A few years back when Burke had tackled the Jabberwock conspiracy, he was a lone wolf, operating on his own, depending strictly on his personal talents and instincts, helped only by Lori and a few friends. But since joining Worldwide Communications and its Amber Group, he had become a team player, more properly a team leader. He had followed the established order, abided by the rules of the game, coordinated the efforts of many people. He had been involved in several crucial operations whose outcomes had impacted favorably upon his country and the things it stood for. He was proud of that involvement. Above all, Burke Hill considered himself a patriot. Not one of those Cold War patriots with a capital "P" who wore the flag on their sleeves and berated anyone they thought soft on communism. He was a man who believed in the innate goodness of his native land and was ready to stand up and be counted when she was in trouble. The fact that he had no military service occasionally bothered him, though it shouldn't have. He was in college, working as a clerk at the FBI, during the Korean War and was well into his career as a special agent at the time of Vietnam. The nature of his present job, however, gave him obvious responsibilities toward the nation. Worldwide had been specifically structured so there was no direct link to the CIA or any other federal agency, but he felt just as strongly about those responsibilities as if he had been sworn in directly by the man in the White House.
All of this communicated a strong message to him. He should call Nate Highsmith immediately and report the presence of a deadly guerrilla group on American soil, a team of Maoist rebels armed with an arsenal of highly lethal and destabilizing chemical weapons, directed by a former Soviet intelligence officer. Nate would no doubt instruct him to pass the word on to Kingsley Marshall at the CIA. He might even suggest Burke contact the FBI directly, except for the fact that part of the information was developed by an Amber Group employee working covertly. The Bureau was not privy to Worldwide's secret mission.
He knew this was what he should do. Yet he couldn't ignore Roddy Rodman's account of Adam Stern's involvement. What role was the Foreign Affairs Roundtable and its so-called "enforcer" playing? He needed time to ferret out the facts. But he was faced with two other problems that loomed as threatening black thunderheads on the horizon. Romashchuk and his deadly crew could not be allowed to simply disappear out in the heart of Texas, and Rodman and Shumakov could not remain in the Washington area without becoming easy prey for fugitive trackers from Mexico. Turning back to the phone, he dialed the motel where they were staying.
52
On his last relocation to Washington, Nate Highsmith had bought a restored Federal style brick house on a large, scenic plot of ground in the northern section of Georgetown. It had been built around 1800 by one of the area's early families of prominence. That fact had been one of the estate's major attractions for him. He had grown up in a simple frame house in a small northern Ohio town, where his father was a struggling shopkeeper, owner of a "five-and-ten-cent store." Though hard to believe now, there were many items at such prices back in those days. As a boy, Nate had worked summers at the store. Over the years he began to see the mistakes his father made, like buying too many items that only a few customers requested, or giving credit to people who could not afford to pay. Whether inherited or acquired, Nate was driven by the same entrepreneurial spirit as his father, but he vowed to learn everything possible to assure success far beyond anything his father had ever dreamed. And when he had achieved it, seemingly with ease, he had unconsciously distanced himself from any reminders of his commonplace past. He never returned to the little Ohio town, and he constantly surrounded himself with the trappings of wealth and material success.
When the phone rang around ten that evening, Nate was reading at an intricately carved antique cherry desk in his study.
"Good evening, Nathaniel, this is Bernard Whitehurst," said a deep, cultured voice. "I hope you will forgive the intrusion at this late hour. I just returned from a business trip and received an urgent message I need to discuss with you."
Nate leaned back in his chair and let his mind conjure up a picture of the ruddy-faced billionaire banker. Whenever he saw the man, he immediately thought of a polo player. The role seemed to fit him perfectly. But though Nate was well acquainted with Whitehurst, one of the few men who called him by his full first name, they had not been really close. That was one reason it came as a complete surprise when the Roundtable chairman had invited him to attend the Council of Lyon meeting near Lucerne a few weeks earlier, an experience he had found most intriguing. During the session, Whitehurst had obtained the Council's agreement to support any movement that might be directed at consolidating the CIS states into a new union, preferably under a not-so-aggressive socialist regime. He had summed it up this way, "Better the enemy we know so well, and have dealt with for years, than questionable new friends we simply cannot trust."
Nate marveled at the smooth way the wealthy banker handled the group. He was undoubtedly the most powerful figure in the world, with the possible exception of the President of the United States, yet most people were totally unaware of it.
"Sure, Bernard," he said casually, "is there something I can help you with?"
"As a matter of fact, you can. Would it be too much of an imposition for you to meet me in New York tomorrow? I'll make the time at your convenience."
When a person of Bernard Whitehurst's stature asked a favor, a man like Nate Highsmith didn't hesitate. In the quid pro quo world of high finance, Newton's third law of motion was slightly different. The reaction to every action was not equal and opposite, but equally opulent. Nate knew the trip would be well worth his time.
"I have a few appointments I'll have to reschedule," Highsmith said, curious about the purpose of the meeting but not wishing to sound inquisitive. "Shouldn't be any problem. As for the time, how does eleven sound?"
"Fine. I look forward to seeing you. Just come to my office at the bank."
Burke Hill left an urgent message at the number Roddy Rodman had given him, and a few minutes later the phone rang.
"This is Murray Bender, Mr. Hill. Colonel Rodman must have been in touch."
"Yes. He told me that you had offered to help if he ever needed you."
"I owed him. He once got me out of one helluva tight spot. But with that bad drinking problem I'd heard about, I sort of hated to put him off on you. That crazy story about a KGB major and chemical weapons sounded really off the wall."
"I'm glad you did, Mr. Bender, because it's all true."
"You're kidding?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"And Adam Stern's involved?"
"Deeply. That's what really troubles me. My boss, Nate Highsmith, is quite active in the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. I've worked closely with the man for four years. I just can't see him approving of anything involving the Shining Path and mortar shells containing nerve agents."
"Of course, he wouldn't necessarily know about that part," said Bender.
"Why not?"
"It's like the relationship between the White House and the Agency. The President's people draft up a nice high-sounding, legalistic finding that justifies some covert activity. Then they turn it over to the operations people to do the dirty work. The President doesn't know, doesn't want to know the details of how dirty it gets. He'd fire a director who tried to hang his dirty linen in the Oval Office. Look at all the grief Reagan got because they said he knew too much." He paused a moment and then added, "Apparently you're really convinced about the Colonel's story."