Mounting Fears

by Stuart Woods

  “Listen, baby, I’ve got Secret Service protection now, you know?”

  “You think they’d shoot me?”

  “I think I don’t want to ask them to look the other way while you and I fuck each other’s brains out.”

  “Oooh, I love it when you talk dirty,” she said.

  “Okay, come on up. I’ll switch off the security.”

  “You really mean that?” she asked. “I’m shocked.”

  “I love shocking you.”

  “Now I have to shock you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I lied. I’m not downstairs. I’m in my Sacramento apartment, or what’s left of it.”

  “Awwww.”

  “Yeah, eat your heart out.”

  “Why are you toying with me?” he asked plaintively.

  “I just wanted to see how far you’d take this celibacy thing, and I guess I found out.”

  “I was kidding about calling off the Secret Service,” he said.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I was, really.”

  “Well, in any case,” she said, “you’re going to have to sleep with your hand under the covers tonight.” And she hung up.

  Stanton whimpered, then hung up, too.

  30

  TEDDY FAY ADJUSTED HIS GRAY COMB-OVER HAIRPIECE AND COMBED HIS VERY real, very gray mustache and his not-so-real thick eyebrows. As a final touch he slipped on a pair of heavy black-rimmed spectacles, then stood back from the mirror and took in his full length. In the months he had been in Panama he had lost twenty-five pounds, and given his exercise program, he felt fitter than he had in years. This look was one of three he had adopted, so that he could move around Panama City without becoming familiar to very many people.

  He slipped the jacket of his white suit over his open-necked white shirt, took one last look in the mirror, and went out the back door of his apartment. It was a good exit for him—a tree-shaded wooden staircase rising thirty feet to the road behind his little building. His Vespa motor scooter was locked to a street sign, and he worked the combination quickly. The scooter started instantly, and he let the engine warm up for a moment before putting it into gear and starting down the hill.

  He liked the scooter, partly for the anonymity—because there were so many scooters in the city—and partly for the wind in his face. Tonight, he made his way to a bar he liked at El Conquistador, a small but elegant hotel catering to upper-income international visitors. The hotel subsisted on word-of-mouth and relations with a couple of dozen travel agents in American and European cities. He liked it, too, for the occasional businesswoman traveling alone; he had gotten lucky there twice.

  Teddy had heard the hotel might be for sale, and he had fantasized about buying it and becoming the genial host. He didn’t have that much money, though, and he couldn’t afford to become rooted, especially now when he had heard there was a man wandering around town showing a faded photograph of a middle-aged man and asking if he had been seen locally. He didn’t much like the sound of that. The man was said to be staying at El Conquistador.

  Teddy had chosen Panama City because he could flee north into Mexico or south into the southern continent very easily, and he could quickly disappear in either place. His Spanish had been pretty good when he arrived, and with work, it was much better now, so he was able to pass as an American who had made a career in the country and was now retired.

  He parked the scooter and strolled through the lobby, making a show of looking at the expensive merchandise in the glass cases, the goods of nearby shops. The cases went through the wall and could be seen from the bar, too, and that allowed him to view the customers inside. He spotted the man almost immediately.

  He was late thirties/early forties, medium height, pale skin, and thin blond hair, and he wore reading glasses on a string around his neck. He had apparently just arrived, because he was showing the bartender a photograph, and the bartender, after a cursory glance, was shaking his head.

  Teddy walked into the bar and took a seat two stools down from the visitor, who was almost certainly American. “Fundador and soda,” he said to the bartender.

  “Ice, señor?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “You’re an American?” the man asked.

  Teddy turned and regarded him for a moment. “How’d you guess?” he asked.

  The man laughed. “Me, too. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “You can buy me this one,” Teddy replied, holding up his glass.

  The man moved over a place; now there was only one stool between them. “Put that on my tab,” he said to the bartender, who nodded gravely and did something with a pencil. “I’m Ned Partain,” the man said, sticking out his hand.

