Murder at the Watergate (29 page)

“I have a party to go to.”

“It wouldn’t be a problem, would it, to leave a little
before eleven? Make your excuses, say your farewells, and depart. No one would question why a man would want to be alone with such a beautiful woman as your wife.”

“I’ll be wearing a tuxedo. Ms. Dorrance’s party is black tie.”

“Perfect. You’ll be in costume. It’s a very popular event with our American and Canadian friends living here. They turn out in elaborate costumes, including tuxedos. Very festive.”

“Where is El Chorro?”

“Convenient for you. Have you seen the public tubs where local women wash their clothes?”

“It’s right outside where we’re staying, near the park.”

“Exactly.”

“And how will I know Mr. Unzaga?”

“Simple. Look for me. We’ll join the procession together, enjoy the music, walk until reaching a small cantina on Aldama. It will be open to serve those enjoying the festivities. Very small, owned by someone who believes as we do.”

“What’s it called?”

“No matter. You and our mutual acquaintance will go inside, where there is a private room in which you can talk.”

“I was to meet him at a public place.”

“What could be more public? A parade, music, singing, a cantina. I trust you realize that there are people in our government who would like very much to see Carlos Unzaga dead.”

“I’ve heard.”

“He is risking much in meeting with you. It took
months of planning and discussion before it was agreed to seek out someone in whom we could trust, someone not officially involved with your government, and someone who has influence with your Vice President Aprile.”

“My wife is aware of what I’m doing,” Mac said. “She wondered why Unzaga didn’t simply package up his information and send it to the vice president, or someone he designated.”

“A good question, but one with a simple answer. Carlos is a brilliant young man, and as suspicious as he is bright. To simply send written material to a place like Washington, DC, is not the way he operates. He wants to sit down and look into the eyes of the man in whom he places his trust. By the way, by all means bring Mrs. Smith. It would look strange if you didn’t. I will take very good care of her while you and Carlos confer. Then, we can meet back at the bar in your hotel to celebrate.”

Mac couldn’t help but smile. “You make it sound so simple,” he said.

“But it is. All you will be doing is spending a half hour with a man who one day will stand at the helm of a free and democratic Mexico. Listen closely to him, remember what he says.”

“Did you know a young man named Ramon Kelly?” Mac asked.

“Oh, yes. It was through him that arrangements were made for this to happen. He and Carlos were close. Tragic what happened to him.”

“You’ve heard, then.”

“Yes. And about Ms. Flores.”

“Do you know who was behind their murders?”

“We’re narrowing in on that. Ah, your wife returns.”
Palomino got to his feet and smiled broadly as Annabel rejoined them.

“Get the loot?” Mac asked.

“Yes. We can eat.”

“Senor Palomino is about to leave.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Annabel said, shaking his hand.

“No, the pleasure was mine. Until we meet again.”

They watched him go to the street, purchase an ice cream from a sidewalk vendor, turn, wave, and disappear around a corner.

“Well?” Annabel asked.

“How’s your singing voice?”

“Why?”

“We’re going to two parties tonight, and one is the Mexican version of Christmas caroling.”

“Are we? Will your rebellious new friend be joining us?”

“Of course. He’s the guest of honor. I need to fill Chris Hedras in on what the plans are. But now, let’s walk, and talk. I’d like to see more of this city you’re always raving about.”

“… and this is Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Mac and Annabel, meet Salas, one of San Miguel’s leading artists.”

“A pleasure.”

“Salas and I have entered into a business arrangement. I’ve bought virtually all his work, at a handsome discount, of course.”

The rotund artist grinned. “Mrs. Dorrance strikes—what is it you say?—a hard bargain.”

“And now you have enough money to live on for the next two years,” Elfie said. “Come,” she said to Mac and Annabel, “there are others you must meet.”

As they walked away from the artist, Elfie said, “I have a dealer back in Washington salivating over Salas’s paintings. I love quick profits. Ah, Viviana, my dear. Please say hello to Mac and Annabel Smith.”

Viviana Diaz, Mexico’s foremost femme fatale, was stunning in a low-cut cranberry sheath that hugged her voluptuous body. She broke into a smile that was all dazzling white teeth and bloodred lipstick as she acknowledged Mac and Annabel.

