"No, señor. A suicide. He had left a note in the printer connected to his small computer."
Roddy rambled out to his car in total bewilderment. Had the whole world gone mad? He had no idea what the note in Janney's printer might have said. It didn't matter. The man he had flown into the mountains yesterday and accompanied to the restaurant near the hotel late in the afternoon was definitely not suicidal. Anything but. He had been businesslike, determined, more than a little cocky. The only misgivings he had expressed concerned the deadly nature of one Adam Stern.
Roddy tried to sort out all the troubling images that had begun to whirl about in his head. He recalled Janney's comments: "one dangerous sonofabitch… it isn't healthy to be on his list… called 'the enforcer.'" A picture was slowly beginning to take shape. Had Janney feared that Stern was onto him and fled, but not far enough? Had "the enforcer" found him and administered a lethal dose of whatever Dalmane contained? If so, it hadn't happened before Stern learned that his companion at the restaurant was a pilot named Warren Rodman.
As the thoughts churned about in his mind, one conclusion seemed obvious. Lt. Col. Juan Bolivar had not committed suicide either. The circumstances were not just close. They were virtually identical. The empty sleeping pill bottle, Dalmane again, and the note in the printer. Had General Patton become worried that Bolivar might be ready to confess his part in the cover-up? Was Adam Stern the emissary who had threatened the officer in the first place?
Roddy was finally routed out of his monk-like trance by a blaring horn. He looked around to see María waving merrily as she pulled out of the parking area. He glanced at his watch. It was already past noon.
Adam Stern, alias Baker Thomas, was likely somewhere out there methodically tracking him down, Roddy calculated. It was not a comforting thought.
He glanced up at his reflection in the rearview mirror and didn't like what he saw. The face of a man in total confusion. Was he letting an overactive imagination run amok? How much did he really know about Bryan Janney? The man was brash and overbearing. He could easily have been boosting his own ego by exaggerating the threat posed by Stern. Roddy recalled Janney's comment about the box of floppy disks containing "untold hours of research" and all he had written on the book. There was one way to find out if the writer's "suicide" was something infinitely more sinister.
He started the car and drove into the southern fringes of the city, where he found Motel La Palma, a rather drab looking structure done in pseudo-colonial style. At the registration desk in the small lobby stood a thin, long-haired man who appeared as out of place in a dark blue tie and starched white shirt as a Wall Street banker in a serape. His spare face was highlighted by an aquiline nose, marking him as likely one of the Lacandones, probably the last living descendants of the Mayas.
"I just heard the terrible news about Señor Bryan Janney," Roddy said with an air of great concern. "I had loaned him some material on a floppy disk to use with his computer. I wondered if it might have been left in his room?"
"The police took everything," said the clerk dispassionately.
Roddy gave him an understanding smile. "Of course. I should have thought of that. I wonder, did you see the room before they cleaned it out?"
He nodded. "I went in to see what was wrong after the maid came down the hall babbling and moaning. It was I who called the police."
"Did you notice if there was a box of floppy disks around his computer?" Roddy described its size and shape with hand gestures.
The clerk shook his head emphatically. "There was no such box, señor. The police made me watch as they gathered up everything. I had to sign an inventory. There was a small computer and a printer, a suitcase containing nothing but clothing, and a leather shaving kit. There was also a briefcase with a few notes and papers, along with his passport."
"He shot some pictures of me with a small camera. Did you notice it?"
"No, señor. There was no camera."
Roddy thanked him and left. Undoubtedly what the police took away contained nothing with even a remote mention of the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. It left no question that Bryan Janney had become the latest victim of Adam Stern. And he knew that unless he exercised considerable caution and a lot of street smarts, his might easily be the next head to grace Stern's trophy case.
As he started driving back toward the airport, he concentrated on thinking it through the way he would expect a person like Stern to do. The man had been a clandestine professional. He was posing as a private investigator. He would probably contact the neighbors and learn what he could about Roddy's daily routine. He might check back with Pablo Alba on any planned flights.
Roddy stopped at a pay phone and called Alba.
"Heard anymore of that Baker Thomas guy?" he asked.
"Haven't seen or heard of him," said Alba.
"I've been thinking about it, and I'm not real happy about him nosing around my affairs, Pablo. He may call or come back looking for me. Would you do me a favor? If you hear from him again, tell him I'm on a charter to Mexico City or somewhere and won't be back for several days. Tell María in case she should be asked."
"Sure, Roddy. You really plan to be unavailable?"
"Yeah. I need to take a little time off to get some things done. Any problem?"
"No. Everything looks quiet here. Go ahead."
As Roddy thought of what he should do, his first inclination was to head for the nearest police station and lay it on the line. Bryan Janney was a victim of murder, not suicide. But, realistically, that would likely be met with questions about his sanity or his motivation for such outrageous accusations. He hadn't the slightest bit of evidence to back it up. And if he managed to get away from the police without a straightjacket, he would probably find himself facing an unforgiving Adam Stern.
Nikolai Romashchuk sat behind the wheel of the rented Jeep Cherokee as they rolled through the suburbs on Highway 15, the route to Tequila. Working through an old KGB contact in the moribund Mexican Communist Party, he had been put in touch with the owner of the remote lodge hidden away in the wooded canyon. It appeared to be the perfect site for this phase of the operation.
Since picking up Adam Stern at the hotel, Romashchuk had spent most of his time answering questions about his recruitment of the guerrilla team and his plans for teaching them what they needed to know to complete the mission. But at the first lull in the conversation, the Major inquired about the aftermath of last night's venture at Motel La Palma.
"What were you able to learn about Warren Rodman?" he asked.
"Some very interesting facts. I'm sure you remember the big international flap back in September of 1991, when one of our helicopters was shot down in the mountains of Iran."
"Oh, yes. It was right after the coup fell through. Took the spotlight off us for a week or so."
"Well, it seems our Mr. Rodman was the Air Force colonel who piloted the chopper. He was later court-martialed, then retired and moved down here."
"Bryan Janney picked himself quite an experienced pilot then, didn't he?"
"Right. I'm still not sure I believe all the bastard told us. Particularly that he said nothing to Rodman about my connection with the cabin. Or that Rodman didn't know why he wanted to follow us to that restaurant. It will be interesting to see what we find on that film from the Minox."
Romashchuk shrugged. "Didn't you say Rodman left on a charter flight to Mexico City this morning? He probably isn't aware that anything happened to Janney. By the time he gets back, he will be damned lucky to find any trace of the man. Outside the family, suicide is a very forgettable affair. The body will be long buried, the case closed. I doubt we'll have any more problems with Mr. Rodman."