Murder at the Watergate (26 page)

“Perfect. Allow me to buy you a drink and some
entreméses
.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“Appetizers. The snacks you mention.”

“Oh. All right.”

“I will call you from the bar in, say, a half hour?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Telo stood at the entrance to the Majestic’s Bar El Campanario on the seventh floor when Smith arrived. He was small in stature, a wiry man in his forties with a black pencil mustache, thinning black hair combed straight
back, and wearing a green suit, yellow shirt, and brown tie. There was a second man with him, considerably taller and larger, with a round, flushed face, white walrus mustache, and dressed in a tan suit and open-necked red silk shirt. Telo introduced him as Alberto Palomino.

“My pleasure,” Palomino said, shaking Smith’s hand. “Welcome to Mexico City.”

Telo suggested they take their drinks on the terrace, overlooking the Zócalo. Once seated at the only vacant table, next to the railing, Telo ordered three bottles of beer and a platter of assorted hors d’oeuvres. “We had better enjoy some beer now,” he said, smiling. “Tomorrow, no alcohol is served.”

“The day
before
the elections?” Mac said.

“Sí,”
said Palomino. “And election day. We are serious about doing it right.”

“That’s good to hear,” Mac said. He glanced out over the railing to the Zócalo, where thousands of people had gathered; bands played, dance troupes in Indian costumes performed, and a general spirit of celebration prevailed.

“The people are hopeful,” Telo said, raising his beer glass in a toast. “To the beginning of a new democratic era in Mexico.”

Mac and Palomino clicked the rims of their glasses with Telo’s.

Palomino said, his glass still in the air, “And to our good friends, the Americans. To you, Senor Smith, for being here to help us.”

A six-piece mariachi band—three high-pitched
vihuelas
, a large bass guitar called a
guitarron
, a trumpet, and a violin—dressed in tight, studded black pants, embroidered white shirts, gaudy yellow jackets, and huge
black felt sombreros came to the terrace and began playing, loudly. The three men at the table had to raise their voices to be heard.

When the band took a short intermission, Telo announced he had to leave. “I would like to stay longer,” he said, “but I must attend a meeting with the staff. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mac Smith. I will see you at the briefing tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be there.”

When Smith and Palomino were alone, Mac said, “I take it you’re involved with the election commission, too.” Palomino smiled, shrugged, said, “In a sense.” He motioned for a waiter to bring them another round, sat back contentedly, looked at Smith, and said, “I suppose having to have foreigners watching over us at election time strikes you as somewhat pathetic, Mr. Smith.”

“Not at all. Soon, I trust, it will no longer be necessary. You said you were involved with the election commission ‘in a sense.’ In
what
sense?”

“You might say I am a supporter. I suppose I have been rude. I apologize for that. I am a professor and writer.”

“What do you teach?”

“Political science.”

“And your writings?”

“The same subject. I am not a published author, although I am working on a book.”

“The elections play a part in your book?”

“Oh, yes. The day after tomorrow will signal a great change in our country.”

“In leadership?”

“I believe so. The PRI will lose its grip on Congress,
and the PRD and PAN will begin to assume a greater role in our political destiny,
si Dios quiére
.”

“God willing?”

“Sí.”

“I take it such a change would please you.”

“Of course.”

The sudden presence of another person at the table caused both men to look up. It was a young man with a large box suspended from a leather strap about his neck. Two small wire cages were side by side, close to his body. Each contained a live canary. The rest of the box was taken up by two sections sunken into it to allow their contents to be level with the surface. Each contained what appeared to be hundreds of tiny pieces of folded paper, yellow on one side, pink on the other.

“What have we here?” Mac asked, laughing.

The young man answered, “Your future, senor. You choose one of the birds and it will perform for you, then pick your fortune from the papers.”

“An ornithological fortune-teller,” Smith said, laughing. “No, thank you.”

“Perhaps you should,” Palomino said.

“Really? You vouch for the birds’ accuracy in predicting futures?”

“I vouch for how useful it might be to you. I must leave, Senor Smith. The bill has been paid.”

