them asked as he paced himself alongside Burke.

  "It ain't rock and it ain't rap," Burke said with a chuckle. "Actually, I'm listening to Beethoven. Ever heard of him?"

  The other boy stuck his nose in the air and went, "Da-da-da-dum!" Burke laughed as they raced ahead, shouting at each other. At the next corner, he turned and headed up the street that ran alongside the fenced storage yard. When he reached a point where he could see the rear of the security firm building, he cut his eyes to the side while keeping his face pointing straight ahead. He pressed a button on the radio and began talking as though singing along with the music.

  "The door to the shop area is open. Looks like the blue minivan is inside. The yellow dump truck's parked in back. It has some lettering on the door but I can't make it out." He turned to look at the buildings on the other side of the street. "There's a small appliance repair shop across from it, Roddy, with a driveway at the side. Doesn't look like it's open. If you could come in from the back, you ought to find a spot where you could use the glasses and the camera. For one thing, I'd like to know what it says on that truck."

  Roddy acknowledged, then passed the word along to Yuri. Since this was his first time to see the area, except on a map somewhat lacking in detail, he would depend on Shumakov to lead him in.

  Yuri began walking quickly down the street, with Roddy following on the opposite side. When they reached an alley that should run behind the buildings in question, Yuri stopped and bent down to tie his shoe. He looked up as Roddy caught up with him.

  "It should be about halfway down there," Yuri said, nodding his head toward the alley. "On the right. I will wander around here and watch for Burke."

  As Roddy walked down the alley, he noticed some of the structures had fences in back, others were open. High weeds grew along the property line much of the way. He saw a couple of sweating black men toiling over on an old car behind a two-story brick house. One of them glanced up momentarily, then resumed his effort to free a recalcitrant bolt.

  Along the middle of the block, he came to a large white frame structure with an asphalt driveway that ran from the alley to the street. This must be it, he thought. There were no vehicles arou
nd. About two-thirds of the way up, a large tree stood beside the driveway. It would provide a convenient cover for viewing the fenced enclosure across the street. Seeing no one around, he walked quickly up the driveway and ducked behind the tree. He took a pair of small, compact binoculars from his pocket and focused on the lot across the way.

  His eyes swept the area until the enlarged circles picked up the yellow truck. He zeroed in on the door and read:

  Department of Public Works

  Water and Sewer

  Accompanying the lettering was the "stars and bars" of the District of Columbia's flag.

  Roddy stashed the binoculars away and took out a small camera that Burke had briefed him on. It was more compact and less conspicuous than the Nikon. He shot a few frames, then held up the radio and reported what he had seen.

  "A D.C. waterworks truck?" Burke asked in reply.

  "That's what it says."

  "Is the minivan still inside the shop?"

  "It was, but it's just backing out now."

  "Who can you see around there?"

  "There's one, two, three...looks like all five of the South Americans. It's the Major behind the wheel. Wait. Now he seems to be bending over in the back. What the...?"

  When Roddy paused, Burke asked, "What's going on?"

  "Looked like a long burst of exhaust. Now it's just drifting back like a white cloud, almost like fog."

  Back on the street corner a block and a half away, where the blue-and-white-clad biker stood giving directions to the Army sergeant, Burke was chafing at his inability to see what was happening. Too bad he hadn't provided a small TV "palmcorder" with short-range transmitting capabilities instead of just a radio. He told Shumakov what Roddy had reported.