Mounting Fears

by Stuart Woods

  “That’s fine with me, Director Smith,” Stanton said.

  He was an impressive man, Kerry thought, handsome, with a fine baritone speaking voice, and he exhibited no signs of nervousness, as many men in his shoes would have.

  “If I may, I’ll begin by going over the answers on the questionnaire you completed, to be sure we have your answers correct and to your satisfaction.”

  “Fine.”

  “Let’s begin with your birth,” Kerry said, getting right to the point. “Where were you born?”

  The governor smiled. “I was born in the backseat of a 1957 Cadillac Sedan de Ville, on the way to the San Diego Women’s Hospital, where both my father and maternal grandfather were born.”

  “Can you tell us the circumstances surrounding that event?”

  “My family have had business connections with Mexico for three generations,” Stanton said. “My grandfather was a Coca-Cola bottler in San Diego, and my father, after his graduation from Oxford University, in England, and with his father’s help, bought the franchise to bottle Coca-Cola in Tijuana, Mexico, along with a Mexican business partner with whom he had roomed at Eton and Oxford. My father fell in love with and married his partner’s sister, and they built a home in Tijuana, so that he could closely supervise the business activities and advertising while his partner managed the bottling plant.

  “My parents had planned for the birth to occur in San Diego, since there was no equivalent to Women’s Hospital in Tijuana. The day before my mother was to move to my grandparents’ home in San Diego to prepare for the birth, which her doctors had predicted would take place two weeks later, my father was about to leave for work when my mother went into labor. She later told him she had had mild contractions during the night but had thought nothing of them.

  “He panicked, of course, and hustled her into the rear seat of the car, while his regular driver got the car started and headed for San Diego.

  “My father was, like most American men of that day, unacquainted with the details of the birth process, and as my mother tells it, when my birth drew very near, his panic gave way to hysteria. He had a slightly different version of the story, of course, but the result was that my father and his driver, Pedro Martínez, a family employee, changed positions, and my father drove while Pedro, coming from a society where births were not always accomplished in hospitals, delivered me. He did a good job, apparently, and when we all arrived at the hospital, the doctors and nurses praised him for his skills.”

  “That’s a delightful story,” Kerry replied, laughing, “but can you tell me exactly what time and where, geographically, you were born?”

  “Well, I was pretty young at the time, so I’ve had to rely on my parents’ accounts and that of Pedro, of course, who has told me the story more than once, and they were all pretty busy for half an hour or forty-five minutes. As I understand it, I drew my first breath only a minute or so after crossing the border.”

  “Are your parents still living?” Kerry asked.

  “My father passed away more than twenty years ago. My mother is still alive, but she is ninety-two and suffers from Alzheimer ’s disease. She’s in a residential facility in San Diego.”

  “What about Mr. Martínez?”

  “Pedro is still alive and living outside Tijuana on a bottling company pension. I last saw him early this past summer, when he and I were both in San Diego, and, although his health is not good, he is alive.”

  “Can you give us his address?”

  “The bottling company in Tijuana will have it,” Stanton replied.

  “Why? Are you looking for confirmation?”

  “Frankly, Governor, yes. It’s not that we doubt your account, but as you say, you were pretty young at the time, and the question of whether you were born on American soil has become pertinent.”

  Stanton frowned. “You mean my citizenship? My father was an American citizen, so I am, as well. I have an American birth certificate and an American passport.”

  “I understand, Governor, but a vice president must be a native-born American, and a potential problem exists in the legal definition of what is native-born.” Kerry produced a sheet of paper. “This is what Section 1401 of the U.S. Code says about aliens and nationality:

  “‘The following shall be nationals and citizens of the United States at birth: (a) A person born in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof.’ (b) This one is not relevant, it’s to do with Indian tribes and Eskimos. ‘(c) A person born outside of the United States . . . of parents both of whom are citizens of the United States.’

  “I believe your mother was a citizen of Mexico at the time of her birth?”

  “That’s correct,” the governor replied.

  “There is another situation that might apply: one born to a foreign national and a U.S. citizen who, prior to the birth, was present in the United States for periods totaling not less than five years, at least two of which were after the age of fourteen.

  “Now, according to the form you completed, your father’s early years were spent almost entirely in Mexico, and from the age of eight, he was educated at Eton, then Oxford, in England, and he was twenty-two years old at your birth. We’ve combed through this very carefully, and the most we can put him in the United States, conforming to the statute, is three years and two months, so that part of the statute does not seem to apply to you. Finally, there is a circumstance where the citizen parent has been physically present in the United States for a continuous period of one year, and you do not qualify under that circumstance, either.”

  “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 Martínez, 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 Martínez 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 Martínez 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 Martínez,” 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.”

  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 Martínez 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?”

  Martínez 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, señorita. 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 señor 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.”