Murder at the Watergate (27 page)

“What now?” Annabel asked.

“I’ll just wait around, give it a half hour. I hope whoever’s supposed to contact me knows what I look like. I sure don’t know what he looks like.”

“Meet you back here in a half hour?”

“Right.”

Mac watched Annabel’s long-legged gait take her across the avenue to a succession of expensive shops but she quickly disappeared from his sight as the crowds swallowed her. He decided to slowly circle the statue, giving whoever it was he was waiting for a chance to spot him.

He checked his watch frequently. Twenty minutes passed, then twenty-five. He started to return to where he and Annabel had parted when a wizened, stooped man carrying a large rack of helium-filled balloons and gaudy pinwheels approached and asked if Mac wished to buy one.

“No,
gracias
,” Mac said, waving him away.

“For your lovely wife,” the man said in English. “To take with you to San Miguel.”

Mac looked into the man’s eyes. They were Indian eyes, hard and determined. The message emanating from them was unmistakable.

“All right,” Mac said, fishing for pesos in his pocket. He handed the vendor the money and was given in return a green balloon on a stick.

“
Gracias
, senor,” the vendor said, shuffling away.

“De nada.”

He felt a little foolish, standing there holding a balloon, and wished he had a child with him to justify it. Annabel arrived a few minutes later and raised her eyebrows at the sight of his purchase.

“For you,” Mac said, bowing slightly from the waist and presenting it to her.

“Is this—?”

“Hang on to it. Don’t let it float away.”

They returned to the hotel. The minute they were in the suite, Mac examined the balloon. A vague shadow inside indicated a foreign object. “Hold your ears,” he said, puncturing the rubber skin with a ballpoint pen. He tore the wound open and removed a single slip of paper.

“What does it say?” asked Annabel.

“Here.”

“Canaries and balloons,” Annabel said, handing the paper back to Mac. “A high-tech undercover operation.”

“You’ll have to tell me where La Terraza is.”

“Tell you? I’ll take you there. It’s lovely, Mac, right on the main square. All the newspapers are delivered there each morning. The ex-pats pretty much start their day at the Jardín—coffee, newspaper, local gossip—pop into the bank and post office. We’d be going there even if you weren’t instructed to. Still no word from your alleged backup team?”

“No. We’d better get ready for the reception. It’s at the Four Seasons. Oh, by the way, I’ll be poll-watching tomorrow near Chapultepec Park, by the zoo. Part of a team of six, two Americans, two Brits, a German, and a Chilean.”

“Exciting.”

“Yes, it is. I hope everything goes smoothly.”

“I prayed for that night before last, in San Miguel.”

“Did you? Then it’s assured. No God would dare refuse you, Annabel. First in the shower?”

“No, you go first. What a nice thing to say.”

“About you and God? Just reciting theological fact. Only be a minute.”

“Ambassador Cadwell,” Mac said after being introduced to the U.S. ambassador to Mexico. “Mrs. Cadwell.”

“A pleasure to meet both of you,” Cadwell said. “My good friend Elfie Dorrance often speaks of Mr. and Mrs. Smith with great fondness.”

“We’ll be seeing her in a few days,” Annabel said. “We’re going on to San Miguel after the elections.”

“So are we,” Priscilla Cadwell said. “We escape this city whenever we can.” Her pug nose moved, as though smelling something fetid.

Although the official reception was held, in part, to allow election observers from different countries to mingle socially—and with their Mexican hosts and hostesses—birds of a national feather tended to flock together, including the large American contingent. Mac and Annabel chatted with dozens of people over the next hour. When they eventually found themselves alone for the first time that evening, Mac asked, “Ready to leave?”

“I think so.”

“Good. A few good-byes and—”

“Mackensie Smith?”

Mac and Annabel faced a forty-something-year-old
man with a broad face, wide, open smile, and close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.

“Yes,” Mac said, extending his hand.

“Ron Pacie. I’m with the embassy.”

“This is my wife, Annabel.”

