Leaving his belongings in the stairwell at the first floor exit, Janney hurried into the lobby. He found a gray-haired couple and a few business types chatting. No sign of Stern. He walked over to the desk as casually as he could manage and told the clerk an unexpected problem had arisen. He had to return to the U.S. immediately. He hoped that news would throw Stern off the track.
When he had checked out and paid his bill, he returned to collect his bags and left the hotel through a side exit off the stairway. The sidewalk was deserted here. He waddled as fast as his short legs would allow under the burden of his luggage. With both the laptop and printer cases gripped in one hand, it felt like the sharp edge of a plastic handle was cutting into the soft flesh. He was panting and sweating by the time he found a taxi. He gave the driver the name of a less expensive and less fashionable hotel farther to the south that he had noticed on the way into town. Once safely checked in there, he would regroup and decide on his next move.
As the taxi rolled past a gaily decorated plaza where young couples strolled arm in arm and the sound of mariachi bands stirred the night air, he began to wonder if he hadn't reacted too hastily, out of unreasoned fear. Surely Adam Stern would not be so stupid as to make some rash attack on an American journalist here in the heart of Mexico. Then it occurred to him that it might be a smart move to give Colonel Rodman a copy of the entire manuscript, all that he had completed. If Stern should accost him, he would have a credible threat of exposure, as good as an ace in the hole.
Anyway, he reassured himself, Stern would have to find him first. He turned to look through the rear window. What he saw was the normal evening traffic for a lively city of five million inhabitants. What he did not see was two cars that had earlier waited near the hotel, one at the front and one in view of the side entrance.
The rooms were smaller here. Instead of a writing desk, there was only a tiny round table, barely enough space for his laptop. He had registered under the name of Bruce Jones. It fit the "BJ" initials on his luggage. He used the address of his brother in L.A. At least it was the last address he had for him. How long had it been since he was home? It made no difference. His family still called him Addy, a name he hated. They ignored him until he had started making good money at the newspaper. They would really come banging on his door when he made it big with these new books.
He pulled off his red and yellow knit shirt and threw it on the bed. Although the night air outside was fairly cool, his shirt was soaked with sweat. Damn Adam Stern.
He plugged the printer into his computer and pressed both power-on buttons. The familiar sound was reassuring as both machines whirred to life. It was around midnight, but it was important that he get this material printed out. Nothing was going to stop him now. He pushed a high density floppy into the disk drive and was about to open his word processing program when a knock sounded at the door.
Bryan Janney held his breath for a moment as his heart seemed to falter. Then he struggled to breathe normally and admonished himself for giving way to senseless panic at the first random sound. He had left Stern cooling his heels at the hotel. He was certain of it.
He walked to the door, which had no peephole, and called out, "Who is it?"
"Señor Jones?"
He didn't recognize the voice. He thought it had a Mexican ring to it. "Yes?"
"You forget to sign the card."
He frowned. "What card? I signed the registration."
"The tourismo card. It is required by the federales."
Janney had heard of the federales, the Federal Judicial Police. His inclination was to say to hell with the federales, but he accepted that the bureaucracy here was at least as burdensome as it was at home, and probably moreso. He unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Adam Stern stepped into the doorway, a deadly-looking semiautomatic in his hand, its barrel lengthened by the menacing addition of a silencer. "Don't utter a sound, Mr. Janney, or it will be your last," he said in a cold, deliberate voice.
Janney could almost feel the malevolence in those eyes of bluish granite. His chin quivered uncontrollably. His feet shuffled backward as Stern advanced toward him. Then he saw the other man, the one dressed like a rancher who had been with Stern at the restaurant. Both men came into the room. The stranger closed the door.
"I see we have a computer," said Stern, his gaze quickly taking in the small room. "No doubt it contains your imaginative writings about the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. Please sit down, Mr. Janney."
He gave the writer a slight push, which was all it took to send him sprawling backward onto the bed. Stern placed one foot on the chair beside the table, leaning the hand that held the gun on his upraised knee. The barrel had not wavered from the ample target provided by Janney's stomach.
"We have a few questions," he said as Janney struggled to sit up on the side of the bed. "If you cooperate, the chances are good you will leave this room alive. Who was the man with you when you came to the restaurant to spy on us."
"I wasn't spying," Janney said. He wanted badly to believe the part about leaving the room alive. "I was only—"
"The name," Stern demanded.
Janney had no desire to cause Colonel Rodman any trouble. Maybe he could bluff his way through this. "It was a tourist I met at the hotel. He had a rental car and we decided to stop there for a drink. Then I saw you."
"Your chances are growing slimmer, Mr. Janney. What is the man's name?"
"Bradford," he blurted. "Robert Bradford." It was the name of his former managing editor at the newspaper.
"We'll see." Stern handed the pistol to Romashchuk. "If he moves, kill him."
He found a directory, checked the hotel number and dialed it. After a few moments, he said, "I'd like to speak to Mr. Robert Bradford."
As the room fell silent, sweat began to break out on Janney's forehead. He felt his hopes fading like a pair of stone-washed jeans.
A few moments later, Stern spoke into the telephone again. "I see," he said, nodding. "Thank you." If looks could have killed, Janney would have been dead right then. Stern stared at him through eyes that could have passed for evil incarnate. "As you know, no such person exists. This is your last chance." He took the gun back and aimed it at the center of the flabby chest.
Janney crumbled suddenly and began to sob. His voice cracked as he spoke. "His name is W-Wa-Warren Rodman. He's a helicopter pilot. Works for Aeronautica Jalisco at Guadalajara airport."
30
Dark clouds hovered overhead as large raindrops danced on the pavement of Komsomolskaya Ulitsa, leaving Minsk in a mood as melancholy as a Chekhov play. For the head of the Belarus KGB, watching the wind-driven droplets hit the window and disintegrate, it was a performance he would prefer to have skipped. If it kept up much longer, Dynamo Stadium would be a quagmire. To further darken his outlook, that bastard Sergei Perchik had been on the phone again. In his patently abusive manner, he had demanded information that might lead to the arrest of Chief Investigator Yuri Shumakov.
"I have no information on the man's whereabouts," Borovsky had protested. "I have not seen or heard from him since he disappeared a little over a week ago."
"He told me you had sent him to Kiev. What was he doing down there? Perhaps I could send someone to pick up his trail if we knew where to look."