Mounting Fears (9 page)

She opened her eyes and looked at him across the table between them. It was as if she had known that he had been watching her as she slept. She gave him a little smile, and the effect ran directly from his eyes to his crotch, as though a wire existed for that communication.

BARBARA ORTEGA TOOK OFF from Mather, a general-aviation field ten miles east of Sacramento, in a Beechcraft Baron, a twin-engine aircraft being used for air-taxi work, at ten o’clock Pacific time. She was in Tijuana and in a rental car three and a half hours later. She had a road map and the address the woman at the Coca-Cola bottling plant had given her. Pedro Martínez lived near Baja Malibu, on the coast, not far from the U.S. border. Following directions, she turned left off the coast road and climbed a hill. A couple of turns later she came to a small adobe house that looked old but in good repair. She remembered the old man from San Diego, and he now sat on the front porch, looking out across the sea, a couple of miles away. A small duffel bag rested beside him on the porch. She got out of the car and switched on her Spanish.

“Pedro,” she said, “my name is Barbara. We met in San Diego last spring, do you remember?”

Martínez fixed her with his gaze. “Ahhh,” he said, “you are the friend of Martin. Yes, I remember you—you gave me champagne.” He smiled broadly, revealing perfect dentures.

“May I sit down?” she asked, reaching into her purse and switching on her recorder.

“Of course, señorita. What brings you to visit me?”

“I came because you told me a story in San Diego, and I wanted to hear it again.”

“A story?”

“The one about how you delivered Martin in the backseat of the Cadillac.”

Pedro threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, yes, it is true. I brought Martin into this world.” He began the story, starting when he drove to the Stanton home to drive the señor to work. “Then we got to the border crossing,” he said, “and we were stopped for inspection. Big Martin said to me, ‘Pedro, you have to help her. I don’t know what I’m doing.’ So I got out of the car and got into the backseat, and Big Martin got behind the wheel, and little Martin was born. Then he drove us to the hospital in San Diego.”

Barbara switched off the recorder. “Pedro,” she said, “where were you, exactly, when Martin was born?”

“At the border, the guard, who was very young, was scared when he saw what was happening, and he yelled, ‘Get out of here!’ and waved his arm, and Big Martin put his foot down.”

Barbara switched off the recorder. “Pedro, this is very important: Were you in the United States when Martin was born or in Mexico?”

“Between, I think. I don’t know exactly.”

“Pedro, you are Martin’s friend, are you not?”

“Oh, yes, for his whole life.”

“Some people are going to come here soon and ask you about this, and it is very important to Martin that you tell them the car was already in the United States when he uttered his first cry. Do you understand?”

Pedro looked at her for a long moment. “Little Martin will be your vice president, is it not true? This is what I am told.”

“Yes, Pedro, he will be the vice president if he was born in the United States. Do you understand?”

“Ah, yes, I see,” Pedro said. “Let me think. Ah, yes, I remember.”

Barbara turned on the recorder again.

“We came to the border, and I got into the backseat with Magdalena, and the young border guard looked inside and said, ‘Get out of here!’ so Big Martin put his foot down, and we drove into El Norte, and two or three minutes later, Little Martin uttered his first cry.”

“And is that what you will tell everyone from now on?”

Pedro spread his hands. “But it is the truth, señorita. I must tell the truth, mustn’t I?” He gave her a big smile.

A car driven by a young woman pulled up, and Pedro stood. “You will please excuse me, señorita,” he said, “but I am to go now to Tecate, to the birthday of my youngest sister.” He picked up his little duffel, got into the car with the woman, and they drove away.

Barbara waited a moment, taking in the view, then she got into her car and drove back toward Baja Malibu. As she turned onto the main road, a black car driven by a man in a suit turned onto the road toward the Martínez house. Another man in a suit sat in the rear seat with a blonde woman.

Barbara had the feeling she had not been a moment too soon.

16

KERRY WAS SURPRISED THAT HIS CELL PHONE WORKED AT THE MARTÍNEZ HOUSE, but soon he had Bob Kinney on the line.

“Where are you, Kerry?”

“At the home of Pedro Martínez. He left the house only a few minutes before we got here. A woman here says he went to someplace called Tecate, to his sister’s birthday party. I don’t even know where Tecate is.”

“When is he coming back?”

“He’ll be here by lunchtime tomorrow, according to the woman.”

“Go to Tecate and question Martínez there.”

“The woman doesn’t know where the sister lives, or even her name.”

“So you’re stuck there for another twenty-four hours?”

“It looks that way.”

“All right. Check into a hotel, and get it done tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Kerry said, but the director had already hung up. He and Shelly walked back to the car and got in. “Driver … What’s your name again?”

“José, señor.”

“Do you know of a decent hotel near here? Not in Tijuana?” Kerry was nervous about Tijuana; he had heard too many wild things about it.

“Oh, yes, señor. There is a very good hotel in Baja Malibu, on the beach. I have the number in my cell phone.”

“Will you please call and book two rooms for us? Just one night.”

“Of course, señor.” The man made the call. “They have the rooms, señor. Shall I drive you there?”

“Yes, and you’ll need to pick us up at, say, eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, drive us here, then back to the airport in Tijuana.”

“Of course, señor.” He put the car into gear and headed to Baja Malibu.

KERRY CHECKED IN at the desk and told the desk clerk they wouldn’t need a bellman, since they had light luggage. The clerk gave him two keys and directions to the rooms, on the top floor.

