Mounting Fears

by Stuart Woods

  “Well, let’s get started,” Stanton said, rising. “After you.” He took note of her breasts as she turned toward the door, then got a view of her stern on the way out. She was a tall, slender redhead, and very well put together, he thought.

  IN THE ARMORED SUV that served as his limousine, Stanton quickly read the speech Liz had written. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll use it as an outline to refer to, as I prefer to improvise a little as I go along.”

  “That’s fine, as long as you remember to mention Israel favorably.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Stanton said.

  “Mr. Vice President,” Liz said, “if you’ll forgive my asking, do you have any personal difficulties that might bear on the campaign? I understand you’re going through a divorce, for instance.”

  “Yes, I am, but I don’t anticipate that being a problem. Just this morning my attorney is making my final offer in the settlement. I hope it will be signed before the day is out.”

  “I see. That’s good news. May I ask, is there currently a woman in your life?”

  “No,” Stanton replied, “there is not.” Not currently, anyway. “What about yourself? Are you married?”

  “No, and there is no woman in my life, either. Nor a man of any importance.”

  “Good to know these things,” Stanton said.

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  Stanton picked up a newspaper and laid part of it in his lap, to hide what would be all too obvious.

  38

  TEDDY FAY HAD DECIDED NOT TO LEAVE PANAMA CITY—NOT JUST YET, ANYWAY. HE had put away the gray-wig-and-mustache disguise and was now employing a red wig with a lower hairline and gray flecks, with eyebrows to match. He had kept his apartment, since no one had ever seen him leave or arrive there, and on the whole, he felt pretty comfortable.

  There had been an item in the local English-language paper about Ned Partain’s body being found on the tanker, but as he had expected, the police had not been able to ascertain where old Ned had boarded the ship. Eventually, they would get around to visiting El Parador, the restaurant where he and Ned had dined, and they might figure it out after that, so he would not return to El Parador. He had been back to the bar at El Conquistador, wearing the new disguise, and had detected no recognition in the eyes of the bartender, so he might go there occasionally in search of women.

  He had considered paying a visit to Darlene Cole, in Maryland, but to remove her from the earth would just confirm her sighting of him. He had been reading the National Inquisitor, which, surprisingly, seemed to have a substantial circulation in Panama City, and there had been an article about the death of Ned Partain, quoting the local police as saying it was accidental in nature. No mention had been made of Ned’s assignment, nor had the photo of Teddy run in the paper.

  Teddy had felt the need of better cover, though, so on a moonless night he had let himself into the local personnel office of the Panama Canal Company, gone through the files of retirees and found an excellent match for himself, a retired gentleman with thirty years’ service in payroll. He copied the man’s file, substituted a photo of himself in his current disguise and returned the file to its dusty cabinet. Then, using the same photo, he made himself Canal Zone documents.

  All this had kept Teddy entertained for a few days. Now, however, he had one more base to cover: the Panama station of the Central Intelligence Agency. If, somehow, the station chief had gotten wind of Partain’s fate, he would have reported the incident to Langley, and one or more agents would have been assigned to see that the Inquisitor did not publish any stories about Teddy. That would not have been in the Agency’s interests.

  The website of the American Embassy had yielded the names of the principal officers of the embassy, and there, nestled in the list as deputy agricultural attaché, was his old acquaintance Owen Masters, so it was not hard to figure out who the station chief was.

  Owen, apparently, had been shipped off to Panama to serve out his time before retirement, which, if memory served, would be in the not-too-distant future. Panama was hardly a plum assignment, and that meant that the other members of the station would be few in number, probably no more than half a dozen, mostly rookies. Owen’s only real work in Panama would be training them to seem busy.

  Teddy ran his agile intellect over the possibilities. Suppose, perhaps through an agency asset in the Panamanian government or police, Owen had been apprised of Ned Partain’s demise. Teddy’s one mistake had been not to remove his photograph from Ned’s pocket before assisting him onto the ship. And that would have been found when the police went through his clothes and hotel room. Suppose, then, that Owen had seen the photograph and recognized Teddy from the old days. He would have alerted Langley, in the person of Lance Cabot, his boss, and by now Lance would have seen it.

