Destiny

by David Wood

  Lavelle did not sit. Instead, he strode over to a side table where a bottle of single-malt rested on a silver tray, splashed some of the Scotch into a tumbler, drained it and filled it again.

  “Go on,” he said, turning to face his uninvited guest. “Tell me a fairy tale.”

  Stone smiled. Lavelle’s decision to fortify himself with a dose of liquid courage would make this even easier. “We’ll call it ‘the man who didn’t want to be president.’ I’m talking about Esperanza, of course. I heard about what happened yesterday when he testified in front of the Mexican congress. That must have thrown you for a loop. You need him to take the presidency. It’s the only way anyone south of the border will take that treaty seriously.”

  Lavelle took another sip, savoring the liquor in a futile attempt to hide his growing anxiety. “The treaty is what it is. It’s up to the Mexican government to decide what to do with it.”

  “Of course, but you’ve been priming the pump with Esperanza. First, you hit him where it hurts. Twenty-two innocent students, people he was trying to help, butchered. You make him believe that it’s the beginning of another cycle of violence, and then you show him the magic fix. A century-old treaty that will make the source of the problem vanish. Cede the northern states to the U.S. and restore peace and order, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  Lavelle conspicuously did not refute any of the accusations. “And why not? The Mexican government has had more than a decade to fix this problem. They’ve failed, and as long as they keep failing, it becomes our problem too.”

  “We both know that you aren’t interested in fixing anything.” He paused, daring the other man to take the bait. When Lavelle kept silent, Stone went on. “It has to be Esperanza. President Mendoza would never give up half of his country over a worthless piece of paper. That’s why you wanted him removed from office.”

  Lavelle shrugged. “A lot of people want him out. He’s tainted with corruption.”

  “Impeachment is a tricky business. You couldn’t be sure that the senate would convict, but that didn’t really matter. The important thing was to put Esperanza in the spotlight, show the country that he’s willing and able to be their leader, ready to step in when Samsonov assassinates Mendoza.”

  Lavelle dropped his glass. It hit the carpeted floor with a faint thump. His mouth worked silently for a moment, as if sampling a variety of denials. He finally went with: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh?” Stone let the lie pass. “Well, in any case, you need Esperanza to validate the treaty, if only to the public. There’s no way it would stand up to scrutiny, but then it doesn’t need to, does it? The real purpose of Destiny is to make people in America believe that Mexico is serious about becoming part of the United States.”

  Lavelle said nothing, but Stone could read the truth in the other man’s scowl.

  “You’re counting on a frenzy of xenophobia. All those people who have been clamoring for a border fence, freaking out about the possibility of offering amnesty to illegal aliens…What will they do when they hear that millions of the very people they’re so terrified of just became American citizens, a new voting majority that doesn’t even habla Ingles?

  “Just the possibility of that will be enough. The media will see to that. The fact that it will never really happen won’t make a bit of difference. Can’t have those pesky details getting in the way of a good story. It’s all about the fear, isn’t it? Make people afraid, and then promise them salvation. ‘Washington can’t save you, but the Dominion can.’ There’s a slogan for you.

  “How does it play out from there? Revolution by ballot? No, that would take too long, and there would be no guarantee of success. Fear cuts both ways. While you’re ginning up the bigots, you’re also rousing the opposition—not just the arugula-eating, chai-latte sipping elites, but everyone who doesn’t fit into your vision of what the world should look like. No, you’d never be able to make it work democratically on the national scale. But that’s the point, isn’t it? You want to destroy the Union.”

  Lavelle, with something like passion burning in his eyes, leaned forward. “One in four Americans want that. One in four Americans, who believe in the principles that this country was founded on, the freedom to throw off the chains of a tyrannical government that takes whatever it wants, while it spits on the values we hold sacred. This has been coming for a long time. I’m just giving the final push.”

  “A straw to break the camel’s back,” Stone said, nodding to acknowledge the tacit confession. He paused a beat. Up to this point, he had only been revealing things that Lavelle already knew, testing his deductions, and by all appearances, hitting pretty close to the mark. The next part, however, would be uncharted territory for both of them.