Before Smith could respond, Palomino stood, slapped Mac on the shoulder, leaned close to his ear, and whispered, “Don’t disappoint the birds. They have much to tell you.” He threaded his way through the tables and was gone.

“Senor?” the young street performer said. “Your fortune?”

“How much?” Smith asked.

“Whatever you wish to give Pauchito and Estelita.”

“The birds’ names?”

“Sí.”

“All right.” Mac fished pesos from his wallet.

“Your fortune in English, of course.”

“Of course.”

He opened the door to one of the cages and the canary hopped out onto the folded papers. “This is Estelita,” the young man said. “She will choose your fortune. But first she wishes to entertain you.”

Mac watched with a bemused expression as the tiny yellow bird went through its trained paces. It picked up a small hat with its beak and flipped it up onto its head, then shook it off. It rang a bell, stopped when instructed, then rang it again on command.

“Wonderful,” Mac said. “I didn’t know you could train a bird to do things like that.”

“Only Pauchito and Estelita,” the man said. “The only two birds in the world.”

“I see.”

Mac realized they were being observed by bemused customers at other tables.

“Now, for your fortune, senor.” To Estelita: “Pick the right one. Be careful.”

The bird turned in circles on top of the yellow papers, dipped its beak into them, and came up holding one.

“Your hand, senor.”

Mac extended his hand palm up. Estelita dropped the yellow paper in it.

“Gracias,”
Mac said.

“De nada, senor. Buenas noches.”

He walked away.

Had Palomino not urged him to engage the street performer, Smith would have simply tossed the unread yellow paper on the table when he left. But Palomino’s insistence had been more than simple encouragement. He had wanted Smith to do it.

“What does it say?” a man at an adjacent table asked, laughing.

Mac said, “I haven’t looked yet.”

The paper unfolded like an accordion. Mac put on his half-glasses to read the minuscule print.

“Long life and riches?” the wife of the man at the next table asked.

Mac grinned, replaced his glasses in his pocket, and said, “Exactly. Would you expect anything else?” The paper accompanied his glasses into his pocket.

Smith went to his room and picked up a book he’d started on the plane, P. D. James’s new crime novel,
A Certain Justice
. As much as he was enjoying it, the long day caught up with him and he eventually dozed in the chair, to be awakened by the ringing phone. “Senor Smith, this is the desk. Senora Smith is here.”

“Good. Send her right up.”

Annabel burst through the door with high energy, followed by a bellhop carrying her bags.

“It is good to see you,” she said, embracing him.

“Good trip?”

“From San Miguel? Fine. A limousine with a professional driver sure beats a local taxi. He was sane.”

Mac laughed. “Glad to hear it—and see you here in one piece.”

After the bellhop was tipped and had departed, they hugged and kissed again, less self-consciously this time. When they disengaged, Annabel took in the suite. “So, this is home for the next few days.”

“Not bad, huh?”

“Wait’ll you see our suite in San Miguel.” She looked out the window to the Zócalo. “Nice location.”

“Yes, it is. I held off on dinner, although I did have a couple of beers and a snack.”

“Alone?”

“No.” He explained who he’d been with.

“Sounds pleasant.”

“You hungry?”

“Yes, but nothing heavy. Room service?”

“Sure. Here’s the menu. Whatever you order is fine.”

They nibbled, drank wine, and switched between CNN, pulled in by the hotel’s satellite dish, and Televisa. The Mexican channel played a succession of
telenovelas
, popular soap operas, interrupted every few minutes by a barrage of commercials extolling the virtues of various PRI candidates. Some ran as long as six minutes. The opposition’s TV exposure was virtually nonexistent.

“How can they call this a fair election when the television is controlled by one party?” Mac muttered. “Supposedly, all parties agreed to open media access.”

“Can’t happen overnight,” said Annabel. “Just as long as polling places are open to all, and the ballots are counted fairly.”

“I suppose you’re right, but I’ll include it in my report all the same.”

“I talked to Elfie before I left. She’s throwing a party for us when we arrive.”

Mac grinned. “Any excuse for a party.”

“Chris Hedras is there.”

“Really? Got to sneak out of Washington for a few days?”

