On an impulse, Roddy saw an opening and darted across into the next side street. He found they were in a residential area of neat, one-story ranch style homes with well-kept lawns and a profusion of flowers.
"They're still behind us," Yuri said.
Roddy could see the Jeep in his mirror, racing along no more than half a block behind. He tried to recall the tricks used in chase scenes in movies he had seen, but all he could think of was to keep making turns and attempt to outrun his pursuers. He spun the steering wheel to the left at the next corner and skidded around, the tires on the right side of the Mercedes digging into the soft dirt of someone's carefully tended lawn.
He cut left again at the next street, then right. And suddenly he found himself slamming on the brakes at sight of a cluster of kids in the middle of the street. He gave a blast of his horn and they began to scatter, but by the time he was able to accelerate again, the Jeep was bearing down on his rear end. Then, in the mirror, he saw the brown face and bushy mustache of the Mexican in the passenger seat leaning out the window, accompanied by a large hand that held a long-barreled revolver.
The bullet crashed through the back window and angled just past Roddy's head, exiting through the open driver's side window. He tried his best to shrink into something smaller, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell, but only managed to duck his head slightly, taking his eye off the road ahead just long enough to sideswipe a car parked along the street.
"Damn," he cursed. "If they don't kill us, I will."
As he fought the wheel to straighten up, he realized his wild gyrations had caused the Mexican to hold off shooting again. The guy probably figured they were about to wreck anyway, Roddy thought. Then he caught a glimpse of Yuri Shumakov turned around in the seat, standing on his knees, facing the broken rear window. He saw the gun in the investigator's hand just as three quick shots blasted away. One shattered the Jeep's windshield a little off-center, toward the driver's side. The second pierced the radiator, spewing an eruption of steam like a mini-geyser imbedded in the front of the vehicle. The third punctured the left front tire.
"Where the hell did you get that?" Roddy asked, swerving right at the next intersection.
Yuri smiled, turning back around in the seat, holding a .357 magnum Rossi, a Brazilian-made six-shot revolver. "I bought it from a couple of drunken Russian sailors in Veracruz. They were so happy to hear somebody speak their language, I could have bought the shoes off their feet if I had asked. I knew I would need a gun when I confronted Major Romashchuk."
Watching in the mirror, Roddy saw the Jeep had slowed, and as he swung into the next street, it disappeared from view. Looking at the splintered back window and considering what a mess the right side of the car must be, he began to feel a bit guilty about the way he had treated Elena. But thinking of the bullet that barely missed his head, he knew it was her fault he had nearly been killed.
"Where will we go?" Shumakov asked.
"We have to get to the airport. I called that Hill guy I told you about and he wants us to come to Mexico City."
"Will the airport be safe?"
"I don't know. We'll find a telephone and call my boss. Tell him to warm up a plane and stand by.
43
It was half an hour later when an incensed Nikolai Romashchuk, accompanied by Julio Podesta, trudged up the long, curving driveway to the almost regal looking home of Señora Elena Castillo Quintero. They had abandoned the disabled Jeep just ahead of the arrival of a squad of policemen, who had been summoned by several alarmed residents. They feared it might be another skirmish in the drug war that had accidentally killed Guadalajara's archbishop, Cardinal Juan Jesus Posadas Ocampo, just outside the airport two years earlier. After making their way back to a commercial area, the Major and the Mexican had hailed a taxi, which dropped them off in the vicinity of Elena's house.
"That's Rodman's car," Romashchuk observed coldly as they approached the front of the mansion.
He rang the bell. The door was opened shortly by an attractive, dark-haired woman in a green suit. The Major's tone was coolly polite. "Señora Castillo Quintero?"
"You must be Herr Gruber," she said, her dark eyes like obsidian chips.
"Yes. May we come in?"
She didn't budge. "Señor Rodman and his friend left some forty-five minutes ago. I was not able to get them to stay any longer."
"I see he left his car," Romashchuk said, nodding toward the Toyota.
"He said it wouldn't start, so I loaned him mine."
"The red Mercedes?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Yes. How did you know?"
He finally smiled. "I suggest we go inside and discuss what we both know about Señor Rodman."
Reluctantly, she led them into the sitting room and took the chair opposite the sofa. "What sort of business have you been working on at Señor Madero's cabin?"
"I am not at liberty to say. What I am concerned about, though, is why Rodman and his friend fled the moment they saw us driving toward your house." He strongly suspected the reason was that she had warned them off.
"You saw them in my car?"
Nikolai Romashchuk's eyes narrowed. "We followed them, Señora. I wanted Rodman to stop so we could talk. Regrettably, he made some foolish moves and your nice, expensive car did not fare too well."
She stared at him in near panic. "They wrecked?"
"Not exactly," said Romashchuk, suspecting her concern was not for the Mercedes. "He bounced off a parked car. Unfortunately, we also had car problems, with the result that we lost them."
Elena's eyes flashed. "I was told you were involved in some harmless business deal. I did not agree to cooperate with any intention that Colonel Rodman might be threatened or harmed."
The Major dropped any pretense of politeness. "I don't give a damn about your intentions, Señora. All I'm concerned with is Rodman's whereabouts and what he knows about my business."
"You mean the business of stealing Soviet chemical weapons? Of firing mortars from the back of a truck?" Elena's voice dripped with sarcasm.
The Major smiled. That answered one of his questions. And it made the answer to the other one more critical than ever. Rodman had to be found and neutralized as quickly as possible. "Where was Rodman going?" he demanded.
Elena sprang up from her chair, eyes blazing. "Damn you! Get out of my house! I'll tell you nothing."
Romashchuk turned to the burly Mexican, who stood near her. "Julio, see that the Señora stays in her chair."
The burly Mexican reached over, grabbed her shoulders with his powerful hands and shoved her down into the chair.
Elena rubbed a shoulder and her voice shook with a combination of hurt, fear and anger. "The servants will be here any moment and you will pay for this."
Julio grinned. His uneven teeth made his mouth resemble a child's attempt at drawing a jack-o'-lantern. "If the servants were here, you would not have come to the door," he said.
"Where was Rodman going?" Romashchuk repeated, leaning forward threateningly.
"He didn't tell me where he was going. There are thirty to forty thousand Americans and Canadians living in Guadalajara or around Lake Chapala. He certainly has many friends among them. He could be anywhere."
"You are a very pretty lady, Señora. It would be a shame to disfigure that beautiful face. But you will tell me where Colonel Rodman went, and who the man was in the car with him. I promise you."
He knew it would not be easy. She had an obvious toughness about her. She had done an excellent job of working her way into Rodman's confidence. But just as clearly, their relationship had gone far beyond what he had envisioned when Eugenio Santin arranged for her to help. It was imperative that he find Rodman and his passenger and eliminate them before they managed to tell anyone else what they had seen at the barranca. Fortunately, they could know nothing about the men from El Sendero Luminoso, or the plans he had for their deployment.