Murder at the Watergate (18 page)

“I think that covers it,” Kelly finally said.

Ferguson’s mouth tightened into a thin line as he digested what Kelly had told him, and his crab cakes.

“Well?” Kelly asked. “What’s the next step?”

“Not my call,” Ferguson replied. “I’ll pass on everything you’ve told me. They’ll decide what to do with it.”

“I’m afraid they’ll do nothing.”

“That’s always a possibility where politics is involved.”

“I spoke with Laura’s father last night.”

“Tough duty. What did you tell him?”

“Just that I was sorry for what happened to his daughter, that we were friends.”

“Did you get into any of what you’ve told me?”

“No. I didn’t think it was appropriate, considering his
ties with the PRI. It wasn’t easy not saying anything. His daughter was killed by his own friends.”

“That’s a little harsh, isn’t it? Everybody in the PRI isn’t a killer.”

“Everybody in the PRI, Jim, at least everybody with something to lose if it goes down, will do whatever is necessary to keep their status quo.”

Ferguson’s lucent green eyes said nothing to betray what he was thinking.

Kelly said, “I’m flying to Mexico tonight to see Laura’s father.”

“Sure you should?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

A twitch of his eyebrows was Ferguson’s response.

“Something has to be done,” Kelly said.

“That’s out of our hands.”

“I’m not used to having things taken out of my hands. That’s what the Mexican leaders and fat cats want from us, just keep quiet, let the drugs and drug money roll, rape the country and its people until—”

Ferguson held up his hand. “A word of advice?”

“What?”

“Back off, Ramon. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing, gathering information, finding out things that will help him formulate a workable policy.”

“And keep my mouth shut.”

“That, too. I’ll pass along what you’ve told me, and I’ll keep you informed—to the extent I can—on what steps are being taken.”

“And what about Laura? And Garza? Just fallen soldiers in the war? Unmarked graves? Expendable?”

Ferguson waved for the check. The two men said
nothing as Ferguson paid cash, counted out a tip, nodded, and stood. They went downstairs, where the bar was even busier than an hour ago.

“What time’s your flight?” Ferguson asked.

“Ten.”

“Have a good trip, Ramon.”

“Thanks.”

As they passed the bar on their way to the door, Ferguson paused to watch a game of bar dice being played between a customer and the bartender. The customer rolled the dice. He lost. Others at the bar laughed.

The customer shook his head, ran his hand through his long, flaxen hair, turned, and said to Ferguson and Kelly, “Not my lucky day.”

While Kelly drove home to pack for his trip, Jim Ferguson went to Foggy Bottom, entered a narrow storefront on Wisconsin Avenue, next to a French restaurant, and a block away from Annabel Reed-Smith’s art gallery. A temporary sign in the window read
COMING SOON: CLOTHES FOR THE DISCRIMINATING WOMAN
. A hastily erected wall separated the small front area from a larger room to the rear.

“Hi,” Ferguson said to the young woman seated at a desk with a phone, computer, fax, and copy machines.

“Hi.”

“Mind getting us some coffee?”

“Sure.”

She left. Ferguson took her place at the desk and dialed a number. It didn’t go through. He tried again. Still no luck. The third try succeeded.

“Hotel Majestic,” a woman with a heavy Spanish accent said.

Ferguson spoke in perfect Spanish: “Mr. Hedras’s room, please. Christopher Hedras.”

Hedras came on the line.

“Jim.”

“Hi. What’s up?”

“I had lunch with Ramon today.”

“Yeah?”

“The police interviewed him this morning about Ms. Flores’s death.”

“And?”

“Nothing special. He gave me a rundown on what he’s come up with the past few days.” Ferguson consulted notes he’d made in the car before leaving Alexandria and filled Hedras in on what had transpired at the restaurant.

“That’s it?” Hedras said.

“Yes. That’s it.”

“Thanks for the call, Jim.”

“I promised I would. Ramon’s flying to Mexico City tonight to meet with Ms. Flores’s father.”

“He is? Where’s he staying?”

“He didn’t say.”

“I’ll try to catch up with him. Take care.”

The young woman returned with two coffees as Ferguson hung up.

