Murder at the Watergate (11 page)

Chiapas, home to more than eight hundred thousand Indians of Mayan descent, was the worst of all, Kelly well knew. Rebellious since the nineteenth century, Chiapas had never shaken the yoke of its landowners despite the advances of the 1994 revolution by what was called the Zapatista Army of National Liberation, two
thousand strong, with the revolutionary Emiliano Zapata as its symbolic idol. They’d timed their march into San Cristobal and three other towns to coincide with NAFTA going into effect on January 1, their goal to embarrass the ruling Partido Revolucionario Institucional, the PRI, that had governed Mexico with an iron hand for more than seventy years. Many died in the effort. The PRI’s leadership promised numerous reforms in Chiapas, none of which had taken place.

For Ramon Kelly, the situation in Chiapas was indicative of the cruelty of the country’s leadership against its dirt-poor population. One of Mexico’s richest states in natural resources—supplying 60 percent of the nation’s hydroelectric power, 47 percent of its natural gas, and 22 percent of its oil—Chiapas’s citizens ranked along with the states of Oaxaca and Guerrero as its poorest. A third of households were without electricity; half the population did not have access to clean drinking water.

Kelly had been recruited a year ago to head the startup Mexico Initiative. His first official act was to hire Laura Flores as his research chief.

Their backgrounds were decidedly different. She was the youngest of three daughters of a prominent and well-to-do Mexico City family. Her father managed one of four television stations in Mexico City owned by Televisa, the omnipotent communications empire whose creator was considered the wealthiest businessman in Latin America. He’d given more than fifty million dollars to the PRI for the next election, and had been rewarded with government licenses to operate sixty-two new stations throughout Mexico. Already, his channels in Mexico City boasted a 97 percent share of the audience.
Their programming reflected the PRI’s bidding. They were one and the same.

Laura and her sisters attended private universities in Mexico before she enrolled at New York University over her father’s vehement objections, a man she loved deeply but whose philosophies ran counter to her developing social convictions. Although she never openly expressed such sentiments to him, she freely discussed them in the city’s cantinas, sipping Herradura tequila, smoking pot, and with her contumacious friends condemning the government.

She’d intended to return home after receiving her graduate degree in sociology from NYU, but she met Ramon Kelly. They became good friends, and occasional lovers. When Kelly moved to Washington to launch the Initiative, Laura had just started a job as a translator at the UN. She didn’t hesitate to throw that job aside and head south. The Mexico Initiative, as Kelly described it, would be well funded and had the potential to make a real difference in U.S. policy toward Mexico.

“We have powerful people behind us,” Kelly told her on the phone the night he offered the job.

“Who?”

“When you get here, Laura. Not on the phone.”

“But—”

“We’ll have plenty of time to discuss it after you’re here. In the meantime, pack your things and get moving. We have a lot of work to do.”

“Ah, Senorita Flores, welcome, welcome.”

Jose Chapas led her to the living room of the three-bedroom duplex, where two dozen people milled about,
drinks in hand, served by a white-jacketed bartender in the kitchen. “A drink?” he asked.

Laura knew that there wouldn’t be any tequila or margaritas at the party. Those were reserved for gringos in the city’s prodigal Mexican restaurants. Washington’s Mexican population preferred top-shelf whiskey, fine cognacs, and vintage wines.

“White wine, please.”

Chapas worked at the Mexican-American Trade Alliance as special assistant to its managing director, Venustiano Valle. That’s what he’d told her when they met a month ago in the Cha-Cha Lounge on trendy U Street, where they fell into easy conversation, sipping wine and taking their turn at the hookah pipe, its smoke cooled as it passed through an urn of water. Laura thought it might be illegal; Jose assured her it was just smoke, no illegal substances involved. He laughed when she inhaled and started coughing.

“I don’t smoke,” she said.

“All Mexicans smoke,” he said.

Which was almost true, with exceptions—like herself.

They dated occasionally after that initial meeting, a few dinners, a movie, and a night of dancing at Polly Esther’s that culminated in his apartment in Crystal City, across the Potomac in nearby Virginia.

