Mounting Fears Page 7

  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, señorita. 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, señorita,” 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 Martínez 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 MARTÍNEZ HOUSE, but soon he had Bob Kinney on the line.

  “Where are you, Kerry?”

  “At the home of Pedro Martínez. 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 Martínez 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?”

  “José, señor.”

  “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, señor. 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, señor.” The man made the call. “They have the rooms, señor. 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, señor.” 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 him 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, señor?” the clerk said.

  “I asked for two rooms, but you gave me a suite, instead.”

  “Señor, 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. “Señor?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, señor, but the hotel is fully booked. You got the last suite.”

  “You don’t have even one more bedroom?”

  “No, señor.”

  Shelly was waving at him. “It’s all right,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Kerry said to the clerk, and hung up.

  “I’ll sleep in here,” Shelly said.

  “No, I’ll sleep in here. You take the bedroom. I insist,” he said, holding up a hand. “There’s a comfortable-looking sofa.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said. “I’ll go freshen up.”

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asked, opening the refrigerator behind the bar.

  “I don’t suppose there are any margaritas in there?”

  He held up a can. “Actually, there are.” He poured them each one. “No salt, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t like salt on my margaritas, anyway. Excuse me for a minute.” She picked up her bag and, taking her margarita, walked into the other room.

  Kerry hung up his jacket, took off his tie, and rolled up his sleeves, then he grabbed his drink and walked out to the terrace. He arranged himself on a lounge chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “There,” he heard Shelly say, “that’s better.”

  He opened his eyes and found her spreading a towel on her chair. She was wearing a very small bikini, and the effect was riveting.

  “Why don’t you put on your swimsuit and relax?” she said, arranging herself on the lounge chair.

  “I didn’t bring one,” he replied, with regret.

  She regarded him coolly. “Boxers or briefs?” she asked.

  “Uh, boxers.”

  “Same thing as a swimsuit,” she said. “You’ll burn up in those clothes.” She closed her eyes.

  Kerry sat there, uncertain.

  “Oh, go on,” she said, without opening her eyes.

  He went back into the sitting room, hung up his trousers and shirt, and walked back to the terrace in his boxers, snagging another can of margarita on the way.

  He refilled her glass, and she opened one eye. “Mmm, you’ve been working out.”

  “Most days,” he said, holding in his belly. “There’s a gym in my building.”

  “Good for you. Most of the agents in the Hoover Building are pretty dumpy-looking, except the youngest ones, and they’re . . .”

  “Callow?”

  “The perfect word,” she replied. “Are you seeing anyone back in D.C.?”

  “No. I recently broke up with someone. You?”

  “I’m about to break up with someone,” she said.

  He wondered what she meant by that, but he was afraid to ask.

  17

  BOB KINNEY PICKED UP THE PHONE. “GOOD MORNING, MR. PR
ESIDENT.”

  “Good morning, Bob. When can I expect your report on Martin Stanton?”

  “Sir, I anticipate completing that early this afternoon, when the final detail should be in place. I’ll messenger it over the moment it’s in my hands.”

  “E-mail it, Bob. It’s faster and cheaper.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll look forward to receiving it.” The president hung up.

  KERRY SMITH LOOKED UP into the eyes of Shelly Bach, who was astride him, moving rapidly.

  “I love it that you look at me when we’re fucking,” Shelly said.

  “Looking at you is fun,” Kerry panted, massaging her breasts.

  She began moving faster, and they were at the peak of their mutual orgasm when the phone began to ring.

  “Shit!” Kerry yelled. “Sorry, that was for the phone, not for you.”

  He picked up the phone, while Shelly laid her head on his shoulder. They were panting in unison. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Kerry. What do you have for me?”

  “Good morning, sir. Nothing just yet. It’s three hours earlier out here, and we’re planning to be at the Martínez place at eleven a.m., local. He’s due back for his lunch.”

  “Why are you breathing so hard?”

  “I was working out, sir, doing sit-ups, when you called. I was just about to get into a shower.”

  “I see. At what hour can I expect your report?”

  “Sir, if Martínez returns on time, we should be done by one p.m. and on the airplane by two. I’ll e-mail it to you from the airplane, so you should have it between five and six your time.”

  “Call me the minute you have confirmation from Martínez, so I can call the president. He’s on my case about this.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.”

  “How’s Special Agent Bach?”

  “I haven’t seen her yet this morning, but I’m sure she’s fine. She certainly was at dinnertime. She’s just next door, if you’d like to speak to her.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Kinney said, slyly. “Call me.” He hung up.

  “You’re very quick,” Shelly said.

  “Maybe not quick enough.”

  “You think Kinney thinks we were fucking?”

  “I can’t read his mind, but it’s probably best to assume he does.”

  “You want to do it again?” she asked.

  “We did it three times last night and again this morning,” Kerry sighed. “I think that is the maximum performance level for an assistant director. If you want an improvement on that, you’re going to have to start seeing the new agents.”

  She rolled over and lay beside him, her hand holding his balls. “I wouldn’t want to seem greedy,” she said.

  “Good, because if you were greedy, you’d be flying me back to D.C. in a coffin.”

  She kissed him on the ear. “You were wonderful,” she said.

  “Once I sign off on your report and e-mail it to Kinney, this won’t be against agency policy anymore.”

  “Does that mean we can do it on the plane?” she asked.

  Kerry groaned.

  THEY GOT INTO THE CAR at eleven sharp, showered and pressed, if sore, and were at the Martínez casa fifteen minutes later. Kerry was about to knock on the door when he heard a car coming.

  An elderly Toyota pulled up, and an old man got out.

  “Señor Martínez?” Shelly asked in her best Spanish.

  “Yes, señorita,” he replied in his best English. “What can I do for you?” He climbed the stairs to the porch and indicated that they should sit.

