Murder at the Watergate (30 page)

“In the meantime, I’m leaving. You picked the wrong messenger, Senor Zegreda. Some good and decent people have been killed because of the likes of you. It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Diaz. You’re very beautiful. You’re also despicable. Good night.”

Mac returned to the first-floor terrace, where guests danced. Annabel stood alone, brow furrowed, lips tight.

“What was
that
all about?” she asked when Mac took her arm and headed for the door.

“It’s about why meeting Carlos Unzaga and carrying back what he knows has taken on an urgency, Annie. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

They said good night to Elfie, Chris Hedras, and selected others, assured Elfie they’d be back for breakfast, and went to the street.

“Mac, what happened with Zegreda?”

“Blackmail is what happened.” He recounted the meeting with Zegreda and Viviana as they walked quickly through the park in the direction of their hotel.

“How dreadful,” Annabel said when he’d finished.

“Yeah, isn’t it?”

A hundred people had gathered by the public washtubs. Students, and a smattering of American and Canadian ex-pats and tourists, were in costume. Candles carried by the students flickered in a light breeze. Mac looked for Palomino.

“Over there,” Annabel said.

They went to where Palomino stood by a fountain. He was with another man with thick brown hair and a full beard, small in stature and wearing a three-piece suit. Mac and Annabel stopped a few feet from them, waiting for Palomino to make some gesture that everything was all right. His smile accomplished that.
“Buenas noches,”
he said. “This is Senor Potosi,
mi amigo
.”

Unzaga nodded. Mac put out his hand. Unzaga took it, sending a chill up Mac’s spine. Here he was, shaking hands with a wanted man, someone dedicated to bringing down his nation’s government. How many men had he killed? To what ends would he go to satisfy his political agenda?

Mac Smith believed in order. Americans who broke the law to vent their political discontent received little sympathy from him. He fervently embraced the concept that law, based upon moral precepts—a nation of laws—was among the most precious of ideals.

But this was Mexico, a country of proud and decent people and a vibrant history, people who’d suffered for decades under leadership that lined the pockets of a
few, while the majority lived lives of resigned and silent desperation.

The students began singing, and moving away from El Chorro, up Tenerias.

“Over there,” Palomino said, indicating where the crowd was thickest. They joined the throng and slowly proceeded up a steep hill.

Annabel stumbled; Mac grabbed her.

“I should have brought sneakers,” she said. “These cobblestones are hell on heels.”

They turned right on Aldama and continued the procession, the students’ voices sweet in the cool night air, their candles reflecting light off their youthful faces. People stood on the sidewalks to witness the musical march, waving hands and adding their voices to the plaintive Spanish songs. A lovely tradition, Mac thought, if it wasn’t the setting this night for something far more serious.

They’d almost reached the corner of Cuadrante when Palomino subtly maneuvered them away from the crowd and to an open storefront from which the pungent aroma of cooking food reached them. Inside, men sat on a half-dozen stools at a counter. A heavy woman cooked and served platters of what came off her grill, and bottles of Mexican beer. Four small tables were also occupied. Unzaga’s men, Mac surmised.

Palomino nodded at Unzaga, who stepped inside. Mac hesitated as he looked at Annabel.

“See you at the hotel bar,” Palomino said, taking Annabel’s elbow and herding her back toward the procession.

Mac followed Unzaga past the tables and to an older
Mexican man standing by a door covered with a sheet. The man avoided their eyes as he stepped aside, allowing Unzaga to push the sheet aside. Mac followed.

They were inside a small room with a table covered in ripped yellow vinyl and two wooden chairs. A bottle of
mezcal
, with its traditional
gusano de maguey
—a small worm from the maguey plant at the bottom—stood open on the table, accompanied by two water glasses. A large, three-dimensional carving of the Virgin Mary hung precariously on one wall, her eyes trained on the table. White light from a fluorescent fixture dangling from the ceiling was harsh and unnerving.

Unzaga sat in one of the chairs: “Please, Senor Smith, join me.”

In the light, Mac could see now that Unzaga wore a wig and that the small beard was false.

“You are a good man to be here under these circumstances,” Unzaga said in clear English, pouring mezcal into both glasses.