Laura liked Jose Chapas, although she suspected that his feelings for her were progressing beyond just having fun together. Too, there was an awkward aspect to going out with him, enough so that she hadn’t told Ramon Kelly she was seeing him.

The MATA, its stated purpose to foster trade between the two countries, had a less lofty mission in the eyes of
some, including Ramon Kelly. Lobbying without license to change U.S. policy toward Mexico? A covert extension of the army’s “Second Section,” its intelligence service? The PRI’s eyes and ears on Washington?

No matter. Laura Flores enjoyed her time with Chapas. And, there was something to learn. Although he was closed-mouthed about his job and the organization, he occasionally said something that Laura filed away and added to her expanding folders of research on all things having to do with Mexico’s relationship with the United States. She was, and had always been, an inveterate note maker.

“Thank you,” she said when he handed her the wine. “This is a lovely apartment.”

“My pleasure. We maintain it for out-of-town guests, to entertain, that sort of thing. I’m glad you could make it tonight.”

“I looked forward to it. It’s the first time I’ve been at an Alliance party.”

“And I hope it won’t be the last. Come, I’ll introduce you around.”

“Ah-ha,” Venustiano Valle said to her, “I finally get to meet the reason my young friend here arrives at the office with tired eyes.”

Laura laughed gently. “That is a reputation I do not wish to have.”

“He jokes,” Chapas said. “He is always joking.”

That comment prompted Valle to tell a long, convoluted joke in Spanish. He fumbled the punch line, but Jose and Laura laughed anyway.

“That’s Manuel Zegreda,” Laura said to Jose after
they’d moved on for further introductions, indicating a tall, impeccably dressed man in the opposite corner.

“
Sí
. You haven’t met him?”

“No.”

“Well, now you shall.”

“Mucho gusto,”
Zegreda said, taking her hand.

“The pleasure is mine,” Laura said, aware that Zegreda was taking in every inch of her.

“Tienes un rostro tan atractivo.”

She answered his comment about how attractive she was in English. “That’s very kind, Senor Zegreda. Will you be going back to Mexico for the elections?”

“Oh, yes. You?”

“I’m planning to,” she said. “I haven’t seen my family in too long.”

“And where does your family live?”

“Mexico City.”

“Flores? Your father, is he with Televisa?”

That Zegreda knew her father would not be unusual. Both were successful businessmen. On the other hand, the mention of him caused Laura to stiffen, not because she’d been estranged from her father since coming to New York, but because it said politics to her, Mexican politics, with all its baseness and oppression, the PRI, to whom her father owed much of his business success. Zegreda, she knew, was a potent force in the ruling party, not a politician but a man whose wealth and behind-the-scenes manipulations were well known in both countries.

“Yes, he is,” Laura said.

“I know him well. A fine man. His expertise is of great benefit to the station.”

“Thank you.” To Chapas:“Would you get me another wine, please?”

“Of course. White again? Or red? Whiskey?”

“No, wine. White.”

She hadn’t wanted another glass of wine. She’d said it in order to divert the conversation. It hadn’t worked. Now, without Chapas at her side, she was alone with the multimillionaire, who continued to undress her with his eyes.

“And what do you do here in Washington, Senorita Flores?”

“I work for—for a private agency.”

“Ah. Do I know it?”

“I don’t know.”

He waited a beat, then smiled. “And unless you tell me which agency it is, I shall never know.”

“The Mexico Initiative.”

“Yes, I know it. Very new.”

“A year.”

“And what do you do there?”

“Research. I’m the research director.”

“An important job. What sort of research do you do?”

“Economic, mostly. Social issues.”

She sensed that Zegreda knew precisely the mission of The Mexico Initiative and was toying with her. Chapas arrived with her glass before Zegreda could ask more. And she was spared further when a man and woman joined them and began asking questions of Zegreda about his businesses. Laura and Chapas drifted away toward the kitchen, where a young man stood alone, arms folded, back leaning against a wall, boredom on his face.

“Harry, I would like you to meet Laura Flores.”

She extended her hand, which he took half-heartedly.

“Standing guard over the bar, I see,” Chapas said, lightly slapping his friend on the arm.

