by Stuart Woods
“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, there’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 y
ou 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.”
***
Will finished speaking in Chicago and was driven in a motorcade back to the airplane. It always embarrassed him to drive down an empty street and see people stopped at every corner to let him pass.
Back on the airplane he got Kitty and the head of his Secret Service detail together. “I’ve told you both about this before,” he said, “but nothing has changed. I’m still stopping traffic for miles around when I’m driven anywhere, and I want something done about it.”
“Mr. President,” the agent said, “we’re doing the minimum we have to to ensure your safety.”
“The minimum is an armored limousine, four Secret Service cars, half a dozen local police cars, and a platoon of motorcycle police?”
“The local cops want to participate in the motorcade, sir, and to tell the truth, I’m glad to have them clearing the way.”
Kitty spoke up. “He’s right, Mr. President. If we cut down the security and you were harmed it would be a stain on the Secret Service for decades.”
“All that security didn’t help Jack Kennedy,” Will said, “and it didn’t even help George Wallace.”
“A lone gunman in a high place is always a problem, Mr. President,” the agent said, “and the motorcade was traveling slowly, so that the crowds could get a good look at President and Mrs. Kennedy. Lee Oswald got a good look, too. That’s why we have to keep up the speed of the motorcade. George Wallace was shot because he didn’t follow the plan.”
“What plan?”
“The first two rows at any event are always people we know or have cleared. Governor Wallace broke through the first two rows in his enthusiasm for shaking hands, and Arthur Bremer was waiting for him with a gun. If he had followed the plan, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“Look, Mr. President,” Kitty said, “I know you feel embarrassed by this, but you can’t ask the people who have the responsibility of protecting you to do less than what they feel is necessary. This is not going to change, and you just have to get used to it.”
Will was relieved to see Moss Mallet standing at the door. “That’s all, thanks,” he said to the two people, while waving Moss in.
“Mr. President, we have the results of the first poll since Bill Spanner was nominated. You’re favored by fifty-one percent of the American people to forty-five percent for Spanner.”
“Moss, what is going on? Two weeks ago I had a sixty-two percent approval rating, and now there’s only six
points between me and the upstart?”
“He’s a fresh face, Mr. President. He’ll get old quickly, and the polls will reflect that. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Then why do you look so worried, Moss?”
“I was just worried about telling you the news. Believe me, it will get better.”
“Thanks, Moss. I’m going to take a nap now. Please put that DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door on your way out.”
Moss left, and Will stretched out on the bed, but he didn’t sleep.
33
Lance Cabot got into his office at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, at seven a.m., as usual. He had been deputy director for operations for some months now, and he had just begun to feel he had a firm grip on the job when his direct line rang.
This line was there so that station heads and, sometimes, field agents could go directly to the DDO, in extraordinary circumstances, and whenever it rang, Lance got tense. He picked up the instrument. “Hello?”
“Lance, it’s Owen Masters in Panama City. Can we scramble?”
Lance pressed the scrambler button. “Good morning, Owen, we’re scrambled.” Lance didn’t like Masters a hell of a lot. As a young agent he had found the man to be opinionated and rude. The only reason he had left him as station chief in Panama was that the man had only a few months until his retirement.
“Something has come up I think you should know about. Yesterday morning a dead body was discovered on the deck of an oil tanker that had passed through the canal en route to Galveston.”
“Anybody we know?”
Masters ignored the question. “The body was taken off by the Coast Guard and flown to Panama City, which has the only medical examiner in the country. When an American dies in the Canal Zone I routinely get a call from a cop I know on the Panama City force, and this morning, on the way to work, I met him at the morgue and had a look at the body. It could be an accident, but it’s more likely a homicide.”
Lance was annoyed. Why on earth would a station chief take an interest in a local homicide? He repeated his question. “Anybody we know, Owen?”
