Stuart Woods - Mounting Fears

Stanton hung up, too. His blood pressure was up; he could feel it throbbing against his temples. How did what started out as an amicable attempt to settle turn into this? It was insane!

He put on his wristwatch and checked it. An hour until his first appearance. He chose a suit and tie and got dressed. As he finished, the doorbell rang, and the Secret Service agent in the living room answered it. Stanton walked into the living room to find an attractive woman standing in the foyer. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Mr. Vice President,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Elizabeth Wharton, your campaign manager, if that meets with your approval.”

“Please come in, Ms. Wharton. I didn’t even know I had a campaign manager yet.”

“The president, knowing that you had not had time to assemble a staff, directed his campaign manager, Senator Sam Meriwether, to appoint someone to help. If you would prefer someone else, that will be fine.”

“Tell me about yourself… may I call you Elizabeth?”

“Liz will be fine, sir. I’m from the small town of Delano, Georgia, President Lee’s hometown. I graduated from the University of Georgia with a master’s degree in history. I taught history at Agnes Scott College in Atlanta for seven years, working on Democratic campaigns on the side, then I worked on Senator Meriwether’s staff when he was in the House, and I managed his campaign for the Senate.”

“Sounds like a good background, Liz. Let’s see how it works out.”

She opened a leather envelope and produced a sheet of paper. “Here’s your revised schedule for today. You’re speaking at a brunch this morning attended by members of the San Francisco alumnae association of Brandeis University. They’re just about all Jewish, and we’ve included a statement of your support for Israel in your speech, which I wrote, myself, last night.” She handed him half a dozen pages. “Please read it on the way to the event, and if you don’t like any of it, please feel free to wing it, but remember to include your support of Israel.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Stanton said, tucking the pages into an inside pocket. She was very attractive indeed, he thought, and obviously very smart. The doorbell rang again, and a middle-aged Filipino man was admitted.

“This is your valet for the campaign,” Liz said, “Alfredo Garcia. Alfredo will pack and unpack for you and manage your luggage in transit. The Secret Service wants someone who has been cleared by them.”

“Good morning, Alfredo,” Stanton said.

“Good morning, Mr. Vice President. May I pack your things?”

“Yes, please.”

Alfredo disappeared into the bedroom.

“And I have some good news,” Liz said. “Your campaign airplane has arrived, fresh from its annual inspection. It’s a BBJ, Boeing Business Jet, which is based on the 737 series of airliners. It will carry you in comfort, along with half a dozen staff and a dozen or so press.”

“Do I have half a dozen staff?” Stanton asked.

“You do, sir. When we arrive at Oakland to board the aircraft, you’ll find two secretaries, Alfredo, representatives of the Mallet Polling Company and of Tom Black’s political consultancies, and of course, me.”

“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.

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 attachй, 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.