Murder at the Watergate (14 page)

Aprile looked to Hedras: “Why don’t you fill Mac in, Chris.”

Hedras had removed his gray tweed sport jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. He shifted position, allowing him to face Smith and to cross his legs.

“The man killed in the Watergate garage, Morin Garza, was in Washington to provide information to a group known as The Mexico Initiative. Hear of them?”

Mac frowned. “Just recently. But I don’t know anything about them.”

“It’s a lobbying group, Mac, although they don’t claim to be. Never registered as such. Calls itself a think tank.”

“What was Mr. Garza going to tell them?” Mac asked.

“What they wanted to hear,” Hedras said. “Garza knew a lot about corruption in Mexico, especially union corruption.”

Aprile interjected, “The Mexico Initiative is an organization very much at odds with the ruling PRI. They’re small, but they have many supporters back in Mexico. The Washington office is headed by a man named Ramon Kelly. Ever hear of
him
?”

“No.”

“A dedicated foe of the PRI. A champion of Mexico’s disenfranchised.”

“The young woman who fell—was murdered, you say—she worked for The Mexico Initiative, didn’t she? At least that’s what I heard.”

Hedras said, “True. She was the organization’s researcher.”

“And you say it was murder. Have the police come to that conclusion?”

There was a knock at the door. Hedras opened it and
allowed two waiters in short, crisp white jackets and black trousers to enter, carrying trays with covered dishes. The three men were silent as their lunch of consommé, jumbo shrimp on a lettuce bed, and rolls and butter were served, and water glasses filled.

“Anything else, sir?” a waiter asked.

“No, that’s fine,” Aprile said. “Thank you.”

“The police?” Hedras said once they were alone again. “No, they haven’t come to that determination, although they’re leaning in that direction.”

Mac tasted his soup, savored it, then asked, “Was she killed for the same reason Garza was? Because she knew something and was about to tell someone else?”

“It appears that way, Mac,” Joe Aprile said.

“All right,” Smith said, “the next obvious question is who would have been so injured by what these two people knew that they’d resort to murder?”

Neither Aprile nor Hedras responded.

“Are you saying the PRI?” Mac said.

“Someone acting on their behalf,” Aprile said.

“Hmmm,” Mac said. “Any idea who that might be?”

“I thought you might find that out when you’re in Mexico,” Aprile said.

Mac sat back and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. He looked to Hedras, then to Aprile before saying, “Murder is a job for law enforcement, not a law professor.” As an afterthought: “Or the CIA. They’re good at coming up with information.”

Aprile ran an index finger over his lips before saying, “Here’s where the vagueness comes in, Mac. The two murders here at the Watergate are just symptoms, not the disease. There are ramifications far beyond finding
out who killed these people, political ramifications that go to the heart of our relationship with Mexico and its government.”

Mac said to Hedras, “I sense you know quite a bit about this Mexico Initiative, Chris.”

“Some.”

“Care to share some of that ‘some’ with me?”

Aprile replied, “Let’s just say, Mac, that the work of The Mexico Initiative is not unknown to Chris, or me, or to others working with us. I know I’m imposing a heavy burden on you in making this request. And you know all you have to do is say no.” He cracked his first smile since arriving. “Of course, I’m assuming you won’t—say no.”

“A safe assumption, Mr. Vice President. Who’ll fill me in on what I’m to do, and who I’m to see in Mexico?”

“I will,” Hedras said.

“All right.”

“I prefer that we not meet again about this subject, Mac,” Aprile said. “Certainly not here in the White House.”

The comment struck Mac as odd, but he said nothing.

“I have to leave.” Aprile stood. “Chris, why don’t you and Mac spend a little time together this afternoon. Maybe take a walk, grab a drink.”

Mac silently translated: Get lost and find a private place to talk.

“Okay with you, Mac?”

“Sure. Want to come back to the apartment?”

Hedras grinned, said, “Your place or mine? We’re neighbors.”

“Mine,” said Smith.

The vice president left the room after shaking Mac’s
hand. Hedras and Smith exited the White House and walked slowly along F Street in the direction of the Watergate.

“That’s a big dog,” Hedras said after entering Smith’s apartment in the south building.

“Big, and docile. Loves everybody and assumes everybody loves him. The worst he’ll do is drool on your pants. Coffee? A drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind some wine if you have it.”

“Red or white?”

“White.”

