“Senora,” the leader said in an official and heavily accented voice, “you cannot park here. This is reserved for the ambassador’s car.” The man’s face was square and flat, his frame small, but muscled. The two men backing him up apparently went to the same body building classes.
Rita got out anyway. She looked up and down the street. “He’s on his way?”
“Senora, the ambassador is on delegation in Canada.”
“Then he won’t be needing his parking space.” Rita turned away and locked the door.
“I must ask you to move your car.” The two men behind the leader closed ranks.
“I have an appointment.” Rita decided she’d played enough; maybe one she could have handled, but these three were likely to give her serious bruises.
The spokesman stiffened as if this were a possibility, he was unequipped to deal with. He looked at his backups.
“Who are you to see, Senora?” The man’s tone was only slightly less thawed.
“Senor Gutierrez, head of your trade mission here.” Rita stared into the brown eyes of the security man. They remained unmoved, like a chunk of dark quartz.
The man nodded to one of the men behind who scurried up the steps and inside.
“Nice day, don’t you think?” Rita said.
The two guards stood in a robot pose as if their function had been turned off until the next circuit was set up.
“How about those Redskins?” Rita folded her arms across her chest. “Some game Sunday, wasn’t it?”
No response.
“Think they’ll take the World Cup? How about the American Cup? “
The door of the embassy swung open then and the messenger returned with only a nod of his head as communication.
“Please follow me.” The lead security guard turned. His backup disappeared quickly inside as he led Rita along a red carpeted hallway, past pre-Columbian art works and intricate woven wall hangings.
They came to an office where a secretary sat at a huge mahogany desk. She was an American, blonde and tall. When she stood to talk in whispers to the guard, she towered above him by a good three inches. When the security man finished and left, she eyed Rita.
“Senor Gutierrez will be with you shortly.” The blonde resumed her seat and stared into her PC monitor.
“Thanks.” Rita looked around the office.
More Mexican wall hangings, Conquistadoran breast plates and helmets tastefully displayed on dark wood paneling. Behind and to the left of the secretary’s desk were double oak doors, richly carved and polished, brass handles gleaming. The thickly carpeted room was silent except for the padding of the secretary’s fingers on her keyboard.
A young man entered the room, another American. He reminded Rita of the Hill staffers, same starched shirt and braces, same expensive shoes and cuffed suit trousers. The man handed a sheaf of papers to the secretary, smiled at Rita and left.
“You know,” Rita said in her best let’s get friendly voice, “I always think of embassies as hiring only people from the country they represent.”
The woman looked up warily as if she were considering this as some subterfuge. She apparently decided Rita was harmless and answered. “Oh, no, there are a lot of Americans who work here.”
“It must be really interesting for students to have a chance to work in this environment.”
“They’re really not students. We hire a lot of ex-government people, you know, who have experience with how things work.”
Rita nodded. “The fellow who was just in here reminded me a lot of the young guys you see on the hill.”
The secretary smiled. “He used to be a staffer on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, but we offered him a better salary. They don’t pay that well over there.”
“Well, then you can get some pretty knowledgeable people,” Rita said.
“We do,” the secretary said.
“And some pretty influential people,” Rita added.
Something about that sentence made the secretary halt. “Um,” she said and bent her head toward her PC to resume working and to signal the end of her chat.
The double doors opened and two men emerged. Both were Americans, both carried briefcases. They walked in lock step and exited without saying anything to the secretary.
Rita looked up expectantly, but the secretary kept on typing.
“My appointment was at eleven,” Rita said.
The secretary continued to face her PC screen. “Senor Gutierrez still has someone with him.”
Rita sighed and checked her watch. She got up to saunter around the room. Having inspected quickly all immediate surroundings, she started into the hall. As soon as she cleared the doorway, the two silent, but well-dressed thugs who had assisted the official greeter stepped out to bar her way.
“We don’t allow guests to wander around by themselves,” the secretary said.
“How about a guided tour?” Rita grinned at the two guards who said nothing, but held their ground.
“You’ll need to wait here for Senor Gutierrez.” The secretary kept on working.
Rita turned and went back inside. The pop-up goons disappeared on either side of the doorway.
“You’ll need to wait here for Senor Gutierrez.” Rita mimicked the secretary under her breath. “I could see the Pope with less intrigue. I could see the President.”
She addressed the oblivious secretary. “I can see God with less bullshit than this.”
The woman looked up, eyed Rita, then went back to her PC.
It was quarter to twelve when the double doors opened and a tall man, aristocratically thin in a grey suit that perfectly complemented his silvering hair, entered the room. Rita had a straight shot inside that inner office. This was Gutierrez and there had been no one else in that room with him.
“Senora Mars.” Gutierrez made straight for her and offered a polished hand. Gold cuff links pinned tight starched cuffs at the end of his jacket sleeve. Rita thought she saw light sparkle from his gleaming white teeth.
“Senor Gutierrez.” She shook his hand and marveled at the softness. In cold weather, her own hands roughened and chapped with even the most diligent care.
