Murder at the Watergate (20 page)

“Mac’s going a few days before I do.”

“Why the change in plans?”

“Your husband.”

“Joe?”

“Yes. He’s asked Mac to do something for him while he’s there, before the election.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll be catching up with him. We’ll be in San Miguel.”

“Lucky you. Staying with Elfie Dorrance?”

“No. The Casa de Sierra Nevada. But I’m sure we’ll see her.”

“Thanks, Annabel.”

“No thanks needed. I just wish we could do this more often. We really should.”

They stood and embraced.

“And put this business about Joe and Viviana Diaz out of your head. She’s not his type.
You’re
his type.”

* * *

Mac Smith entered the lobby of the nondescript Department of State building and took an elevator up to the elegant Edward Vason Jones Memorial Hall, which served as State’s official foyer. Its stunning decor presented a dramatic contrast with the cold, austere “modern” entrance downstairs.

The foyer was but one of many rooms renovated in the mid-1980s, the eight-million-dollar budget covered exclusively by private sources, including a half-million-dollar gift from Elfie Dorrance.

Mac glanced into the adjoining entrance hall, resplendent in Oriental rugs, English cut-glass chandeliers, and rich, ornate paneling. He and Annabel had attended several events at State; the rejuvenated rooms ranked among their favorite Washington venues.

A man walked with erect bearing and military precision as he came through a door in the entrance hall. His hand shot out. “Jim Ferguson.”

“Mac Smith.”

“Thanks for making yourself available. This way, please.”

Ferguson took them to a small conference room on the seventh floor where another man waited. He stood at their arrival and introduced himself to Mac: “Richard de LaHoya, Mr. Smith.”

LaHoya was a solidly built Hispanic; Mac judged him a middleweight, were he to enter a ring.

“Dick is with State’s Latin American division, the Mexico desk.”

“I’m sure you know Herman Winkler,” Mac said.

“Sure,” LaHoya said.

“We’re friends.”

“Herman’s a good guy,” LaHoya said, demonstrating for the first time the hint of a Spanish accent.

“Yes, he is.”

“Seat?” Ferguson said, indicating a chair at the table.

When they were seated, Ferguson said, “Dick de LaHoya and I have been briefed on your trip to Mexico, and the reason for it.”

“As an election observer?”

“And as special envoy for the vice president.”

Mac said nothing. He wanted them to establish how much they knew, not get it from him.

Ferguson must have sensed that was the case. “As I understand it, you’ll be meeting with Carlos Unzaga as part of your trip.”

Smith said, “That’s right.”

“And you’ll be contacted in Mexico City by one of Unzaga’s people to set up the actual meet with Unzaga.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“How do you feel about it?”

Mac pulled his head back slightly and smiled. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

Ferguson said, “We just want to be sure that there’s no chance of you changing your mind.”

“Why would I?”

“You aren’t being paid for this. You aren’t an official member of government being assigned this task. You could, at any juncture, decide not to go through with it.”

“Maybe you should give me the reasons I might make that decision,” Smith said.

“All right,” said Ferguson. “There could be an element of risk involved. Of course, we’ll do everything to minimize that risk.”

“I’ve considered that, and agree it’s a minimal risk. Let me assure you, Mr. Ferguson, that if I hadn’t been personally asked by the vice president to do this, I wouldn’t. Joseph Aprile is a good friend. And I’m a good soldier—for good causes and good friends, especially when he’s the vice president. Now, how about being a little more specific about the risks.”

Ferguson looked to LaHoya. “Richard?”

LaHoya thought for a moment before saying, “Unzaga is a wanted man, Mr. Smith. He’s not the only guerrilla leader in Mexico determined to overthrow the government, but he’s an effective one, not at all flamboyant like the others. He has a quiet, single-minded dedication to his goal.”

“I was aware there was a price on his head,” Smith said. “Chris Hedras filled me in on that.”

“I know,” Ferguson said. “But I thought you might benefit from a little more detail about the man you’ll meet. That’s why Richard is here. He’s just come back from Mexico.”

“I’m listening,” said Smith.

