by Stuart Woods
“But I was born in California,” the governor replied.
“Governor, if our investigations can confirm that, you will have no problem meeting the qualification.”
The governor was frowning. “So where do we go from here?” “We’ll interview Pedro Martнnez, and that should do it. In the meantime, let’s keep working our way through the questionnaire.”
14
Kerry Smith and Shelly Bach were on the way back to the Hoover Building after the interview with Governor Stanton.
“I think the governor is looking pretty good,” Shelly said.
You’re looking pretty good, yourself, Kerry thought. Shelly was a long-legged blonde who dressed better than a female FBI agent had any business dressing. “I think so, but we’ve got to clear up this birthplace question. I want it thoroughly documented for the file, because, believe me, this is going to come up at his confirmation hearing.”
“Sounds like this Pedro Martнnez is the man we have to talk to,” she said.
“How’s your Spanish?” Kerry asked.
“Pretty good, actually. I minored in it at college, and I had three months at the Army language school in Monterey, California, as preparation for working in the Albuquerque office. Then I got transferred here.”
“I want you to call the Coke bottling plant in Tijuana, find out exactly where Martнnez lives, and interview him. Be sure and get an audio recording of the interview. I’ll authorize a jet for your trip, so get out there, interview the old man, and get back here. We’ve got to have this thing wrapped up by the end of the week, or the director will eat us both alive.”
“Yes, sir.”
***
“So?” the Director asked.
Kerry told him how the interview had gone. “I’m sending Shelly Bach to Tijuana to interview Pedro Martнnez,” he said. “I’ve authorized a jet for her.”
“You go, too,” Bob Kinney replied. “ ‘Assistant director’ will look better on the passenger manifest. We’re not in the habit of authorizing Citations for special agents.”
“Yes, sir,” Kerry said, surprised, but he could not regret spending ten or twelve hours in a small jet with Shelly Bach.
***
Martin Stanton was back in his family-quarters office and reaching for his throwaway cell phone.
“Hello!” her surprised voice said.
“Hello.”
“You don’t sound so good.”
“I’m a little tired. I’ve just spent three hours with two FBI agents who are exploring every nook and cranny of my life.”
“How’d it go?”
“Pretty well. You remember when we were in San Diego last summer, when I was speaking at that thing?”
“Yes.”
“You met an old family friend from Mexico?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to find him and talk with him as soon as possible.”
“Why?”
“You remember the story about my birth?”
“In the backseat of the car? Sure.”
“Get him to tell you that story, and make sure he states clearly that I was born on the U.S. side of the border. And get it on tape.”
“You want me to do this myself?”
“I wouldn’t trust anybody else with this job.”
“I think I’m getting the picture here-geography is important?”
“You’re getting the picture. Call the Coke plant and get his address. Go by private airplane and pay cash. You know where to get the money. Don’t use your own name, except with immigration.”
“I understand. I’ll go down this weekend.”
“Go tomorrow, and as early as possible.”
“As you wish.”
“Tell the old man some other people may visit him, and it’s important that he tell them the right story.”
“I understand.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Stanton broke the connection.
***
Half a mile from the White House, Felix Potter pulled the tape from the recorder and tucked it into his shirt pocket. This was the second recording of these two people, and it wasn’t much better than the first. He called Marlene.
“Hey,” she said.
“I got those two people on tape again,” he said. “I think either from the White House or the Executive Office Building, next door.”
“Did you get everything this time?”
“No, it’s a lot like the last recording. Get this, though-they said something about a coke plant.”
“You’re thinking drugs?”
“What else?”
“You think someone in the White House or the EOB is doing drug deals?”
“Shit, I don’t know, but there’s always the possibility. Do you have any idea where the woman in the conversation is?”
“I assume in D.C., but she could be anywhere.”
“Still no caller ID came through?”
“Nah, they’re probably talking on throwaways.”
“Well, if they’re going to those lengths to not be identified, there must be something weird going on.”
“Yeah, I thought it was just two people fucking on the sly, but if they’re talking about a coke plant, then I don’t know.”
“When I get home from work, we’ll listen to both tapes together and see if we can figure out what’s going on.”
“See you at home, then.” Felix hung up. As he did, a blue light started flashing in his rearview mirror, and a whooper went off. He pulled over and checked out the car in the mirror: black and apparently unmarked. He spread an unfolded city map over his radio installation and set his camera on the dash to anchor it, then rolled down his window.
A man in civilian clothes walked up to his car, holding out an ID. “Federal officer,” the man said. “Step out of the car, please.”
Felix got out and reached for his wallet.
“Easy,” the officer said, grabbing his arm.
“I thought you’d want to see my license,” Felix said.
“Slowly,” the man said.
Felix retrieved his wallet from a hip pocket, fished out his license, and handed it to him.
