Realizing he had paid little attention to how long he had been inside the cab, he scrambled out onto the ground and moved to where he had a better view of the pier. To his surprise, he found Romashchuk and the Mexican already halfway back to the truck. He ducked behind it and scurried in the direction of his rental car.
When he was safely inside, Yuri looked back toward the parking area. The heavy yellow vehicle had pulled out and was headed for the docks. It maneuvered back and forth into a narrow space beside a stack of large crates. As he watched, a crane hoisted one from the top of the stack and lowered it into the truck. Romashchuk and the driver tied the tarp back in place, and the vehicle soon came lumbering out onto the street. Yuri started his car and slowly pulled out behind them as they headed for Highway 150, the route he had taken from Mexico City to Veracruz. Knowing the Major was trained in counter-surveillance, he stayed back as far as possible without losing sight of the green tarp. It was doubtful they had any idea they might be followed, but if they were on their way to Guadalajara, there was a long road ahead.
At Cordoba, they hit the toll road and began climbing into the forested mountains. The dump truck took the grades at a modest speed, making it easy to follow. When the yellow vehicle pulled off to stop at a restaurant, Yuri took advantage of the opportunity to refuel. He had brought along snacks to nibble on.
It was four o'clock by the time they reached the outskirts of Mexico City, the world's most populous metropolitan area. Over twenty million people and horrendous traffic at any hour. Then, like an answered prayer, his quarry turned in at a suburban motel. Yuri couldn't resist a glance heavenward and a half-sighed "Thanks."
He found a parking place nearby and waited. The afternoon traffic raced past in waves, a noxious parade of vintage vehicles and the latest models from designers in America and Japan. The odor from their exhausts was enough to make his eyes water. After something over an hour, he concluded that Romashchuk and his driver had settled in for the night. He hoped they had read the same guidebook he had, which strongly warned against traveling Mexico's highways after dark.
Yuri had observed several cars along the way similar to his small Ford. He had taken great pains to keep out of view of the dump truck as much as he could, making it possible that he might have escaped detection so far. But he knew the Major had seen him at the Posada Zamora. The reappearance of his face around this motel would surely put Romashchuk on guard. He drove a short distance farther into the city and checked into the next available motel.
34
Señora Elena Castillo Quintero observed herself critically in the full-length mirror. She had pinned a red hibiscus blossom in her long black hair. The dress was a colorful mixture of red and yellow and green with a low-cut, lacy top that hung precariously about the satin smooth skin of her shoulders. The fluffy white ruffles at the bottom made no pretense of hiding a pair of shapely legs, which had seen only enough sun to be lightly tanned.
She would never wear this outfit in public and she wasn't altogether sure why she had it on now. Did she look like a brazen hussy or an over-the-hill Mexican hat dancer, she wondered? No, not over-the-hill. Though she was admittedly forty-five, her skin would still rival that of someone ten years younger.
She chuckled at the thought of what would happen should she stroll across the Plaza Tapatío in this garb. Macho Mexican men would come panting in droves. That was one reason for her reputation as a cold fish in the corridors of commerce. She had read the descriptions of herself as a "frozen beauty in the boardroom" and the "businesswoman with the pretty face and the iron fist." The only way to cope with the machismo of the men she had to deal with in business was to turn them off to her femininity. She had succeeded admirably. But it had only increased her loneliness, a feeling that had plagued her increasingly since the death of her husband and the more recent deaths of her parents. Beauty could be a curse, she lamented as she contemplated the mirror. It had caused her to be wary of potential suitors. She wanted to be desired for what lay inside her, not just this attractive facade, not to mention the considerable fortune she controlled.
Then why was she dressed like this and feeling so roguish? She smiled. The man who was coming tonight was not a macho Mexican, and she was determined to enjoy the role of naughty Nannette. It was all in fun.
Since coming to Guadalajara, Roddy Rodman had heard countless invitations from Mexicans saying lavishly "mi casa es su casa," my house is your house. He had learned it was not meant literally but only intended as an expression of congeniality, like a Southerner saying "y'all come see us." But this was a genuine invitation from a prominent Mexican woman to come by her "house" that evening. When he drove up to the walled enclave in an exclusive area in the western part of the city, Roddy saw that it resembled his house about like Neiman-Marcus resembled Wal-Mart. It was a damned mansion.
The invitation had followed a surprising message he had found on his answering machine from General Wackenhut, Dutch Schuler's father-in-law. He saw the machine's red light winking furiously on his arrival home after two days' absence, during which he learned happily from the hotel that Adam Stern had returned to New York. He called the General back, figuring it must concern a message from Dutch. His former copilot had returned to the Air Force during the past year after some coercion and high-level string-pulling by his father-in-law.
"Colonel Rodman," said Wackenhut in his surly voice, "I have been asked to put you in touch with Señora Elena Castillo Quintero. Are you familiar with the lady?"
"Sorry, General. The name doesn't ring a bell."
"She comes from an aristocratic family here. Descendants of the Spaniards. Her father headed a business group involved in cattle and the export of fruits and vegetables. I met her when I was asked to consult with the board of a local museum. They were planning an exhibit dealing with military aircraft. She's a dynamic person with a very persuasive manner in the boardroom. Yesterday she called to ask if I was acquainted with you. Said she was interested in having you speak to a group of ladies on your experiences in Operation Desert Storm. I don't know why the sudden interest in that bit of history. Because Iraq has been back in the news lately, I presume. Frankly, I suggested some other officers I felt better qualified, but somebody had told her about you. She asked me to see if you would mind giving her a call."
Roddy knew the reference to officers "better qualified" meant those who had not been court-martialed. He chose to ignore it.
After reading off the phone number, General Wackenhut warned, "She's quite an attractive lady, Rodman, but don't get any ideas. One of the American community's unwritten rules is we don't get involved in Guadalajara's society or politics. We don't butt into their business, and they don't meddle in ours."
He had called her "Señora," not "Señorita," Roddy noted. "I presume she's married?"
"Widow. Her husband was killed in an accident a few years ago. It was fortunate for her, actually. She had been something of a family outcast for marrying beneath her station. Even worse, her husband was a rabble rouser. Supported leftist causes, labor unions and such. After he died, her father relented, accepted her back into the fold. When her parents passed away a couple of years ago, everything was left to her."
Everything included this gorgeous white colonial mansion in a walled compound filled with the colorful blooms and heady scents of roses and hibiscus, lawns dotted with towering palms and the regal plumage of purple jacaranda trees. The exterior of the house was bathed in the soft glow of wrought iron lanterns as Roddy parked beside a bright red Mercedes and strode toward the massive front entrance.