Stuart Woods - Mounting Fears

This was all a worst-case scenario, of course. It was likely that Owen had never heard of Partain and that the photo now rested in some filing cabinet at police headquarters in Colуn, at the other end of the canal, which would suit Teddy just fine.

The worst-case scenario, though, would suit him pretty well, too, because Lance Cabot, as soon as he saw the photo of Teddy, would have conducted an immediate sweeping-under-the-rug operation. Certainly, he would not have apprised Katharine Rule of the resurrection of Teddy Fay, since that would have reflected very badly on himself. Nor would he send people looking for Teddy, since that would mean looking for a dead man. Lance, for the moment, would serve very nicely as Teddy’s new best friend.

Owen Masters, though, would have little interest in Lance Cabot’s comfort. There had been, after all, a day when Owen’s career track had aimed him, more or less, at Lance’s job, and now he found himself moldering in the heat and humidity of Panama, grinding it out until his retirement clock reached the magic number of thirty, disaffected and thoroughly pissed off. Owen was the wild card in the worst-case scenario, and Teddy wanted to have sight of him, to assess his state of mind.

Teddy began by waiting outside the American Embassy in the late afternoon. He wanted to know what time Owen Masters called it a day, and he was gratified to see the aging spy wander out of the building at a quarter past four. He certainly wasn’t working nights trying to find Teddy. Owen got into his car, a dusty embassy Chevrolet, and Teddy cranked his motor scooter and followed him.

The trail of Owen Masters led to a dimly lit cantina a mile or so from the embassy but probably near Owen’s home. There he would be unlikely to encounter fellow embassy employees, so there would be no one to report back on how much he was drinking. And Owen was drinking much.

The man started with a tequila shooter and a cerveza chaser, just to get his alcohol blood level up, then switched to margaritas. Teddy witnessed all this from the far end of the bar, while he nursed his own drink. Owen spent an hour there, anesthetizing himself for whatever his evening promised.

What it promised, it turned out, after Teddy had followed him home and stationed himself outside a kitchen window, was five minutes of a monumental fight with Owen’s wife, Estelle, whom Teddy had met once at a social gathering of spooks. The discussion covered the no doubt familiar ground of Owen’s consumption level of alcohol, Owen’s lack of career prospects, Owen’s failure to save enough money for a decent retirement, and Owen’s having got them sent to this godforsaken place.

This was followed, after Estelle had finally wound down, by a grimly silent supper and television viewing. Teddy was happy for Owen that he had a satellite dish.

Teddy wended his way to a favorite restaurant for dinner, feeling less worried about Owen Masters as a threat. He would stick around Panama City, albeit well prepared for flight, until he discerned some more threatening blip on his overdeveloped personal radar.

Barbara Ortega left the Department of Justice feeling very good. She had spent a little over two hours with a three-person selection committee-two men and a woman-and had answered their questions directly, honestly, and sometimes bluntly. They had reacted with interest, seemed to appreciate her candor, and had, somehow, signaled the attorney general to join them for the last few minutes of the interview, which she took as a good sign. The AG had asked a few questions and had seemed happy with her answers, too.

Her rйsumй was great, the new vice president was her former boss, and she knew there was a letter of recommendation from the president in her file. There was nothing in her personal history that would count as a black mark. She had been outstanding as a student, as an ADA in Los Angeles and in the California AG’s office, as well as in the state house. And she was a woman. What could go wrong?

She went back to her hotel, ordered a room-service dinner, and fell asleep with the TV on.

Martin Stanton was en route from Los Angeles to San Antonio when he got the call from the attorney general.

“Morning, Mr. Vice President.”

“Good morning, General.”

“My selection committee and I met yesterday with your former chief of staff, Barbara Ortega.”

“I hope it went well.”

“She was very impressive. I noted that there was nothing in her jacket from you about her candidacy, and I wanted to ask you why.”

“I felt that I should not be seen to be promoting my former chief of staff for a high federal position at this time, that’s all,” Stanton said.

“So you asked the president to do it instead?”

“No, the first I heard of the president’s involvement was when he mentioned that Barbara had given him as a reference.”

“I suppose she had every right to do that,” the AG said.

“Of course. She knows the president, and he knows her.”

“What is your opinion of Ms. Ortega as a person and a candidate for the appointment?”

“Since you ask, I have the highest possible regard for her both personally and professionally. I think she’s perfectly qualified for the appointment.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” the AG said. “Would you like to know my decision?”

“If you want to tell me, certainly.”

“I’ve decided to hire her as head of the Criminal Division,” the AG said.

Stanton tried to keep his voice neutral. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy with Barbara,” he said, “and I congratulate you on your judgment.”

The AG laughed. “Thank you, sir. Would you like to give her the news?”

“No, I think she’d like to hear it from you, General. I’ll drop her a congratulatory note when I get a chance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vice President, and good-bye.”

Stanton hung up the phone, elated. He also found that he had an erection at the thought of having Barbara in Washington. It had been very tough to do without her during the past days.

At that moment Liz Wharton walked past his seat, and he watched thoughtfully as she made her way up the aisle. She stopped and bent over to speak to someone, and her skirt was pulled tight across her ass. Stanton’s heartbeat increased noticeably.

Shelly Bach put down the phone, left her office, and walked a couple of doors down to Kerry Smith’s secretary. “Does he have a minute?” she asked.

“He’s alone,” the woman replied. “Go on in.”

Shelly rapped on the door and stuck her head in. “Got a moment?”

“Sure, come on in.”

She walked in, took a chair, and noticed how carefully he watched her. They had made a point of being completely professional in the office, even when alone, but their evenings had been much more interesting.

“What’s up?”

“Have you ever heard of an agent called Hope Branson?”

“No. What office is she in?”

“Well, the switchboard had a call this morning from someone asking for an Assistant Director Hope Branson, and after being told there was no such person he insisted on talking to an AD, and the call came to me.”

“There’s certainly no assistant director by that name,” Kerry said. “What else did he say?”

“He said that she had come to his office yesterday and shown him FBI ID, and that he had called our switchboard to confirm her identity and reached her secretary. I told him I thought someone must be pulling his leg, and he hung up. I had the call backtracked and it was from the office of the editor of a horrible gossip rag called the National Inquisitor, a man named William or Willie Gaynes.”

Kerry sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful. “And what do you divine from that?”