Murder at the Watergate (28 page)

“Well, what did Chris want?” Annabel asked her husband as they strolled hand-in-hand through Parque Benito Juárez. The sun was setting over the Santa Rosa
Mountains, the park’s tall, graceful trees rendered as silhouettes against a golden sky.

“To tell me he’ll be my contact here in San Miguel.”

“Your backup?”

“In a sense. I’m to let him know the plans for meeting Mr. Unzaga.”

“Good. At least Chris is someone you know. Better than strangers popping up all the time. You saw Elfie when you went over to meet Chris?”

“Yes. She was disappointed you didn’t come with me.”

“I wanted to save seeing her house for tomorrow night’s party. I assume it’s baronial.”

“Not really. Lovely, though. You’d think she was planning an inaugural ball. People all over the place getting ready for the party.”

“
Our
party.”

“I’m sure she’s told everyone coming it’s
their
party. An old hostess’s trick. I only spoke with her a few minutes. Chris and I took a walk on the grounds. Not sure where her property leaves off and the park begins.”

“Happy?”

“Very. The suite is magnificent, and I’m anxious to see the town tomorrow.”

“You’ll love it. The art institute is interesting, and the library—I think it’s the largest or second-largest bilingual library in Latin America; the ex-pats congregate there—is a joy. We’ll have breakfast at a wonderful little outdoor cafe called La Buena Vida, in a little alley across from the American consulate. Superb fresh-baked cinnamon rolls and yummy café con leche. Then we’ll go to the Jardín and wait for your next set of instructions from persons unknown.”

“You should hire out as a tour guide, Annie.”

“The only person I want to guide is you.”

“We’re having dinner at the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“The onion soup is as good as you say?”

“Even better. Come on, let’s get back and have a drink to celebrate our honeymoon. They have more than seventy brands of tequila and …”

As Mac and Annabel enjoyed the outdoor bar connected to the Sierra Nevada’s parkside suites, a battered, tan two-door Chevy sedan navigated the final steep and winding road into San Miguel and pulled up on to the sidewalk in front of a cantina across from the art institute. Two men sat in the back. The driver got out, yawned, stretched against stiffness developed during the ride, and casually took in his surroundings. He was about to open the rear door for his passengers when he saw two armed
federales
crossing the street fifty yards from him. He paused until the officers had passed from his view, took another look around, then opened the door and nodded.

The first man out of the car was big and bulky. He adjusted his shoulders inside his suit jacket and rearranged the handgun tucked into his waistband. He, too, surveyed the street. Satisfied, he motioned for the remaining man to exit.

Carlos Unzaga slid across the seat and stepped out into San Miguel’s cool twilight. A heavy black mustache covered his upper lip and drooped down the sides of his mouth. His black hair was thick and unruly, causing his head to appear to be too large for his short, slender
frame. He wore a beige unconstructed sport jacket, blue slacks, and a lightweight white V-neck sweater.

The driver stayed by the car as the other two men crossed the street and entered the institute’s spacious, airy courtyard. They walked quickly, the larger man’s ponderous steps in marked contrast to Unzaga’s lithe movements. After covering two sides of the courtyard, they went through an open arch and down a set of concrete steps to a vacant artist’s studio. Unzaga closed the door behind them and flipped a wall switch. The big man positioned a chair by the door and sat heavily in it while Unzaga went slowly from one unframed painting to another tacked up on the walls, moving his head from side to side for a better viewing angle.

A few minutes later, the door opened and two people entered the room, a man of advanced age and a young woman. Unzaga came to them and they embraced, pressing cheeks against each other’s.

Unzaga and the two new arrivals huddled in a corner and spoke in hushed tones for twenty minutes while the big man maintained his watchful position at the door. Then, after another series of physical farewells, Unzaga and his bodyguard retraced their steps to the car and got in. The driver started the engine, turned, and asked, “Where?”

“Guanajuato,” Unzaga said.

Forty minutes later they entered the capital of the state of Guanajuato, made rich from its silver deposits, and home to one of Mexico’s leading universities of music and theater. The car struggled as it climbed and descended a labyrinth of twisting cobblestone
callejónes
, alleys, that defined the colonial city, until reaching the
Irapuato Highway, which took them to their destination, the southwest suburb of San Gabriel de la Barrera. There they came to a stop behind a nondescript white house.