  “I’m Kerry Smith, and this is Shelly Bach,” Kerry said. “We work for the FBI in Washington, D.C., and we’ve come to ask you a few questions.” He surreptitiously switched on a recorder in his pocket.

  “Ohhh,” Pedro said with mock fear, “am I under arrest?” Kerry laughed. “No, Señor Martínez, nothing like that. I believe you’re acquainted with Governor Martin Stanton of California.”

  “Yes, I am,” Pedro replied. “In fact, you could say I am the first person he ever met. We have been acquainted that long.”

  “Could you tell me how you first met?” Kerry asked.

  “Oh, yes, señor. It is my favorite story. I was the driver for his father, you see. Every morning I would come to his house in Tijuana and drive him to the Coca-Cola bottling plant in his new Cadillac. I liked to drive the Cadillac.”

  “They’re very nice cars.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, on the morning I first met Little Martin, as all who worked for Big Martin would call him, I came to the house to drive the car, and Big Martin and his wife, Magdalena, were coming from the house in a hurry, because her time had arrived a little sooner than expected.” He made a big belly motion with his hands. “You understand?”

  “She was pregnant,” Kelly said.

  “Yes, señor, but not for long. We get in the car, the two of them in back and myself behind the wheel, and we head for San Diego, where the hospital is where Big Martin and his father were born. There is a little delay at the border, but when the guard saw what was happening, he waved his arms and yelled for us to get going! Then Big Martin said to me, ‘Pedro, I can’t do this. You do it, and I will drive.’ So we changed places, and I got in the back and we are racing for the hospital. Two or three minutes later, Little Martin’s first cry was heard. Soon we were at the hospital, and the doctors told me what a fine job I had done. Then Big Martin and I went to a bar across the street and got very drunk.”

  Kerry laughed. “I don’t blame you—that was quite an experience. You say two or three minutes after you left the border crossing, Little Martin was born?”

  “Yes, señor, about that. Of course, I was pretty busy at the time; it could have been longer.”

  “And which country were you in when the baby was born? Mexico or the United States?”

  “Oh, the United States, señor. We were halfway to the hospital by then.”

  “That’s a wonderful story, Señor Martínez, and I thank you for telling it to us. Now we must be going back to Washington.”

  “I’m very glad to have had you as my guests,” Pedro said.

  They got into their car and, with a wave at Pedro, drove away.

  Kerry breathed a sigh of relief and called Bob Kinney.

  “What happened?” Kinney asked.

  Kerry told him the story, blow by blow.

  “And Martínez is certain they were on U.S. soil when the boy was born?”

  “He’s absolutely certain, sir, and I have him on tape saying so. I’ll e-mail you the report as soon as we’re in the air.”

  “See you tomorrow, Kerry, and thank Special Agent Bach for me, will you?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll thank her.”

  WILL PICKED UP THE PHONE. “Yes, Bob?”

  “It’s confirmed, Mr. President. Martin Stanton was born on U.S. soil. I’ll be e-mailing you Assistant Director Smith’s report in just a few minutes.”

  “Thank you, Bob,” Will said. “And thank Assistant Director Smith and Special Agent Bach for me.”

  IN THE AIR, Kerry closed his computer. “The report is submitted,” he said.

  Shelly looked over her shoulder at the closed cockpit door. “Since there’s only one pilot, he can’t leave the controls, can he?”

  “No,” Kerry replied, taking off his coat, “he can’t.”

  “Oh, good,” she said, shucking her panties.

  18

  WILL STOOD AT A LECTERN IN THE WHITE HOUSE ROSE GARDEN WITH MARTIN Stanton by his side. The funeral of Vice President George Kiel had been held at the National Cathedral the day before, followed by burial at Arlington National Cemetery.

  “Good morning,” he said to the knot of press, White House staffers, and dignitaries gathered there. “It gives me great pleasure to announce that I am appointing Governor Martin Stanton of California to the office of Vice President of the United States of America. You may have heard that I had already selected Governor Stan
ton as my running mate last week”—he paused for scattered laughter—“and since the office has become vacant, I didn’t think it was necessary to keep him waiting.” More laughter. “I regret only that Mrs. Stanton is unwell in California and unable to be here today, but I’m sure she is watching us on television. The customary FBI background check has been completed, and the director has informed me that there are no grounds on which to arrest the governor, so there was no reason for delay. As you know, the Constitution requires that the appointment of a vice president must be ratified by the Senate, and the leadership has informed me that the confirmation hearing will be held the day after tomorrow. Governor, would you like to say a few words?”

  Stanton stepped forward to a round of polite applause. “Thank you, Mr. President. I am deeply honored by this appointment, and I am grateful to you for this opportunity. I know that Vice President Kiel’s shoes are large and will be difficult to fill, but I will do my best to fulfill the requirements of the office and the hopes of the American people.”

  THAT EVENING, Felix and Marlene sat before their big-screen flat-panel television set sharing a pizza and watching the little ceremony on CNN.

  Felix took a swig of his beer and belched. “Y’know,” he said, “that guy sounds like the guy on the tape.”

  “Which guy? Oh, that guy?”

  “That guy. He has that deep voice, y’know?”

  “Felix, how many beers have you had?” Marlene asked.

  “Not that many,” Felix replied, defensively.

  “That guy is going to be the vice president,” she said.

  “Yeah, I figured that out. I’m just telling you, he sounds like the guy on the tape.”

  “So, if that’s true, this Stanton guy has a girlfriend stashed somewhere?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “So, how do we prove that his voice is the one on the tape?” Felix scratched his head. “I could record that speech he just made off the TiVo and compare the two voices.”

  “Compare them how?”

  “Well, you know, there are ways you can compare two recordings electronically.”