Murder at the Watergate (4 page)

“I am sorry if I was short before,” he said, smiling. “The pressure. Sometimes it sets us on edge.”

“No need to apologize. I know how things are these days.”

“You hear from your family?”

“
Sí
. They are fine. My brother starts the university.”

“UNAM?”

“
Sí
. He wanted a private university but the fees—”

“Yes, that would be expensive.”

UNAM, the acronym for Mexico’s state-run university, the National Autonomous University of Mexico, had been for years a hotbed of Marxist learning, particularly in its department of economics. But as the nation began to embrace free market theories—and practices—in the 1990s, enrollment at private universities, which taught more pragmatic, marketable economic theories and skills—and despite their high tuition and fees—increased by almost 200 percent, while UNAM’s student population went up only a small fraction of that. Mexico’s fledgling leaders sensed the direction their country was taking and were preparing for it. They’d seen too many help-wanted ads carrying the tag line: “UNAM Graduates, Please Abstain.”

“If I can do anything,” Valle said.

Send money, Rosa thought.
“Gracias,”
she said.

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

Valle retrieved his car from the parking garage beneath the office building and drove in the direction of his house in the vibrant, multicultural section of Washington called Adams-Morgan.

He and his family had moved there a year ago, after he’d been tapped to replace the previous managing director of the Mexican-American Trade Alliance, who’d died of cancer. Although the position represented an expression of trust by his Mexico City superiors, he was reluctant to leave what had been a comfortable existence. He’d been in the right political position in 1982 to enjoy the fruits of the government takeover of the Mexican Central Bank, as disastrous as it might have been for the economy. His demonstrated loyalty to the ruling Institutional Revolutionary Party, the PRI, Mexico’s “rotating dictatorship,” had been rewarded through a succession of lucrative jobs at the bank, affording Valle and his family an upper-middle-class lifestyle. He’d tried to dissuade his bosses from sending him to Washington, but they’d prevailed; Mexico’s economic stake in the next U.S. presidential election was enormous. A man of Venustiano Valle’s knowledge and experience was needed to guide the fortunes of the trade alliance. Valle was aware it was calculated flattery, but he also knew that to refuse the post could mean a diminution of his authority at home.

“Give it two years,” he was told. “Successfully carry out the alliance’s mission and you will be rewarded.”

One relatively uneventful year had now passed.

The second year was shaping up to be considerably less quiescent.

The Watergate Hotel’s catering and sales manager seemed to some to be surprisingly young to hold such an important position, dealing day and night with Washington’s most powerful personalities, many of them excessively demanding and rude. But in the two years she’d been there, she’d established herself as one of the city’s most efficient and skilled purveyors of hospitality. Her energy was without bounds; she was in perpetual motion, the teasing of her sun-washed blond hair with her fingers the only sign of reacting to the job’s inherent stresses. She consulted a clipboard as she gave the serving staff last-minute instructions.

“Okay, everyone should have their assignments down. The key with this group is to keep the drinks flowing and the hors d’oeuvres coming. Some of the guests will consider it dinner before heading for Kennedy Center. Vice President Aprile is scheduled to arrive about halfway through. Stay out of the way of the Secret Service. Back off when the VP arrives.”

She looked at a young waitress, smiled, and said, “And no pained expressions when you’re serving a smoker.
We’ve set the tables with ashtrays in one corner, and hopefully they’ll gravitate to it. But they’re free to smoke anywhere, so don’t go making editorial comments with your face. Got it?”

The waitress nodded.

“The baby lamb chops, crispy crab balls, and sesame chicken strips are likely to go the fastest. I’ve instructed the kitchen to stay ahead with those. Make sure everyone has access to the platters you’re carrying, but don’t intrude upon conversations. A few could determine the fate of the world. And others could fix your fate. For God’s sake, don’t butt heads with Mrs. Dorrance. Where she’s concerned, the customer is
always
right. Any questions?”

“Should we continue to serve while the vice president is speaking?” a waiter asked.

