"I'm sorry, Mr. Prosecutor. I can't tell you anything about his investigation. You will have to talk with Chairman Latishev about that."
"You have been nothing but evasive with me, General Borovsky. I was led to believe we had entered a new era of cooperation between the organs of state security and the people's prosecutor. I find your attitude completely irresponsible."
Perchik had ranted on about the lack of cooperation from the KGB and threatened to lodge a formal complaint with Latishev. Borovsky detested the man but would gladly have given him any information he had on Shumakov just to get him off his back. But the fact was the investigator had left him in the dark as much as anybody. Unfortunately, his disappearance had come just at a time when they appeared to be on the threshold of a break in the investigation.
Borovsky had received a complete report from the Brest Militia on the murder of Vadim Trishin. He had considerable difficulty squaring what he knew of Yuri Shumakov with the brutal act that was described in the report, although he recalled the investigator's remark that he had "a score to settle" regarding his brother's death. Borovsky had talked with Shumakov's wife, a nurse as attractive as she was intelligent, who seemed fully convinced of her husband's innocence. According to her version, the anonymous phone call to the Brest Militia was evidence of someone deliberately attempting to frame Yuri for the murder. But who, or why? She could offer no suggestions, and Borovsky certainly had none.
Meanwhile, Chairman Latishev was pressing him to follow up on what Shumakov had learned. He was anxious to establish just what General Zakharov and Major Romashchuk were involved in, who their accomplices were and whether it would have any ramifications for the July fifth CIS meeting, now barely two weeks off. Borovsky had dispatched a new man to Kiev but got no help from Shumakov's contact, Oleg Kovalenko. The KGB officer reported that Kovalenko, a huge bear of a man, had threatened to bodily throw him out of the office when he declined to divulge just what the investigation was about. The Kiev chief investigator accused the authorities in Minsk of carrying out a witch hunt against his friend Shumakov.
If all of this wasn't enough to give him ulcers, the General had begun to pick up disturbing rumbles about unrest among the military. Latishev had called in General Nikolsky to question him about a speech he had made at Chelyuskintsev Park. The general assured him his only concern was for the morale of his troops. Borovsky wasn't so sure of that. What he had heard sounded more like a call to arms for reconstituting some sort of central army, an idea that ran completely counter to the aims of the leadership among most members of the commonwealth. If that kind of thinking had infected much of the military, there could be trouble ahead.
When his secretary came in with a stack of papers to be signed, she remarked grimly, "Prosecutor Perchik is a rude, thankless man. I hope you don't have to deal with him often."
He shrugged. "He's after me to give him information on Yuri Shumakov. Hell, I don't have anything to give him."
"Maybe Shumakov talked with someone else in the building," she said.
Borovsky thought about that for a moment. "Good idea. Let's send a memo around. If anyone has information about him, instruct them to contact me."
The memo had hardly had time to circulate among the various sections when Paul Kruszewski, the plump identification specialist with Polish ancestry, appeared at the General's office.
"I did some telephoning to Gdansk for Shumakov the last morning he was here," said Kruszewski.
Roddy Rodman awoke early, put on his morning coffee and sat down to a heaping bowl of cereal. A creature of habit, he began his usual rehashing of the previous day, with a look ahead at today's agenda. He recalled the writer from New York's comments about General Patton. Would Bryan Janney be interested in Clint Black's revelation, he wondered? The chances were slim to none he could do anything to affect Roddy's case, but the fat man might find the JCS Chairman's pressure on Lt. Col. Bolivar to lie on the witness stand useful fodder for further research.
When he finished breakfast, he called the hotel and asked for Janney. There was a short pause, and then the operator informed him that Señor Janney had checked out late last night.
Roddy sat there with a puzzled frown. It was early evening when he had dropped Janney at the hotel. The man had said nothing at all about the possibility of leaving anytime soon. His last words were something to the effect that he would be calling today or tomorrow about another flight into the mountains. What had changed his mind?
When he arrived at the Aeronautica Jalisco hangar later in the morning, he was hailed by Pablo Alba, the firm's pudgy, affable director of operations. Alba was the quintessential tapatío, with profuse black hair, a bushy black mustache, a glued-on smile and a jocular manner that gave the impression he was always on the lookout for a fiesta. After four years at the University of Colorado, he spoke fluent American.
"Roddy," he called out from across the open bay, "some gringo from up north was inquiring about you earlier this morning."
Rodman walked over to the office door where Alba stood. "Bryan Janney, the fat guy I flew yesterday afternoon?" Maybe he hadn't left Guadalajara after all.
Alba shook his head. "I believe he said his name was Thomas."
"Thomas who?"
"No, no. Last name Thomas. Said he was a private investigator checking you out for some company back in the U.S. He wanted to know how long you had worked here, where you lived, things like that. Are you thinking about moving back?"
"Hell, no. I have no idea why he would be asking about me. I haven't—"
Alba stopped him with a raised hand as María waved a telephone from behind the large office window. "Sorry, got to catch a call."
As Roddy turned away, the name "Thomas" suddenly snagged on the jagged edge of a half-forgotten comment. He spun around and rushed after Pablo Alba, overtaking him just as he was about to answer the phone.
"Was the name `Baker Thomas'?" Roddy asked, the words coming in a rush.
"Right. Baker Thomas. That was it."
A man obviously lost in thought, Roddy wandered aimlessly between the parked aircraft across to the hangar lounge. What the hell was going on here? Bryan Janney had disappeared. Now Adam Stern comes around asking questions. He saw no way Stern could have gotten his name except from Janney. But after what the writer had said about the man yesterday, it seemed inconceivable that he would have volunteered any information. And why was Stern using some fictitious excuse about being an investigator for an American company?
Roddy wondered if the hotel operator might have made a mistake. Using the phone in the lounge, he called again, this time asking for the front desk.
"This is Mr. Rodman with Aeronautica Jalisco," he told the clerk. "One of your guests chartered a helicopter from us yesterday. I need to leave him a message. His name is Bryan Janney, an American."
"I'm sorry, señor," the clerk replied in a voice that sounded truly regretful, "but that would be impossible."
"What do you mean?"
"Señor Janney checked out of our hotel last night. He told the night clerk he had to return to the U.S. immediately, but that is not what he did."
Now Roddy was really confused. "What did he do?"
"The police were here a short time ago. They said after leaving here, he checked into Motel La Palma. When the maid came to clean his room this morning, she found him dead."
"Dead?" Roddy frowned in disbelief.
"Sí, señor. Dead. The police found an empty prescription medicine bottle beside the bed. Sleeping pills. I believe they called it Dalmane."
"An accidental overdose?"