LaHoya opened a file folder;
TOP SECRET
was stamped in red. He began to read: “Carlos Unzaga, age thirty-one, born in Celaya, south of San Miguel de Allende, father a farmer. Mother died when he was seven. Two sisters, one older, one younger. Educated in the States, Purdue University, degree in agricultural engineering, top student, three-point-eight grade average. Disciplinary problems, threatened two professors who didn’t give him a straight four …”

He read for ten minutes. When he was finished, he
closed the folder and sat back, his expression asking for Smith’s reaction.

“You say Unzaga is unusual because he didn’t come from the sort of abject poverty that usually spawns revolutionaries,” Smith said.

“Not to be misunderstood, Mr. Smith. His family was poor. But in Mexico, there is poor, and there is poor. In the south, poverty is at alarming levels. In the north, and in the mountains, it tends to be a little better.”

“He split off from Marcos’s National Liberation Army,” Smith said. “He operates a totally separate army?”

“Yes,” Ferguson responded. “The usual ragtag bunch, poorly equipped, almost no training. But they’re dedicated. When you don’t have anything, you don’t have anything to lose.”

“And you also say that Unzaga’s army, and others, are financed through well-connected liberals in Mexico City.”

“Correct,” LaHoya said.

“Militarily, he’s considered far less a threat than others in Mexico,” Ferguson said. “It’s his intellect and sophistication that scares them. He’s as much at home in wealthy society as he is in the jungle and mountains. People tend to listen to and believe him. He’s charming and persuasive, according to our intelligence.”

“This is all very interesting,” Smith said, “and I’d like to learn more. But let’s get back to risk. I was in Hollywood six months ago. I had lunch at a trendy place, filled with the standard nubile starlets and smooth-talking producers. At the next table were two gentlemen and a beautiful young woman. They were trying to convince
her to appear in some film they were planning to shoot. One of the men said, ‘There’s risk here.’ She replied with great sincerity, ‘I’m heavy into risk these days.’ I thought it was a funny comment, typically Hollywood.” He thought of Annabel. “I’m not heavy into risk these days, gentlemen. I’ll be meeting Mr. Unzaga alone?”

“That’s the plan. In a public place.”

Smith smiled. “I can leave my Banana Republic outfit home? No clandestine meetings in a steaming jungle?”

Ferguson laughed, stood, and went to the end of the conference table. He perched on it and said, “But we’re going to add a few twists to the plan to make it risk free.”

“Such as?”

“Backup people close by when you meet him. A procedure in place to allow you to abort every step of the way. Frankly, I don’t see anything to worry about. You’ll be meeting in a public place mutually acceptable to both sides. You’ll be alone—except for your backup team.”

“I assume he’ll have backup people nearby, too.”

“Almost certainly. The point is, once Unzaga’s Mexico City representative contacts you and tells you the time and place of the meet, you’ll run it by us. If we see any problem, we’ll scrap the project.”

“I take it I’ll have people to confer with in Mexico City.”

“Absolutely,” Ferguson said.

LaHoya handed Mac a piece of paper.

“Simple chain of command,” said Ferguson. “You’ll be at the Majestic hotel. So will our people. It’s right on the Zócalo, the center of town.”

“I know it,” Mac said. “I’ve stayed there.”

“Good. You remember the bar on the seventh floor?”

“Yes. There’s a restaurant just outside it, on the terrace.”

“Restaurant Terraza. Good food.”

“As I recall.”

“That’s where you’ll make contact with everyone, Unzaga’s people and ours.”

“The restaurant?”

“The bar or restaurant.”

“All right. And all I’m to do when I meet with Mr. Unzaga is hear what he has to say, remember it, and report back.”

“Right.”

“Report back to who?”

“One of our people in San Miguel de Allende. You’ll be given his name when you’re there. Unzaga might give you documents. At least we hope he will.”

“Proof of some of what he claims?”

“Right again.”

Ferguson took a chair next to Mac and put his hand on Mac’s shoulder. “We’re making this sound like some high-flying covert operation, Mr. Smith. Hardly that. Unzaga said he’d only talk through a nongovernment type personally selected by the vice president. The veep chose you. Should involve nothing more than a half hour’s conversation, if that, and a story to dine out on later. Much later.” He looked at LaHoya: “Anything else Mr. Smith might find useful, Richard?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Any questions?” Ferguson asked Smith.