  This was all a worst-case scenario, of course. It was likely that Owen had never heard of Partain and that the photo now rested in some filing cabinet at police headquarters in Colón, at the other end of the canal, which would suit Teddy just fine.

  The worst-case scenario, though, would suit him pretty well, too, because Lance Cabot, as soon as he saw the photo of Teddy, would have conducted an immediate sweeping-under-the-rug operation. Certainly, he would not have apprised Katharine Rule of the resurrection of Teddy Fay, since that would have reflected very badly on himself. Nor would he send people looking for Teddy, since that would mean looking for a dead man. Lance, for the moment, would serve very nicely as Teddy’s new best friend.

  Owen Masters, though, would have little interest in Lance Cabot’s comfort. There had been, after all, a day when Owen’s career track had aimed him, more or less, at Lance’s job, and now he found himself moldering in the heat and humidity of Panama, grinding it out until his retirement clock reached the magic number of thirty, disaffected and thoroughly pissed off. Owen was the wild card in the worst-case scenario, and Teddy wanted to have sight of him, to assess his state of mind.

  Teddy began by waiting outside the American Embassy in the late afternoon. He wanted to know what time Owen Masters called it a day, and he was gratified to see the aging spy wander out of the building at a quarter past four. He certainly wasn’t working nights trying to find Teddy. Owen got into his car, a dusty embassy Chevrolet, and Teddy cranked his motor scooter and followed him.

  The trail of Owen Masters led to a dimly lit cantina a mile or so from the embassy but probably near Owen’s home. There he would be unlikely to encounter fellow embassy employees, so there would be no one to report back on how much he was drinking. And Owen was drinking much.

  The man started with a tequila shooter and a cerveza chaser, just to get his alcohol blood level up, then switched to margaritas. Teddy witnessed all this from the far end of the bar, while he nursed his own drink. Owen spent an hour there, anesthetizing himself for whatever his evening promised.

  What it promised, it turned out, after Teddy had followed him home and stationed himself outside a kitchen window, was five minutes of a monumental fight with Owen’s wife, Estelle, whom Teddy had met once at a social gathering of spooks. The discussion covered the no doubt familiar ground of Owen’s consumption level of alcohol, Owen’s lack of career prospects, Owen’s failure to save enough money for a decent retirement, and Owen’s having got them sent to this godforsaken place.

  This was followed, after Estelle had finally wound down, by a grimly silent supper and television viewing. Teddy was happy for Owen that he had a satellite dish.

  Teddy wended his way to a favorite restaurant for dinner, feeling less worried about Owen Masters as a threat. He would stick around Panama City, albeit well prepared for flight, until he discerned some more threatening blip on his overdeveloped personal radar.

  39

  BARBARA ORTEGA LEFT THE DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE FEELING VERY GOOD. SHE had spent a little over two hours with a three-person selection committee—two men and a woman—and had answered their questions directly, honestly, and sometimes bluntly. They had react
ed with interest, seemed to appreciate her candor, and had, somehow, signaled the attorney general to join them for the last few minutes of the interview, which she took as a good sign. The AG had asked a few questions and had seemed happy with her answers, too.

  Her résumé was great, the new vice president was her former boss, and she knew there was a letter of recommendation from the president in her file. There was nothing in her personal history that would count as a black mark. She had been outstanding as a student, as an ADA in Los Angeles and in the California AG’s office, as well as in the state house. And she was a woman. What could go wrong?

  She went back to her hotel, ordered a room-service dinner, and fell asleep with the TV on.

  Martin Stanton was en route from Los Angeles to San Antonio when he got the call from the attorney general.

  “Morning, Mr. Vice President.”

  “Good morning, General.”

