He was certain Klaus Gruber would be prepared to pay. He thanked the girl for her help and left.
Yuri Shumakov spent most of the afternoon checking out the dock area where the Bonnie Prince would tie up. As he sat in the small car, he thought of Larisa back in Minsk. He was thankful for the changes the past few years had brought to his country. Had he skipped out like this in the old days, the state would have exacted its retribution on his family. At least he could take comfort in the knowledge that they were safe and sound.
He recalled how Detective Khan had described Sergei Perchik as being filled with rage over the case. The prosecutor informed his staff that he had never been so embarrassed by anything. He had thrown every available man into the chase for the accused murderer. Yuri could only imagine that he was near apoplexy at the realization his once-trusted investigator had not only fled into hiding but succeeded in escaping the country. It renewed his determination to track down the people who had framed him for Vadim Trishin's murder.
33
Well before noon the following day, Yuri bought a newspaper and claimed squatter's rights on a bright yellow overstuffed chair that faced Posada Zamora's dull brown registration desk. He had already noted Mexico's penchant for contrasts or, as Octavio Paz called them, polarities. Bright and dull… shadow and light… festive and somber. And, as he would soon learn, life and death.
Shumakov told the clerk he was a private investigator and slipped the man a good-sized tip to signal when Klaus Gruber checked in. A little mordida of his own, he thought with a chuckle. Whenever a new arrival approached the desk, Yuri would lower his newspaper and glance over it toward the clerk, who stood smiling benignly.
At around twelve-fifteen, two casually-dressed men walked up to the desk. Yuri once again dropped the paper a few inches. After handing them registration cards to fill out, the clerk looked at his watch for a moment, then tapped the crystal as if it had stopped. Yuri quickly discarded the newspaper. It was the signal.
He walked over to a display rack that held tourist brochures, where he could get a better view of the men's faces. The first one was a large man, brown-skinned, with a thick, black mustache. Probably Mexican, he decided. When he got a good look at the second, he felt the rush of blood surging through his body. He sensed a sudden warmth despite the air conditioning in the lobby. He was staring at the face in the picture he had studied back in Minsk, former KGB Major Nikolai Romashchuk.
Yuri was hardly prepared for this. Fortunately, he started looking away just as the Major's head turned toward him.
Yuri began to walk across the lobby as casually as he could manage. When he reached the other side, he turned around slowly. As he did, he spotted the pair of new arrivals heading back toward the hotel entrance. He followed as they walked outside and saw them climb into a yellow dump truck, its bed covered with a green tarpaulin. As they drove off, presumably to park the truck, he stepped outside. A hotel bellman, who had gone out to see if they needed help with their luggage, was looking off in the direction they had taken.
"Do you speak English?" Yuri asked.
"Sí. Some."
"Did you notice where that truck was from?"
"The license plate come from Guadalajara."
Was that where Romashchuk intended to take the stolen C/B weapons? Would he deliver them to some dissident group? As Yuri walked back toward the zócalo, he realized this new development would require a change of plans. His original intention was to confront Klaus Gruber and, by trick or force, ferret out a way to locate Romashchuk or General Zakharov. But now there was no middleman. Instead, he would need to devise a way to compel the Major to identify Vadim Trishin's murderer.
Presence of the Mexican added a complication. First he thought of going to the local authorities and telling them about the weapons hidden among the binocular lenses. Let them arrest Romashchuk and his accomplice. As a quid pro quo, Yuri would ask the right to interrogate the Major about the homicide.
Then he considered the down side of that scenario. Major Romashchuk could simply turn the tables on him and inform the Mexican police of Yuri's true identity, that he was the one wanted for the murder. A check with Interpol or the Minsk militia could land him in a jail cell along with, or instead of, Nikolai Romashchuk.
He finally concluded his best option was to follow Romashchuk after he picked up the weapons and watch for an opportunity to corner him. It would not be easy.
The Bonnie Prince, a Mexican pilot aboard, eased up to the Veracruz pier late in the day. Yuri found a foreman who spoke English and learned the unloading would not begin until early the following morning. With that in mind, he climbed into bed at an hour when the jarochos were just getting unwound for the evening. He was up the next morning before daybreak, checked out of his hotel and claimed a parking spot he had scouted out the day he arrived. It was opposite the waterfront where he could observe comings and goings around the Scottish liner. Then he sat back and nursed a strong mixture of coffee and milk in a styrofoam cup as he began the tedious wait for the dump truck. It finally appeared about an hour after the crane operators had started the methodical task of transferring cargo from ship to shore.
The truck parked about seventy meters beyond where Yuri sat. As he watched, Major Romashchuk and his Mexican driver walked toward the bustle of activity at the pier. They stopped to speak to a longshoreman, then headed for a building nearby. Probably delivering mordida to the customs inspector, Yuri speculated. He found it necessary to move away from his car to keep them in view, and as he saw them enter the building, he made a sudden decision to check out their truck.
Other vehicles were parked in the area, and he walked hurriedly, staying behind them as much as possible to make himself less conspicuous. When he reached the truck, he looked back and saw no sign of the two men.
He found the vehicle was a Ford, like his rental car, only this was a heavy ten-wheeler. The yellow paint was faded, but the tires looked almost new. The truck appeared to have been well maintained. Climbing up on one side, he pushed the tarp back enough to look into the hopper. It was filled partway with sand. That struck him as rather odd until he considered the cargo it would be carrying. No doubt the sand would serve as a cushion for the C/B weapons.
Moving around to the cab, he checked the righthand door and found it locked. He would have expected as much from Romashchuk. Hopefully the Mexican was not so meticulous, though he was prepared to jimmy it if necessary. He walked over to a spot that afforded a glimpse of the building the pair had entered and still saw no sign of them. Then he tried the driver's door. It opened. He climbed inside.
In the middle of the seat sat a small, zippered fabric bag that contained a few articles of clothing and a shaving kit. A half-filled pack of cigarettes and a pair of sunglasses lay on the dash on the driver's side. He pressed a button on the dashboard compartment and the panel sprang open. The papers inside appeared to be registration and information on the truck, all in Spanish. Also a roadmap of Mexico. It had been folded to show the southern part of the country. He noted Veracruz had been circled with a red pen. Looking back to the west, he saw Guadalajara had also been circled. And another red circle appeared in the open area north of Tequila.
Yuri stared in wonder. What could it mean? The map showed nothing in that area but mountains. He made a careful mental note of the map circles and shoved it back into the pocket.