Murder at the Watergate (34 page)

“I never wanted to see anyone hurt,” he said absently.

“Of course you didn’t. But things turned out badly for you. That, my young friend, is the harsh reality.”

He stood, went to the stone wall, and peered into the distance. When he turned to face her, he was smiling. “That’s all behind me now, Elfie. Old news.”

“But big news. Your picture on page one for days, alongside Mac Smith. The American press seldom makes much of the killing of some Mexican rebel leader, but when a respected law professor is almost gunned down with him, that
is
big news.
Very
big news. And there you were enjoying your sixty days of fame.”

“Get to the point, Elfie.”

She went to him, looked into his eyes, and kissed him on the cheek. The top button of her pajamas was undone, revealing the curve of her breasts. “The point is, Mr. Christopher Hedras, that while I am famous—you’ll
pardon my lack of modesty—you are infamous, and they do not blend easily together. I don’t think you’d enjoy living here in San Miguel. In fact, I suggest you scrap that plan. There are other places in Mexico where you’ll be able to live comfortably with whatever money you have. But not here.
Do we understand each other?
”

“You bitch!”

“Careful.”

“Who the hell do you think you are? I don’t need you. You latched on to me because I was close to Joe Aprile. You don’t give a damn whether people died. You’re probably happy they did if it helped your friends in the PRI. And you’re going to treat me like I’m some lowlife, some scum to be washed out of your precious life? No, I don’t need you, lady. I’ve been used enough by too many people and you top the list. As for money, I have plenty. If I want to live here in San Miguel, I’ll do it. Maybe your adoring public would enjoy daily anecdotes over coffee about how you plotted to compromise the vice president of the United States. Should make for interesting discussion when you take your shot at ambassador.”

“I’ve always enjoyed that about you, Christopher, your immature view of things. I
will
be ambassador to Mexico.”

“You enjoyed my mature performance in bed.”

“I’ve had better.”

She returned to the table, the thin fabric of her pajama bottoms failing to conceal her body’s supple movements. She pressed a button on the table. The housekeeper appeared.

“Mr. Hedras is leaving,” Elfie said. “Please show him out.”

He started to leave, paused at the doors, turned and said, “I’ve had better, too, Elfie. And younger. You’re getting old and ugly.
That’s
reality. Happy to have been of service.”

Hedras had kept his taxi waiting. It was loaded with luggage he’d brought with him from Washington. He’d hoped to stay with Elfie for a while, until he found a suitable house. But that was no longer in the cards.

The money Oswaldo Flores had given him was deposited in a Mexico City bank, wired there from El Paso before he flew to Washington. Actually, the envelope had contained only seven hundred and thirty thousand dollars. You couldn’t trust anybody.

Before flying from Mexico City to León that morning, Hedras had called Flores from the airport. He was direct; he wanted the second million. To his surprise, Flores was pleasant and accommodating. The money would be delivered to him the next day in San Miguel.

“No need for that,” Hedras had said. “I can come to your house and get it, catch a later flight.”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Flores had said. “Things are tense here. My people in San Miguel will be happy to deliver it to you there.” He gave Hedras details of where and when he would meet with his surrogate.

That night, Hedras stayed in a suite at the Santa Monica Hotel, at Baeza 22, on the eastern side of the park, a restored eighteenth-century Spanish hacienda. He drank margaritas in the outdoor restaurant to the point of drunkenness, fell asleep in his Jacuzzi, and collapsed into bed, wet.

The next day, after a large, late breakfast, he walked to
San Miguel’s bullfighting ring on Recreo, where he stood on the sidewalk by its main gates until an older-model green Mercedes pulled up.

“Hedras?” the man in the passenger seat said. He was middle-aged, smooth-faced, and nicely dressed in a suit and tie.

“Sí.”

“Come. Get in.”

Hedras approached the car. “You have the money?”

“
Sí, sí
. I am Senor Flores’s representative in San Miguel. Por Televisa. Get in. We go get the money now. Flores told me to take you to it.”

