Stuart Woods - Mounting Fears

“He panicked, of course, and hustled her into the rear seat of the car, while his regular driver got the car started and headed for San Diego.

“My father was, like most American men of that day, unacquainted with the details of the birth process, and as my mother tells it, when my birth drew very near, his panic gave way to hysteria. He had a slightly different version of the story, of course, but the result was that my father and his driver, Pedro Martнnez, a family employee, changed positions, and my father drove while Pedro, coming from a society where births were not always accomplished in hospitals, delivered me. He did a good job, apparently, and when we all arrived at the hospital, the doctors and nurses praised him for his skills.”

“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. Martнnez?”

“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 Martнnez, and that should do it. In the meantime, let’s keep working our way through the questionnaire.”

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 Martнnez 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 Martнnez 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 Martнnez,” 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.