They took the elevator upstairs, and Kerry found the rooms. He unlocked the door of the first one and handed Shelly the key. “Would you like to have dinner later?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’ll book a table in the restaurant. Seven o’clock?”

“That will be fine.”

“I’ll knock on your door.” He walked down the hall and let himself into the next room. It was nicely furnished with a flat-screen TV, and there was a terrace overlooking the sea. He heard a knock at the door and walked back into the room and opened it, but no one was there. Then the knocking came again, and he found that it was coming from another door in the room. He opened it and found Shelly waiting.

“It’s not two rooms,” she said, “it’s a suite.” She was standing in a sitting room.

“I’m sorry,” Kerry said, walking into the sitting room and picking up the phone. “I’ll call down and fix this.”

“Yes, señor?” the clerk said.

“I asked for two rooms, but you gave me a suite, instead.”

“Señor, a suite is two rooms.”

“But I wanted two bedrooms.”

“Ahhh,” the clerk said. “Just a moment.”

“I’m on hold,” Kerry said to Shelly.

She nodded.

The clerk came back. “Señor?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, señor, but the hotel is fully booked. You got the last suite.”

“You don’t have even one more bedroom?”

“No, señor.”

Shelly was waving at him. “It’s all right,” she said.

“Thank you,” Kerry said to the clerk, and hung up.

“I’ll sleep in here,” Shelly said.

“No, I’ll sleep in here. You take the bedroom. I insist,” he said, holding up a hand. “There’s a comfortable-looking sofa.”

“Oh, all right,” she said. “I’ll go freshen up.”

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked, opening the refrigerator behind the bar.

“I don’t suppose there are any margaritas in there?”

He held up a can. “Actually, there are.” He poured them each one. “No salt, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right. I don’t like salt on my margaritas, anyway. Excuse me for a minute.” She picked up her bag and, taking her margarita, walked into the other room.

Kerry hung up his jacket, took off his tie, and rolled up his sleeves, then he grabbed his drink and walked out to the terrace. He arranged himself on a lounge chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

“There,” he heard Shelly say, “that’s better.”

He opened his eyes and found her spreading a towel on her chair. She was wearing a very small bikini, and the effect was riveting.

“Why don’t you put on your swimsuit and relax?” she said, arranging herself on the lounge chair.

“I didn’t bring one,” he replied, with regret.

She regarded him coolly. “Boxers or briefs?” she asked.

“Uh, boxers.”

“Same thing as a swimsuit,” she said. “You’ll burn up in those clothes.” She closed her eyes.

Kerry sat there, uncertain.

“Oh, go on,” she said, without opening her eyes.

He went back into the sitting room, hung up his trousers and shirt, and walked back to the terrace in his boxers, snagging another can of margarita on the way.

He refilled her glass, and she opened one eye. “
Mmm,
you’ve been working out.”

“Most days,” he said, holding in his belly. “There’s a gym in my building.”

“Good for you. Most of the agents in the Hoover Building are pretty dumpy-looking, except the youngest ones, and they’re …”

“Callow?”

“The perfect word,” she replied. “Are you seeing anyone back in D.C.?”

“No. I recently broke up with someone. You?”

“I’m about to break up with someone,” she said.

He wondered what she meant by that, but he was afraid to ask.

17

BOB KINNEY PICKED UP THE PHONE. “GOOD MORNING, MR. PRESIDENT.”

“Good morning, Bob. When can I expect your report on Martin Stanton?”

“Sir, I anticipate completing that early this afternoon, when the final detail should be in place. I’ll messenger it over the moment it’s in my hands.”

“E-mail it, Bob. It’s faster and cheaper.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll look forward to receiving it.” The president hung up.

KERRY SMITH LOOKED UP into the eyes of Shelly Bach, who was astride him, moving rapidly.

“I love it that you look at me when we’re fucking,” Shelly said.

“Looking at you is fun,” Kerry panted, massaging her breasts.

She began moving faster, and they were at the peak of their mutual orgasm when the phone began to ring.

“Shit!” Kerry yelled. “Sorry, that was for the phone, not for you.”

He picked up the phone, while Shelly laid her head on his shoulder. They were panting in unison. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Kerry. What do you have for me?”

“Good morning, sir. Nothing just yet. It’s three hours earlier out here, and we’re planning to be at the Martínez place at eleven a.m., local. He’s due back for his lunch.”

“Why are you breathing so hard?”

“I was working out, sir, doing sit-ups, when you called. I was just about to get into a shower.”

“I see. At what hour can I expect your report?”

“Sir, if Martínez returns on time, we should be done by one p.m. and on the airplane by two. I’ll e-mail it to you from the airplane, so you should have it between five and six your time.”

“Call me the minute you have confirmation from Martínez, so I can call the president. He’s on my case about this.”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

“How’s Special Agent Bach?”

“I haven’t seen her yet this morning, but I’m sure she’s fine. She certainly was at dinnertime. She’s just next door, if you’d like to speak to her.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Kinney said, slyly. “Call me.” He hung up.

“You’re very quick,” Shelly said.

“Maybe not quick enough.”

“You think Kinney thinks we were fucking?”

“I can’t read his mind, but it’s probably best to assume he does.”

“You want to do it again?” she asked.

“We did it three times last night and again this morning,” Kerry sighed. “I think that is the maximum performance level for an assistant director. If you want an improvement on that, you’re going to have to start seeing the new agents.”