“Okay.” Hedras got in the backseat and closed the door. The driver, younger than the other man, wore a large cowboy hat. He didn’t turn to acknowledge Hedras, his only contact his eyes in the rearview mirror. He pulled away, the vehicle’s weakened springs causing it to buck on the uneven cobblestones. They headed out of town, in the direction of the main road leading to León. After driving for fifteen minutes, they turned off onto a narrow dirt road that twisted its way up into low-lying hills. Soon, after negotiating a particularly sharp turn, a small house with a narrow porch came into view.

“Is the money there?” Hedras asked.

“Sí.”

They came to a dusty stop in front of the house. The two men in the front seats got out and waited for Hedras to do the same. But he remained in the car. He’d had initial reservations about getting into the Mercedes. Now he was gripped with blinding, agonizing fear.

“Hey, Hedras, come on.”

“Get out, amigo.”

The men were smiling.

Hedras ordered himself to calm down. Maybe there was nothing to fear. In all probability the money was inside the house. Flores hadn’t balked at the first payment, although Chris had been short-changed. Don’t show them your fear.

He opened the door and got out. One of the Mexicans motioned for him to follow them inside. The house consisted of one large room with a Pullman kitchen at one end. A single interior door stood open, revealing a bathroom. Hedras had an urge to relieve himself and knew he’d have to before getting in the car for the return to San Miguel. He started for the bathroom but stopped. Get the money first.

“Well?” Hedras said. “The money.
Dinero, por favor
.”

“Sí.”

The well-dressed man opened a cabinet in the kitchen area and removed a large, grease-stained gray canvas bag. Relief surged through Hedras’s body like a powerful chemotherapy drug. He smiled as he accepted the bag from the man.

“Un momento,”
Hedras said.
“El retrete.”
He pointed to the bathroom and went to it, closing the door behind him. There wasn’t a window; the room was dark. A gap in the wall allowed a sliver of daylight to penetrate the gloom. His urge to relieve himself had passed. He held the bag up to the light and undid the leather strap that secured its top. He reached inside and pulled out some of its paper contents, squinted to see it. It can’t be, he thought. “No!” he said aloud. “Damn it, no!” He held a wad of plain paper cut the size of American paper money.

The fear was back, even worse this time. What could he do? Surely, they were waiting for him right outside the door. There was no escape. No window. Could he break through the wall? Impossible. Maybe he could talk his way out of it, offer them money. There was seven hundred and thirty thousand in the bank. How much should he offer? A thousand would be a fortune to them. He’d offer ten thousand. How do you say that in Spanish?
Diez mil? Dinero americano
. They’d listen, he told himself. If they were going to kill him, they would have done it already. Why the bag filled with phony money? A joke? That had to be it.

He pressed his ear to the door, heard nothing. He said, “Hey, amigos.” Nothing.

He slowly opened the door. The large room was empty. The door to the outside was open. Good, he thought. At least I have some room to maneuver. It occurred to him that the men might have driven away, leaving him there holding the joke in his hand. That bastard Flores. He never intended to pay the second million. This was his warped way of delivering that message.

Hedras drew a series of deep breaths. The hell with the money. Seven hundred and thirty thousand dollars was more than he’d ever need to live well in Mexico. He’d use it to start a business, invest in something. He actually smiled.

He approached the front door one careful step at a time, stopping once to look through a dirt-crusted window. He didn’t see the Mercedes but knew it hadn’t been parked to the side of the house. He moved slightly to his left to afford a wider view of the porch. No car in sight.

More deep breaths before continuing to the door. All
was silent. Outside, a breeze kicked up red dust where the car had been.

He stepped out onto the porch, feeling good. His focus now was on how to get back to town. It happened in less than a second. The taller, younger man who’d driven the car had been waiting just outside the door. His movements were swift and sure. The thin wire with wooden handles at either end came over Hedras’s head and was tightened against his throat, drawing blood. The sack dropped to the porch floor, followed by Hedras, who came down hard on his knees. A sickening gurgle came from his mouth as the second man pulled his legs out straight. He was carried to a rusted oil drum cut in half to form a cistern. The younger man released one end of the wire. Hedras was dumped into the cistern, face up, eyes wide and bulging, a thin necklace of blood decorating his neck.

