"Roddy," Alba broke in urgently, "the police aren't concerned about damage to a car."
"What do you mean?"
"They think you killed Señora Castillo Quintero."
"Killed?" It took a moment for the words to sink in. Then Roddy felt like a knot had suddenly been tied inside his chest. He gasped, "Elena's dead?"
"I just hung up from talking to a police sergeant. I told him you had flown to Mexico City, but I didn't know where you were staying. I thought you would be back in the morning."
"Elena's dead?" Roddy repeated, as if that was the only thing he had heard. He felt as though he were shrouded in fog, a filmy sheet of gossamer obscuring everything around him. It seemed unreal. Just as unreal as what Alba had said to him. Elena couldn't be dead. She had been very much alive when he and Yuri had climbed into the Mercedes.
"I knew you couldn't have done it, Roddy. The sergeant said it was brutal. She had really been messed up, almost like she'd been tortured."
Tortured? He clamped his eyes shut tightly at the painful realization of what had happened. It was Romashchuk. It had to be. He had taken out his anger on Elena, attempting to make her tell where he and Yuri had gone. But she didn't know! Oh, God, he thought, what have I done?
"Are you all right, Roddy?" Alba asked when he received no response.
"I guess. I just can't believe she's dead. I left her around one. She was… " His voice trailed off.
"The police found your car at her house. When they learned that you flew for us, they checked our hangar and found her car all banged up. Was that Netto fellow with you all afternoon?"
"Yeah. He's been with me all day."
"Good. You'd better bring him along to vouch that you didn't do it." It was a helpful suggestion, but no consolation for the loss of Elena. He stood there by the telephone for a few minutes, unable, or unwilling, to move. The aching feeling inside him had diminished, but it left only a void. Elena dead. It did not seem possible. He could still feel the softness of her skin. He could still smell the fragrance of the flower in her hair. And then as he thought of Major Nikolai Romashchuk, the void inside him was replaced by a growing fury. As soon as he got back to Guadalajara, he would fly the chopper up to that barranca and find the bastard.
"Are you using the phone?"
The impatient voice interrupted his thoughts, and he glanced around to find a dowdy looking woman wearing a "New Horizons Travel" badge. Her name, stuck on with embossed red tape, was "Ellen Castle."
Roddy shook his head, almost in tears. It was the English translation of Elena Castillo. "No," he said, turning away. "I'm sorry."
46
Since the two men were coming to Mexico City at his invitation, Burke had made a reservation for them in the company's name. He was to supply the guests' identification on their arrival. But after hearing their disturbing stories, he had signed his own name to get the key. The room was on the same floor as his, and he walked with them to the door.
"Sorry I couldn't get separate rooms," he said, "This was the only thing available."
Roddy shrugged. "We've been stuck together like bookends all day. Might as well finish the night the same way."
"We may not be here all night. I'll call as soon as I know something."
Burke headed on to his own room, where he promptly sat down at the phone. He felt an even greater urgency since learning about Elena's murder and the police view that Rodman was the prime suspect. He had finally convinced Roddy that going back to Guadalajara would be the worst mistake he could make. In order to explain everything, he would have to reveal Yuri's true identity. And when the police discovered Shumakov on the Interpol wanted list, he would cease to be a credible witness.
If Shumakov was really what he claimed.
Burke placed a call to Fred Birnbaum in Woodbridge, Virginia. He didn't have to ask information for the number. He never went anywhere without a small scheduler that fit neatly into his shirt pocket. Part of it changed monthly for daily plans and notes. The other part was a small, alphabetized telephone directory filled with his own cryptic shorthand and contained names and numbers from the past few years. He soon had Fred on the line.
"Hi, Burke," the FBI agent said. "Last I heard of you was when that Seoul detective called. I ran into your son recently. He said you were doing fine. Getting fat."
Burke's son by his first wife was now with the FBI. "I'm going to have to get after that boy. Cliff tends to exaggerate, you know. Say, I apologize for bothering you so late, Fred, but I needed to check on something."
"Sure. What's up?"
"We need a little help with a problem over in the old Soviet Union. I heard that you knew an investigator in Minsk. Can you tell me anything about him?"
The FBI man chuckled. "You must still have some great sources, Burke. Yeah, his name is Yuri Shumakov. He's a young chief investigator with the Minsk prosecutor's office. I met him when he was over here a couple of years ago. Sharp guy. Impressed me as real conscientious. I've been sending him some reading material. Haven't heard from him lately."
"Sounds like he might just be our man," said Burke.
He called Lori next. "Did they get the lawn cleaned up and everything put back where it belongs?" he asked.
"I think I picked a good firm," she said. "Except for the grass looking a bit trampled, you'd never guess this place had resembled a state fair midway a few nights ago. How's Mexico City?"
"Crowded and smelly as usual. Are Cam and Liz okay?"
"As stimulating as ever. You'll be interested, though not necessarily thrilled, to know our daughter has learned a new word."
"What's that?"
"Abortion."
"Oh, no. She's not pregnant?"
"Dummy! There's a family planning clinic across from the day care center. The right-to-lifers were out in force today. She heard all the chanting and, of course, asked what the signs said."
Burke's voice turned serious. "Lori, I've run into something I can't explain on the phone, but I need your help."
"What do you need?"
"I want you to pretend the twins have suddenly come down with what appears to be some serious illness. Got any ideas?"
"Serious illness… summertime. Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever?"
"Good idea. Let's say you found some ticks and had some tests run. You shouldn't need to, but if necessary, get the godmother to back you up."
The "godmother" was Dr. Chloe Brackin, Lori's best friend, an OB/GYN specialist who had delivered the twins. A tall, sultry-looking black beauty who was in practice with her father in Alexandria, Chloe lived in another section of Falls Church with her husband Walt, a neurologist.
"Can you tell me why?" Lori sounded both puzzled and concerned.
"I'm going to ask Nate to send the jet for me. I should be home by morning. I'll explain when I get there. But if Nate calls about the kids, have your story ready."
Worldwide had recently acquired a corporate jet, a completely overhauled Lear that looked like new and had a range of around 2,500 miles. Nate Highsmith had wanted one for some time. Burke found this one at a bankruptcy sale and bought it for an unbelievable price. The plane was currently in New Orleans, where it had taken the senior vice president of the Technology Group and two of his top people for a high-powered presentation to a prospective client. They were scheduled to return in the morning, after an evening of wining and dining the prospect. Burke knew it would be no problem for the crew to fly down and pick him up, along with his two companions. A pair he had encountered who could be quite useful in future business arrangements, or so he would say. They could stop off in New Orleans for the Technology Group team on the way back to Washington.