of the volumes from the shelves and perusing its expensive pages.
The young man led Haydon past the table to a sitting area with an oval arrangement of creamy Roche-Bobois leather armchairs around a large oriental carpet as precise and detailed as any Haydon had ever seen. It was Chinese, with gul motifs in cream and rose.
A man in his early sixties stood from one of the plush chairs and gravely waited for the young man to bring Haydon to him. As they approached, the older man stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Please let me introduce myself, Mr. Haydon. I am Benigo Gamboa Parra. Mr. Sosa worked for me."
Haydon shook Gamboa's hand.
"You were expecting me?" Haydon asked.
"Not you specifically, but the police."
"How did you learn of his death?"
"Mr. Haydon," Gamboa said, his expression one of sadness and world-weariness, "I am preoccupied with security. That kind of tragedy does not occur to someone in my employ without my immediate knowledge."
"But how did you learn of it?" Haydon persisted. His tone was polite, but emphatic.
"Of course." Gamboa understood, and nodded in deference to
Haydon's position. "I was in another limousine at the time. We had radio contact. We heard the firing and my driver brought me back here at once. My security personnel have a police scanner. They followed the developments." He looked at his son, who excused himself and left the room. "Please, sit down, Mr. Haydon."
Gamboa himself sat down, and unbuttoned his suit coat so that the garment would hang more comfortably. It was tailored of silk the color of ashes, and complimented his wavy gray hair. He wore glasses, slightly tinted.
"I know you have questions. I will do everything I can to assist
you."
"I'm sure you have no idea what provoked this attack," Haydon said curtly, keeping a tight rein on his temper.
The tension in the flat tone of his voice was not lost on Gamboa. He looked at Haydon for a moment as if he were giving him time to relax. The Mexican's eyes were alert, though the flesh around them was sagging from age. There was a sense of melancholy in them that suggested his life had not been without other tragedies.
"I have a million ideas, Mr. Haydon. I do not live with this absurd security without reasons." Gamboa touched his glasses and smiled tiredly. "For many years I have been active in Mexican politics," he said simply. He seemed to find that explanation enough.
"You are still active?"
Gamboa shook his head. "I retired after my service in the Jose Lopez Portillo administration. The stresses are as real for the manana Mexican public servant as for your own distinguished government officials. When President Portillo left office it was a good time for me to leave as well. A good time to retire. I have devoted a large portion of my life to my country. It was a duty. It was right that I should do it. But a man does not live forever. I have a family to consider. True, as you have seen, my children are mostly grown, but in Mexico we stay a family longer than is your custom here. I am not too old to enjoy my children, or to help them with their careers."
"You have other children?"
"Two sons, two daughters. Efren is my second son. He has been in law school at Harvard. The alma mater of our President de la Madrid. A good selection for a young man."
"What is your relationship with Sosa?"
"Ramon has been my close friend and associate for many years. Before I entered political life, I was a businessman who had been blessed with some success. Since I could not continue my commercial pursuits while I was in politics, I retained Mr. Sosa as my representative. Something like your blind trust here in the United States. He looked after my interests, while I tried to attend to the interests of Mexico."
"Do you have any idea why he was assassinated?"
Gamboa shook his head again, slowly closing and then opening his eyes.
"No. They were not after poor Ramon. They thought I was in the limousine."
Haydon studied him. "You seem sure of that."
"As I said,
The young man led Haydon past the table to a sitting area with an oval arrangement of creamy Roche-Bobois leather armchairs around a large oriental carpet as precise and detailed as any Haydon had ever seen. It was Chinese, with gul motifs in cream and rose.
A man in his early sixties stood from one of the plush chairs and gravely waited for the young man to bring Haydon to him. As they approached, the older man stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Please let me introduce myself, Mr. Haydon. I am Benigo Gamboa Parra. Mr. Sosa worked for me."
Haydon shook Gamboa's hand.
"You were expecting me?" Haydon asked.
"Not you specifically, but the police."
"How did you learn of his death?"
"Mr. Haydon," Gamboa said, his expression one of sadness and world-weariness, "I am preoccupied with security. That kind of tragedy does not occur to someone in my employ without my immediate knowledge."
"But how did you learn of it?" Haydon persisted. His tone was polite, but emphatic.
"Of course." Gamboa understood, and nodded in deference to
Haydon's position. "I was in another limousine at the time. We had radio contact. We heard the firing and my driver brought me back here at once. My security personnel have a police scanner. They followed the developments." He looked at his son, who excused himself and left the room. "Please, sit down, Mr. Haydon."
Gamboa himself sat down, and unbuttoned his suit coat so that the garment would hang more comfortably. It was tailored of silk the color of ashes, and complimented his wavy gray hair. He wore glasses, slightly tinted.
"I know you have questions. I will do everything I can to assist
you."
"I'm sure you have no idea what provoked this attack," Haydon said curtly, keeping a tight rein on his temper.
The tension in the flat tone of his voice was not lost on Gamboa. He looked at Haydon for a moment as if he were giving him time to relax. The Mexican's eyes were alert, though the flesh around them was sagging from age. There was a sense of melancholy in them that suggested his life had not been without other tragedies.
"I have a million ideas, Mr. Haydon. I do not live with this absurd security without reasons." Gamboa touched his glasses and smiled tiredly. "For many years I have been active in Mexican politics," he said simply. He seemed to find that explanation enough.
"You are still active?"
Gamboa shook his head. "I retired after my service in the Jose Lopez Portillo administration. The stresses are as real for the manana Mexican public servant as for your own distinguished government officials. When President Portillo left office it was a good time for me to leave as well. A good time to retire. I have devoted a large portion of my life to my country. It was a duty. It was right that I should do it. But a man does not live forever. I have a family to consider. True, as you have seen, my children are mostly grown, but in Mexico we stay a family longer than is your custom here. I am not too old to enjoy my children, or to help them with their careers."
"You have other children?"
"Two sons, two daughters. Efren is my second son. He has been in law school at Harvard. The alma mater of our President de la Madrid. A good selection for a young man."
"What is your relationship with Sosa?"
"Ramon has been my close friend and associate for many years. Before I entered political life, I was a businessman who had been blessed with some success. Since I could not continue my commercial pursuits while I was in politics, I retained Mr. Sosa as my representative. Something like your blind trust here in the United States. He looked after my interests, while I tried to attend to the interests of Mexico."
"Do you have any idea why he was assassinated?"
Gamboa shook his head again, slowly closing and then opening his eyes.
"No. They were not after poor Ramon. They thought I was in the limousine."
Haydon studied him. "You seem sure of that."
"As I said,
Similar Books