“Sure, but keep it low-key. No noise. Don’t push the platters on anybody, just be there if one of them decides he needs more substance than he’s getting from the speech. Let’s go.”

Elfie Dorrance had taken a suite in the hotel for the evening. After making sure every subtle aspect of the affair was in order, she went to her suite, where her personal assistant, Sara, a middle-aged woman who’d been a costume designer on Broadway before falling under Elfie’s spell, helped her dress. Sara was a square, plain, and pleasant woman who considered serving Elfie just an extension of her show biz past. Elfie’s personal hairdresser was also there, and made last-minute adjustments to her already exquisitely arranged hair. While the hairdresser practiced her art, Sara handed Elfie the phone.

“Jason, darling, how nice to hear from you. How did you track me down?”

The caller, Jason Pauling, whose ability at self-promotion was as keenly honed as his ability to recognize young artists destined for success, was calling from his apartment on Dupont Circle.

“You make it sound as though you’re a CIA spook,” he said, laughing. “You always take a suite at the hotel when you’re putting on one of those grotesque fund-raising events. Take their money, for God’s sake, but don’t touch the hand that gives it to you. They’re all dirty.”

“I might say the same where some of your so-called patrons of the arts are involved. Why are you calling? Is there something I can do for you? I don’t have much time. I’m due downstairs.”

“My dear Elfie, why do you always assume I call you when I want something from you? Of course I want something from you. When are you going to San Miguel?”

“In a few days. London first.”

“Wonderful. What I would love you to do for me while you’re in jolly old Mexico—I don’t know why they call the British jolly; they’re
soooo
serious—while you’re in San Miguel, try and talk sense into that pompous ass of an artist, Salas. He’s a talented slob, but he thinks he deserves prices that even Picasso wouldn’t have asked at this stage of his career. I want him in the gallery, but I’ll be damned if I’ll represent him at those prices. And the commission he’s offering me. Outrageous. I just thought you might have a word with him, tell him there’s no one in the world better qualified to take him to new heights than yours truly.”

“Jason, what I’ll do is go to San Miguel, buy up every last one of Salas’s works, and offer them to you for double what he’s asking. And you know I’ll strike a
harder bargain than he will. Besides, your commissions have always been too high, absolutely obscene. I really must run. Nice hearing from you. We must stay in touch.”

“You look lovely,” Sara said after her mistress had been dressed and had chosen jewelry for the evening. She meant it; she was as much in awe of Elfie as she had been of the Broadway stars she’d served.

“Thank you.” Elfie looked at herself in the mirror, turning her head left and right to view her image from every angle, and said—was it to herself in the mirror, or to her assistant?—“Do I look ambassadorial?”

When her assistant didn’t respond, she turned and faced her. “To be specific, do I look like the next ambassador to Mexico?”

The assistant broke into a grin. “You look as though you could be ambassador to any nation in the world, Mrs. Dorrance.”

“You’re such a dear, even though I know you don’t always mean what you say.”

Sara was stung by the comment but the smile remained on her round face.

“Thanks for the help,” Elfie said. “I’ll be back here late, provided I can round up some of the A-list once the party is over. I hope they aren’t all music lovers heading for the Domingo concert. Of course they aren’t. Money and the arts so seldom seem to go together. Nothing like a little personal massaging to get them to realize there’s more in their checking accounts than they claim. Order room service. Caviar, salmon. Some of those heavenly phyllo rolls with artichoke and goat cheese. Oh, and plenty of champagne. People are always more generous when they’re celebrating something.”

Morin Garza waited until the other passengers had deplaned, then slowly, wearily stood, collected his small carry-on bag from where he’d kept it beneath the seat in front of him, and headed for the 737’s exit.

“Thank you for flying United,” the flight attendant said.

“
Sí
. Yes. Thank you,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

He stepped into the spacious terminal, stopped, and took in the hundreds of men and women going to and from flights. Had things been different, he would have gotten on the next plane back to Chicago, to Dallas, then the car to El Paso, retracing his steps of that day, possibly even crossing the border and going home.