  “Tell me this,” Stone continued. “Did it ever occur to you to ask why the head of Russia’s spy agency would hand you a jug of gasoline and a box of matches?”

  Lavelle’s head shook slightly in confusion. “Come again?”

  “You’re a businessman. The first rule of capitalism is self-interest. Do you think the Russians dropped this in your lap because they share your vision of freedom?”

  The blank expression on Lavelle’s face was evidence enough that he had not asked this question.

  “After World War II, Russia, through the Soviet Union, dominated half the globe. Now they’re a laughingstock. A nation of gangsters. Their economy is circling the drain. They’ve got the military power and resources, and most importantly, the will to take back everything they’ve lost since the end of the Cold War and then some, but one thing is standing in their way: America.

  “It’s not the threat of nukes anymore,” Stone went on. “It’s sanctions. The only way to turn things around is to go on the offensive, but whenever they try flexing their muscles—South Ossetia, the Ukraine—they get hit with crippling trade sanctions. The United Nations, the European Union, NATO members—they all follow America’s lead.

  “If Russia is going to reclaim its empire, their own version of Manifest Destiny, they first have to deal with their biggest enemy, and what better way than to let America destroy itself from within. Even if your proposed Civil War failed to completely collapse the federal government, the American economy would crater, and take everyone else down with it. That alone would boost Russia out of recession. They win no matter what happens.

  “You see, that’s what this was always about. Samsonov has been using you, just like you are using Esperanza.”

  Lavelle stood in stunned silence for a full minute, refusing to meet Stone’s gaze, but then the corners of his mouth twitched up in a cryptic smile. “So what? What happens on the other side of the world doesn’t mean a thing to me, or to most Americans. We’ve wasted a century playing world police, sending our sons off to die fighting for people who laugh at us behind our backs.”

  “You think your new America will be safe?”

  “We’ll be strong,” Lavelle snarled. “Once we’ve cut the fat and brought back the values that made us great in the first place, no one will dare mess with us.”

  Stone nodded slowly. Lavelle’s reaction had been entirely predictable. He had not really expected the man to acknowledge the madness of his scheme, but then none of this had been done for Lavelle’s benefit. “Did you hear all that?”

  Avery’s voice sounded in Stone’s ear. “We did. Señor Esperanza heard it all.”

  Lavelle looked around, uncomprehending. “Who are you talking to?”

  Stone rose and, ignoring the question, walked to the front door. Over his shoulder, he said, “It’s not going to happen, Lavelle. Destiny has just been canceled.”

  He opened the door and stepped aside allowing Tam Broderick and Greg Johns to enter. Tam faced Lavelle, hands on hips, smiling broadly. “Hello again.”

  For the first time since entering the room, Lavelle appeared to panic. “I have to go,” he mumbled. “I have a flight to catch.”

  “Yes you do,” Stone repl
ied. “But not the one you think.”

  In the courtyard below, Avery switched off the transmission and studied Esperanza’s reaction, which was nothing short of devastated.

  “I—I don’t understand. Why would he do this?”

  “He’s a terrorist,” Avery said, trying to keep her explanations short, sweet, and vague. “He doesn’t like the way the world is, so he wants to ruin it for everyone else.”

  Esperanza seemed to accept this explanation. “Do you think he is really going to try to assassinate President Mendoza?”

  “My friend is pretty good at predicting what people will do. And Lavelle didn’t deny it.”

  “We must warn the president. Alert the police.”

  Avery took a deep breath. Tam had given her very clear instructions in this regard. “The assassin is a very dangerous man. A foreign spy. And we’re in a somewhat delicate position. If we tell the authorities, then we’ll have to explain how we learned about this plot. It could very well make things worse.”

  “The president is on his way to the San Lazaro Palace right now, at my request. If someone kills him there, or even makes an attempt, they will believe that I am part of the scheme, especially because of my connection to Roger.”

