By the time they had finished, Burke felt he had stumbled into a real quagmire. It sure as hell appeared that Major Romashchuk was training Shining Path guerillas to use the chemical weapons, with at least the tacit knowledge of Adam Stern and the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. But he could do nothing official on this without alerting Nate Highsmith and Kingsley Marshall, the Director of Central Intelligence. Both were influential members of the FAR, and he did not care to confront them until he knew a lot more than he did now. He needed Roberto Garcia's help to confirm what was going on at that canyon near Tequila, but he had no authority over intelligence operations in the Mexico City office.
He still harbored a few misgivings about Colonel Roddy Rodman, and this Shumakov fellow admitted he was a fugitive on a murder charge, traveling on a false American passport. The whole strange story about stolen shells loaded with a nerve agent and canisters of neurotoxins and renegade former KGB officers had come from the supposed Minsk chief investigator. Burke knew he would feel a lot better if he had some way of confirming Shumakov's background. His years with the FBI and his experiences at Worldwide Communications had left him a confirmed skeptic.
There was a momentary lull in the conversation as each man seemed deep in his own thoughts. Then Roddy looked across at Burke.
"Murray Bender, the former CIA man, told me you used to be an FBI agent. How long ago was that?"
Burke rumpled his brow. "God, back in the dark ages. I worked under old J. Edgar Hoover."
Yuri Shumakov suddenly perked up. "I spent some time in the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington. When your country offered to provide technical help for Belarus, I came over and visited the FBI. Then I toured several big city police departments. I still receive correspondence from a very helpful agent at the FBI National Academy."
"Yeah?" Burke said. "Who's that?"
"His name is Frederick Birnbaum. He sends me magazine articles and reports on developments in criminal investigation."
Burke nodded. "I've known Fred for years."
Birnbaum had been a brand new agent back in the middle sixties when he and Burke had worked together in the New York Field Office. He had vouched for Burke with a South Korean homicide officer during the Poksu affair a couple of years ago. He might be able to provide the information needed to put to rest any fears about Yuri Shumakov, Burke realized. And as Roddy Rodman continued to talk, the pilot dissolved those lingering doubts about himself while further muddying Burke's view of the Foreign Affairs Roundtable.
"I'd better be completely up front with you, Burke," Rodman said, his jaw set resolutely. "You may not be aware, but I was the pilot of the Operation Easy Street chopper that was ambushed in Iran about the time Yuri's brother was killed. They court-martialed me and shot my career to hell."
"I know," Burke said, nodding. "I had my assistant check on your background this afternoon. She heard you might have been acquitted, if you hadn't charged you were railroaded and blasted the brass."
"True. But I know for sure now why I was railroaded. General Wing Patton, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and a good Roundtable member, was really the guilty party. It appears to have been another situation involving Adam Stern."
He told Burke what he had learned from CMSgt Clint Black.
Burke came to a sudden decision. He would have to take his chances and push Roberto Garcia to cooperate without informing Washington. And he needed to get these two to safety across the border as quickly as possible.
He hadn't realized how long they had been talking until he glanced at his watch. "You guys interested in something to eat? I need to call my wife in Virginia after dinner."
"Damn," Rodman murmured, "that reminds me. I never did call Elena and tell her we were okay. I'd better do it now. I hate to have to tell her about the car."
45
Roddy stopped at a telephone alcove as the other two strolled across the bustling lobby toward the restaurant. The hotel appeared crowded with tourists and business travelers. Would they have a rooms available, he wondered? Hill had not said what he intended to do, but obviously he had given serious thought to the situation.
As he picked up the phone, Roddy recalled the unfortunate circumstances under which he had left Elena. He was still distressed at what she had done, but his anger had now turned to disappointment. As he recalled her explanation, he began to see what he had refused to accept earlier. The relationship that had started out as a lark for her had unexpectedly turned into something a girl might wax poetic about in her diary. He cursed himself for the way he had reacted. He had been too damned hard on her, too unfeeling?
He gave the operator Elena's name and number as he needed to call collect. As he listened, the phone rang several times. It sounded like a distant, forlorn sort of ring, but he knew that was just his mind playing tricks. The fact that it went unanswered, though, was unusual. Manuel had always picked up the phone within the first three rings. Had he still not returned? Where was Elena?
"Bueno?" snapped an unfamiliar male voice on about the eighth ring. There was a hard quality to it, a note of impatience.
"Long distance calling collect for Señora Elena Castillo Quintero," the operator droned like a recording.
"Who is calling?" the man demanded.
Roddy began to get a feeling that something was terribly wrong. "Is the Señora in?" the operator inquired. "I need to know if she will accept the charges?"
"Damn the charges," the man barked. "This is Sergeant—"
"Please cancel the call, operator," Roddy broke in and hung up the phone. What the hell was going on? "Sergeant" could only mean the police. He began to worry. Had they tracked down Elena's car from that ungodly chase through the residential neighborhood? He had sideswiped one car for certain. He didn't think he had hit any others, but several shots had been fired.
Then it occurred to him that if the police had found Elena's car, Pablo Alba should know about it. He had left the battered red Mercedes parked in the Aeronautica Jalisco parking lot. He called the number for the Operations counter, which was manned at night. He got an old multi-engine pilot named Salvador.
"This is Roddy. Is Pablo there?"
"No, he's at home. Where the hell are you?"
"Mexico City. Have the police been there looking for a red Mercedes?"
"They just left. They wanted to know where you were, but I didn't have any idea. I suggested they call Pablo."
Elena must have told them he had her car, Roddy thought. He decided to call Pablo and enlist his help in advising the police that he would be home in the morning and straighten everything out. He was beginning to have some doubts that Burke Hill could do anything to help. Burke had probably been right with his first comment that he needed to contact the Mexican authorities. He had no idea what all this could have to do with the Foreign Affairs Roundtable, but it was taking place in Mexico so was obviously a Mexican affair. He would try to keep Elena's name out of it. He didn't want to cause her any more problems.
"Roddy?" Alba asked tentatively. "Are you still in Mexico City?"
"Yeah. Since I didn't explain what my problem was this afternoon, I thought I'd better call and fill you in. I understand the cops were at the airport a little while ago looking for Elena Castillo Quintero's red Mercedes. I left it parked in the lot. It's a long story, but to make it short, a couple of guys were chasing Ivan Netto and me. They shot at us, knocked a hole in the back window. Anyway, I banged into a car parked on the street. You can tell the police I'll be back in the morning and straighten everything out. It involves—"