by Stuart Woods
This was all a worst-case scenario, of course. It was likely that Owen had never heard of Partain and that the photo now rested in some filing cabinet at police headquarters in Colуn, at the other end of the canal, which would suit Teddy just fine.
The worst-case scenario, though, would suit him pretty well, too, because Lance Cabot, as soon as he saw the photo of Teddy, would have conducted an immediate sweeping-under-the-rug operation. Certainly, he would not have apprised Katharine Rule of the resurrection of Teddy Fay, since that would have reflected very badly on himself. Nor would he send people looking for Teddy, since that would mean looking for a dead man. Lance, for the moment, would serve very nicely as Teddy’s new best friend.
Owen Masters, though, would have little interest in Lance Cabot’s comfort. There had been, after all, a day when Owen’s career track had aimed him, more or less, at Lance’s job, and now he found himself moldering in the heat and humidity of Panama, grinding it out until his retirement clock reached the magic number of thirty, disaffected and thoroughly pissed off. Owen was the wild card in the worst-case scenario, and Teddy wanted to have sight of him, to assess his state of mind.
Teddy began by waiting outside the American Embassy in the late afternoon. He wanted to know what time Owen Masters called it a day, and he was gratified to see the aging spy wander out of the building at a quarter past four. He certainly wasn’t working nights trying to find Teddy. Owen got into his car, a dusty embassy Chevrolet, and Teddy cranked his motor scooter and followed him.
The trail of Owen Masters led to a dimly lit cantina a mile or so from the embassy but probably near Owen’s home. There he would be unlikely to encounter fellow embassy employees, so there would be no one to report back on how much he was drinking. And Owen was drinking much.
The man started with a tequila shooter and a cerveza chaser, just to get his alcohol blood level up, then switched to margaritas. Teddy witnessed all this from the far end of the bar, while he nursed his own drink. Owen spent an hour there, anesthetizing himself for whatever his evening promised.
What it promised, it turned out, after Teddy had followed him home and stationed himself outside a kitchen window, was five minutes of a monumental fight with Owen’s wife, Estelle, whom Teddy had met once at a social gathering of spooks. The discussion covered the no doubt familiar ground of Owen’s consumption level of alcohol, Owen’s lack of career prospects, Owen’s failure to save enough money for a decent retirement, and Owen’s having got them sent to this godforsaken place.
This was followed, after Estelle had finally wound down, by a grimly silent supper and television viewing. Teddy was happy for Owen that he had a satellite dish.
Teddy wended his way to a favorite restaurant for dinner, feeling less worried about Owen Masters as a threat. He would stick around Panama City, albeit well prepared for flight, until he discerned some more threatening blip on his overdeveloped personal radar.
39
Barbara Ortega left the Department of Justice feeling very good. She had spent a little over two hours with a three-person selection committee-two men and a woman-and had answered their questions directly, honestly, and sometimes bluntly. They had reacted with interest, seemed to appreciate her candor, and had, somehow, signaled the attorney general to join them for the last few minutes of the interview, which she took as a good sign. The AG had asked a few questions and had seemed happy with her answers, too.
Her rйsumй was great, the new vice president was her former boss, and she knew there was a letter of recommendation from the president in her file. There was nothing in her personal history that would count as a black mark. She had been outstanding as a student, as an ADA in Los Angeles and in the California AG’s office, as well as in the state house. And she was a woman. What could go wrong?
She went back to her hotel, ordered a room-service dinner, and fell asleep with the TV on.
Martin Stanton was en route from Los Angeles to San Antonio when he got the call from the attorney general.
“Morning, Mr. Vice President.”
“Good morning, General.”
“My selection committee and I met yesterday with your former chief of staff, Barbara Ortega.”
“I hope it went well.”
“She was very impressive. I noted that there was nothing in her jacket from you about her candidacy, and I wanted to ask you why.”
“I felt that I should not be seen to be promoting my former chief of staff for a high federal position at this time, that’s all,” Stanton said.
“So you asked the president to do it instead?”
“No, the first I heard of the president’s involvement was when he mentioned that Barbara had given him as a reference.”
“I suppose she had every right to do that,” the AG said.
“Of course. She knows the president, and he knows her.”
“What is your opinion of Ms. Ortega as a person and a candidate for the appointment?”
“Since you ask, I have the highest possible regard for her both personally and professionally. I think she’s perfectly qualified for the appointment.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” the AG said. “Would you like to know my decision?”
“If you want to tell me, certainly.”
“I’ve decided to hire her as head of the Criminal Division,” the AG said.
Stanton tried to keep his voice neutral. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy with Barbara,” he said, “and I congratulate you on your judgment.”
The AG laughed. “Thank you, sir. Would you like to give her the news?”
“No, I think she’d like to hear it from you, General. I’ll drop her a congratulatory note when I get a chance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vice President, and good-bye.”