The man looked at it, then produced some sort of electronic device and appeared to scan the license. “You’ve been driving around and around the White House for over an hour,” the officer said. “What are you doing?”
“I’m a photographer,” Felix replied. “Freelance. I get shots of people visiting the White House, when I’m lucky.”
“What’s in your camera now?”
“Nothing. I haven’t been lucky today. I was about to go home when you stopped me. I’m not breaking any laws.”
The officer handed back his license. “See that you don’t,” he said.
“But you’ll see me around here again, doing the same thing. I’d appreciate it if you’d pass the word that I’m harmless.”
The agent snorted, got back in his car, and drove away.
Felix breathed a sigh of relief. He was going to have to work on concealing the equipment in his car.
15
Kerry Smith and Shelly Bach handed their overnight bags to the pilot and boarded the airplane.
“What kind of plane is this?” Shelly asked as they buckled in.
“A CitationJet Two,” Kerry responded. “The government has caught on to using smaller, single-pilot jets for a lot of flights-saves them a lot of money. We have the range to make it nonstop if the headwinds aren’t too bad. Otherwise, we’ll refuel somewhere.”
“I’ve never been on a private jet before,” she said.
“It will be especially time-saving in avoiding the airport scene,” Kerry said. “No security lines, no hordes. There’ll be a car and driver waiting for us on the ramp when we land.”
“Wow.”
“I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink, but the Bureau isn’t that enlightened. There’ll be soft drinks and water in the fridge up front, though.”
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The airplane rolled onto the runway at Washington National and accelerated. A moment later they were climbing fast, headed west.
An hour later, Kerry finished making a list of phone calls and looked at Shelly. She had fallen asleep, her lips parted, her chin on her shoulder. The top button of her blouse had somehow come unbuttoned, and he appreciated the glimpse of breasts. Her shoes were off, and her feet were surprisingly small for a tall woman. She must be, what? Thirty? He’d read her jacket, and she had done nothing but excel for her whole life-school, college, sports, the works. The Bureau was lucky to have her, he felt, and he was lucky to have time to look at her thoroughly without getting busted for sexual harrassment.
Kerry had recently broken up with his girlfriend of two years, or, rather, she had dumped him. She wasn’t up for his schedule-the broken dates and missed vacations-and it had annoyed her that he couldn’t talk about his work after he got promoted. When he had been an ordinary special agent, he could tell her most things, entertain her with stories of busts, but not when Bob Kinney got the director’s job, noticed him, and started promoting him. Shelly would understand that.
While strictly enforcing the sexual harassment rules, Director Kinney had quietly let slide any notion of a nonfraternization policy in the Bureau. He figured, he had said to Kerry, that with more and more women agents in the Bureau, attractions would exist, liaisons would form, and some marriages would result, and that might be a good thing, since agents would understand each other’s problems. Kerry thought so, too, but he had not been tempted until now. He was her supervisor on this job, of course, but that would end when they turned in their report, and he would be free to ask her out.
She opened her eyes and looked at him across the table between them. It was as if she had known that he had been watching her as she slept. She gave him a little smile, and the effect ran directly from his eyes to his crotch, as though a wire existed for that communication.
***
Barbara Ortega took off from Mather, a general-aviation field ten miles east of Sacramento, in a Beechcraft Baron, a twin-engine aircraft being used for air-taxi work, at ten o’clock Pacific time. She was in Tijuana and in a rental car three and a half hours later. She had a road map and the address the woman at the Coca-Cola bottling plant had given her. Pedro Martнnez lived near Baja Malibu, on the coast, not far from the U.S. border. Following directions, she turned left off the coast road and climbed a hill. A couple of turns later she came to a small adobe house that looked old but in good repair. She remembered the old man from San Diego, and he now sat on the front porch, looking out across the sea, a couple of miles away. A small duffel bag rested beside him on the porch. She got out of the car and switched on her Spanish.
“Pedro,” she said, “my name is Barbara. We met in San Diego last spring, do you remember?”
Martнnez fixed her with his gaze. “Ahhh,” he said, “you are the friend of Martin. Yes, I remember you-you gave me champagne.” He smiled broadly, revealing perfect dentures.
“May I sit down?” she asked, reaching into her purse and switching on her recorder.
“Of course, seсorita. What brings you to visit me?”
“I came because you told me a story in San Diego, and I wanted to hear it again.”
“A story?”
“The one about how you delivered Martin in the backseat of the Cadillac.”
Pedro threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, yes, it is true. I brought Martin into this world.” He began the story, starting when he drove to the Stanton home to drive the seсor to work. “Then we got to the border crossing,” he said, “and we were stopped for inspection. Big Martin said to me, ‘Pedro, you have to help her. I don’t know what I’m doing.’ So I got out of the car and got into the backseat, and Big Martin got behind the wheel, and little Martin was born. Then he drove us to the hospital in San Diego.”