  “Larry Toms,” Teddy said, shaking it.

  “What brings you to Panama?”

  “The canal, what else?”

  “You work on the canal?”

  “I did for twenty-seven years, until I retired two years ago.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “Nothing glamorous like an engineer,” Teddy replied. “I was an accountant.” That information would stop any further conversation about his job.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘Oh,’” Teddy said. “How about you? What brings you down here?”

  “An assignment. I’m a journalist.”

  “Now, that’s a lot more interesting than accounting. Who do you write for?”

  “A little rag called the National Inquisitor, maybe you’ve heard of it.”

  “When I’m in the States I see it at supermarket checkout counters, I think.”

  “That’s the one. It’s not exactly prestigious journalism, but it pays one hell of a lot better than the The Washington Post or others of that ilk.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You married?”

  “My wife died last year in an automobile accident,” Teddy replied. “You?”

  “Divorced for two years. She’s bleeding me white, of course.” Ned dug into a pocket and came out with a well-worn photograph. “Say, have you seen this guy in your travels around town?”

  Teddy took the photo and found his younger self staring back at him. Where the hell did this come from? He couldn’t place it.

  “He’d be older now, mid-fifties to sixty.”

  Teddy continued to stare at the photo. Chesapeake Bay, Fourth of July, eight or nine years ago: rented boat, girl with a camera, girl he’d picked up in a D.C. bar and seen for a few months before they’d tired of each other. “Looks familiar,” he said. “Who is he?”

  “Really?” Ned said, showing some excitement. “Where’d you see him?”

  “I’m trying to remember,” Teddy said. “He’s older now?”

  “Yeah, he was in his late forties when that was taken.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Just a guy I’m looking for.”

  “Well, he must be a pretty important guy, if you’ve come all the way down here from the States looking for him.”

  Ned moved over another stool and leaned close to Teddy. “He’s important to my story,” he said.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” Teddy replied, signaling the bartender.

  “If you could help me find this guy, there would be a reward,” Ned said. “My paper is very generous.”

  Teddy looked at the photo again. “You know, I think I’ve seen this guy right here in Panama City.”

  “Larry, my friend,” Ned said, “this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, as Claude Rains said to Bogey.”

  “You know,” Teddy said, “it might be at that.”

  Teddy continued to drink with the man, but he would not answer the questions about the photo. Teddy badly wanted to know what Ned Partain knew.

  It was dark outside now, and Teddy looked at his watch. “Want to get some dinner?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Partain said, “but the Inquisitor is buying.”

  “I don’t mind that at all,” Teddy replied. “Tell you what, th
ere’s a nice place in Balboa, sort of a suburb, called El Parador. I’ve got a quick stop to make, so why don’t we meet there in half an hour? There’s a cab stand outside the hotel.”

  “Good deal,” Ned said. He was getting a little drunk.

  31

  EL PARADOR WAS PERFECT, TEDDY THOUGHT; IT WOULD BE CROWDED BEFORE THEY finished dinner, and they would blend in. And it was near the canal. They dined on the terrace, which sported a view of both the Gulf of Panama, where ships at anchor waited their turn for the canal, and the canal itself.

  “Wow!” Ned said, as a huge tanker slid slowly past them.

  “Pretty impressive, huh? Shall I order for us?”

  “Sure, go ahead, and a good bottle of wine, too. The Inquisitor can afford it.”

  Teddy ordered the house specialty and a fine bottle of Chilean cabernet.

  “Okay,” Ned said, sipping his wine, “now, tell me where you’ve seen this guy.”

  “First I want to know who he is and what you want with him,” Teddy said. “I don’t want to get anybody in trouble. Did he skip out on his wife or something?”

  “Nah, nothing like that.” Ned looked around to be sure he wouldn’t be overheard. “Did you ever hear of a guy named Teddy Fay?”

  “Yeah, I have, but I don’t remember where.”

  “Ex-CIA guy, an assassin, killed some people.”

