Burke found Nate enjoying an evening at home with one of his grandchildren. He had always shown great concern for the Hill twins and readily agreed to send the jet to speed Burke back to their bedside.
"Let me know how they are," Highsmith admonished him. "I appreciate your calling me on this, Burke, but you could have made the decision on your own."
He knew that, of course, but didn't want to leave even the appearance of a conflict of interest. It was a small thing, but his FBI career had been so tainted that he had become noted in recent years as a man of impeccable ethics. The fact that he had lied about the twins did not strike him as at odds with that stance. Considering the possibile ramifications of what he had learned, the old rules no longer applied.
After tracking down the Learjet pilot and arranging a two a.m. pickup at the Mexico City airport, he called Roberto Garcia at home. By then it was after nine.
"I hate to do this to you, Roberto," he began, "but I've got an emergency at home. The twins are ill and the Learjet is picking me up at two in the morning. I need to talk to you before I leave. I can take a taxi out to your place."
"Sorry to hear about your kids, Burke. Forget the taxi. That's too much trouble. I'll come in and meet you at the office."
He alerted Rodman and Shumakov to the upcoming flight.
"You planning on Yuri using his Ivan Netto passport?" Roddy asked.
"Right. Traveling in a private jet, he should have no trouble with customs. I just hope we don't have any problem getting you out of Mexico."
It was around ten when he met Garcia at the Worldwide office. After discussing a few things about the audit and relieving the manager's mind on that score, Burke brought up the real subject that was occupying his mind.
"I need a major league favor of you, Roberto. I've turned up something so sensitive I can't give you the background. And I don't want it mentioned or even hinted at to Washington until I can check it out."
"Hey," Garcia protested, "you want to get me fired?"
"If any heat comes out of this, I'll take full responsibility. I know the procedures and the rules, but in this case, they simply don't apply."
"What do you want me to do?"
"It involves that report of the Shining Path people up around Tequila. I have information that they may be undergoing training at a canyon, a barranca, I believe, north of Tequila. There's a Mexican involved, and a Ukrainian posing as a German named Gruber. I have a hunch they'll be leaving there pretty soon. I want to know where they go, anything else you can tell me about them."
Garcia looked like a man contemplating a firing squad. "And you want me to hold that in confidence, not report it to the Chief or anybody in Washington?"
Burke nodded. The "Chief" was Nate Highsmith. "Or anywhere else, until I give you the word."
"And when is that likely to be?"
"Give me a week, Roberto. I promise I'll get back to you by then."
"I'm probably crazy for doing it," Garcia said, shaking his head, "but with what I know about you, okay. I'll get in touch with my man right now and get him onto it. He's a native tapatío but grew up in the States. I'll call you on the scrambler when I have something."
47
The customs officer was half-dozing when the phone rang on his desk at Aeropuerta Internacional Benito Juárez around 1:30 a.m. A small, stocky man named Sergio Muños, he was called Corto, roughly "Shorty," by many of his colleagues. He hated the night shift as much as he detested the demeaning nickname. There was not much work to do in the section that dealt with private passenger and cargo aircraft during this shift, but the odd hours screwed up his internal clock. He had enough seniority to avoid it normally, but getting an extra day added onto his upcoming three-day holiday required his presence tonight. He would sleep till noon, then load his wife and three boys into the car and head for the beach at Veracruz. The prices there were affordable, in contrast to the resorts for foreigners like Acapulco or Cancun. Muños wasn't all that thrilled by the beach, except for the scenery.
"This is Reynosa in the tower," said the voice on the phone. "Who's this?"
"Officer Sergio Muños."
"Oh, Corto. Wake up, man, we've got business for you."
Muños frowned. "What do you have?"
"A Learjet inbound from New Orleans. ETA 1:45. Corporate plane coming in to pick up three passengers, all U.S. citizens."
That would be simple, Muños thought. Just retrieve their tourist cards and make a cursory check of their luggage. He didn't particularly care for norteamericanos. Most of them were much larger than he, and they were usually patronizing or arrogant. If they gave him a hard time, he would reciprocate. He represented the government of Mexico, and no damned gringo from north of the border would push him around.
He propped the silver-framed glasses on his short nose, strapped on his walkie talkie and service revolver and started for the door. He stopped suddenly as one hand patted his shirt pocket and found his small notebook missing. He walked back to the desk, retrieved it and flipped it open to where he had jotted the note when his supervisor had called earlier in the evening. "Colonel Warren Rodman, U.S. citizen," he read. "Suspected of murder in Guadalajara." Muños headed for the hangar where the jet would park.
The customs officer found the three passengers waiting for him. Two were about the same height and stocky. The other was a bit taller and thinner. Younger, also. The stocky pair wore floppy cloth hats covered with souvenir-type pins, the sort of thing sold in hotel gift shops. One of them had glasses with a yellowish tint. The thin man wore horn-rimmed spectacles. All carried briefcases. Probably been here on some kind of convention, he thought. The older of the trio walked over to meet Muños.
"Hi, I'm Burke Hill," the man said, smiling. "Are you the customs agent?"
"Officer Sergio Muños," the Mexican said in English without returning the smile. "Your tourist card, please."
He took the card and read the name "Burke Hill." Then, very deliberately, he removed the notebook from his pocket and opened it to the page about the murder suspect. He knew it wasn't the name he was looking for, but he wanted them to know he wasn't just some Chamber of Commerce-type functionary who would bow and scrape and say "I hope you enjoyed your visit, please come again."
All he said was, "Gracias," then turned to the next man, the younger one.
He took the card and read the name "Ivan Netto." He noticed the date on the card was different from Hill's. "You didn't travel here together, did you?"
"No," said Netto, "I arrived about five days ago."
Muños noted the accent and asked, "Do you have some other identification?"
The man reached into his briefcase and pulled out a passport. Muños flipped it open and saw that he was born in Russia. As he expected. He handed back the passport and turned to the last passenger.
Muños observed a slight shake in the hand that held out the tourist card. He glanced up at the face, noting the tired eyes. Was it fatigue or nervousness, Muños wondered? He looked back at the card. "Alvin Easton," it read. He checked the date.
"You arrived with Señor Hill?" Muños asked.