Barbara switched off the recorder. “Pedro,” she said, “where were you, exactly, when Martin was born?”
“At the border, the guard, who was very young, was scared when he saw what was happening, and he yelled, ‘Get out of here!’ and waved his arm, and Big Martin put his foot down.”
Barbara switched off the recorder. “Pedro, this is very important: Were you in the United States when Martin was born or in Mexico?”
“Between, I think. I don’t know exactly.”
“Pedro, you are Martin’s friend, are you not?”
“Oh, yes, for his whole life.”
“Some people are going to come here soon and ask you about this, and it is very important to Martin that you tell them the car was already in the United States when he uttered his first cry. Do you understand?”
Pedro looked at her for a long moment. “Little Martin will be your vice president, is it not true? This is what I am told.”
“Yes, Pedro, he will be the vice president if he was born in the United States. Do you understand?”
“Ah, yes, I see,” Pedro said. “Let me think. Ah, yes, I remember.”
Barbara turned on the recorder again.
“We came to the border, and I got into the backseat with Magdalena, and the young border guard looked inside and said, ‘Get out of here!’ so Big Martin put his foot down, and we drove into El Norte, and two or three minutes later, Little Martin uttered his first cry.”
“And is that what you will tell everyone from now on?”
Pedro spread his hands. “But it is the truth, seсorita. I must tell the truth, mustn’t I?” He gave her a big smile.
A car driven by a young woman pulled up, and Pedro stood. “You will please excuse me, seсorita,” he said, “but I am to go now to Tecate, to the birthday of my youngest sister.” He picked up his little duffel, got into the car with the woman, and they drove away.
Barbara waited a moment, taking in the view, then she got into her car and drove back toward Baja Malibu. As she turned onto the main road, a black car driven by a man in a suit turned onto the road toward the Martнnez house. Another man in a suit sat in the rear seat with a blonde woman.
Barbara had the feeling she had not been a moment too soon.
16
Kerry was surprised that his cell phone worked at the Martнnez house, but soon he had Bob Kinney on the line.
“Where are you, Kerry?”
“At the home of Pedro Martнnez. He left the house only a few minutes before we got here. A woman here says he went to someplace called Tecate, to his sister’s birthday party. I don’t even know where Tecate is.”
“When is he coming back?”
“He’ll be here by lunchtime tomorrow, according to the woman.”
“Go to Tecate and question Martнnez there.”
“The woman doesn’t know where the sister lives, or even her name.”
“So you’re stuck there for another twenty-four hours?”
“It looks that way.”
“All right. Check into a hotel, and get it done tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Kerry said, but the director had already hung up. He and Shelly walked back to the car and got in. “Driver… What’s your name again?”
“Josй, seсor.”
“Do you know of a decent hotel near here? Not in Tijuana?” Kerry was nervous about Tijuana; he had heard too many wild things about it.
“Oh, yes, seсor. There is a very good hotel in Baja Malibu, on the beach. I have the number in my cell phone.”
“Will you please call and book two rooms for us? Just one night.”
“Of course, seсor.” The man made the call. “They have the rooms, seсor. Shall I drive you there?”
“Yes, and you’ll need to pick us up at, say, eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, drive us here, then back to the airport in Tijuana.”
“Of course, seсor.” He put the car into gear and headed to Baja Malibu.
***
Kerry checked in at the desk and told the desk clerk they wouldn’t need a bellman, since they had light luggage. The clerk gave h
im two keys and directions to the rooms, on the top floor.
They took the elevator upstairs, and Kerry found the rooms. He unlocked the door of the first one and handed Shelly the key. “Would you like to have dinner later?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’ll book a table in the restaurant. Seven o’clock?”
“That will be fine.”
“I’ll knock on your door.” He walked down the hall and let himself into the next room. It was nicely furnished with a flat-screen TV, and there was a terrace overlooking the sea. He heard a knock at the door and walked back into the room and opened it, but no one was there. Then the knocking came again, and he found that it was coming from another door in the room. He opened it and found Shelly waiting.
“It’s not two rooms,” she said, “it’s a suite.” She was standing in a sitting room.
“I’m sorry,” Kerry said, walking into the sitting room and picking up the phone. “I’ll call down and fix this.”
“Yes, seсor?” the clerk said.
“I asked for two rooms, but you gave me a suite, instead.”
“Seсor, a suite is two rooms.”
“But I wanted two bedrooms.”
“Ahhh,” the clerk said. “Just a moment.”
“I’m on hold,” Kerry said to Shelly.
She nodded.
The clerk came back. “Seсor?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, seсor, but the hotel is fully booked. You got the last suite.”