  “My selection committee and I met yesterday with your former chief of staff, Barbara Ortega.”

  “I hope it went well.”

  “She was very impressive. I noted that there was nothing in her jacket from you about her candidacy, and I wanted to ask you why.”

  “I felt that I should not be seen to be promoting my former chief of staff for a high federal position at this time, that’s all,” Stanton said.

  “So you asked the president to do it instead?”

  “No, the first I heard of the president’s involvement was when he mentioned that Barbara had given him as a reference.”

  “I suppose she had every right to do that,” the AG said.

  “Of course. She knows the president, and he knows her.”

  “What is your opinion of Ms. Ortega as a person and a candidate for the appointment?”

  “Since you ask, I have the highest possible regard for her both personally and professionally. I think she’s perfectly qualified for the appointment.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” the AG said. “Would you like to know my decision?”

  “If you want to tell me, certainly.”

  “I’ve decided to hire her as head of the Criminal Division,” the AG said.

  Stanton tried to keep his voice neutral. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy with Barbara,” he said, “and I congratulate you on your judgment.”

  The AG laughed. “Thank you, sir. Would you like to give her the news?”

  “No, I think she’d like to hear it from you, General. I’ll drop her a congratulatory note when I get a chance.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Vice President, and good-bye.”

  Stanton hung up the phone, elated. He also found that he had an erection at the thought of having Barbara in Washington. It had been very tough to do without her during the past days.

  At that moment Liz Wharton walked past his seat, and he watched thoughtfully as she made her way up the aisle. She stopped and bent over to speak to someone, and her skirt was pulled tight across her ass. Stanton’s heartbeat increased noticeably.

  SHELLY BACH PUT DOWN the phone, left her office, and walked a couple of doors down to Kerry Smith’s secretary. “Does he have a minute?” she asked.

  “He’s alone,” the woman replied. “Go on in.”

  Shelly rapped on the door and stuck her head in. “Got a moment?”

  “Sure, come on in.”

  She walked in, took a chair, and noticed how carefully he watched her. They had made a point of being completely professional in the office, even when alone, but their evenings had been much more interesting.

  “What’s up?”

  “Have you ever heard of an agent called Hope Branson?”

  “No. What office is she in?”

  “Well, the switchboard had a call this morning from someone asking for an Assistant Director Hope Branson, and after being told there was no such person he insisted on talking to an AD, and the call came to me.”

  “There’s certainly no assistant director by that name,” Kerry said. “What else did he say?”

  “He said that she had come to his office yesterday and shown him FBI ID, and that he had called our switchboard to confirm her identity and reached her secretary. I told him I thought someone must be pulling his leg, and he hung up. I had the call backtracked and it was from the office of the editor of a horrible gossip rag called the National Inquisitor, a man named William or Willie Gaynes.”

  Kerry sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful. “And what do you divine from that?”

  “Sounds like we have an impostor AD roaming the streets,” Shelly said.

  “Did you get a description of the woman?”

  “No, he hung up too quickly.”

  “Maybe you’d better look into this,” Kerry said. “Visit Mr. Gaynes and find out as much as you can about this woman.”

  “All right,” she said, getting up and turning for the door.

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “Sure,” she said, flashing him a smile.

  WILLIE GAYNES SAT at his desk and thought deeply. What the hell was going on here? This woman had shown him a business card and federal ID that looked good to him and on top of that a court order and a search warrant, and the judge’s clerk had backed it up. Now the FBI had denied all knowledge of this Hope Branson.

  Of course, he no longer had the business card, the court order, or the search warrant; she had been smart enough to take all of that with her, along with all the photographs of Teddy Fay, if it was, indeed, Teddy Fay.

  Willie had been mixed up in a lot of screwy deals in this job—that was the work, after all—but this one took the cake, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

  40

  SHELLY BACH PARKED HER CAR IN THE BASEMENT GARAGE OF THE NATIONAL Inquisitor building and, as she walked to the elevator, noted the number of Porsches, Mercedes, and BMWs parked there. She doubted if the parking garage at The Washington Post sported so many.