Stanton hung up the phone, elated. He also found that he had an erection at the thought of having Barbara in Washington. It had been very tough to do without her during the past days.
At that moment Liz Wharton walked past his seat, and he watched thoughtfully as she made her way up the aisle. She stopped and bent over to speak to someone, and her skirt was pulled tight across her ass. Stanton’s heartbeat increased noticeably.
***
Shelly Bach put down the phone, left her office, and walked a couple of doors down to Kerry Smith’s secretary. “Does he have a minute?” she asked.
“He’s alone,” the woman replied. “Go on in.”
Shelly rapped on the door and stuck her head in. “Got a moment?”
“Sure, come on in.”
She walked in, took a chair, and noticed how carefully he watched her. They had made a point of being completely professional in the office, even when alone, but their evenings had been much more interesting.
“What’s up?”
“Have you ever heard of an agent called Hope Branson?”
“No. What office is she in?”
“Well, the switchboard had a call this morning from someone asking for an Assistant Director Hope Branson, and after being told there was no such person he insisted on talking to an AD, and the call came to me.”
“There’s certainly no assistant director by that name,” Kerry said. “What else did he say?”
“He said that she had come to his office yesterday and shown him FBI ID, and that he had called our switchboard to confirm her identity and reached her secretary. I told him I thought someone must be pulling his leg, and he hung up. I had the call backtracked and it was from the office of the editor of a horrible gossip rag called the National Inquisitor, a man named William or Willie Gaynes.”
Kerry sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful. “And what do you divine from that?”
“Sounds like we have an impostor AD roaming the streets,” Shelly said.
“Did you get a description of the woman?”
“No, he hung up too quickly.”
“Maybe you’d better look into this,” Kerry said. “Visit Mr. Gaynes and find out as much as you can about this wo
man.”
“All right,” she said, getting up and turning for the door.
“Dinner tonight?”
“Sure,” she said, flashing him a smile.
***
Willie Gaynes sat at his desk and thought deeply. What the hell was going on here? This woman had shown him a business card and federal ID that looked good to him and on top of that a court order and a search warrant, and the judge’s clerk had backed it up. Now the FBI had denied all knowledge of this Hope Branson.
Of course, he no longer had the business card, the court order, or the search warrant; she had been smart enough to take all of that with her, along with all the photographs of Teddy Fay, if it was, indeed, Teddy Fay.
Willie had been mixed up in a lot of screwy deals in this job-that was the work, after all-but this one took the cake, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.
40
Shelly Bach parked her car in the basement garage of the National Inquisitor building and, as she walked to the elevator, noted the number of Porsches, Mercedes, and BMWs parked there. She doubted if the parking garage at The Washington Post sported so many.
In the reception room she showed her ID to the receptionist. “I’d like to see Mr. Gaynes,” she said.
The woman dialed a number. “A lady from the FBI to see you,” she said.
“Special Agent Shelly Bach,” Shelly said.
The receptionist repeated this information into the phone, then hung up. “Through the door, down the hall to the corner office,” she said.
Shelly followed the directions and found William Gaynes waiting for her at his open door, looking her up and down.
“Oh, a different one today,” he said.
“You and I spoke on the phone yesterday,” Shelly said, holding up her ID, “only you hung up.”
“All right, come on in,” Gaynes said resignedly.
Shelly took a chair and crossed her legs. “Tell me about this visitor you had,” she said. “Start with a physical description.”
“Tall,” Gaynes replied, “like you. Short reddish hair, a good suit, great shoes, probably Manolos. On the whole, rather good looking.”
“And what did her ID look like?”
“Like yours.”
“You said she showed you a court order and a search warrant?”
“Signed by a federal judge. I called the number on his letterhead, and his clerk confirmed it.”
“The judge’s name?”
“I can’t remember,” Gaynes replied. “Not one I was familiar with.”
“Someone went to a great deal of trouble and preparation to convince you of something,” Shelly said. “What was it?”
“She told me that a reporter of mine, a valued reporter named Ned Partain, had died, was probably murdered in Panama. A moment later, somebody who said he was a Panamanian policeman called and confirmed it.”
“My, what a coincidence. Well, if she wasn’t FBI-and she wasn’t-maybe he wasn’t a Panamanian policeman.”
Gaynes sat up. “You mean Partain might not be dead?”
“I have no idea,” Shelly said, “but give me a minute, and I’ll find out.” She whipped out her cell phone and pressed a button. “This is Bach. Ascertain a reported death in Panama, name of Ned Partain, reporter, circumstances, too. Call me back immediately.”
“How do I know you’re FBI?” Gaynes asked.
“You called the Hoover Building yesterday and got me on the phone. I’m not the cleaning lady.” She handed him her card. “You can keep this one.”
Gaynes read it and dropped it into a desk drawer. “What do you want?”
“I want to know what she wanted,” Shelly said. “She didn’t turn up here with a lot of fake paper just to tell you your reporter was dead. She could have done that with a fake phone call.” Shelly’s phone rang. “Yes?”