“You don’t mind getting coffee for us, do you?” Ferguson asked.

“No, of course not. Besides, I know you really don’t want coffee, just time alone with the phone.”

Ferguson’s grin was boyish, a kid caught in the act. “See you in the morning,” he said. “I’ll bring the coffee.”

Mac and Annabel sat on their terrace overlooking the Potomac. She’d come home early that day, leaving the gallery in the hands of a young assistant, an art history major at GW. Mac had taught that morning, and the experience hadn’t done anything for his customary pleasant disposition.

“They’re bright,” he told her after she’d delivered a platter of cheeses and two nonalcoholic beers to the terrace. “They wouldn’t have been admitted if they weren’t bright. But they don’t seem to get it.”

“Get what?”

“What law is really all about. They seem to want the law to conform to their thinking, support their views of life and society. But law can’t be what they
want
it to be. It’s what it is.”

She cocked her head, smiled, and patted his arm. “Remember what Swift said.”

“Jonathan Swift?”

“I learned it in law school. He said, ‘Laws are like
cobwebs, which may catch small flies, but let wasps and hornets break through.’ ”

“I didn’t learn that in
my
law school.”

“Laws aren’t as black and white as you’d like them to be.”

“And they aren’t as subject to flimsy interpretation as my students would like them to be.”

“Cheese?”

“Please. The Camembert. On one of those wheat crackers.”

“So, Professor Smith, tell me more about this James Bond mission you’re about to go on for Joe.”

“Hardly that,” he said. “Joe wants me to—I always feel funny calling him Joe—”

“Call him Joseph.”

“Not what I meant. He wants me to go to Mexico a few days earlier than planned. I’m to meet with some unnamed fellow in Mexico City, who will tell me how to contact this Unzaga in San Miguel.”

“And this Unzaga is a revolutionary.”

“According to Chris Hedras.”

“And he’s to tell you things that are calculated to drive a stake in the PRI’s political heart.”

“A little too dramatic, but basically correct.”

“And what about your heart?”

“What about it? I passed my last EKG with high grades.”

“Certain people in the PRI might like to drive a stake into Unzaga’s heart—and those he confides in.”

“I’m sure he’s not the most popular fellow in Mexico, but let’s not overstate it.”

“Let’s talk fact, then. You do know, I assume, what
happened to Villa and Zapata. You do know your history.”

“Killed.”

“Assassinated. Assassination’s long been a major sport there. Strange. The Mexican people—average Mexican people—are so gentle and loving, yet it’s always been such a violent country.”

“True. And how about us? But I’m not leading a rebel army against the government. All I’m doing is meeting with someone in a public place, hearing what he has to say, and reporting it back to—”

“Back to who?”

“Chris Hedras, I suppose.”

“For Joe Aprile’s ears.”

“Yes, which I find intriguing.”

“So do I. Why does Joseph Aprile, vice president of the United States, want this sort of information? He has other intelligence sources. It sounds as though he’s deliberately undercutting the president.”

“That’s not a surprise anymore, is it? Anybody you talk to who’s tapped in to Joe’s campaign expects at least a modest rift over Mexican policy to go public any day.”

“Still, I’d like to know what use he intends to make of what you learn.”

“I suspect we’ll know that in due time. I suggested using someone else, a CIA type or an all-purpose, experienced diplomat. But evidently Unzaga has made it clear he won’t talk to anyone involved with our government, at least officially. He’s specified that he’ll only meet with a person personally chosen by Joe. Sure you can’t break loose a few days earlier, come with me from the start?”

“I’d love to, but I’m on that panel at Catholic. I helped put the program together. I can’t miss it.”

“I understand. Just wish you could.”

“I’ll catch up with you in Mexico City, then on to San Miguel. I’m really excited about the trip, Mac. I love San Miguel. It’s so unique. You’ll love it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“Why can’t this Unzaga just write down what he knows and mail it to you?”

Mac laughed. “Did Zapata or Villa send letters?”

“They should have. Maybe they’d have lived if they did. I have one of our days in San Miguel all planned out for us.”

“Oh?”

“The Casa de Sierra Nevada owns a five-hundred-acre ranch a few miles outside of town. They’ll pack us a picnic lunch, put some margaritas in a thermos, and we’ll spend the day there, maybe do a little riding.”

