A husky man in his late forties, Verona felt as though he had showered with his clothes on by late afternoon when he returned to the motel he had chosen as a temporary office. Sunday was not an easy day to track down half a dozen officers from Hurlburt Field who had known Colonel Warren Rodman and his former wife. But he had done it. Besides getting a fairly detailed picture of a talented man destroyed by the system, he heard that Mrs. Rodman was living in Gainesville.
Verona called the agent in charge of the investigative team, explained what he had unearthed and advised that he was leaving for Gainesville, by car.
"If you find any indication that Colonel Rodman might be around there, contact me before you do anything," the supervisor said.
"Happily," said Verona. "But don't expect to hear from me before morning. It's a long, hot drive from here."
"Maybe you'd better fly."
"Hell, I'd rather be hot and tired than feel like a pregnant woman with morning sickness."
Late Sunday afternoon the outskirts of Washington looked just the opposite from the normal scene observed at rush hour on a weekday. The westbound lanes of I-66 were not all that crowded. Eastbound, though, a glut of traffic occurred as swarms of D.C. residents returned from weekend visits to God knows where and suburban dwellers poured into the city for a variety of summertime evening events. In the midst of this mini-rush, Nikolai Romashchuk's gray Chevy van rolled along toward the Potomac with his two pursuers wedged into the pack.
Communicating via radio, Burke Hill had maintained contact with Rodman and Shumakov as they progressed up I-81 through Virginia, then swung to the east on I-66. The small sets operated off powerful lithium batteries and were effective up to twenty-five miles. The trackers had managed to keep up with the Major without either vehicle remaining in view long enough to stir any suspicions. At least that was their hope. Burke, who drove the pickup, had also checked periodically to determine if anyone, such as the FBI, might be lingering in the wake of the brown Honda that Roddy and Yuri were driving. He found no one.
With the increased traffic as they approached Washington, Burke took a lane to the left of the van, while Roddy and Yuri remained several cars back in the same lane as Romashchuk. Burke would warn them if he made any change in direction.
Burke noted the signs signaling the upcoming junction with I-495, the Capital Beltway. As they approached the junction, a speeding, honking car in the outside lane to his left momentarily distracted him. When he looked back toward the van, he realized too late that he was in the wrong lane to exit I-66. Clearly the Major, who they referred to by the code name "Red," was taking the Beltway east. He grabbed his radio.
"Red is turning onto Four-ninety-five east. I've missed the exit. Stay on his tail and let me know where he goes. I'll take the next exit and try to catch up."
Somebody with a more powerful transmitter, probably in excess of the legal maximum, came on at the same time, creating a harmonic, a multiple of the basic frequency, that matched Burke's and caused his signal to break up. All Roddy and Yuri heard was, "Red… Four-ninety-five… missed the exit… I'll take… catch up."
"What did he say?" Yuri asked.
Roddy, who was driving, saw a small gap in the lane to his left and swerved into it. "Apparently the Major didn't take the Four-ninety-five exit. I guess Burke wants us to catch up." He picked up his radio. "Your transmission was garbled, but we got the message. Red's staying on Sixty-six. We'll catch up with you as quickly as possible."
Roddy's words came through loud and clear. When he heard them, Burke winced. They had lost Romashchuk, pure and simple. Followed the bastard all the way from San Antonio, no, from Guadalajara, and let him get away at the most crucial juncture. Burke realized that if Romashchuk had wanted to miss the capital, he would have taken the Beltway north and circled around the District. The odds were overwhelming that he was headed for a destination right here in the Washington area. But where it might be, he hadn't the foggiest notion.
Now that it was out in the open, Burke realized the thought had been lurking in the far recesses of his mind for some time. A renegade KGB major, six deadly Shining Path guerrillas and an arsenal of chemical weapons were now loose in the nation's capital, and there didn't seem to be a damned thing he could do about it. Officially, he was in Seoul. Jerry Chan had reluctantly agreed to vouch for that.
What in God's name could Nikolai Romashchuk be planning, with the connivance of some of the country's top strategists? Recalling that Nate Highsmith was leaving today for the Foreign Affairs Roundtable meeting in Colorado, he almost choked on the bitter taste it left in his mouth. He doubted it was strictly coincidence that all those sterling patriots were gathered out in the West at a time when something decidedly sinister was in the works here in Washington.
He got on the radio and gave Rodman and Shumakov the bad news. Since they were coming up on the Falls Church exit, Burke suggested they go to his house and discuss what to do next. He thought it unlikely anyone would be watching the place, considering that everyone thought he was in Seoul.
As they sat around the table cleaning up the remnants of a large pot of spaghetti and a bowl of thick, red, meaty sauce, Lori Hill offered her apologies. "I'm sorry I didn't have anything to offer you but spaghetti. My trusty husband didn't warn me I was about to have company for dinner."
"It was delicious," Rodman assured her.
"It was different," said Shumakov with a grin. Spaghetti was not a staple in Belarus.
Burke shrugged. "Unfortunately, I didn't know we were going to be here or I'd have warned you."
The phone rang and Lori looked across at him. "Shall I answer it?"
"Considering I'm in Korea, you'd better."
"Okay. Check on the twins." Lori had left them in the play room, a sanitized area with toys and a TV and a gate to keep them corralled. She went into the family room and picked up the phone. "Hello."
"Lori, this is Brittany Pickerel. I haven't seen you since Jerry Chan's wedding."
"That's right. Burke told me you were back in Washington. We'll have to get together sometime."
"I'd enjoy that. The reason I called, I thought Mr. Hill would probably be getting in touch with you from Seoul."
"Uh, yes. I'm sure I'll hear from him shortly." She grinned. That was no lie.
"Please give him a message for me. It's something I'm sure he will be interested in."
"Sure. Be happy to."
"Tell him I took photos of Adam Stern and Colonel Bolivar to that drug store in Silver Spring. The pharmacist identified Stern as the man who brought in the Dalmane prescription. Also, my computer friend at the Presidential Plaza called. It seems he put a flag in the computer to alert him if Stern returned. Well, tell Mr. Hill he says Stern checked back into the hotel this afternoon. Mr. Hill probably won't care about this, but Stern is in Room 333."
Lori returned to the dining room to find Burke at a console that provided both video and audio monitoring of the playroom. Mounted on a wheeled cart, it could be plugged into wall outlets in any of several rooms.
He grinned. "Cam is into the blocks. I think he's building the Tower of Babel."
"You might want him to build you a fort," Lori said. "Adam Stern is back in town. And it appears there's no doubt that he killed Colonel Bolivar."
After she had related Brittany's message, Burke nodded. "That confirms my suspicions. I'm sure Romashchuk is in Washington, too. But instead of building a fort, let's take the offensive." He turned to Yuri. "Mr. Investigator, I think it's time we did a little detective work."