Inside, two women had just finished setting a table for dinner. Unzaga greeted them, went to a small bedroom, and removed the mustache and wig, revealing a youthful, smooth, sensuous face graced with large, soft, dark eyes. Aside from the remnants of a scar running from the side of his right eye to his ear, it was a face to inspire poets and challenge artists.

Unzaga was joined at dinner by four other people. The mood was jovial. The women served steaming bowls of tortilla, Aztec soup, and platters of
tortillas por manos
, handmade
almuerzo
and
lonche
tortillas. Toasts were offered to the PRI’s loosened grip on Mexico. Although Unzaga joined them, he did it without any overt display of celebration.

“Hey, Carlos, why so glum?” Unzaga was asked. “A new day dawns for us, huh?”

“Just the beginning,” the rebel leader said. “The PRI still controls the country. Those
campesinos
slaughtered in Chiapas didn’t benefit from the election. Not much has changed here. Perhaps one day, when other nations refuse to do business with the leadership and their businessmen stooges, there will be true reform. What has changed here in Guanajuato? The PRI still controls this state. The fat fool, Mendez, wins again. No, nothing has changed and it will never change as long as those across our borders refuse to deal fairly with us. Until then—”

“Until then we must be grateful for what we are given, Carlos,” offered the oldest person at the table, a gaunt
man in need of a shave and wearing a black patch over his left eye. “The people have spoken. The PRI is not as strong as it was a day ago.”

Carlos sat back and fixed the older man with a hard stare. “The PRI will do what all weakened animals do. They will become more vicious, more willing to spread the blood of our people. I have bad news to tell you.”

Silence fell over the table.

“Ramon Kelly has been assassinated.”

“El zanahoria?”
someone said, using Kelly’s nickname, “the Carrot.”

“
Sí
. In Washington.”

Curses intermingled with invocations of God were muttered.

“This is not the time to step back,” Unzaga said. “It is the time to intensify our efforts to influence those stripping our country through NAFTA to think again, to reconsider their stance.”

Later, Unzaga sat on a bench beneath a gnarled tree with the older man. It was past midnight. The cups of strong, sweet
café olla
they’d carried with them from the house had grown cold.

“I meant no offense, Carlos,” the man said. “I suppose I have been here long enough to be lulled into a sense of gratitude for the smallest of things.”

“I understand. And I did not mean to be disparaging of your wisdom. But I am right in this.”

“Yes, you are, my son, and I stand with you.”

“Tomorrow’s meeting with the gringo is set?”

“
Sí
. All precautions have been taken.”

“You will deliver the envelope as planned.”

“Of course. It is better to have me do it than to have you carry it with you to the meeting.”

“I agree. This
americano
, Smith. He is a close friend of their vice president, Aprile.”

“That is true.”

“The information I will give him must be passed on to the vice president.”

“There is no question that it will be, Carlos. Whether he will act upon it remains to be seen. But we are told Senor Aprile is a man of honor and compassion. If that is true, he will have no choice when he becomes president but to take a hard stand against the leadership here as it exists.”

The men finished their coffee. An almost full moon had been obscured most of the night by low clouds. As Unzaga looked up into the sky, it broke free for a moment, illuminating the untended orange grove in which they sat. Darkness reappeared as suddenly as it had been broken. Unzaga placed his hand on the older man’s arm and said,
“Ya se mira el horizonte.”

“
Sí
, Carlos, you have always been able to see the horizon, the day when we will be free of a brutal and corrupt regime. May God grant me enough years to be here when that day arrives.”

It had rained for an hour in the early morning, enough to flood the cobblestone streets and send water cascading down them. Now, at eight-thirty, the deluge was a memory and the sun shone as if new.

The Jardín was busy as Mac and Annabel took a table on the terrace of the restaurant overlooking the town square. They’d eaten breakfast at La Buena Vida; the cinnamon rolls lived up to Annabel’s advance billing as had the soup the night before at Casa de Sierra Nevada. Mac was struck with the number of non-Mexicans on the streets and in the square. San Miguel’s large expatriate population was vibrant and visible, mostly older men and women looking to stretch their retirement dollars while enjoying the pleasing climate and colonial ambiance.

