"Did he get back this morning?"
"Right. Want me to play you the part where he talks about what happened down there?"
"Yes, by all means."
"Hold a sec."
Stern heard a click and the recorder hum, then a male voice speaking. "Remember my telling you about being tapped for membership in the Foreign Affairs Roundtable?"
"Right. Sounded like a feather in your cap." A woman's voice.
"Well, I'm not sure it's a feather I want after what I heard down in Mexico."
"What on earth did—"
"I accidentally ran onto something that looks mighty shady, and they appear to be in the thick of it."
"How shady?"
"I'm starving. Come on. I'll tell you while I get something to eat."
Sarge came back on the line. "That's it. The man's voice was Burke Hill. The woman was his wife, Lorelei Hill."
Stern's brows were knitted into a sharp "V."
"Where's the rest of it?" Stern demanded. "He must have said more about the Roundtable."
"Sorry, Mr. Bowe. They apparently went into the kitchen, which put him out of range. Our bug is on the family room phone."
"What about later on the tape? Anything else there?" The disturbing nature of what he had just heard showed clearly in his tone.
"Matter of fact," said the ex-cop apologetically, "after picking up some music around 11:30 a.m., the transmitter seems to have gone dead."
"I thought you had the best equipment available," Stern said.
"We do. But even the best can occasionally go out without warning. Could have been a battery failure. This Foreign Affairs Roundtable business seems to have hit your hot button. Want us to try going back in there to reactivate it? We could attempt the old telephone repairman ploy. I don't know if they'd fall for it. The house has a top-line security system, so a break-in would not be too advisable."
Too late, Stern realized he had revealed his strong interest in what was said about the Roundtable. Particularly about something "shady" going on in Mexico. He had no way of knowing if Hill had stumbled onto Major Romashchuk's operation. But these two private investigators were now alerted to the likelihood that the Roundtable was involved in a "shady" operation in Mexico. And they had a telephone number that could easily be tied to him at FAR headquarters.
He pondered what this might lead to. Would they simply drop it if that's what he ordered? Or would curiosity lead them to pursue the matter further on their own? With an ordinary cop, he would say "no." But these were men who had been chosen for their tenacity, for their refusal to be bound by a reliance on conventional methods. There was no predicting what they might do. And should they pick up even the slightest hint of the Major and his team, as soon as everything hit the news, they would start putting the pieces together.
"Maybe it was just a temporary glitch," Stern said, as if reconsidering his earlier concern. "You guys go back to your post and check everything out again. It could come back on of its own accord, couldn't it? You've done great so far. I’d like to know what else is said on that phone. Keep me posted."
As soon as Sarge hung up, Stern dialed a number in the Washington suburbs. A deep male voice answered.
"This is the Parson," Stern said in a businesslike tone. "I have an emergency assignment for you."
"Hey, Parson. You haven't been in touch for awhile," said the man known only as Max. "Emergencies cost more, you know."
"I know. How quickly can you get to Falls Church?"
"Depending on the traffic, twenty to thirty minutes."
"Do this right and there's a bonus."
"Hey, I always do it right. What's the deal?"
"There's an abandoned service station near an upscale residential section on one side of the town." Stern gave him the specific location. "You'll find a couple of guys in the former office there with an assortment of electronic equipment. They're monitoring a wiretap. I want final rites for both men and their gear. They may not be there very long, but they're on the way now. Can you handle it?"
"Sure, Parson. No problem. As we say, guys that tap together, get zapped together." He finished with a low, rumbling laugh.
That's real gallows humor, Stern thought. "Happy hunting."
50
When the van and truck caravan stopped at mid-afternoon to refuel at a Pemex station in Irapuato, a headline on a Mexico City newspaper lying on the counter caught Nikolai Romashchuk's eye: "Prominent Tapatío Brutally Slain." He paused to read the opening paragraphs of the story.
GUADALAJARA, Jal.-A prominent Guadalajara businesswoman, Señora Elena Castillo Quintero, was found brutally murdered in her spacious home here late yesterday, and police are looking for a retired United States Air Force colonel suspected in the killing.
The colonel, identified as Warren Rodman, a resident of the Lake Chapala area, reportedly was flown to Mexico City last night, accompanied by an American businessman named Ivan Netto. A murder warrant has been issued for Rodman. Netto is being sought by police for questioning.
Detective Felix Campos Reyez said the victim was disfigured "almost like she had been tortured." The body was discovered by servants returning home after having been given the day off.
Nikolai Romashchuk stopped beside the truck, where Julio sat at the steering wheel. "I don't think we need to worry about Colonel Rodman and Shumakov any longer. The police are hunting them down for the murder of the Señora."
They arrived in San Miguel de Allende about an hour later. Located in a high valley, the town clung to a sloping hillside that was ablaze with brightly blooming wildflowers. It retained much of the charm of an old colonial town, and Julio Podesta led the caravan through the cobblestoned streets lined with pastel colored houses to a truck terminal on the opposite edge of the city. They parked near a row of silver trailers that bore the name Carga la Plata, Silver Freight.
Julio Podesta accompanied Romashchuk as he entered the office, located the man in charge and handed over a thick stack of pesos. Then they pulled the dump truck up to one of the trailers, where the Peruvians carefully lifted out two long, flat wooden crates secured by a succession of strong plastic bands. Exercising considerable care, they carried the unusual cargo to the front end of the trailer and firmly anchored the crates to the floor.
Afterward, a silver-painted tractor hitched up to the trailer and hauled it out into the countryside, with the van and dump truck following. They arrived soon at a large vegetable farm, where they turned in and drove back to a loading area stacked with crates of freshly-picked melons. Romashchuk and Podesta parked their vehicles beside a line of trees, from which they could watch in the comfort of the shade.
"How long do we stay?" Julio asked when the workmen began toting crates into the trailer.
"Until they finish loading," said the Major.
Julio gave a typically Mexican shrug of resignation and returned to his spot beside a tree.
"I'm going to see if I left my map in your truck," Romashchuk said after a moment and walked over to the yellow Ford.
Opening the door, he climbed into the cab and sat down. But instead of looking for the map, which he had already removed, he took a small bundle out of his pocket and leaned down to attach it beneath the driver's seat. It contained a block of plastic explosive and a detonating cap connected to a tiny radio receiver.
"Find your map?" Julio asked when the Major returned to the shady refuge.
"No. I must have misplaced it in the van."
The burly Mexican grinned. "You need some rest. You're becoming forgetful."