Murder at the Watergate (24 page)

Kelly looked to Ferguson.

“Go ahead, Ramon. Mac is on the team.”

Kelly said, “It had to do with two assassinations. One was Luis Donaldo Colosio. He was a political protégé of President Salinas. Shot in the head. The official investigation determined it was a lone gunman, and a deranged one at that. No conspiracy, no involvement by anyone else. Laura had been collecting information from sources in Mexico that the killing had been arranged by some of the PRI’s ‘dinosaurs,’ the old guard who didn’t like Colosio’s call for more open government.”

“The second?” Smith asked.

“Jose Francisco Ruiz Massieu. He was general secretary of the ruling party and was about to become the new majority leader in Congress. He was also an in-law of then President Salinas. They called him ‘Pepe.’ Very well liked. Another reformer. Everybody had a theory about why he was killed. Some claim he was a bisexual and was hit by a lover. The drug men hated him because his brother, a prosecutor, was coming down hard on one of the cartels. Like with Colosio, Laura had been putting
together a case against those same PRI dinosaurs for Massieu’s assassination.”

“Was it in writing?”

“What?”

“What she’d uncovered? Had she put it down on paper?”

“No. By design. She briefed me verbally every day. There were some notes. They’re in the office safe.”

Smith decided to press on. He felt as though he were back in court cross-examining a witness.

“What about this Mexican-American Trade Alliance?” he asked. “The group Jose Chapas works for? You indicated your group and it are at odds.”

“Sure, we are. They’re for the status quo when it comes to American-Mexican relations. Keep the fat cats getting fatter. They lobby hard in Congress, spread money around.”

They spent another half hour discussing the situation. Mac Smith continued to question hard.

Ferguson brought the meeting to an end. “I’m glad you had a chance to hear what Ramon had to say, Mac. I thought that since you’ll be representing the vice president in Mexico, you ought to be brought up to speed on everything.”

“Can I ask you a question, Jim?” Smith said.

“Anything.”

“Were you acting unilaterally in having me here tonight?”

“Meaning?”

“Is the vice president aware of what happened to Ramon today, and about this little get-together?”

Ferguson ignored the question by putting his arm
about Kelly’s shoulders and walking him to the door. “I’d lay low for a while, Ramon,” he said. “You may want to leave the city until after the elections. Take a vacation. There’s money for it.”

“Maybe,” Kelly said. He turned: “Nice meeting you, Mac Smith.”

“Same here.”

When Kelly was gone, Ferguson said to Mac, “To answer your question, the team keeps the vice president abreast of everything, Mac. Yes, he knows about the attempt on Ramon’s life, and that I wanted you present when I debriefed him.”

“ ‘Debriefed him.’ ‘The team.’ What connection does Joe Aprile have with all of this? I mean, what
official
connection does he have—with this ‘team’?”

“Let’s just say, Mac, that what this team comes up with will have a profound impact upon not only the vice president’s run for the presidency next year, but the future of U.S.-Mexican relations. I can’t be more specific than that.”

“And I won’t press you. Thanks for the Pepsi. I think I’ll get home.”

“Of course. You must be tired. I am, too. That was wonderful, wasn’t it, having a star like Stevie Wonder just sit down and start playing the piano for fun. Must be a nice guy.”

“Must be. I’ll be leaving for Mexico in a few days. I’ll be at home until then, getting ready for the trip. Give me a call if there’s anything else you want to cover.”

“I will. Thanks again for allowing me to pull you away from that wonderful wife of yours. A truly beautiful woman.”

“Inside, too. Good night, Jim.”

The seminar at Catholic University was convened to examine the health of Washington’s artistic community, focusing especially on what could be done to encourage the city’s young painters and musicians. Annabel was one of six panelists; Mac, who sat in the front row, experienced the sense of pride he always did when his wife was in the limelight.

As was too often the case, however, such a panel of experts invariably included someone whose didactic posture unbalanced the discussion, prolonging it beyond productivity. The growing annoyance of other panelists was palpable as this individual droned on, challenging everything said by his colleagues at the speaker’s table, and causing members of the audience to check watches and shimmy in their seats.

