Murder at the Watergate Read Online Free Page A

because you always do.”
    She kissed him on the cheek and they left the Crescent Bar, she returning to the ballroom, he to give Janet some advice on how to handle the crisis of the moment.
    Mexico. Maybe he
could
wangle a trip there in advance of Aprile’s official visit. A couple of days in the sun at Elfie’s hillside mansion would do wonders for mind and body. He winced against a headache that had developed, decided he’d get to bed as early as possible, and alone, and headed for the elevators.

4
The 600 Office Building—the Watergate
    The pert, plump Mexican girl answered the phone: “
Buenas noches
. Mexican-American Trade Alliance.”
    It was good the office hadn’t upgraded its technology to include videophones. The sour expression on her face in response to the caller’s stern tone would not have been appreciated.
    “He’s in a meeting, Senor Zegreda. He said he is not to be disturbed.”
    Another series of winces as Manuel Zegreda told her why he thought she should get her boss out of the meeting.
    “But, Senor Zegreda, I—”
    The click of the phone caused her to hold the instrument away from her and look at it as though it had just performed a social indecency.
    The door behind her opened.
    “Who was that?” Valle asked. The managing director of the alliance was a stout man who wore suspenders to avoid creating a bulging belt line. Venustiano Valle’s shirt was yellow, his tie brown, the suspenders black. Hishair was coal black with the consistency of a shoe brush, growing unnaturally low on his forehead.
    “Senor Zegreda,” she said. “He wanted me to interrupt the meeting but—”
    “Get him back. Where is he?”
    “At his office. He said he would be there for another hour. Then he goes to the party for Senor Aprile.”
    “Get him back. Now!” Valle slammed the door.
    Fifteen minutes later, after having spoken with Manuel Zegreda, Valle went into the hallway, turned right, and stopped at an adjacent office whose small, gold-on-wood sign also read MEXICAN-AMERICAN TRADE ALLIANCE . He rang the bell, waited impatiently until the door opened, entered, passed a section of the suite devoted to high-tech communications equipment, and went directly to a small room to the rear where a young man sat behind a desk, his sad, brooding expression straight off the pages of a men’s magazine fashion spread. He looked up, leaned back in his swivel chair, and put his hands behind his head.
    “Have you heard from Mexico City yet?” Valle asked, taking the only other chair in the room.
    “No,” the younger man said. “You know them. They never respond when they say they will.”
    “Zegreda is impatient.”
    The comment brought a trace of a smile to the younger man’s face. “That is hardly news,” he said.
    Valle did not smile. He said in Spanish, “I don’t like these gaps in communication. I don’t like not knowing what they are doing. That is the way problems arise.”
    “I know, I know, but I can do nothing. Mexico City is aware of the situation. I have called them four timessince noon today, and sent E-mail. Each time they say the information will be coming. If you would like, I will try again.”
    “No, don’t bother.” Valle went to the window that overlooked the Kennedy Center, where cars had begun to arrive for that evening’s concert by Domingo. He said without turning, “Zegreda is attending the fund-raising affair tonight. Vice President Aprile did not want him there, but our friend convinced him. The vice president is a fool, Jose. He should take lessons from the president, a man for whom pragmatism has always worked.”
    When Jose Chapas did not respond, Valle turned and looked at his younger colleague as a professor might at a student who’d woefully missed the point of the lesson. “Where will you be in the next hour?”
    “Here.”
    “And what does your Senorita Flores say about you working late?”
    “Laura? She works late herself.”
    Chapas had recently begun seeing