Annabel hadn’t told Mac of her conversation with Carole Aprile about her friend’s fear that the vice president might be having an affair with the former screen siren. She looked into Diaz’s dark oval eyes and knew that if this supreme specimen of the female species were to make it known to a man—any man—that she wanted him, it would take the most noble of men to resist.

“Your vice president has spoken often of you, Senor Smith,” she said, holding Mac’s hand a little too long for Annabel’s taste.

“I didn’t realize you knew him,” Mac said.

Annabel didn’t like Diaz’s expression in response to Mac’s comment. It was too … smug.

“Have you met Mrs. Aprile?” Annabel asked.

“No, I have not had that pleasure. I’m sure she’s a very nice person.”

“And beautiful,” Annabel said. “
Very
beautiful.”

Mac looked at his wife. What was behind this edgy exchange? he wondered.

They were joined by the tycoon, Manuel Zegreda. After introductions and some small talk, Zegreda said to Mac, “I have looked forward to meeting you for some time, Mr. Smith. Perhaps later we might find an opportunity for quiet talk.”

Elfie waltzed other guests over to meet the Smiths. “Some men simply were born to wear a tuxedo,” she said, referring to Mac.

“Men should wear tuxedos every evening,” Viviana said. “It’s so elegant. And they don’t all look alike, as they are not.”

“And I agree,” said Elfie. “Annabel, you look absolutely stunning.” Annabel had purchased a black stretch wool
dress with patent-leather trim especially for the trip. Standing next to Mac in his tux, they could have come from the pages of
Fashions of the Times
.

“The ambassador, poor dear, had to cancel at the last minute,” Elfie said. “His wife is ill. I suggested she needed a glorious party to make her feel better, but my medical advice wasn’t heeded. No matter. The governor and his wife might stop by later for a drink. The man is unbeatable, no matter what his party’s fate. Come, all of you. The music is starting on the terrace.”

As they accompanied her through French doors, Mac asked, “Where’s Chris Hedras?”

“On the phone. He’s had that damn thing glued to his ear all afternoon. Something to do with Joe’s campaign, I suppose. I told him business was off-limits at my parties, but he tends to have selective hearing.”

The mariachi band hired for the evening played better than others Mac had heard during his visits to Mexico. Later, that band would alternate with an American piano trio playing show tunes for dancing. The broad terrace soon filled with guests; Mac judged there to be at least thirty people.

“What do you think of Senorita Diaz?” Annabel whispered.

“She could sink ships.”

“And marriages.”

He looked at her quizzically. “What was that all about back there, Annie?”

“Just exercising my claws.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“A long story. Later.”

The table in the dining room comfortably accommodated everyone. Two places were left vacant for the possible arrival of Guanajuato’s governor, Junipero Mendez, and his wife, Corita. It was a carefully crafted guest list on which Elfie had spent considerable time. Her companion for the evening, Martin Leff, told an amusing story when they were seated, made more so by his stilted speech and practiced stentorian tones.

“I understand you’ve been working, Chris,” Mac said to Hedras across the table as soon as soup was served.

“Yeah. There’s always one crisis or another, most of them hardly qualifying as crises.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask whether you know anything about Ramon Kelly’s death in Washington.”

“Just that he was killed in a street robbery. Shame what the city’s coming to.” He turned from Mac to speak with Viviana Diaz, seated to his left.

Much of the conversation during dinner centered on the election. Manuel Zegreda was vocal in his condemnation of the PRD’s Cardenas, Mexico City’s new mayor, openly labeling him a communist who would turn Mexico into a welfare state and eventually bankrupt it if he went on to become president in the next election. Mendez and Antonio Morelos readily agreed.

The discussion heated up when Salas, and two other artists, jumped in with an opposing view of the election’s outcome and what it meant for Mexico’s future. They were dismissed by Zegreda and other PRI supporters as bleeding-heart liberals.

Mac frequently checked his watch. Nine-fifteen.

“It’ll be awkward leaving, won’t it?” Annabel asked quietly.

“I’ve already mentioned it to Elfie. I said you insisted I take part in the sing-along. She said she understood. We struck a deal. We get to leave before eleven provided we come back for breakfast in the morning.”

“No sleeping in, huh?”

