After checking into his hotel, Hill rode with Garcia to the Worldwide office located in a modern building on Avenida Juárez, not far from the Torre Latinoamericana, for many years the city's tallest skyscraper.
"Is this a routine audit, Burke, or are you looking for something?" Garcia asked pointedly as they drove through the crowded streets.
"Don't worry, Roberto. I expect to find everything shipshape."
"I certainly hope so." The manager ventured a wry grin.
"How is it going on the Amber side? Anything I ought to know about?"
"We aren't doing much in Mexico. The Agency has no real problems here now."
Worldwide's clandestine job was to supplement CIA efforts in areas where the embassy stations were having difficulty with "assets of uncertain reliability," as Nathaniel Highsmith, the company's founder and president, would say. Burke put things more bluntly. He called it plugging holes created by blown agents. The shifting alliances of the post-Cold War world required constant monitoring by the intelligence establishment to prevent some crisis from blindsiding the White House.
"Got problems anywhere else?" Burke inquired.
"Peru," said Garcia uneasily. "El Sendero Luminoso is kicking up its heels again."
"The Shining Path?"
"Right. We hear they're making efforts to branch out into other countries. We picked up a rumor of a group being sent to Mexico, but haven't been able to confirm it. Supposedly they were headed for the State of Jalisco. That's the Guadalajara area."
"I read a recent report on Shining Path," Burke said. "They're really bad news."
Garcia swung his car into a parking garage and blinked at the semi-darkness. "I presume your people in Moscow have their ears to the wall with this Minsk meeting coming up in another week."
"Nobody's really sure what to make of it. Those Commonwealth Coordinating Committees seem to have their own agenda. It doesn't necessarily coincide with what some of the governments want. It looks like there will definitely be some consolidation among the commonwealth countries. On the economic front particularly."
"I read the other day that some factions of the military might be playing footsie with the old hardliners."
Burke nodded. "That's a potential problem. But the U.S. is on good terms with most of the old Soviet republics. And we've established a reputation for moving pretty quickly in defense of our friends. I understand the President gave Chairman Latishev of Belarus some reassuring words, about how he would react to any threats. The conventional wisdom is that nobody's likely to choose a military option while we stand in the wings, aircraft carriers at the ready, looking calm, cool and collected."
The sound of banging glasses as patrons of the Veracruz sidewalk cafe signaled waiters for refills of steaming café con leche broke into the din of chattering voices. Yuri Shumakov found the uninhibited nature of the people and their town fascinating. It was quite un-Russian. Rather coarse and unkempt, like many of the polyglot sailors who frequented the waterfront. Veracruz had a tawdry charm that was like nothing Yuri had encountered before. He wished that he could understand the Spanish being babbled around him, though he had picked up the sound of other languages as well. He had even heard Russian spoken by a couple of burly men who were probably sailors from a freighter in the harbor.
The restaurant faced the zócalo, or main square, in sight of the dun-colored city hall. It was the heat of the morning that struck the fugitive investigator as the most conspicuous feature of the place. He wondered how the jarochos, as the natives called themselves, could sit there and consume so much hot coffee in such a climate.
But the climate was a minor concern. He marveled at how he had managed to get this far from home without being snatched up and thrown into some dank, musty jail. He was, after all, an international outlaw. He had no doubt that his name was listed among the wanted men of Interpol. But he had reached Veracruz with a passport identifying him as Ivan Netto, a naturalized American of Russian birth. In fact he had a complete set of identity papers, including a Georgia driver's license bearing an Atlanta address. They had cost him dearly, but they had been crafted by a skilled forger who had formerly worked for the KGB. The man possessed files of passports and other papers stolen from American tourists. His work was guaranteed to stand up to the closest scrutiny.
Although he was strictly on his own now, Yuri had made it out of Belarus with the help of several others. It began with Detective Omar Khan, who had called Larisa to urge that Yuri give himself up. Khan feared his favorite investigator might run afoul of some trigger-happy militiaman. But after Larisa had explained Yuri's position, that he saw no way to absolve himself of the murder charge without tracking down the responsible party, Khan had decided to help. He knew where the police were watching and searching, and he suggested a mosque as a place Larisa could safely meet with her husband. Yuri told her he needed to get to Mexico and find out who would receive the shipment from the former KGB officers. He hoped that person could lead him back to Major Romashchuk and General Zakharov. He was certain they could identify Vadim Trishin's murderer. But it would take a substantial sum of money to obtain a false identity and pay for the trip. With the help of her brother, Larisa had raised the cash. They had slipped him out of the country, again with Khan's assistance. He had flown from Kiev to Madrid, then to Mexico City. Arriving in the capital early this morning, he had rented a small blue Ford and driven to Veracruz, where the Bonnie Prince was to arrive the following day.
Leaving the restaurant, Yuri walked across the zócalo to a low building that housed offices of several shipping agents. Checking the directory, he found "Gerardo Salinas… 202." He walked up the stairs and noted the name on the door.
"Do you speak English?" he asked the attractive, dark-skinned girl who sat behind a paper-strewn desk.
"I do," she replied with a bright smile wreathed by long black tresses. "Can I help you?"
"My name is Ivan Netto. I am an importer from Atlanta, Georgia. I have been dealing with North Star Trading Company, and I was told I might be able to find their representative here."
"You must be looking for Klaus Gruber. He called the other day about picking up a shipment due in on the Bonnie Prince tomorrow."
Yuri smiled. "Gruber. Of course. Is he in Veracruz now?"
"No, he won't be here until tomorrow. He called from Guadalajara. I made him a reservation at the Posada Zamora for a noon arrival. The ship docks in the afternoon. Shall I ask him to contact you?"
"No, that won't be necessary. I'll find him." Then Yuri struck a pensive pose. "Tell you what, don't mention anything at all about me. I want to surprise him."
Her eyes twinkled. She obviously had no problem with indulging in a little chicanery. It was pretty mild compared to some of the other things that went on around here.
"Does it take long to get shipments cleared through customs?" Yuri asked.
"Not with generous mordida."
"What is mordida?"
"You must be new here. Literally it means 'bite.' I believe norteamericanos call it 'bribe,' or 'payoff.' It is part of the cost of doing business."
Yuri smiled. "Is it possible to get your shipment straight off the boat without the inspector looking at it?"
"If you take care of the inspectors like Señor Salinas does."