“I’m here because I was asked to be by a friend.”

“Vice President Aprile.”

“That’s right.”

“Another good man.”

“I think so.”

He handed Smith a glass, raised his own. “To you, Mackensie Smith.”

“There are more important things to toast, including the election results, but I won’t argue.”

The drink went down hot in Mac’s throat.

Unzaga refilled his own glass, slung an arm over the back of his chair, and crossed his legs, an oddly casual pose considering the venue and circumstance.

“I don’t wish to be rude, but I think it best if you tell me what it is you want me to bring back to Vice President Aprile.”

“Of course. It is I who is rude. You have no reason to spend more time than necessary. This is not your fight, Senor Smith.”

“No, it’s not. But something happened this evening that convinces me more than ever that your fight is just. I know simply being here places you in jeopardy. What is it you wish to tell me?” He felt like a Catholic priest asking for a petitioner’s confession.

“I have many things to say,” Unzaga said in a low, measured voice, “beginning with murder.”

“Whose murder?”

“My friend Ramon Kelly. Laura Flores. Morin Garza. Others.”

Mac’s heart beat faster. He hadn’t expected this. “I’m listening,” he said.

“There is an organization in your country called the Mexican-American Trade Alliance.”

“I’ve heard of it. A lobbying group representing Mexican business interests.”

“It is more than that, Senor Smith. It is a murderous arm of a faction within the PRI.”

“Are you saying that this lobbying group was responsible for the deaths of Kelly, Laura Flores, and Morin Garza?”

“That is exactly what I am saying. Ramon and Laura had been investigating that group’s ties with the PRI’s old guard in Mexico City. It cost them their lives. Garza was part of the corruption but was weak, easily convinced to tell things about his union and the PRI that
were damaging to them. He, too, was killed because of what he knew and was willing to say.”

“Do you have proof of this?”

“Yes. I was to give it to you tonight, but thought better at the last minute of carrying it with me. It will be at your hotel when you return.”

“I’m not sure that’s any smarter than you carrying it around.”

“I think it is,
amigo
.”

“As you wish. I have to admit I have trouble accepting that the PRI—any government, for that matter—would resort to murder to hold on to power.”

Unzaga’s smile was weary. “You have trouble accepting such an idea? Your own government has plotted assassinations, has it not? Castro? The Kennedy brothers.”

“Castro, perhaps. The Kennedys? Not according to official investigations into those deaths. Besides, if some rogue element
had
engaged in such activities, it doesn’t represent the government of the United States as a whole.”

“Nor does the murder of Ramon and the others represent everyone within the PRI. Are there good people within our ruling party? Of course. But not enough to make a difference. Besides, it is dangerous for them to stand up and be counted. If there is to be significant change within our country, it will only come because those outside call for it to happen, and have the will and muscle to force it to happen.”

Unzaga refilled his glass and topped off Mac’s drink.

“What else?” Mac asked.

Unzaga spent the next fifteen minutes relating a litany of allegations against ranking members of the PRI—multimillion-dollar
drug payoffs to elected officials and law enforcement leaders; union collaboration with the PRI in which workers who’d balked mysteriously disappeared; the arming of paramilitary forces in Chiapas loyal to the PRI whose mission it was to murder pro-Zapatista Indians; and a dozen other charges, one more shocking than the next.

When he was finished, Mac asked again, “Some of these I know of, some not. Is there proof of what you say?”

“In some cases, yes. It is included in what you will take back to Senor Aprile.”

“Is there anything else?” Mac asked.

“No. I have told you what I know. Now, I can only pray that your vice president, your next president, will act upon it. There is no one here in Mexico for me to turn to, no one to right these wrongs. I place myself and the future of my people in your hands, Senor Smith.”

“That’s too heavy a burden to place on me, Senor Unzaga. I’m a messenger, that’s all.”

“And a brave one. Perhaps there is a final topic for me to raise.”

“Which is?”

“Senor Hedras.”

“Chris Hedras? What about him?”

“Do you trust him?”

Mac paused before saying, “Yes. Shouldn’t I?”