They settled in the living room, Hedras’s wine in his hand, Smith’s nonalcoholic Buckler beer in a mug on a table next to him. “So,” Mac said, “this organization, The Mexico Initiative, is allegedly at the root of—or is the cause of—the two deaths here at the Watergate. The vice president said it was someone acting on behalf of the PRI.”

Hedras nodded.

“Is that your belief, too, Chris?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not debating it with the boss. All I know for sure is that Kelly and his people at the Initiative are hell-bent on building a case against the PRI, which, of course—”

“Which, of course,
what
?”

“Which supports the vice president’s posture on Mexico.”

Mac sipped his beer. “I have a feeling you’re not entirely in agreement with that posture?”

“Maybe not with his fervor, but I understand where he’s coming from. There’s a lot at stake. Treasury estimates
that if our trading partnership with Mexico deteriorates, it could mean as many as a half million more illegal immigrants pouring over the border every year.”

“I heard the president say that very thing,” Smith said. “In a speech a week ago.”

Hedras laughed. “It’s not much of a secret that the president and Joe Aprile see Mexico through different telescopes.”

“So I’ve heard,” Smith said, smiling. “Chris, would I be off base in assuming that you and the vice president have a better idea of who carried out the killings than you’re admitting to?”

“Just speculation, not worth discussing. About your trip, Mac. The vice president chose you for a number of reasons. One, you’re someone he trusts implicitly. Two, you’re on his commission studying U.S.-Mexican relations. Three, you’ll already be in Mexico as an election observer. And four, you mentioned you’d be going on to San Miguel de Allende after the election.”

“Why would
that
be of interest to him?” Mac asked.

“The person he wants you to meet with operates in that area.”

“ ‘Operates’? As opposed to living there?”

“He’s a rebel, Mac, a revolutionary, head of a group that broke off from Marcos’s Zapatista National Liberation Army after the ninety-four insurgency in Chiapas.”

“I remember that from what I read, and saw on TV. New Year’s Day, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. That crazy band of guerrillas sent the country’s finances into a tailspin. Wall Street panicked, along with investors from every other country. American fat cats
lost billions in a few weeks, thirty billion or more. A million layoffs of Mexican workers, hundreds of corporate bankruptcies. Stock in Mexican companies dropped by seventy billion.”

“All due to the Chiapas revolt?”

“It triggered it, Mac.”

“And President Scott came to the rescue.”

“For which I give him a lot of credit. It was the biggest bailout of a country in history until the Korea save. It stabilized Mexico.”

Smith took another sip and scrutinized the handsome young man sitting opposite him. Hedras was reciting the party line—but not necessarily that of Joe Aprile where Mexico was concerned. That aside, he was an impressive guy, Smith thought, demonstrably bright, filled with the requisite energy for such a job, and someone in and for whom Joe Aprile obviously had great trust and respect.
If I had a daughter, he wouldn’t make a bad son-in-law
.

“Tell me more about this revolutionary I’m supposed to meet. Who is he?”

“His name is Carlos Unzaga, claims to be a direct descendant of Ignacio de Allende y Unzaga.”

“And who was
he
?” Smith asked. “Mexican history is not my strong suit. Another revolutionary?”

“A general, a liberal idealist in the early eighteen hundreds. He hooked up with the famous Father Hidalgo to launch a revolt against the Spanish government. Paid for it with his life. He and the others had their heads lopped off. San Miguel de Allende is named after him.”

“Interesting. You’ve obviously studied Mexican history.”

“A little. I get a lot about San Miguel from Elfie Dorrance. She has a mansion there.”

“So I’ve heard. This Carlos Unzaga. Why would he agree to meet with someone like me?”

“Because you’ll be representing Joseph Aprile, vice president of the United States. Unzaga sent word through channels that he’ll only meet with an Aprile envoy. Has to be unofficial, top secret. There’s a hefty price on Unzaga’s head.”

“By the PRI?”

“By certain factions within it. They take a lot of unnecessary heat.”

“The PRI?”

“Yes. There’s lots to criticize there, but they’ve kept Mexico relatively stable for seventy years.”

Smith decided not to contribute to a political debate over Mexico. He turned his attention again to the man he was to meet under clandestine circumstances.

“You said Unzaga sent word through ‘channels’ that he wanted to speak with someone representing Joe Aprile. What channels?”

“Can’t say.”

“The Mexico Initiative?”