Annabel took advantage of the long-winded speaker’s need for a drink of water to break in with, “This has been an interesting, and I feel useful, discussion. But as I
mentioned earlier, I’m due to catch a plane and will have to leave. Thank you so much for including me.”

Mac took her hand as she stepped down from the stage. They left the auditorium and went to the car.

“Well, how did it go?” she asked when they were on their way to National Airport.

“Fine, until your colleague decided he was doing a one-man show.”

Annabel laughed. “He does go on. Might have been tolerable if any one of his ideas made sense.” She glanced at the car’s digital clock. “We’ll just make it.”

“Provided we can find the gate in the new terminal.”

Because they were running late, there wasn’t time for Mac to accompany Annabel inside. He pulled up in front of the terminal, jumped out, came around, opened the door for her, and grabbed her bag from the backseat.

“I miss you already,” he said.

“Me, too, but it’s only for twenty-four hours. I’ll meet up with you tomorrow night at the Majestic.”

“I’ll be there. Smooth flight, Annie.”

“Don’t forget to drop Rufus at the Animal Inn.”

“First thing in the morning.”

“Oh, and remind Sandy and Bernadette he needs his allergy medicine.”

“Okay. You’d better get inside. I’m sure they’ve already called your flight.”

They hugged and kissed, and he watched her disappear into the terminal, turning to blow him a final kiss. He drove to the Watergate, walked Rufus, poured himself a shot snifter of Blanton single-barrel bourbon, and settled in to watch the eleven o’clock news. It led off with a replay of a press conference held by Indiana Republican
Congressman Dan Curtain late that afternoon. Curtain read a terse statement announcing that his Government Reform and Oversight Committee would open hearings in a month into the administration’s campaign fund-raising activities during the last two elections:

“The hearings will show the American people conclusively that this administration’s fund-raising activities clearly violated federal statutes in a number of areas, including the funneling of foreign donations through a system of front organizations and companies, in particular those representing Mexican business and political interests. In addition, witnesses, and the evidence they bring forth, will prove that these hundreds of thousands of dollars of illegal donations included money generated by Mexico’s infamous drug cartels and laundered through these front organizations and business entities.”

Joe Aprile and his wife, Carole, sat together in pajamas and robes on a couch in a small room of their residence, the only light in the darkened room glowing from the television.

“Is there the sort of evidence he’s talking about?” Carole asked quietly.

“Not that I’m aware of. It’s a typical Curtain technique. Talk enough about evidence that isn’t there and everybody eventually forgets to ask to see it.”

“But there must be something,” Carole said, using the remote to turn down the volume.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that there is,” her husband said ruefully. “Fund-raising has gotten so out of hand, especially since its ‘reform,’ that it’s impossible to know the source
of every donation. You just have to trust your people and hope they’ve followed the law.”

“ ‘Front organizations,’ ” Carole said. “ ‘Money laundering.’ Sounds like something out of
The Godfather
.”

“What’s Spanish for ‘godfather’?” he asked.

“
El padre Dios?
I don’t know. Why?”

“I warned the president going back to the first election.”

“Warned him about what?”

“Mexico. The PRI’s agenda to get us to look the other way while they do business as usual. The businessmen championing NAFTA and lending support to the campaign.”

“Legally?”

“On the surface. But it’s too easy to hide the true sources of money, Carole. The Mexicans, among others, are masters at it. They’ve had to be to launder billions in drug money. I told him we needed to put in place a checks-and-balances system to keep tabs on funds coming into the campaign from foreign sources, particularly Mexico. I told the Democratic National Committee people the same thing, and they assured me they had. But going after big money to finance a presidential campaign is a heady challenge for too many people. It’s like a game, coming up with a bigger contribution than the next guy. Can you top this? Hedras and I talked about it many times when he was on the president’s staff. That’s why I wanted him for my campaign. Chris sees it the way I do.”