But home to what? To whom?

It had been a month since he had left his wife and children in the middle of the night, looking back only once at his lovely Cecilia and the young son she held in her arms. They, too, would leave, in the early morning. But not to where he was going.

Their house was located in a Mexico City suburb that had sprung up on the southern edge of the sprawling city,
built around Perisur, one of dozens of American-style shopping malls offering Mexicans a feast of American goods without their having to cross to
el otro lado
, the other side of the border. The house, small by American standards, but modern and nicely equipped and furnished, represented a dream for Morin Garza and his family. He’d worked hard to achieve enough status and income to afford it, starting as an organizer for the union. The Shoe Shiners’ Union was one of many labor groups belonging to the state-controlled Federation of Organizations of Non-Salaried Workers. Getting the city’s six thousand
boleros
—shoe shiners—to join the union wasn’t difficult. You needed a union permit in order to shine shoes on the streets of the city, and the intersection to which you were assigned depended upon how much you kicked back to your union boss. That’s where the real money was for Garza and others in his position. That’s where the money came from to buy the new house in the clean, new suburb near the mall, where his wife and children could spend the day enjoying American fast food and shopping for American sneakers, CDs of American pop stars, and designer jeans.

Garza had done his various jobs well, and had caught the eye of the federation’s president, who brought him into the larger, umbrella organization, where his authority was expanded, and by extension his ability to demand expressions of gratitude from a wider variety of union members—streetcar washers, photographers belonging to the Union of Five-Minute Photographers, or the larger Union of Photographers of Church, Social and Official Ceremonies, and the more than three thousand members of the Mexican Union of Mariachis. No longer
was Morin Garza responsible for recruiting new members. That took care of itself—if you wanted to work.

Now he found himself involved in the more important and germane task of ensuring that each member of every union paid appropriate homage to the PRI. The Institutional Revolutionary Party, whose political grip on Mexico went back to 1929, had outlasted other one-party states—the Fascists, the Nazis, and the Bolsheviks—with ease and impunity, controlling everything and everybody, including millions of union members. To belong to a union was to belong to the PRI; the shoe shiners wore blue uniforms provided by the union but sporting the PRI logo.

“Sir?”

“What?” Garza spun around at the sound of the voice.

“Can I help you with anything?” the uniformed airline employee asked.

“No.
Gracias
. No.”

He had stopped, daydreaming. He looked left and right and behind as he walked hurriedly across the terminal, through the doors and to the sidewalk, where taxis and buses and cars jockeyed for position. You couldn’t be too careful, even this far away from the trouble.

He scanned the handwritten signs held up by limousine drivers. For a moment, the name didn’t register.
ORTIZ
. That was it. The name they would use.

Unlike other limo drivers, this one did not wear the requisite white shirt and black tie, nor was his car long and black. He was an American man in his thirties, with thin, golden hair the consistency of silk, a pale complexion, and watery blue eyes. He wore a tan raincoat over a suit; his vehicle was a nondescript green sedan.

“Mr. Ortiz?” he said.

“Sí.”

“Please.”

Garza climbed into the rear. The driver came around after closing the door, deftly navigated a break in the traffc flow, and headed for Washington.

An hour later, the green car turned off New Hampshire Avenue and down into the entrance to the underground parking lot beneath the Watergate’s 600 Office Building, across from the Kennedy Center, where Placido Domingo was sipping hot tea with honey in preparation for his concert.

The driver parked near a door leading into the office building, turned, said, “Wait here. Someone will be down to get you.” He walked away, disappearing in the direction of the adjoining garage beneath the east building.

Morin Garza clutched his small black carry-on bag on his lap, drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thought of Cecilia.

The Aprile for President campaign headquarters in 600 New Hampshire Avenue, one of two office buildings in the Watergate complex, had been open for more than a month. It was two floors above the Mexican-American Trade Alliance.