Hedras answered with a blank stare.

Smith asked, “How do I make contact with him?”

“That’s being worked out as we speak,” Hedras said. “It will be in a public place. You and Mrs. Smith are staying at Casa de Sierra Nevada?”

“That’s right. It’s Annabel’s hotel of choice whenever she’s been to San Miguel.”

“I’ll fill you in as soon as plans are firm.”

“You say all I’m to do is to hear Unzaga out?”

“Right. He claims he has information that will sink a lot of the PRI’s leaders. Big drug payoffs to them, abject corruption, all the usual charges … but documented.”

Smith scowled; he couldn’t resist getting back into a political discussion.

“ ‘Usual charges’? You sound a little too dismissive, Chris. The problem with the stories of drug-fueled corruption in Mexico is all too real. I heard a Mexican newspaper editor the other day on NPR. He said drugs are such a serious problem in Mexico they’re now considered a national security issue.”

“I wasn’t making light of it, Mac. It’s a hell of a problem. I just think that the government needs help in fighting it, not criticism.” His laugh was forced. “Don’t tell my boss I said that.”

“It’s safe with me,” Smith said. “Anything else to tell me?”

“Not at the moment. I brought a few clippings on Unzaga, thought you might want to learn a little about him. Colorful character, bigger than life, inspires loyalty from the
indigenas
who follow him—Indians, dirt farmers, the sort of people easily swayed by charismatic characters like Unzaga, Villa, Hidalgo. There’s always somebody in Mexico to lead a revolt.” He stood up. “Well, I’d better run. I’ve taken up a lot of your time, and I’m due back at the White House. I’m sure you know, Mac, how much the vice president and I appreciate what you’ve agreed to do.”

“Sure. I’ll look forward to hearing more. By the way, is there a specific date and place the vice president wants me to meet this Unzaga?”

“A day or two before the election. In Mexico City.”

“But I thought—”

“Not Unzaga himself, his envoy. I have no idea who he is, but he’ll make contact with you at your hotel there, set things up for later in San Miguel, where you and Unzaga will meet.”

“All right.”

Mac and Rufus walked Hedras to the door.

“Enjoying life in the Watergate?” Hedras asked.

“Very much, although I wish people would stop being killed here.”

“I know what you mean. Might depress real estate values.”

“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind. Depresses me. Look forward to hearing from you.”

Smith spent the rest of the afternoon running over a lesson plan for a law class he was to teach on Monday. Although his dean had given him carte blanche to leave his classes to a substitute professor when necessary to carry out his responsibilities for the vice president, he felt a compelling obligation to meet his teaching schedule whenever possible.

In anticipation of Annabel’s return from the gallery, he laid out the ingredients for that evening’s dinner—thoroughly washed romaine lettuce for a Caesar salad with a dressing he’d recently perfected, croutons ready to be crisped in the toaster oven, thin, free-range chicken cutlets he would sauté with wine and garlic, and a baguette—which he didn’t have.

He went down to the mall and bought the bread at the pastry shop, successfully resisting, this time, a dessert. He returned to the south building and waited for the elevator. He stepped in and pushed the button for his floor.
As the doors started to slide shut, a man suddenly appeared. Mac instinctively shoved his hand between the doors, causing them to open. The man stepped in, ignored Mac, ran a hand through his yellow, silken hair, and pushed a button with the other.

The elevator stopped at the floor beneath Mac’s. The doors opened, and the man stepped into the hallway and disappeared.

“You’re welcome,” Mac muttered in the man’s wake.

A simple thank you for holding the elevator would have been in order. High on Mackensie Smith’s growing, shifting list of pet peeves was the current lack of civility.

The original portion of Elfie Dorrance’s home in San Miguel had been built in the late 1700s, a classic example of churrigueresque architecture developed by the Spanish architect. Churriguera had wonderful visions, but committed few to paper. With scanty sketches to consult, the workmen had created a free-form work of art with pink stone, marble, and colorful tiles. The result was not harmonious, but certainly stunning. Additions over the years expanded the house all the way to the perimeter of Parque Benito Juárez, a sprawling, peaceful haven of juniper and soapberry trees, bougainvillea and dahlias, fountains, swarms of monarch butterflies and flocks of white egrets. The final addition under Elfie’s direction created yet another wing with a rooftop terrace overlooking the park. Included in the renovation was an elaborate commercial water purification unit.