“I must apologize for the delay.” Gutierrez’s accent was more subtle than the goons who guarded the castle. “And now I find myself pressed for time. Perhaps we could reschedule so that I may give my full attention. I’m afraid I am on my way now to a luncheon meeting at your White House.”
This guy was as smooth as Bela Lugosi sucking up to his next victim. “But I have only a few questions.”
Gutierrez’s arm floated around but did not touch her back. With his other arm, he indicated they should walk. As they exited, the two pop-up protectors fell in behind. Rita gave them a quick glance, but they stared ahead as if they were alone and unaware of the couple in front of them.
“I would gladly answer them on my way,” Gutierrez said, “but my car will not be able to return you.”
“I’ll take you up on your offer.”
Suddenly one of the silent menaces behind, shot around to open the front door of the embassy. Again Rita gave him a stare, but he ignored her. A pearl grey stretch Mercedes idled discreet exhaust behind her Jeep. The other guard was already at the back passenger door.
The interior of the limousine smelled of expensive leather, cologne and cigar smoke. Between the passenger accommodations and the driver was a tinted glass partition controlled by buttons on either door of the back seat. A wet bar, a television, a fax machine, and two phones made up the accessories for any and all anticipated diplomatic needs. Rita wondered if there was a button back here that raised machine guns on the front and rear in James Bond style.
Gutierrez spoke in rapid Spanish to the guard holding the door. The guard closed the door and went to the driver’s window. Rita could make this out barely through the darkened glass that separated the front from the back. All the other windows were deeply tinted as well, though seeing out was far easier than seeing
inside.
“Relax, Senora Mars. Please.” Gutierrez reached for the wet bar.
“No thanks.”
Gutierrez shrugged and leaned back into his seat.
“Senor Gutierrez, have you ever heard of a reporter by the name of Robert Ellis?” Rita asked.
Gutierrez pursed his lips, then shrugged. “I do not know the names of each individual reporter in this city. Should I know him?”
“He was, I believe, working on a story about the new healthcare bill.”
“But then so is every reporter in your country.” Gutierrez smiled. “I see so many.”
“He was working on it from a different angle, not so much was it right or wrong for this country to enter into this agreement, as it was a story about how influence is brought to bear without regard to that right or wrong.” Rita watched the man’s eyes.
Gutierrez blinked and seemed to study something at the street corner where the limousine had stopped for a red light. “Like your Woodward and Bernstein, this reporter?”
Rita continued to watch. “Yes, he was like those men.”
“And where are they now—Woodward and Bernstein?” Gutierrez asked.
“They’re retired from the newspaper”
Gutierrez smiled. “That is not exactly how I meant that. I meant did they achieve some celebrity? Did they not write books and gain place? Do they not today have what you call clout?”
“So?”
“We are passing your Supreme Court.” Gutierrez pointed at the massive facade through his tinted window.
Rita ducked her head to catch a glimpse.
“It is a beautiful neoclassic building honoring the law of your land. Above you see the robed figures who represent the purveyors of justice.” Gutierrez tapped on the window. “Do you know that the architect sculpted in figures of himself and his friends among that lofty company?”
“Senor, we’re getting off the subject.” Rita’s eyes narrowed.
“Only a little.” Gutierrez laughed then pointed again as the limo swept around a corner. “Now I will get to the point.”
Rita craned her neck for this new lesson in capital architecture. The car glided by a mammoth fountain depicting the agony of Neptune at the death of his godlike children.
“It is so ideal and muscular, that fountain, and so eloquent in meaning.”
Rita waited.
“It is myth, that ideal of beauty and justice, is it not? Your capitol is where men enter marble halls with ringing words of justice and honorable action, but where each day is a common marketplace of trading base commodities for favor and power. This is true and you, among a few, really understand that.” Gutierrez turned to Rita.
The limousine idled to a halt and a guard who had been riding shotgun for the chauffeur sprang for the trade consul’s door to hold it.
Rita slid out behind him. “Are you going to answer my question or not?”
“I do not know your Robert Ellis. I do know that my country has pursued an honest course according to the guidelines your own officials have assigned for us to work under, and that includes contracting lobbyists to speak for us.” Gutierrez walked up the sidewalk to the delegation awaiting him at the glass entrance at the White House.
Rita started after him, but the powerful arm of the Mexican bodyguard stretched like a rail crossing barrier. “I’m going to finish Ellis’ story, Gutierrez. I’m going to know where the skeletons are buried. And I’m going to find out if you had anything to do with Bobby’s death.”
Chapter 27
Rita hated the silence. She glanced up from her desk to the empty outer office. Bev was at the dressmaker’s trying on evening gowns. When she was there, Rita sometimes got annoyed with her chatter. When she was away, Rita missed her.
Always the lone wolf on her own diverse trail, Rita ran hot and cold for companionship. She wanted people, but when they got too close, that itch for solitude scratched at her psyche and she put in hard distance. Blessed are the unthinking for they shall never wonder at the perversity of their actions.