A truck arrived at the Jardín. Men who’d been waiting for it eagerly unloaded bundles of newspapers, lining them up on a low wall and taking money from the crowd that had gathered.

“Think I’ll see what today’s papers say about the election,” Mac said, standing.

“Go ahead. I’m not moving.”

The terrace was now filled with customers, mostly non-Mexicans, who’d settled in with their papers and coffee. It occurred to Annabel that if Mac’s next instructions came from a Mexican, as she assumed they would, that person would stand out among the expatriate Americans and Canadians gathered that morning.

She looked across the street and saw Mac, newspapers under his arm, watching one of a half-dozen men carrying palettes of balloons, pinwheels, and mechanized stuffed animals for sale.

Not another message in a balloon, she thought.

Mac started back to the restaurant. As he waited for a break in the chaotic traffic, Annabel noticed a tall, heavy man with a white walrus mustache come up behind and follow him across the street. Mac reached the table; the man was only a few steps behind.

“Mac,” Annabel said, indicating with a nod there was someone with him.

Mac turned. “Senor Palomino.”

“Buenos días.”

Mac said to Annabel, “Mr. Palomino was one of the people I enjoyed a beer with before you arrived at the Majestic.”

“Oh.” She extended her hand.

“I thought it was you in the square,” Palomino said in a loud voice, “but wasn’t sure. A nice coincidence seeing you here in San Miguel.”

“Won’t you join us?” Annabel said.

“Gracias.”

“Mr. Palomino is a professor and author in Mexico City, Annabel. Political science.”

“You must have found the election fascinating,” she said.

“Extremely.” He took a Cuban cigar from his jacket pocket and lighted it with skill, careful to keep the flame from actually touching the tip. “I pity American cigar smokers,” he said. “Your Cuban embargo deprives them of such pleasure. Here in Mexico, we do not have such a problem. We travel freely to Cuba. Do you have friends here in San Miguel, Senor and Senora Smith?”

“As a matter of fact, we do,” Mac said. “From Washington.”

“Elfie Dorrance?”

Mac and Annabel laughed. “I take it you know her,” Annabel said.

“We’ve met. Will you be at her party tonight?”

“Yes. Will you?”

“No. But her parties are always the talk of San Miguel. It seems half the town is involved in one way or another.”

Palomino drew contentedly on his cigar and observed the passing scene on the street and in the Jardín. It was during that contemplative moment that Mac and Annabel glanced at each other, realizing simultaneously it was Palomino who would deliver Mac’s instructions on where and when to meet Carlos Unzaga.

“Would you excuse me,” Annabel said. To Mac: “I’d better use the cash machine in the bank before we forget.”

“Good idea,” Mac said.

When she was gone, Palomino said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, “A lovely woman. And extremely instinctive.”

“All that and more,” Mac said.

“I assume you really don’t need cash at this moment.”

“Correct. And I assume you have something to tell me.”

“That’s right. Surprised at the messenger?”

“Nothing surprises me in Mexico, Senor Palomino, although I must admit I expected someone of the ilk who follows guerrilla leaders.”

Palomino chuckled, drew on his cigar. “An unkempt peasant farmer with a machete.”

“Something like that.”

“Carlos Unzaga has many followers, Mr. Smith, who do not fit that mold. His major base of support is in Mexico City. It is his source of money. You’d be surprised at how many financially comfortable Mexicans care more about the plight of the impoverished masses than the wealthy elite.”

“I take it you’re in that category.”

“Decidedly so. I’m sure your wife will be returning soon, and I have somewhere else I must be. There is a festival tonight in San Miguel. It is relatively new here, borrowed from the strolling
estudiantes
of Guanajuato. Familiar with it?”

“No.”

“Students in Guanajuato have been strolling through the streets and singing for, maybe, forty years. A lovely event. The students wear sixteenth-century costumes, carry candles, and lead everyone through the streets while making music. The tourists like to wear costumes, too, and join in. It starts at El Chorro, at eleven.”