"I'm afraid I'm not very welcome around Langley anymore. The Agency tried to make me the fall guy for one of the top boys who screwed up. I told them to stick it up their ass and quit. I can sympathize with how you feel about General Patton."
Regardless of that wild tale about chemical weapons and ex-Soviets, Colonel Rodman had genuine problems, Bender realized. Besides the threat posed by Adam Stern, there was the matter of the court-martial. The Colonel must have turned up some new evidence. If there was any possibility of getting his name cleared and his conviction reversed, he deserved a try. Bender thought for a moment.
"There is one guy I know of who has connections right to the top of the government. He's his own man. He isn't controlled by anybody. Do you remember a few years ago when some renegades from the CIA and KGB plotted to assassinate the American and Soviet presidents up in Toronto? Without any official help, this guy stopped them. More recently, he was involved in a situation in the Far East at the request of the President. It was so hush-hush I only picked up some hints about it."
"Who is he and where do I find him?"
"Name's Burke Hill. He's an official with an international PR agency in Washington. Back years ago he was an FBI agent. Hold on a second."
Bender slipped another disc into his CD ROM drive and typed in "Worldwide Communications Consultants." The telephone number popped onto the screen. He picked up the white phone and dialed. When the Worldwide operator answered, he asked for Burke Hill. He was told Mr. Hill was currently visiting the Mexico City office. He asked for the number.
"Well, your luck is running good on this count, Colonel," he said into the black phone. "Hill is in Mexico City."
Major Nikolai Romashchuk had fired two high explosive mortar shells toward the far end of the barranca that morning as he patiently explained the planned operation. Then he stood by and observed as the leader of the Shining Path group, a dark-skinned, black-eyed young man called Pepe, and two of his fellow Peruvians fired a volley of shells. After suggesting some changes in their technique, he had them fire another volley. At virtually the same moment, a helicopter suddenly popped over the rim and clattered across a few hundred feet above the canyon floor. The aircraft appeared to be headed directly toward the truck, then suddenly veered away and began to climb as it retreated above the canyon wall. The other two guerrillas, who had demanded they be provided AK-47s for guard duty, began firing into the air. One thought he had hit it, but he wasn't sure.
After the small chopper disappeared, Romashchuk turned to Pepe with malevolence in his eyes. "Tell your people not to shoot at any more aircraft unless they're damned sure they can bring it down. I have a good idea who was flying that one. I intend to find out for sure. Keep your men here. And don't, under any circumstances, let anybody disturb that other crate."
Romashchuk and Julio Podesta, his Mexican sidekick who had driven the truck on the trip to Veracruz, headed for the Jeep and were soon raising a cloud of pinkish dust as they struck out for Tequila. The narrow, rutted road, which was frequently washed out in places, snaked around and over the volcanic hills, leaning at precarious angles at times. He maneuvered the Jeep a bit faster than they had dared drive the truck, but it was still a good forty minutes since the helicopter's unwelcome intrusion by the time they reached the town of Tequila.
Romashchuk stopped at a small store where he had used a pay phone previously and called Aeronautica Jalisco. A girl answered.
"This is Señor Gruber," he said in his most convincing manner. "I was to have joined Señor Rodman on his flight to the mountains around Tequila this morning. Something delayed me, however, and I couldn't make it. Do you know if he has returned yet, and who went with him?"
"I'm sorry, Señor," she said, "but I know nothing about it. You will have to talk to Señor Pablo Alba, our director of operations. He should be back in about an hour."
Romashchuk thanked her and hung up.
"Damn," he grumbled at Julio. "We have to talk to a man named Alba, who won't be back for an hour."
"We could be at the airport by then," said Julio with a shrug.
"You're right. We might as well go on. It's in the direction of Rodman's home. It will save us some time if we need to go after him there."
42
Roddy was surprised when Elena met them at the door. She was dressed in a well-tailored green business suit, her dark hair pulled to the back and twisted into a bun. Her face, though still attractive, had an unfamiliar stark, almost austere quality to it. And then he realized he was seeing the cool, pragmatic, determined businesswoman for the first time.
"Where's Manuel?" Roddy asked.
"I thought it was time you realized I do know how to open a front door," she said half-jokingly. "Actually, since I had to be away this afternoon, I decided to give everyone the day off. Come on in."
Roddy introduced Yuri Shumakov as his passenger from the morning flight, then asked if he could use the telephone.
"I need to make a call to Mexico City first. That okay?"
"Certainly," she said, nodding.
Roddy thought she looked oddly preoccupied.
"Use the phone in my father's office," she added.
He sat down at the heavy wooden desk and pulled a scrap of note paper from his shirt pocket. It contained the number for Worldwide Communications Consultants' Mexico City office. He dialed the number, then leaned back in the plush leather chair. He found his gaze leveling on the portrait of Elena's father that hung over the desk. Studying the stern-set jaw and unsmiling eyes, he detected something of the same implacable demeanor that he had noticed in Elena this afternoon.
When Burke Hill came on the line, Roddy introduced himself in a calm, deliberate voice. He knew his strange story would require all the salesmanship he could muster. "This is Colonel Warren Rodman," he said, "U.S. Air Force Retired. I got your name from a former CIA officer named Murray Bender. I'm not sure whether you know him, but he recommended you as someone I could trust."
"Trust for what?" Hill asked. "I don't think I know the gentleman. I wonder why he would suggest you call me?"
"He said you had saved the President's neck a few years back. Said you weren't controlled by anybody, but you had connections right to the top of the government."
"Well, I'm flattered, but I believe he has sort of overrated my importance. What was it you wanted to talk about?"
"I live on Lake Chapala, near Guadalajara, where I have a part-time job flying helicopters," Roddy explained. "In the course of taking a couple of different passengers to an area up near Tequila, I've gotten involved in a real sticky situation. Believe me, Mr. Hill, it was totally unexpected, something strictly out of left field. I learned there is a former major from the old KGB over here. He has some deadly chemical weapons stolen several years ago from the Soviet arsenal. From what I saw this morning, he's apparently involved in teaching some people to use them. I have no idea who they are, but it looked like they were firing from mortar tubes in the back of a truck."
"Damn, Colonel. Sounds pretty ominous. I believe you need to contact the Mexican authorities. I don't see anything I could do for you."
"There's another dimension to it, Mr. Hill. One that complicates matters. This Russian — or Ukrainian — met here last week with a man named Adam Stern of the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. They have something to do with what's going on."
"I find that hard to believe," said Hill skeptically. "I'm quite familiar with the Roundtable."
"I know how you feel. It struck me the same way. But, unfortunately, I stumbled into the fact that Stern killed an American while he was here. Made it look like a suicide. It was a writer from New York named Bryan Janney. He was involved in researching a book on the Roundtable. Before he died, Janney told me the organization isn't what it purports to be on the outside. Murray Bender confirmed it."