“Death of Ned Partain confirmed,” her assistant said. “Possibly accidental but probably homicide. Officer in charge of case: Sergeant Pepe Norte, Panamanian National Police, based in Panama City. Body iced and air-freighted to W. Gaynes, with a y, care of the National Inquisitor.”
“Hang on,” Shelly said. “Mr. Gaynes, Partain is dead, and his body was shipped to you this morning. I’d like to have an autopsy performed by our people. That all right with you?”
“What’s it going to cost me?” Gaynes asked.
“It will be gratis.”
“Gratis is good. Do your thing.”
Shelly raised her pen. “Who is his next of kin?”
“He had an ex-wife, nobody else that I know of.”
“Then I guess your permision will do.” Shelly turned back to her phone. “Tell AD Smith I’d like the body met and taken to our ME for autopsy.”
“Will do.” She hung up.
“All right, Mr. Gaynes,” Shelly said, “What did the fake FBI lady want?”
“Some photographs,” Gaynes said.
“Of whom or what?”
“Teddy Fay.”
Shelly stared at him, momentarily speechless.
“Allegedly,” Gaynes said. “A woman named Darlene Cole called Ned and said she had taken the photo and that she had seen Fay in Panama while she was there on a cruise. We paid her for the shot, but she retained the negative.” He read out the name of Cole’s employer, address, and phone number while Shelly copied them down.
“Let me see the photograph,” Shelly said.
“I gave all the prints we had to your supposed colleague,” Gaynes said.
“All of them?”
“All of them. She said the photo wasn’t of Teddy Fay but of an American intelligence agent on assignment in Panama, and she threatened me with all sorts of crap if I didn’t forget she’d ever been here.”
“Describe the man in the photo.”
“Mid to late fifties, balding, gray hair, medium everything.”
“This is preposterous,” Shelly said, half to herself.
“Tell me about it.”
***
Shelly visited the law office where Darlene Cole worked and found her at her desk. Cole seemed happy to tell her everything.
“You didn’t give her all the negatives, did you?” Shelly asked.
“She went through my wallet and found them. There were six, I think. I sold Gaynes a print of the best one.”
“Do you have any other photographs of the man who said he was Teddy Fay?”
“No. I took those one afternoon eight or nine years ago, when Teddy-if that’s his name-and I were sailing on Chesapeake Bay. Was he really Teddy Fay?”
“No,” Shelly said. “Fay is dead.”
“Was the guy I knew really an American spy?”
“Maybe.” Shelly gave her a card. “If you should suddenly discover more negatives or prints, call me, please.”
“Do I have to worry about Teddy Fay coming to see me?”
“I told you, he’s dead.”
“What about whoever the guy was?”
“I shouldn’t think he’ll be a problem,” Shelly said. She stood up. “Thank you for your help.”
***
Shelly drove back to the Hoover Building, went to see Kerry Smith, and told him what she had learned.
Kerry picked up his phone, dialed a number, and asked for Katharine Rule.
41
Will Lee got out of Marine One on the lawn, waved at the gathered press and staff, and made it into the White House just as rain began to pelt down. He reckoned the chopper had pretty good radar, if it had managed to avoid that. Lightning now joined the rain, illuminating the White House in flashes.
He walked into the upstairs family quarters and was surprised to find his wife already home from Langley, curled up on the living room couch, her feet tucked under her, watching CNN. He decided to play this as if nothing had happened the last time he saw her.
“Hi,” Kate said.
Will was encouraged. He walked over and kissed her on the neck. “Hi.”
“How was the campaign trail?” she
asked.
“Spooky,” he said. “I’m slipping in the polls for no apparent reason.” He tossed his jacket onto a chair, loosened his tie, walked over to the bar, and made them each a drink. “Moss says there’s nothing to worry about, but I don’t believe him. I think Spanner is turning out to be a better candidate than we had given him credit for.”
“I think Moss is right,” she said, accepting her martini, muting CNN, and patting a spot next to her on the couch all in one motion.
“You don’t think the electorate doesn’t love me anymore?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “How could anybody not love you? I do.”
He kissed her and tasted martini. “You certainly know how to welcome a weary candidate home,” he said.
“And I’m not finished,” she said, “but first I have to drink this martini and have some dinner, which I ordered as soon as I heard the chopper.”
“All that beauty and efficient, too.”
“I had a weird phone call today,” Kate said.
“That can’t be a new thing, in your job.”
“No, this was way out there.”
“Weird odd or weird funny?”
“Weird odd. You know that awful fucking scandal sheet, the Inquisitor, Charlene Joiner’s best friend?”
Will rolled his eyes.
“Well, a woman visited their offices yesterday, claiming to be an assistant director of the FBI, showing ID, too. Turns out the Bureau never heard of this person. I got a call from Kerry Smith, telling me about it.”