It was a futile hope. By the time they passed the dog track at West Memphis, Arkansas, around 9:30, the Major had begun to notice a white Chevrolet Caprice popping up occasionally in the mirror. He kept a steady pace across the long span of the Mississippi River bridge, then headed around the northern by-pass in Memphis, Tennessee. The traffic was moderately heavy but moving at a fast clip. He thought about Adam Stern's suggestion, and when they reached the eastern side of the city, he saw just what he needed, signs indicating an exit ahead crowded with fast food outlets. He had learned all about such places over the past few days. Flipping the turn signal, he eased into the exit lane.
He could see the outlandishly tall signs beyond the underpass, soaring above their surroundings like strange mutations growing out of control. That was the way he viewed America, a country with strange, alien ideas it was attempting to grow in his own backyard. Obviously they didn't work in his part of the world. As he rolled to a stop at the cross street, he checked the mirror and saw the white Chevy coming down the ramp behind him. Ideally, he would simply double back on the car, but the trailing U-Haul wouldn't permit that kind of maneuverability. Instead, he drove beneath the interstate, then turned in at a McDonald's. He steered quickly around the curving driveway behind the building. Fortunately, it wasn't crowded at this time of morning, and he hardly slowed as he rolled back toward the street.
As he had guessed, the white car's driver had hesitated on reaching the entrance to the restaurant. It sat no more than a few yards away as the van paused before re-entering the street. The Major stared across and got a jolt as shocking as if he had grabbed a bare electric wire. Colonel Rodman and Yuri Shumakov. He was certain of it. But how could they…? They should still be in Mexico. And even if they weren't, how could they possibly have known where to find him?
Now he looked for a real stopping place with something else in mind, a place where he could make a phone call to New York.
When Deputy Assistant Director McNaughton finally got someone on the line at Worldwide Communications Consultants, he was told that Burke Hill was out of town. It was suggested that he contact the president of the company, Nathaniel Highsmith. He found Highsmith at his home in Georgetown and stressed that he needed to see him right away.
McNaughton was impressed by the historic home as soon as he drove up. The abundance of flowers was striking. Highsmith met him at the door, dressed in a casual seersucker suit but looking very stylish for someone at home on a Saturday morning. The gray-haired PR executive carefully checked his FBI identification.
"My office called and advised that you were looking for Burke Hill," Highsmith said.
"That is correct, sir. I understand he's out of town."
"Will be out of the country very soon. He's on his way to Seoul, South Korea. What can I help you with?"
"Are you familiar with a flight your company plane made to Mexico City a few days ago?"
"Of course. It was sent there from New Orleans to pick up Mr. Hill, who was visiting our Mexico City office."
"What do you know about two passengers who came back on the flight, an Ivan Netto and a Warren Rodman?"
Highsmith frowned, a puzzled look on his face. "They picked up three people from our Technology Group in New Orleans. I've never heard those names before."
McNaughton knew the Mexicans had been positive of their information about the two fugitives departing on Worldwide's Learjet. Shumakov had traveled under the name Netto. Three men had boarded in Mexico City. Evidently Hill was the third man. It appeared he was the key to learning what had happened. "You indicated Mr. Hill hadn't left the country yet. Does his flight make a stop somewhere?"
"San Francisco. He's due in there just before nine, their time."
McNaughton glanced at his watch and made a quick calculation. "I'd better get back to the office and arrange for someone to meet his plane."
Adam Stern had been highly disturbed by the news from Bradford Pickens. When Major Romashchuk called from Memphis to report he had identified Rodman and Shumakov, Stern knew it was time to move. He called Haskell Feldhaus immediately. Feldhaus got in touch with his Vietnamese contact, Hoa Thi Thach, and told him where and when. Thach promptly consulted one of his lieutenants, a wiry, black-haired young man named Vuong, who directed a fleet of narcotics couriers and the watchdogs who provided protection for them. Vuong quickly came up with a team familiar with the route and competent to handle the situation.
"It'll run into some bucks," cautioned Vuong.
"This client is willing to pay," said Thach. "And it may open some interesting avenues for future cooperation."
The flight from Dulles landed in San Francisco about ten minutes early. As soon as it came to a stop at the jetway, Burke Hill pulled his bulging carry-on bag from under the seat in front of him, grabbed his briefcase and slipped into the aisle. He appeared to have taken Nate Highsmith's advice to pack lightly and buy some new outfits when he arrived in Seoul. He had no checked baggage.
The plane was nearly full. Though the holiday was not until Tuesday, people who planned to take Monday off had started early for a four-day weekend. Glancing at his watch as the passengers edged slowly toward the door, he noted that he still had more than thirty minutes before boarding time for the flight to Seoul. Plenty of time to check in with Lori and find out if she had heard anything from Roddy Rodman. As he neared the exit into the gate area, he saw the usual crowd of nervous relatives peering about, hoping the next face would be that of a wife or husband, Uncle Joe or Aunt Matilda. But he caught one pair of eyes locking onto his and knew its owner was no long, lost relative. He was not surprised a few moments later when a voice beside him said, "Mr. Hill?"
The man appeared to be in his thirties, neatly dressed, clean All-American look. FBI was Burke's first thought. Normally he didn't worry about his son's safety, although he was well aware of the risks the young agent constantly faced. He was supposed to have left on his freebie trip this morning, but anything could have happened before that.
"Is Cliff okay?" he said, frowning.
"Pardon?" The young man stared at him wide-eyed.
Burke smiled. "Sorry. Obviously that's not why you're here."
The man held up his ID folder. "I'm Special Agent Ron Blevins, FBI.Who is Cliff?"
"My son, Cliff Walters. He's a special agent in the Philadelphia Field Office."
"You knew who I was?"
"Not who… what. I also spent a number of years in the Bureau."
"That's right. Mr. McNaughton mentioned that."
"Deputy Assistant Director McNaughton?"
"Yes, sir. I know you have a flight to catch shortly, but I need to ask you a few questions."
Burke shrugged and looked around, finding a quiet spot just outside the waiting area. "If it won't take long, we can stand over there," he said, pointing.
As Burke leaned against a post, Blevins took out a small note pad, then looked up and grinned. "Cliff Walters. Yeah, didn't I read where he got a citation recently?"
Burke nodded. "Would you believe they gave him a trip to an Idaho resort?" He glanced back at his watch. "We'd better get on with it, Mr. Blevins. I don't have long."
"Sure. Sorry. I understand you flew back from Mexico City a couple of days ago on your company's plane."
"That's right."
"There were two other passengers—"
"Warren Rodman and Ivan Netto," Burke said, taking the initiative to show he had nothing to hide. He had already prepared what he would say, which was mostly true. "They were a couple of businessmen I met in the lounge at my hotel. When I told them I was getting ready to head back to Washington, it seems that's where they were going, too. With an empty Learjet picking me up, I asked if they'd like a ride. They jumped at the opportunity." He frowned suddenly. "What's the Bureau's interest in them?"