“I’ll pack my spurs.”

“Good.”

She got up, came to where he sat, and hugged him from behind. “You go have your clandestine meeting with Mr.—”

“Senor.”

“With Senor Unzaga. Do your patriotic duty for our friend, our next president, as they say, and save the rest of the time for us.”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely.”

She straightened up, went to the railing, and took a
deep breath. “Mexico. I can’t wait.” She turned: “As Scarlett said to Ashley in
Gone With the Wind
, ‘We’ll go to Mexico and everything will be marvelous.’ ”

The exchange on the terrace between Mac and Annabel was typical, Annabel knew, of the way they sometimes approached serious subjects.

Their marriage was based upon a solid principle—that two strong individuals are more likely to succeed as a couple than a relationship in which one partner’s uniqueness is subjugated to the other’s. They’d discussed that need early in their relationship, and were in happy agreement that such would be the linchpin of their marriage. But there were times—this was one of them—when, in an effort not to tread heavily on either one’s decisions, disagreement was couched in banter, a tap dance of sorts that made points without mounting a frontal assault.

Mac’s decision to act as special envoy had not pleased Annabel. She understood why he’d agreed; her husband was not a man to shy away from challenge. Annabel also knew that Mac’s friend, Joe, would not have asked him to undertake the mission if it were not of considerable importance. Mac was undoubtedly aware of that, too.

Still, she wished he’d said no. She couldn’t come straight out and attack the wisdom of placing himself in a dangerous situation. It wasn’t her role, not in a marriage based upon individualism. But if she could switch roles at that moment, she would have told him to go back to Aprile and tell him to find someone else. Mac could fulfill his role as election observer, and then enjoy a few
days in San Miguel without having to meet some caballero with bandoliers slung across his chest, a sombrero the size of a manhole cover, dedicated to overthrowing his government and everyone in his way.

She couldn’t do that—in so many words—and so she’d contented herself with asking questions. She’d kept everything positive, focusing on the holiday aspects of their trip rather than his simultaneous mission. If he were to decide not to go through with it, it would be a decision
he
came to upon reflection and analysis.

Annabel went to bed early that night, leaving Mac browsing the latest issue of the
Washington Monthly
.

“Feeling okay?” he’d asked.

“Tired.”

He tilted his head up to receive her good-night kiss. “Pleasant dreams, Annie. I’ll be along shortly.”

Her dreams that night were not pleasant. They were filled with dread, represented by a huge, hairy, swirling black mass in which Mac was caught and that kept moving away from her no matter how fast she ran—reaching, calling his name, coughing from the dust it kicked up, invoking God in loud screams, her body failing from exhaustion, seeing his tormented face one last time as the mass lifted him into the air and away from her forever.

Annabel Reed-Smith was not by nature fearful. But if one thing could inject terror, it was the occasional, fleeting but edged thought of not having Mackensie Smith in her life.

She awoke early, more fatigued than when she’d gone to bed. She looked over at him sleeping, kissed his forehead, got out of bed, and turned on the drip coffee
maker. She sat at the kitchen table and tried to recapture the nightmare’s essence, but it was too elusive.

A few minutes later he joined her—“Smelled the coffee, Annie”—and reminded her of the nice day she had in store; nightmares no longer on the agenda. They were together in their new home. The sun was coming up; the weather forecast was fine. And in a few hours she’d be having a second coffee with her friend and former college roommate, Carole Aprile, and another friend, Rosie Brown, who was in town with her husband for a convention.

“Feeling better?” Mac asked, filling their mugs.

“Much. Nothing like a good night’s sleep.”

“Good. I’m heading for the shower.” He paused in the doorway. “Did Scarlett O’Hara really say that in
Gone With the Wind
?”

“Absolutely.”

He laughed. “Being married to you is like going to college, Annie. Scarlett was right. Everything
will
be marvelous in Mexico.”

“You had a call while you were showering,” Annabel said when Mac reappeared scrubbed and polished.

“Who?”

“I wrote it down.” She handed him a slip of paper.

“I don’t know any Jim Ferguson.”