“Evidently. Have you heard anything yet about your furtive tryst with the revolutionary?”

“ ‘Furtive tryst.’ That’s redundant. Besides, we’re not lovers meeting for a clandestine smooch.”

“I hope not.”

“ ‘Tryst’ is when lovers sneak off.”

“ ‘Tryst’ is any secret get-together.”

“Yes.”

“Glad we agree.”

“I mean, yes, I’ve heard something.”

“What?”

He took the yellow accordion-folded paper from the dresser and handed it to Annabel.

“What’s this?”

“Read it.”

“I can’t without a magnifying glass.”

“Here.”

Mac gave her a thin, wallet-size sheet of magnifying plastic he always included on his travel list. Annabel positioned herself beneath the room’s strongest lamp, closed one eye, and deciphered the Lilliputian writing.

“What does it mean?” she asked, handing it to him.

“It was supposed to be my fortune.”

“Your
fortune
?”

“Yes.” Mac briefly explained the canaries and their act. “Obviously, it isn’t my fortune. Or maybe it is in some perverse sense. At any rate, it’s instructing me to meet someone tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock at El Angel, on the Paseo de la Reforma, in Zona Rosa. The Pink Zone. El Angel is a famous statue, a monument to independence from Spain.”

“And the canary picked this out for you?”

“No. I wasn’t watching that closely. I assume the young man made sure Estelita came up with it.”

“And who is Estelita, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The canary. Her brother is Pauchito.”

“Of course he is. Her brother. Mac, don’t you think whoever is setting this up could be a little more direct?”

“Sure. But remember, Mexico is a nation of masks. Everybody isn’t quite what they seem to be. Besides, when you’re running a guerrilla operation dedicated to toppling your government, directness can get you killed.”

He was sorry he’d said it.

“Mexico is the moon’s navel,” she said.

“Huh?”

“That’s what Mexico means. ‘The moon’s navel.’ ”

“That’s good to know.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Stroll over to El Angel tomorrow at two. The briefing for election observers is at ten, scheduled to finish up at noon. We’ll be given our polling place assignments. We meet again in the evening for a reception, to which you are invited. In the meantime, you and I will go look at El Angel. I’ve seen it. It’s beautiful, very tall and gold. A little sight-seeing wouldn’t hurt.”

“Do you think they’ll approach you if I’m with you?”

“We’ll just have to see. Maybe you can browse a few shops while I give them a chance. It’s a nice part of the city. Paseo de la Reforma is very fashionable.”

“Have you reported this to the backup people you were promised would be here?”

“I don’t know who they are. No one’s contacted me. If they do, I’ll tell them about it. By the way, how did your meeting with Hector, the dealer, go in San Miguel? That’s why you went there in the first place.”

“I bought something.”

“Did you?”

“I’ll have to draw against the gallery’s line of credit.”

“That much, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Annabel, it’s been a long day. I suggest we get to bed.”

“Hector propositioned me.”

“He did? That weasel. What did you say?”

“I told him I was sexually sated by my husband, and that I was in for a long night of lovemaking when I got to Mexico City.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. But if affairs of state can be so subtle they’re delivered by a canary named Estelita, I can get subtle, too.”

“Not
so
subtle, Annie.”

“But I’ve made my point.”

He pulled her close and ran his hands over her back—to start. “Yes, you certainly have made your point, Mrs. Smith.”

The briefing for the international election observers was held at the Palacio de Bellas Artes, a huge, ornate theater complex on Angela Peralta. Mac knew there would be representatives from many countries, but was surprised at the number—four-hundred men and women welcomed by the director of the International Republican Institute, and receiving a stirring pep talk about the importance of their roles in the next day’s election. Participants were given a folder with their names on them when arriving, containing last-minute instructions and the locations of the polling places to which they were assigned.

The briefing broke precisely at noon. Mac and Annabel met for lunch at Prendés, where they enjoyed paella valenciana, then headed for Paseo de la Reforma, arriving at the base of the 188-foot-tall golden-winged El Angel at precisely two. The throng of
chilangos
, Mexico City dwellers, was swelled by tourists snapping photographs of the city’s enduring symbol of freedom.