“A trick I learned long ago,” Harry said. Although he was a big man, well over six feet tall and appearing to be sturdily built beneath the gray suit he wore, his voice was surprisingly high, bordering on effeminate.

“Excuse me,” Chapas said, disappearing.

“You’re here with Jose?” Harry asked.

“Yes. Well, actually no. He invited me, but couldn’t bring me because he had duties here.”

Harry’s small smile exposed teeth prematurely yellowed for his age, which Laura pegged at thirty. “Jose always has duties some place,” he said. “He works hard.”

“I know.”

“Do you—work hard?”

The question took her aback for a moment. She laughed and said, “Yes, I do, but not always.”

“You leave time for play?”

“A little. What do you do, Harry?”

“Dabble.”

“Dabble? What does that mean?”

Another smile. “Investments, odd jobs. I prefer to not be tied down to any one thing.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“Your job—when you aren’t playing?”

“Research. For a private agency.”

Chapas returned, said, “Laura, you’ll have to excuse me. Something has come up at the office. I must go there immediately.”

Her disappointment showed on her face.

“But I leave you in good hands. Harry is a gentleman, among many other admirable things.”

“The last of a breed,” Harry said, bowing slightly.

Laura laughed.

“Call you later in the week,” Jose said, kissing her on both cheeks. He said to Harry, “Take good care of my lovely friend. I hold you accountable.” With that, he was off.

“Another wine?” Harry asked.

“I haven’t finished this one.”

“That’s warm by now. I’ll get you a fresh one.”

With Chapas’s sudden departure, Laura decided not to stay much longer. But Harry took her in tow and introduced her to younger Mexicans who worked at the embassy. The conversation became spirited; there was much laughter. Laura found herself relaxing. Zegreda wished her a pleasant evening on his way out. So did Jose’s boss at the Alliance, Valle, who said, playfully, “And no more keeping my young friend out late at night, young lady.”

“I promise,” Laura said, adopting a solemn expression and crossing her heart, then giggling.

Before she knew it, it was midnight.

“I must go,” she announced to the few people still in the apartment, Harry and three others.

“You can’t leave yet,” Harry said.

“But we can,” said the others, getting to their feet and heading for the door.

“More wine?” Harry asked when they were alone.

“Oh, no. I’ve had much too much to drink as it is. I’m going home.”

“I’ll drive you,” Harry said.

“That isn’t necessary.”

“It would be my pleasure. But only if you let me show you a special place here in the building.”

“Special place?”

“Yes. A special place with a special view.”

“Sounds … interesting. Where is this special place?”

“Come,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her up from her chair. “You’ll love it.”

He led her from the apartment and to the elevators. They rode to the top floor, exited, and proceeded down the carpeted hallway to a door. Harry inserted a key and opened it, stepped back to allow her to go first.

“Where are we going?” Laura asked.

His answer was to close the door behind them and to gently guide her from behind up a short set of metal stairs, illuminated by a single bulb. At the top was another door. They stepped through it to the building’s roof. Immediately in front of them was a long brick wall to keep visitors from going to the roof’s edge and looking out.

“What is this?” Laura asked.

“The Watergate roof gardens. Apartment owners can buy a space up here and use it for gardening, as a patio, whatever. One woman has created a sculpture studio.”

“Interesting,” Laura said.

“I’ll show you the one belonging to the apartment.”

“Do you live here in the Watergate?” she asked.

“Yes. In another building.”

He used a second key to open an iron gate leading to a large space in which there were a half dozen outdoor chairs, a table with umbrella, and a number of potted plants in oversize red earthenware urns. Harry went immediately
to a low railing at the patio’s edge. He turned, motioned for her to join him.

“Pretty night from up here,” he said, allowing his arm to casually drape over her shoulders. “Know what that is down there?” He pointed.

“What? Oh, the statue of Juárez.”

“Yes.”

“I have been there. On holidays, our people living here come to pay respects.”

“Tell me about him.”

“About Benito Juárez? What is there to tell? He did good things for our people, made free education mandatory, encouraged industry. I have been to his museum in Oaxaca.”