He tried to speak. He raised one hand in a gesture of pleading. When he saw the man in the suit reach his hand over the side of the cistern, and saw the revolver in it, he managed to say, “Please don’t,” accompanied by a burst of tears.

The bullet entered between his eyes. Death was instantaneous. Blood ran freely down his face, and a dark, warm, wet stain burst through the crotch of his white slacks.

The killer in the suit picked up the canvas bag from the porch while his accomplice pulled Hedras’s wallet from his pocket. They closed the front door to the house and went to the Mercedes, which they’d moved while Hedras was in the bathroom. They nodded at each other, drove away, and enjoyed bottles of beer on their way
back to San Miguel, laughing at having heightened their victim’s anguish by including the canvas bag in the murder scheme. It was, they agreed, a good joke on the gringo.

After receiving a call from San Miguel that afternoon, Oswaldo Flores dialed a number in Mexico City and was immediately put through to Central Bank president, Antonio Morelos. After exchanging preliminary small talk, Flores said, “The depositor I mentioned to you two months ago has died today in San Miguel de Allende. Tragic.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Oswaldo.”

“I deliver this sad news because of the account he had opened with Banco Nacional de Mexico, the account you placed a hold on.”

“Sí.”

“Had he ever attempted to withdraw from that account?”

“I am told he did not. As was agreed, he would be allowed to take as much as fifty thousand dollars from it, no more. But he evidently took nothing, according to the records provided me.”

“
Bueno
. Those funds will be transferred as scheduled?”

“Not an official donation, of course, but into the general campaign fund.”

“Exactly. As always, good to speak with you, Antonio. We must have dinner soon.”

Mac and Annabel divided their attention between CNN and packing. They’d decided to take a long weekend away from Washington—destination, The Castle in Mount Savage, Maryland, a Scottish-style citadel on top of Mount Savage, whose previous incarnations had been as a casino and a brothel.

They took a break from packing, sat on the edge of the bed, and focused on their bedroom television. A Joe Aprile press conference was about to be joined in-progress. On the bed between Mac and Annabel was that day’s
Washington Post
. The story of the murder in Mexico of former presidential deputy chief of staff and campaign manager for Vice President Joseph Aprile, Christopher Hedras, was front page, below the fold.

Aprile’s press conference was being held in Detroit, coming on the heels of a political swing through the Midwest. Reporters had run the string on their questions about his political plans, and now turned to the subject of Mexico, and the death of Christopher Hedras.

“Mr. Vice President, what’s your reaction to the news that your former top aide, Christopher Hedras, has been killed in Mexico?”

Aprile didn’t hesitate: “I was sorry to hear of it, and my sympathy goes out to his family.”

The reporter followed up: “But Hedras’s role in your campaign was, to be kind, controversial. Although he was never convicted of anything, he was accused of deliberately attempting to sabotage you, especially involving Mexico.”

“I’m aware of all the charges leveled at Chris Hedras, but those charges were never proved. After being subjected to our legal process, it was determined he’d not broken any laws. As for rumors that he’d tried to injure me in some way, I find that hard to believe.”

Another reporter: “But he was linked to The Mexican Initiative, which he claimed was formed at your behest. Its director and head of research were murdered, and arrests have been made, including individuals from a Washington-based Mexican lobbying group.”

“I was aware of the Initiative’s work. However, as I’ve stated on numerous occasions, it was an independent, private agency with its own agenda. It would be inappropriate for me to comment further on an ongoing criminal investigation.”

Question: “It’s obvious that the rift between you and the president over policy toward Mexico is growing wider. Have you and he had any recent substantive discussions about it?”

Aprile smiled, shook his head. “There is no rift between the president and me concerning Mexico. Naturally, we have certain differing views on the subject. We
differ on many things. But the recent elections, and widespread reforms promised by Mexico’s leadership, is all positive. Excuse me. Thanks for coming. Good to see all of you.”

“Just one more question,” a reporter yelled as Aprile started to leave the podium. “Congressman Curtain’s committee is a week away from holding its hearings into alleged illegal contributions to your previous campaigns. Curtain says he has proof of contributions from Mexican interests attempting to influence our policies toward Mexico.”