“Yes, I know. A pleasure, Mrs. Smith.”

“Quite a party,” Annabel said.

“Our Mexican friends know how to entertain. Possible to steal your husband for a few minutes, Mrs. Smith?”

“Borrow him? Yes. Steal him? I’m afraid not.”

Pacie laughed gently. “Strictly a short-term loan, Mrs. Smith. Only be a minute.”

The two men walked a dozen feet to the empty end of one of multiple bars set up in the large function room.

“Jim Ferguson told me to look you up,” Pacie said.

“Did he?”

Smith immediately realized this was the team’s contact.

“How’s everything going?”

“Fine.”

“Any approaches yet?”

“About?”

“San Miguel.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I’ve been contacted by a canary named Estelita and a balloon salesman, name unknown.”

Pacie didn’t smile.

“I was told to be at the El Angel statue this afternoon. I went and was sold a balloon—a green one. In it was a message telling me to be at a certain place in San Miguel de Allende two days after the election.”

“What place?”

“The town square. A restaurant with a terrace overlooking the square. Nine o’clock in the morning. That’s about it.”

“Okay. If you have anything else to report, any problems, you can call me at the Majestic, room four-ten.”

“I thought you were with the embassy.”

“I am.”

“Live in the hotel?”

“For a few days. I don’t want to keep you from your wife any longer. Oh, Jim asked me to pass along some news. Not very pleasant news, I’m afraid.”

“Yes?”

“Ramon Kelly has been killed.”

Smith’s stomach muscles knotted, then relaxed. “In Washington?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for the information.”

“And thanks for the chat. We’ll be in touch.”

Mac rejoined Annabel.

“I take it your backup has surfaced.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the matter, Mac? You’re pale.”

“Ramon Kelly has been killed. Looks like they’re more efficient at killing in Washington than they were in Mexico City.”

“He’s the—”

“Yeah, the one I met with at Ferguson’s apartment in the Watergate. Ferguson suggested to Kelly that he take a long vacation, become low-profile. He should have listened. Come on, Annie, let’s get out of here. I’m not in a partying mood.”

The day after Mexico had gone to the polls, Mac and Annabel watched TV election coverage and read newspaper accounts in their suite at the Majestic.

But all the headlines weren’t uplifting.

“Still, a day to celebrate,” Annabel said, packing while watching TV.

“Agreed,” said Mac. “Overall, everything went smoothly. There are reports of attacks on a few polling places in Chiapas, but here in the city there wasn’t a hint of trouble.”

“You’re finished up with your official poll-watching duties?”

“Yup. Except I have to contribute to the official report when we get back. My input will be positive, aside from the obvious domination of the media by the PRI.”

“You’d better pack,” she said. “The limo will be here before we know it.”

The phone rang. Annabel answered. It was a call from San Miguel.

“I spoke with Gabriela,” Elfie Dorrance said. “The hotel’s limo is on its way. You should be back here in San Miguel by four.”

“Provided we’re not kidnapped en route,” Annabel said.

“If you are, I’ll pay the ransom. The party
—your
party—is shaping up nicely for tomorrow night. Can’t wait to see you. How is your handsome man holding up?”

Annabel glanced to where Mac had started placing things in his suitcase. “Holding up very well, I would say.”

“Good. I want him in fine fettle tomorrow night. Lots of inside stories about the election.”

“I’ll pass that along. Call you when we get in.”

They had a late breakfast on the terrace overlooking the Zócalo. Below, the city was still in the midst of a massive public celebration of the election and the changes it promised for the country. The boisterous pro-Zapatista crowd had begun to gather in the square.

“Finally, the PRI has lost its grip,” Annabel said after their huevos rancheros—fried eggs on steamed corn tortillas covered with a tomato sauce—had been served. “It must be a breath of fresh air for the people.”

“The elections have loosened their grip—a little,” Mac said. “But Mexico has a long way to go and the PRI still has a vise on most heads.” Mac fell silent, his expression somber.