“Surely if there’s any validity to what Congressman Curtain is saying, it won’t be applied to you next year.”

He said nothing.

“Will it?”

Joe turned, took her hand in his, and looked into her eyes. “Carole, I’m afraid there is some credibility to what Curtain is charging.”

It was her turn to be silent.

“I can’t be specific—I mean, I could be but I won’t. I’ve been receiving new reports over the past year on Mexico and its avenues and alleys of corruption. Some of these reports point to illegal contributions into our campaign of money, big money, by certain Mexican interests.”

“Can’t you just give it back?”

“Some has already gone back, but it’s damn near impossible to trace it all, nail down its
real
sources.”

“What sort of reports have you been getting? From whom?”

“Various people. I set up a channel of information through a group here in Washington that has good sources in Mexico.”

“A task force? A government group?”

“No. I had to keep it unofficial, outside the White House and away from the administration.”

“Does the president know?”

“No. Frankly, I don’t know how much longer I can continue to publicly support his all-positive positions on Mexico.”

“That’s been coming for a long time.”

“I suppose it has.”

“What is this group that’s feeding you information?”

“A think tank. Chris set it up for me. I—”

“The one that young woman worked for, the one who fell from the roof at the Watergate?”

“Yes. The Mexico Initiative.”

“Is there any connection with … I’ve heard it wasn’t suicide, that she might have been thrown from the roof.”

“I know. And there was an attempt on the Initiative’s director’s life in Mexico City a few days ago.”

Carole stiffened; her gasp filled the room.

“Carole.”

“Yes?”

“I’m thinking of announcing that I won’t be a candidate for president next year.”

“How can you not? A vice president in a popular administration is expected to carry the mantle. It would throw the party into turmoil.”

“What about the turmoil it would cause for us?”

“I’ve never shied away from challenges, Joe.”

“I know you haven’t. Maybe it’s me who wants to shy away from conflict, get out of the sniper’s scope, get up in the morning worrying only about what the weather is going to be.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“What we both need, I think, is a vacation,” she said. “You always say the biggest problem we have is not having time to think, and that mistakes happen that way.”

“Vacation? I don’t see two days of leisure strung together for a year or more.”

“We could carve a couple of days out for ourselves. A weekend.”

“Maybe after Mexico.”

“Mexico! It’s ripping you apart, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.”

“Annabel left for there tonight. Mac is going tomorrow.
Annabel told me you’re sending Mac to do something for you.”

“She said that? It’s true. I asked him to act as a special envoy for me.”

“Something involving this Mexico Initiative?”

“Yes.”

“Joe, is what you’re asking him to do dangerous?”

“No. He’s just meeting with someone, that’s all. An hour out of his trip.”

He wished she’d said something in response.

“I’m ready for bed,” she said, standing and yawning.

“I think I’ll sit up awhile.”

“I spent some time today going over my calendar for the next month. I have your trip to the inauguration on it. I assume I’ll be going with you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said, not looking at her.

“Oh? It’s expected, isn’t it, that your wife accompany you on an official visit?”

“Sure, but that can easily be covered. The president can send me anywhere he wants. He doesn’t have that power over you.”

“Joe, I—”

“Please, Carole. Not now.”

“Good night, Joe.”

“Good night.”

Mac Smith finished packing at midnight, aside from last-minute things to add in the morning. He went over a standard packing list he always consulted when traveling. This one had a number of items added in ink, most having to do with his role as an election observer.

Dressed for bed, he went out onto the terrace, where a
humid breeze came off the Potomac, the river’s ripples catching the light from a half-moon. Like the city’s stately buildings and monuments, the Potomac was synonymous with Washington, flowing incessantly like the political process that defined the city, that
was
the city. Rufus was at his side, leaning against his hip.

“You be good for Sandy and Bernadette,” Mac said, rubbing the Dane’s large head.

Rufus looked up and panted, which Mac and Annabel considered a smile.

“And let them give you your medicine without a hassle. Got that?”