  “Wait a minute, now I know who you’re talking about,” Teddy said. “Didn’t I read that he went down with a boat somewhere in the Caribbean earlier this year?”

  “That’s the story everybody bought, but I don’t think so.”

  “And there weren’t any photographs of him, either,” Teddy said. “So where’d you get yours, and how do you know it’s him?”

  “A girl he used to go out with a while back,” Ned said. “She took the picture when they were out sailing, then forgot about it. A couple of weeks ago she was down here on a cruise and saw him, but he didn’t see her. Since she was on a ship she didn’t know who to tell, so she waited until she got home, found the old film, and had it developed. She was going to call the FBI, but she’s a regular reader, and she figured she might as well make some money out of it, so she called the paper and asked for Editorial and I answered the phone. And here I am.”

  “So you’re down here to get the guy busted?”

  “Nah, I want to interview him, not bust him. I mean, eventually, we’ll call the FBI, and when they grab him, my story and the interview will be ready.”

  “That’s pretty neat,” Teddy said, “but first you’ve got to find the guy.”

  “That’s where you come in,” Ned said. “If you can point him out to me, it’ll be worth ten grand of the Inquisitor’s money.”

  “That’s pretty inviting,” Teddy said, grinning. “And when do I get the money?”

  “It’s in the safe at my hotel. You show me the guy, I’ll talk to him, and we’ll go back to the hotel for your money.”

  “Fair enough,” Teddy said.

  “Okay, where did you see him?”

  “Right here, in this restaurant,” Teddy replied.

  Ned’s eyes went left and right. “Holy shit! Is he here now?”

  “He certainly is,” Teddy said.

  “Where?”

  “You’re looking at him.”

  Ned spilled his wine. Then he fished out the photo and compared it to Teddy. “Similar,” he said.

  “How about without the wig, the fake eyebrows, and the glasses?” Teddy said.

  “That’s a wig?”

  “It certainly is.” Teddy lifted a corner of the hairpiece, then stuck it back.

  “I can’t believe my luck,” Ned said.

  “I guess you’re just a lucky guy.”

  “Wait a minute. Tell me the name of the girl who took the photo.”

  “Darlene Cole,” Teddy said without hesitation.

  “Son of a bitch, you are Teddy Fay.”

  “Shhhh,” Teddy said. “Finish your wine—we can’t talk here.”

  Ned tossed back his drink and ordered the check. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, pitching some money onto the table.

  A couple of minutes later they were walking down a path high above the canal that was lit by streetlamps, two of which were dark, because Teddy had thrown rocks at them before Ned had arrived. “Okay,” Teddy said, stopping and leaning on the steel rail between the path and the canal, “let’s talk turkey. If you’re giving Darlene ten grand, I want fifty grand for the interview.”

  “Look,” Ned said, “I’ve only got twenty-five thousand with me, but I’ll send you the other half, I swear.”

  Teddy regarded him for a moment. “I believe you,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

  “God, I don’t know where to start,” Ned said.

  “That’s because you’re drunk,” Teddy replied. “Take a few deep breaths.” He watched as another big tanker approached where they stood.

  Ned began taking deep breaths.

  “Oxygen, that’s what you need,” Teddy said.

  Ned stopped taking the big breaths. “Jesus, I’m dizzy. I think I’m going to throw up.”

  Teddy took him by the shoulders and spun him around. “Over the rail,” he said.

  Ned leaned over the rail and vomited.

  Teddy had a quick look around: nobody on the path, nobody on the foredeck of the tanker. He drew back, and, as Ned straightened up, Teddy struck him hard in the back of the neck with the edge of his hand. Ned collapsed onto the rail, and Teddy helped him over and watched him as he fell, struck his head on a crane on the foredeck, bounced off some pipes, then fell between them.

  Teddy ambled away. Ned wouldn’t be found before morning, if then, and by that time the ship would be at sea, and nobody would know when Ned Partain joined the cruise.