Rita sighed and picked at the potato chip crumbs on the foil, which of late had sealed in the heat of her corned beef on rye. She’d been going over Senator Charles Strutt’s contributor lists. Nothing jumped out.
The phone rang.
“RM Investigative Services,” Rita said.
The male voice asked to speak to the head of the agency.
“This is Rita Mars.”
“Ms. Mars, this is special agent Les Folger with the Baltimore Bureau of the FBI, and I’d like to talk to you about your recent visit to the Mexican Trade Mission at their offices in the Mexican Embassy.”
“What about it?”
“We have a complaint from Mr. Jorge Gutierrez about your behavior there yesterday.” Folger cleared his throat.
“Oh, really? And what was the Senor’s major problem?”
“Mr. Gutierrez says in his official complaint that you were belligerent and abusive and that you refused to leave when asked politely by the embassy staff security.”
“Polite in Mexico is when three goons try to intimidate you by not speaking, but ganging up three to one?” Rita balled up the sandwich foil and threw it at the trashcan. It bounced off the rim.
“In the statement, Mr. Gutierrez states that security had to escort you from the premises. In my official capacity as liaison for the Washington bureau, it’s my duty to inform you of the complaint made against you and to instruct you not to return to the embassy. You are not to telephone them or in any way reinitiate contact with them. Is that understood?” Folger sounded like he read from a policy and procedures manual.
“I don’t get to respond?”
Folger answered. “This is a foreign relations matter referred through channels at the State Department. Embassy personnel are not to be harassed. I must advise you that if you don’t comply with these instructions, you won’t get off with a verbal warning next time.”
“And what’s the next step, Herr FBI? Loaded tacos at a hundred paces?” Rita reached for the foil ball and slam-dunked the trashcan.
“Ms. Mars, I don’t know what your background is or your experience in these kinds of things, but you won’t be able to just blow this off. You can mouth off to me; I’m only the messenger. But if you cross the line, you’re going to be in bigger trouble than you might have bargained for.”
“I’m not bargaining for trouble. If I wanted it, I’d just go in and take it.”
“Your funeral.”
“What a quaint expression,” Rita said. “I guess that was the line Bobby Ellis ran into.”
“Who?”
“Thanks for the warning, Folger. I’ll try to stay out of any Taco Bells.” Rita hung up. Instantly she dialed Mary Margaret.
“What’s the matter, Rita?” She heard Mary Margaret take a sip of coffee.
“How do you know something’s wrong?”
“Slick, I’ve known you a long time. You get that authoritative ‘I can take care of myself’’ tone when you need help.”
Rita let the comment prickle her scalp. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and concentrated on changing her tone. “It’s no big deal.”
“Jesus, Rita, are the Feds after you?”
“Hey, do you know something I don’t?” Irritation rubbed her voice like sandpaper.
“Had to be somebody big and nasty. ‘No big deal’ is the dead giveaway. The smaller you try to make stuff, the bigger it must be. I know you.”
“So, will you help me or not? This mind reader act is getting on my nerves.” Then Rita added with a quiet sliver of contrition. “It IS the Feds.”
“Who?”
“FBI?”
“Why?”
“Supposedly for harassing a Mexican trade mission rep.”
“What the hell were you doing?” Rita heard Mary Margaret thump her coffee cup onto her desk.
“I wasn’t harassing that asshole. I had an appointment. He agreed to see me.”
“He d
idn’t give you the answer you wanted so you proceeded to pound him into the ground.”
“I did not.”
“This is me you’re talking to.”
Rita frowned. At her third-floor window, a pigeon had been marching back and forth on the ledge as if he were keeping guard. She rolled her desk chair over and rapped on the glass to make him fly away. “He lied.”
“Tell me exactly what you did.” Mary Margaret said.
“I asked him some questions about Bobby Ellis. That’s all. He pretended he didn’t have time to see me and asked did I want to ride in his limo with him to a meeting at the White House. He was oh-so-Latino charming. But when I asked him the questions, he gave some goddam lecture about the myth of American government and politics. He stonewalled and—and I said a few things. That’s it.”
“Like what exactly did you say?”
“I said I’d bury him if I found out he had anything to do with Bobby’s death.”
“Jesus, Rita.”
“And I mean it.”
“No doubt.”
“Ok, I acted out, but this guy just wants me off his trail. As far as I’m concerned this is your basic rotten in Denmark move. I’m not backing down, “Rita said.
“I’ll call around,” Mary Margaret sighed. “What was the name of the agent? Maybe I can find out what’s going on. I still have a lot of contacts.”
“Thanks, Smooth.”
“And while I’m calling, do a few Hail Marys.”
“She won’t be listening. I’m not Catholic.”
“Then make a pitch to St. Jude. He’ll listen to anybody.”
“Oh, you’re just so damned smart, aren’t you?” Rita hung up the phone.
♏
The staff cafeteria at the Paxtuxent smelled of vinyl flooring and old grease in spite of the stainless steel decor that exuded a hard brightness that had nothing to do with light. Rita had eaten here once or twice when she was working on the Lyle Solomon story.
DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Page 21