Mounting Fears (8 page)

“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.