  “We’re looking for the assassin right now. We’ll stop him, I promise. You’re going to have to trust us on this.”

  “Trust seems to be a weakness of mine. I trusted Roger. How did I not see the man he really is?”

  “People like that prey on our trust, exploit our good intentions. That might be the worst thing about what they do. They make us afraid to trust anyone.” Avery allowed the sentiment to sink in for a moment, and then gestured to the portfolio, still clutched in the other man’s hands. “What will you do with that?”

  Esperanza looked down in alarm, as if he had forgotten all about the treaty. “Is it true what he said? Would this destroy America?”

  “That seems to be what Lavelle wanted,” Avery replied.

  “What should be done with it?”

  “I’m a historian, so to me this is a very interesting discovery. I can’t imagine that anyone would expect it to be honored, but there are a lot of fearful people out there who might want to use it as an excuse to cause trouble.”

  He held it out to her. “I think it would be better if this never existed.”

  Avery felt a sudden and profound sadness at the idea of keeping this discovery a secret, but deep down, she knew he was right. She took the portfolio from him.

  “What do I do now?” Esperanza sounded utterly miserable. “I am supposed to meet with the president in half an hour, but I cannot tell him any of this.”

  “Lavelle may have set you up, but now you have a chance to turn his scheme into something good. Meet with the president, just as you planned. Come up with a better answer. Turn this into a victory.”

  “What if nothing changes?”

  Something Stone said came to her. She didn’t know if it was really true or not, didn’t know if it would bring Esperanza comfort, or deepen his despair. “A friend of mine believes that everything that happens happens because it couldn’t have happened any other way. I believe everything happens for a reason. Maybe it’s the same thing. I don’t know. What I do know is that you have to play the hand you’re dealt.”

  Esperanza gave a solemn nod. “Then I will play to win.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Less than five miles separated the Four Seasons Hotel from the Palacio San Lazaro, the seat of Mexico’s legislative body, but the luxury of the five-star hotel was a world removed from the chaos at the heart of the federal district. According to news reports, the protests, which had been ongoing since the incident in Juarez just a few days previously, were nearing critical mass, evidently in response to Esperanza’s passionate speech the day before, yet nothing Greg Johns had seen since arriving in Mexico City shortly before sunrise would have led him to believe that the government was on the brink of collapse.

  But he knew well that appearances could be deceiving. Mass protests and riots usually began at specific aggregation points—government buildings, stock exchanges, large city parks—while just a few city blocks away, people went about their daily lives blissfully unaware that the foundation of their world was crumbling.

  Most of the turmoil had been focused in the Zocalo, the famed plaza that had once been the center of historic Tenochtitlan, the Aztec capital that had become Mexico City. Known formally as Plaza de la Constitución, it remained a destination for visitors and a focal point for both the city and the nation. The square was of particular interest to the protestors since it was also the location of the National Palace, from which President Mendoza led—or some would say, failed to lead—the country. Today, however, some of that attention had shifted to the San Lazaro palace, where the president would be meeting with Juarez businessman Guillermo Esperanza to discuss, rumor had it, a matter that would have profound implications for the future of the beleaguered nation.

  If the Myrmidons failed to stop Oleg Samsonov from assassinating Mendoza, the firestorm would begin there.

  Lavelle had been surprisingly forthcoming. Greg suspected this was because the Dominion leader believed that it was already too late for them to stop Samsonov, but Sievers’ gleeful offer to give a demonstration of “enhanced interrogation techniques” might also have been a factor. Unfortunately, Lavelle knew only that Samsonov planned to hit Mendoza as soon as he arrived at the congressional building. The exact means by which he planned to kill the Mexican president were unknown, even to Lavelle.

  The weight of the decision had fallen on Tam. Alerting the Estado Mayor Presidencial—Mexico’s military equivalent to the Secret Service—was an option of last resort. There was no guarantee that the warning would be taken seriously. If it was, there would be no way to conceal the discovery of the treaty, the scope of the Dominion plot, or the involvement of the Russians, and that might very well trigger the chaos they hoped to prevent. If the EMP ignored the warnings and Samsonov succeeded, the situation would be even worse.

