"Yes, sir," Easton said with a slight grin. "At a more decent hour than this, however."
Muños hesitated. Should he ask this one for additional identification also? He was about to make the request when it suddenly dawned on him that Alvin Easton had replied "Yes, sir." He didn't get that much respect from most of them. He slipped the notebook back into his pocket.
"Open your bags, please," he said. He leaned over and dug a stubby hand into each bag, finding no obvious signs of contraband. Then he straightened up and nodded. "That will be all. You may go."
After the customs officer had walked away, Roddy Rodman shook his head and breathed a deep sigh. "I've been around here a number of times in the past year. Thank God I was never involved with customs. And thank God for Mr. Alvin Easton, whose name is on nobody's list. I don't know what I'd have done if he had asked for some other identification like he did with Yuri."
Roberto Garcia had supplied Burke with a blank tourist card, which he filled out for Roddy with the Easton name. Obviously, whoever was responsible had not bothered to provide the customs man with a photograph or physical description of Colonel Warren Rodman. Had he attempted to fly out through the commercial terminal, Roddy figured, it could have been a different story.
Shortly after two A.M., the sleek silver Learjet with the Worldwide Communications Consultants logo on the side cleared the runway and departed Mexico City. For the first time in several hours, Burke appeared to breathe easier and relax in the comfort of his plushly upholstered seat. He turned to his two companions.
"Sorry about the short night, guys."
Roddy shrugged. "If I'm going to lose a night's sleep, I'd rather do it here than in a Mexican jail."
"We are flying to Washington?" Yuri inquired, frowning.
"Right."
"What then?"
"I'm not sure yet," Burke said. "I've asked some friends to look into that situation near Tequila. It depends on what they find."
It had been a hectic, tiring day for Roddy. He sat there for a few minutes, almost as if in a daze, then looked up at Burke. "One of my daughters and my ex-wife recently moved to Alexandria. My daughter wanted me to come up for Independence Day. Looks like she'll get her wish."
Burke smiled his approval. "When we get there, I'll drive you down to Alexandria, help you find a motel."
They landed at New Orleans around 3:30 and encountered no problems from a bored U.S. customs agent. The Technology Group people hardly had an opportunity to get curious about their fellow passengers as they struggled aboard bleary-eyed and promptly fell asleep, waking only on landing at Dulles.
The morning was already warm and edging toward hot when they climbed out of the Lear in front of a private hangar around seven a.m. Burke called Lori to advise her that he had to drop off a couple of passengers in Alexandria, then would be home. Surprisingly, she said she would be waiting.
"You're not going to the office this morning?" he asked.
"Are you kidding? With the twins showing possible symptoms of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever?"
"What?" He almost shouted before realizing she was just going along with the cover story he had requested. "Sorry, I'm a little groggy. Afraid I didn't get much sleep. Thanks for taking care of things. I'll fill you in when I get there."
Nikolai Romashchuk, using the name Klaus Gruber, and Julio Podesta were up early that morning, completing the weapons training session that had been interrupted the day before by an unwelcome helicopter fly-over. By mid-morning, they were busily striking camp in the barranca. Rafael Madero, Julio's employer, wanted no clues left that might identify those who had used the cabin, and nothing to indicate what they had been doing. He only knew that it was of questionable legality.
"Pepe!" Julio shouted to the Shining Path leader, who had his men gathering up their gear in preparation for departure. "Take your people back into the trees and bury those shell casings. And make damned sure you cover up your tracks on the way out."
In Julio's limited experience at bossing work crews, he had developed the belief that obedience was best assured through instilling a fear of reprisal. But he had never been involved with men who had the lethal outlook of these Peruvians. Gruber finally called him aside and gave him a little comradely advice.
"If I were you, Julio, I'd lighten up a bit," he said. "Unless you want to wake up in the morning with your throat slit."
Julio Podesta shrugged his big shoulders. If the gringo wanted to coddle these young punks from Peru, so be it. His instructions were to assist this man who called himself Gruber in whatever was necessary to carry out the operation. Though the long, tedious drive from Veracruz in the dump truck had been a real bore, he had found nothing dull about what had occurred since then. Unlike their brothers to the north, Mexicans did not yearn for quiet and serenity. Whether it was the frequent tolling of church bells, the explosion of fiesta fireworks, shouts from the bull ring or the loud music of the mariachis, the higher the decibel count the greater it stirred their souls. The high point for Julio had been the mortar firing.
Podesta had grown up dirt poor in a small, impoverished Jalisco village. He bathed in the same stream where his mother scrubbed his ragged clothes on the rocks. She pounded the corn into meal and baked tortillas over an open fire. Rafael Madero had rescued him from this life of deprivation. After a stint as a ranch hand, where he showed an innate talent for wheeling and dealing, he had been groomed for service as what American politicians would call an "advance man." Julio made arrangements. He procured meeting halls, limousines, audiences, women, feasts. When it came election time, he was a master at buying votes.
This was a talent that obviously served Gruber well. Julio arranged use of the cabin, procured the dump truck, the sand, and the Jeep. After leaving the Señora's house yesterday, he had obtained a Chevrolet van. Now he had set up one of the more crucial phases of the operation. When the caravan of Ford truck and Chevy van departed the barranca, they headed east through Guadalajara, then continued on into the Mexican heartland, known as the Bajío. A vast, fertile basin ringed by mountains whose silver deposits had attracted the Spaniards, the region produced a wealth of fruits and vegetables for shipment to the tables of hungry norteamericanos.
48
As soon as he was settled in his motel room, Roddy Rodman called the number Lila had given him. He hoped his daughter would answer. After the brief but torrid affair with Elena Castillo Quintero, he had mixed emotions about facing the woman he had lived with for half a lifetime but had not seen for several years now.
"Hello." It was not delivered in Lila's brash, outspoken tone but in the unmistakably mellow voice of Karen Rodman.
Roddy took a deep breath. "Guess who's here six days early for the Fourth of July?"
There was a brief pause. "Roddy? Where are you?"
"At a motel just off I-395. Near Little River Turnpike."
"Then you're not too far from here."
"I hoped I wouldn't be. Did Lila tell you I might come?"
She sounded a bit nonplussed. "I never know when to believe that girl, particularly when it concerns her Daddy. She assured me you would be at her graduation."
The words stung like the aftermath of a wasp's visit. "I hate I missed that," he said. "I've got no excuses. If you know the way to Oz, please draw me a map. I've been as bad as the Cowardly Lion."
"Are you telling me you've been afraid to come back?"