“Chris has been very helpful with our cause, Senor Smith. It was he, on Aprile’s behalf, who helped Ramon establish The Mexico Initiative. He has been a good friend to what we are trying to accomplish.”

“Then why do you ask whether I trust him?”

“My questioning nature, that’s all. He is close to Mrs. Dorrance. That is my understanding.”

“Of course he’s close to her. Chris is the vice president’s campaign manager. Elfie—Mrs. Dorrance—is one of the vice president’s chief supporters and fund-raisers.”

“But she does not share Senor Aprile’s views on Mexico, nor does Chris Hedras.”

Mac thought back to the conversation he’d had with Hedras in his apartment in which Hedras had expressed dissatisfaction with Joe Aprile’s stance on Mexico.

“What you say may be true, but I don’t think it’s reason to distrust him.”

“I am sure you are right. It’s just that …”

Mac waited.

“It’s just that when I think of Ramon’s death, and of Laura Flores and Morin Garza, I wonder who it was who knew what they knew and where they would be.”

“Many people, I assume,” Mac said.

“No. Few people, Mr. Smith. And always, Chris Hedras is around.”

The sound of the student singers reached them as the procession retraced its steps down Aldama to return to El Chorro.

“A final drink?” Unzaga asked, pouring. “A drink of friendship.”

They raised their glasses above the table and were about to touch rims when the chaos beyond the sheet erupted. Men shouted loudly in Spanish, followed by what sounded like tables being overturned and glasses smashing. Then, mingled with screams from the street was the unmistakable sound from the cantina of gunfire, and anguished cries.

Unzaga jumped up, pulled a handgun from his waistband, and flattened himself against the wall near the door. “Down, down,” he yelled at Smith, who fell to the floor and scrambled to the rebel leader’s side.

A loud male voice shouted from just the other side of the sheet:“Carlos Unzaga! Surrender!
Policía!
”

“My wife’s out there,” Mac said.

Unzaga tore off his wig and beard and looked at Mac with eyes glaring with anger.

“You have to give up,” Mac said.

“To be slaughtered?”

“They won’t kill you if you go out with your hands raised.”

“They want nothing more than to kill me—and you.”

“No,” Mac said. “Staying here is suicide.”

The commander repeated his command, louder this time.

“You don’t have any choice,” Mac said. “Put down your gun and follow me.”

He moved past Unzaga, paused, then pushed the sheet aside and raised his hands high. Facing him was a uniformed leader of federal troops who filled the cantina and lined the street outside, automatic weapons in their hands. Bodies of young men were slumped over tables, the bar, and on the floor.

Mac walked up to the commander, stared him down, then slowly passed him. The commander shouted something in Spanish, causing his troops on the sidewalk to lower their weapons and to allow Mac to pass. He spotted Annabel in the crowd. Palomino stood partially in front of her as though acting as a shield.

As Mac stepped off the sidewalk in their direction, he
was immediately surrounded by a half dozen of the costumed men who’d been part of the singing procession. But this time they weren’t singing. They held weapons.

“This way, Mr. Smith,” one of the men dressed in a clown costume said, leading him to Annabel and Palomino. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

They’d no sooner taken a step when gunfire again erupted inside the cantina. Mac turned to see Carlos Unzaga lurch from the back room through the bar area, his gun blazing, bullets from the troops’ weapons tearing into him.

“God, no,” Mac said.

“Quick,” the man in a clown costume said. “Let’s move.”

They moved as a mass, at a run, Annabel carrying her shoes, stockings torn, down Aldama to El Chorro, and into the open-air bar and public area just outside the Sierra Nevada’s four suites by the park.

“Your suite,” the clown said.

Annabel opened the door and she and Mac went inside, followed by the others. It was then that Mac recognized one of the men in costume, Richard de LaHoya, who’d briefed him with Jim Ferguson at the State Department.

“This is an outrage,” Mac said to LaHoya. “There was no need to gun him down like that. It was an assassination, nothing more.”

“You’re lucky it didn’t include you,” LaHoya said.

“Are you all right?” Annabel asked her husband.

“Physically, yes. This was murder
—another
murder.”

“Get packed,” LaHoya said.

“Why? We’re not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are,” the man in clown dress said. “And you’re going there
now
!”