“Breakfast is at noon.”

“Oh, good.”

They left the table at quarter of ten and went to another room, where after-dinner drinks were served, and the political debate continued.

“Ready?” Mac asked Annabel in a whisper.

“Yes, I—”

“Senor Smith,” said Manuel Zegreda. “Do you find our political differences interesting?”

“Very much like our dinner-table political discussions at home.”

Zegreda smiled. “I would like to show you something.”

“If it won’t take long. My wife and I are getting ready to leave. A previous engagement.”

“Only a few minutes.”

“Annie, I’ll be right back.”

Her eyes questioned, but she simply said, “All right. Don’t be long.”

Zegreda led Smith to a hallway and up a wide staircase. They followed another long corridor lined with rich Mexican art until reaching French doors leading to a broad terrace on the park side of the house. Waiting for them outside was Viviana Diaz, a vividly colored hand-painted shawl covering her naked shoulders.

“If I’d known I was coming to a party, I would have brought my wife,” Mac said.

Zegreda joined Viviana at the railing. “Mr. Smith,” he
said flatly, “I will not take much of your time. But I felt it was important that we speak.”

“I’m listening,” Mac said, well aware that Zegreda was the Mexican business leader most prominently named whenever allegations surfaced about illegal Mexican contributions into the Scott-Aprile campaigns.

“You are one of Vice President Aprile’s closest friends.”

“We are friends, yes.”

“And you are trusted by him to the extent he names you his special envoy.”

Mac wondered how Zegreda knew that.

“In other words, Senor Smith, if one wanted to be certain a message was delivered to your friend, the vice president, it would be wise to send it through you.”

Mac conspicuously looked at his watch.

“Show him the pictures, dear,” Zegreda said.

Mac hadn’t noticed that Viviana held a large manila envelope against her chest, beneath the shawl. She extended it to Mac, who stepped forward to take it.

“Go ahead, look,” Zegreda said.

Mac went to where an outdoor fixture cast a pool of light on the terrace, opened the flap, and removed a dozen eight-by-ten photographs. When he was finished, he replaced them in the envelope and handed them to Zegreda.

“Nice shots of Vice President Aprile, Senor Zegreda. But there was no need to show them to me. I’m well aware of what he looks like.”

“You did take notice, I trust, that Senorita Diaz is in each of the pictures.”

“Of course I did.” Another check of his watch. “I
really must be going. My wife’s waiting for me. What’s the point you wish to make?”

“It would be awkward, to say the least, if the American voting public were to be informed that their vice president, considered to be—his code name is Straight Arrow, I believe—if they were informed that he finds Mexican women attractive, especially
this
Mexican woman.”

“That would be a lie.”

“And that he has close ties with some of our less upstanding citizens, those who owe some of their wealth and position to the drugs your people so eagerly buy and use. I assure you we have many photographs to prove that, too.”

“Prove it?” Mac’s guffaw was involuntary. “These pictures don’t prove anything.”

“But I will say they do, Senor Smith,” Viviana said. “I have no hesitation sharing with your voters my intimate moments with the next president. Perhaps your wife, who is such a good friend of Mrs. Aprile, would like to break the news to her of our affair.”

“You’re talking blackmail,” Mac said. “What is it you want in return?”

“That brings us to the message I wish you to carry back to Washington. Your friend, the vice president, is a foolish man, Mr. Smith. The president has the support of the Mexican people. Vice President Aprile can have that support, too.”

“The support of the Mexican people? You mean people like you.”

“As you wish. He has been pursuing a dangerous course of action through this so-called Mexico Initiative, attempting to build a case upon which to challenge his
own president over Mexico. It would be most unfortunate if he were to become the president and carry into office his misguided views. All we ask is that he see the light and recognize that our two countries have forged an important working relationship that must not be destroyed.”

“Including having drug lords paying off your leaders in return for carte blanche to run narcotics through your country into ours.”

“To serve your drug users’ insatiable needs, Mr. Smith. No market, no drugs. I don’t know you, but you strike me as a sensible, pragmatic man. Surely you wish to see your friend become president of the United States. We would like to see that, too, provided he realizes the need to allow us to move slowly toward reform and true democracy. That will take many years. In the meantime—”