“Just one.”

“Shoot.”

“What do you intend to do with this information?”

Ferguson glanced at LaHoya before replying, “Analyze it.”

“And?”

“Not our call.”

“Whose call is it?”

No answer from either man.

“The vice president?”

“Mr. Smith, there are some things that simply cannot be discussed at this point, even if we had the answer to your question. I will say, however—and I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know—I will say that the future of relations between this country and Mexico is going to depend upon many things, not the least of which is the sort of information someone like Unzaga possesses. What he knows certainly isn’t the whole story, just a small piece. But foreign policy works best when it’s based upon many small pieces woven into a bigger, more complete picture. That’s all I can say.”

Smith stood. “I appreciate your time,” he said. “If you’re worried that I might change my mind, don’t be, unless, of course, something comes up that would cause you to cancel things. I assume the vice president knows we’ve met.”

“Of course.”

“Good. No need to see me out. I’ve been here before.”

They shook hands, and Smith left the building.

“Dine out on the story, indeed,” he muttered to himself. One thing Mackensie Smith didn’t need was dinner table stories provided by others. He had plenty of his own.

On the other hand, he had to admit to himself as he walked back to the Watergate that there was a certain
appeal to spending a portion of his trip meeting with a Mexican rebel leader. There were plenty of people who would enjoy hearing about such an adventure. Or, at least, one. Annabel.

He had to smile.

Maybe having a new story for their dinner table wasn’t so terrible after all.

Ramon Kelly stepped from his modest hotel in the Bosque de Chapultepec neighborhood of the city. He’d arrived late and slept late. It was almost noon.

He wedged his way through the milling crowd on the street. Every inch of sidewalk not occupied by a
mercado
—vendors who sold everything from monkey flowers and roses to stuffed tortillas, enchiladas, and meat wrapped in banana leaves—was taken up by Mexicans and tourists. The city’s pervasive toxic pollution cast a mawkish yellow-green haze over everything and everyone.

Nothing had changed.

It had been close to a year since Kelly had revisited his place of birth. There hadn’t been any reason to return. His parents had left Mexico two years earlier to live in Chile, where his father had taken a job with another oil company. Ramon didn’t need to be in Mexico to reinforce his images of the country and its largest city, home to a quarter of Mexico’s population. He lived with those
images day and night, as though they were on a continuous loop of film: the pollution of the cities and the dusty roads outside them, the hopeless expressions on the indigenous farmers as they scratched in tracts of dirt they didn’t own to stave off hunger; the constant festivals in which music and vividly colored costumes numbed the pain for a few hours; smoke pouring out of chimneys of the north’s
maquiladóras
, the foreign-owned assembly plants just south of the U.S.-Mexican border, polluting and killing. Sometimes Ramon Kelly had to will away those images, so torturous were they.

What had the American Medical Association called the border between the United States and Mexico? “A virtual cesspool.”

In contrast to those whom Kelly considered “his people” were the nation’s wealthy elite, the politicians and businessmen, drug lords and money launderers who raped the country with greater violence than Cortés and his armies. At least the Spaniards had left behind a culture. These contemporary “conquerers” took everything, leaving only scorched earth and hollow souls.

Many considered Kelly a zealot with a maniacal commitment to impoverished Mexico. “You’re too strident,” he’d been told. “Back off or you’ll accomplish nothing.” The last time they’d been together, his own father said, “I’m proud of you, Ramon, for caring. But those who scream loudest are heard the least.”

Ramon knew there was wisdom in that advice, and he sometimes attempted a more conciliatory tone in his approach. But those exercises invariably failed. There were always the visions, the images that had been burned into his brain from his earliest days. And now there was
Morin Garza and Laura Flores, returned home in separate boxes for burial, because they’d cared.

For Garza, his decision to cooperate had been more pragmatic than idealistic. Still, he risked his life and the life of his family to right wrongs.

Laura Flores had shared Ramon’s passion, perhaps not with his fervor, but shared nonetheless.