  On the other hand, if the Myrmidons could take Samsonov down quietly, it would be a major coup.

  Stone’s appraisal of the situation provided the deciding factor. “Samsonov will want to take care of this personally,” he told Tam. “Just like he did in Vienna. He won’t trust this to anyone else.”

  “But how are we going to find him in time?” Greg asked.

  “Leave that to me,” Tam had told them, a strange and eager gleam in her eye. With Sievers remaining behind to guard both the prisoners, and if things went badly, help Avery and Stone escape the city, the others boarded waiting taxis and dispersed to carry out the desperate plan.

  As Greg and Kasey sped toward the congressional building, their route taking them just ten blocks south of the Zocalo, they began to see the first signs of the unrest they had heard about. Graffiti messages, demanding the ouster of President Mendoza and accusing him of collusion with drug cartels, were spray-painted on walls in letters ten feet high. Scorch marks on walls and pavement marked the places where random fires had burned. Plywood covered store front windows that had presumably been shattered, no doubt the work of hooligans using the political turmoil as an excuse for wanton destruction.

  When they were still more than half a mile from the San Lazaro palace, all forward progress abruptly ceased. The road ahead was a veritable parking lot.

  “I hope Tam’s having an easier go of it,” Greg remarked.

  “No kidding.” Kasey leaned forward and spoke to the taxi driver. In halting Spanish, she asked if the gridlock was due to the protests. The man’s response was a machine-gun-like burst of words, of which Greg understood just a handful. Kasey’s next utterance was in English, harsh and monosyllabic.

  “What’s wrong?” Greg asked.

  “He says the street has been blocked by the president’s security men.”

  “Nice of him to let us know.” Greg threw a handful of hundred peso notes over the seat, more than th
e figure on the meter and a lot more than the driver deserved, then threw open his door. Kasey got out on her side, and they both took off running down the sidewalk.

  The first few steps reminded him of the aches and bruises incurred from the previous day’s border crossing, but the pain subsided as he found his pace. Tam held them all to an exacting regimen of physical training for situations just such as this. Under ideal conditions, Greg could easily knock out a six-minute mile, and the lithe Kasey was even faster, but it soon became evident that conditions would not be ideal. Mexico City was nearly a mile and a half above sea level. The altitude not only left the runners winded, but amplified the effects of air pollution on the crowded streets of the world’s fifth largest metropolitan area, turning the atmosphere into a choking miasma of automobile exhaust and ozone. After just a minute of running, Greg’s chest was burning, and a metallic taste filled his mouth. To make matters worse, the sidewalk was crowded with sign-carrying protesters and nearly as congested as the boulevard.

  Tam’s voice squawked through the speakers in his ear bud a couple minutes later. “I’ve reached the search area. What’s your ETA?”

  She had to shout to be heard over the strident background noise. Her voice was already hoarse from breathing the foul air, and although it brought him no comfort, Greg knew that Tam was facing an even greater ordeal than he and Kasey.

  He keyed his mic. “We’re on foot. A couple minutes out.”

  “You’ll need to do better than that. I’ve got eyes on Mendoza’s car. Coming in from the north. He’ll be there in two minutes.”

  Greg glanced over at Kasey who gave a resigned shrug and somehow managed to increase her pace. Greg attempted to do the same, and immediately felt a burn in his muscles.

  They dashed across an intersection and beneath an overpass, slipped between unmoving cars, and reached the blockaded security perimeter. Foot traffic was bunched up in front of hastily erected barricades, beyond which dozens of police officers in riot gear stood ready in the event that the physical barriers proved insufficient. To the right, a tall metal fence, painted red, blocked access to the forested grounds of the San Lazaro palace. The west entrance, where President Mendoza would be arriving at any moment, was still a couple hundred yards away.