  Then he remembered the photograph; it was still in Ned’s pocket. And the negative was probably in the editorial offices of the National Inquisitor. Either that, or his old girlfriend Darlene, if she was smart, still had it.

  Teddy unlocked his scooter from the rail outside the restaurant, started it, and headed back to Panama City.

  He had a lot to think about.

  32

  WILL SAT ON AIR FORCE ONE AND WATCHED A TAPE OF HIS OPPONENT’S FIRST campaign speech. The man looked good: He had gray-streaked blond hair and wore a well-cut suit that complemented his tan, but there was nothing new in the speech. He turned to Moss Mallet, Tom Black, and Kitty Conroy.

  “It’s the same old speech,” Will said. “I’m liberal, liberal, liberal, and he’s more conservative than John Birch, Barry Goldwater, and Ronald Reagan put together.”

  “You’re right,” Moss replied, “but believe it or not, this speech did him a lot of good. For the first time, he’s attacking you instead of his two opponents, and the guy looks great, you have to admit.”

  “I don’t want to date him,” Will replied. “I want to kick his ass in the election. How do we do that?”

  “We’ll attack his voting record, which is direly conservative,” Tom said.

  “Is that going to help us with independents and slightly liberal Republicans?”

  “Sure it is,” Tom replied. “In a lot of ways he’s what they don’t like about the Republican Party.”

  “Except,” Moss said, “the electorate has always been partial to good-looking blond guys, like Jack Kemp and Dan Quayle.”

  “Kemp never got the nomination, and Quayle ended up as the poster boy for dumbness,” Will pointed out.

  “Yeah, but Quayle got elected, and more important, he didn’t keep the first Bush from winning.”

  “So are we going to mount a campaign against Spanner’s being pretty?”

  “We won’t have to do that,” Moss said. “Every time he makes some sort of bone-headed remark, they’ll remember Dan Quayle.”

  Will sat back in his chair. “Didn’t Quayle have something like a three handicap?”

  “Something like that,” Tom replied.
/>   “Do you have any idea how much practice it takes to have a three handicap?”

  “A lot,” Tom agreed.

  “But he found time for it while he was in the Senate. Find out what Spanner’s handicap his. God, I hope he’s a scratch golfer. We could really make something of that.”

  “Who would that matter to?” Kitty asked.

  “To everybody who doesn’t play golf, or who plays but doesn’t have time to practice to a low handicap,” Tom replied. “Plus everybody who doesn’t play golf and hates people who do. We could do a commercial with some guy who has a low handicap and ask him how much time he practices to stay so good. He’d say something like, ‘Oh, at least four hours a day,’ and I think people would get the idea.”

  “I like it,” Will said. “I had a sixteen handicap before I was a Senate aide, and I had to play at least four times a week to keep that.”

  Kitty was banging away on her laptop. “Here we go,” she said. “Bill Spanner is a member at Congressional and Burning Tree. His handicap is listed as nineteen.”

  “Never mind,” Will said.

  MARTIN STANTON WAS on television in Los Angeles with a room full of high school students, answering their questions.

  A skinny kid stood up and said, “I’m confused. Last week you were governor. How’d you get to be vice president?”

  Marty bestowed a smile upon the boy. “The Constitution says that if a vice president dies in office, the president appoints his replacement, with the approval of the Senate, so when Vice President George Kiel died, President Lee appointed me to the remainder of Mr. Kiel’s term. That term expires next January, unless President Lee and I are reelected.”

  The boy sat down, and a Hispanic girl stood up and asked a question about the Democratic health care plan that was so sophisticated that Stanton was barely able to answer it. He was impressed.

  Another girl stood up. “Mr. Vice President, how is it that, with a name like Stanton, you are supposed to be Hispanic?”

  Stanton smiled again, relieved to receive a softer pitch. “Because my mother is Hispanic. She’s a native of Mexico, and I spent a lot of time there as a child. My father was a soft-drink bottler in Tijuana. I’m proud to be thought of as Hispanic.”