“Ramon Kelly?” Annabel said.

“Yes. It taints everything for me.”

“Is there someone you can call to find out more?”

“I suppose, although I’m not sure I’d get much information at this juncture. You said Chris Hedras is in San Miguel. I assume he’ll know something.”

“Why him?”

“He seems to be in the thick of everything. He’s the one who set up my meeting in San Miguel with this guerrilla leader, and he’s obviously been working closely with The Mexico Initiative.”

“Where Ramon Kelly worked.”

“Right. Kelly was the head of it, and the young woman who fell to her death from the east building was its research director. Add to that the fact that the murdered Mexican union leader—Garza was his name—had come
to Washington to tell Kelly and his group what he had on PRI corruption. If there is such a thing as coincidence, it doesn’t apply here.”

“How involved is Joe Aprile with Kelly’s group?”

“I don’t know specifically, but it was obvious to me when we met at the White House that he was certainly in the loop. You know, it’s easy to chalk up the killings to PRI officials trying to hang on to power by getting rid of anyone with evidence that could strip it from them. Too easy. These same people could become even more desperate now that the electorate has spoken.”

“Have you heard from Pacie again since the reception?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should call him.”

“To tell him what?”

“To tell him we’re going to San Miguel de Allende on our first and only honeymoon, and that a meeting with some rebel leader isn’t on our agenda.”

“I’ve considered that.”

“You have?”

“Sure.”

“And?”

“I’ll play it by ear, take it a step at a time. If things don’t look right to me, I’ll say exactly that.”

Annabel scrutinized her husband, the morning sun splashing across his craggy face. This was a man, she knew, who would not take unreasonable chances with his life or with hers. She’d never known anyone with a mind like Mackensie Smith’s, open to all ideas but questioning them with precision, like a surgeon removing cancerous cells; wise yet not allowing wisdom to dominate every decision at the expense of intuition and insight;
proud and humble at once, suffering fools but only to the extent it didn’t take away their dignity; angry at injustice, accepting of the human condition.

“Mac.”

“What?”

“Do you know I love you very much?”

“Hadn’t a clue.”

He spotted their waiter:
“La cuenta, por favor.”
He signed their name and room number to the check and they returned to the suite. They were about to call for help with their luggage when the phone rang.

“Mac Smith.”

“Mac, Chris Hedras.”

“Hello, Chris. We were just talking about you.”

“Favorably, I hope.”

“No reason to be unfavorable. Is there?”

“Depends on the day. Mac, I know you’ve made contact with Ron Pacie.”

“Yes.”

“You’re coming to San Miguel today.”

“Leaving any minute. We’ll be seeing you at Elfie’s party tomorrow night.”

“I’d like to see you before then.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, although Annabel and I are looking forward to some unencumbered time together. Nonofficial time.”

“And I wouldn’t think of taking up too much of that nonofficial time. Would you call me when you arrive?”

“Sure. Where are you staying?”

“At Elfie’s. Second-best hotel in San Miguel. You’re staying at the best.”

“I don’t think she’d appreciate being number two, Chris.”

“And she’ll never know it from me. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

Other members of the U.S. delegation to the election observer team staying in the Majestic were in the lobby when Mac and Annabel came downstairs. The feeling was one of victory. Hands were shaken, backs slapped, and expressions of “having done it” exchanged.

“It’s a great day,” one of the observers said to Mac. “I’m proud to have been a part of it.”

“I share that feeling,” Mac said.

“Going to the airport?”

“No,” Annabel said. “We’re staying in Mexico for a few days. San Miguel de Allende.”

“Where’s that?”

“Colonial Mexico. In the hills, the middle of the country.”

“Keeping the celebration going?” someone said, laughing.

“Something like that.”

Another round of good-byes preceded their climbing into the limousine and heading for San Miguel de Allende, more than 450 years old, a national monument, home of the acclaimed Instituto Allende art school and, depending upon the time of year, home to that other monument to money, cosmetics, and physical fitness, Elfie Dorrance.