  In the reception room she showed her ID to the receptionist. “I’d like to see Mr. Gaynes,” she said.

  The woman dialed a number. “A lady from the FBI to see you,” she said.

  “Special Agent Shelly Bach,” Shelly said.

  The receptionist repeated this information into the phone, then hung up. “Through the door, down the hall to the corner office,” she said.

  Shelly followed the directions and found William Gaynes waiting for her at his open door, looking her up and down.

  “Oh, a different one today,” he said.

  “You and I spoke on the phone yesterday,” Shelly said, holding up her ID, “only you hung up.”

  “All right, come on in,” Gaynes said resignedly.

  Shelly took a chair and crossed her legs. “Tell me about this visitor you had,” she said. “Start with a physical description.”

  “Tall,” Gaynes replied, “like you. Short reddish hair, a good suit, great shoes, probably Manolos. On the whole, rather good looking.”

  “And what did her ID look like?”

  “Like yours.”

  “You said she showed you a court order and a search warrant?”

  “Signed by a federal judge. I called the number on his letterhead, and his clerk confirmed it.”

  “The judge’s name?”

  “I can’t remember,” Gaynes replied. “Not one I was familiar with.”

  “Someone went to a great deal of trouble and preparation to convince you of something,” Shelly said. “What was it?”

  “She told me that a reporter of mine, a valued reporter named Ned Partain, had died, was probably murdered in Panama. A moment later, somebody who said he was a Panamanian policeman called and confirmed it.”

  “My, what a coincidence. Well, if she wasn’t FBI—and she wasn’t—maybe he wasn’t a Panamanian policeman.”

  Gaynes sat up. “You mean Partain might not be dead?”

  “I have no idea,” Shelly said, “but give me a minute, and I’ll find out.” She whipped out her cell phone and pressed a button. “This is Bach. Ascertain
a reported death in Panama, name of Ned Partain, reporter, circumstances, too. Call me back immediately.”

  “How do I know you’re FBI?” Gaynes asked.

  “You called the Hoover Building yesterday and got me on the phone. I’m not the cleaning lady.” She handed him her card. “You can keep this one.”

  Gaynes read it and dropped it into a desk drawer. “What do you want?”

  “I want to know what she wanted,” Shelly said. “She didn’t turn up here with a lot of fake paper just to tell you your reporter was dead. She could have done that with a fake phone call.” Shelly’s phone rang. “Yes?”

  “Death of Ned Partain confirmed,” her assistant said. “Possibly accidental but probably homicide. Officer in charge of case: Sergeant Pepe Norte, Panamanian National Police, based in Panama City. Body iced and air-freighted to W. Gaynes, with a y, care of the National Inquisitor.”

  “Hang on,” Shelly said. “Mr. Gaynes, Partain is dead, and his body was shipped to you this morning. I’d like to have an autopsy performed by our people. That all right with you?”

  “What’s it going to cost me?” Gaynes asked.

  “It will be gratis.”

  “Gratis is good. Do your thing.”

  Shelly raised her pen. “Who is his next of kin?”

  “He had an ex-wife, nobody else that I know of.”

  “Then I guess your permision will do.” Shelly turned back to her phone. “Tell AD Smith I’d like the body met and taken to our ME for autopsy.”

  “Will do.” She hung up.

  “All right, Mr. Gaynes,” Shelly said, “What did the fake FBI lady want?”

  “Some photographs,” Gaynes said.

  “Of whom or what?”

  “Teddy Fay.”

  Shelly stared at him, momentarily speechless.

  “Allegedly,” Gaynes said. “A woman named Darlene Cole called Ned and said she had taken the photo and that she had seen Fay in Panama while she was there on a cruise. We paid her for the shot, but she retained the negative.” He read out the name of Cole’s employer, address, and phone number while Shelly copied them down.