And anyway, what was it to her if the gringos or the Hispanic radicals won the battle to control New Mexico? Why should she care if New Mexico went socialist, or even communist, and broke away from the United States? What had the U.S. federal government done for her, other than murder her father, kill Brad Fallon, imprison her and steal her baby? She was here to find her son, not to take sides in this budding civil war. All she cared about was finding her son, and to do that she needed to escape.
“Basilio, why don’t you have that fascist arrested, for sedition? Or for conspiracy—it sounds like the terrorists are using him to pass along information. Why isn’t he arrested?”
Ramos looked across at her, then back at the road ahead. “Well…that’s a complicated question. Believe me—I’d like nothing better than to see Haywood chained to a wall in front of a firing squad. He’s been a thorn in our side ever since I arrived. But he’s also been a valuable source of intelligence. Our Special Surveillance Group traces every call, every email that he gets. It all fits together quite well, and so far it’s been useful to let him spew his hate. But don’t worry: his usefulness is almost at an end. We’ll grab Haywood when the time is right, and make an example out of him. It’s all a question of timing. Just wait until Saturday—Saturday will change everything.”
15
Thursday June 26
Basilio Ramos wasn’t accustomed to waiting in public. Sitting on a park bench for ten minutes, even obscured beneath the hanging branches of a willow tree, made him feel like he had a bulls-eye target taped onto his oxford shirt. On the other hand, he knew that there were few places in New Mexico as safe for him as the university, especially with his four primary bodyguards surrounding him at a discreet distance.
On short notice, Comrade Inez from the clandestine Revolutionary Council had asked to meet him at nine o’clock Thursday morning, and she was late. She was only now walking around the duck pond in the center of the campus, in the green space between the imposing Fidel Castro Library and the university administration building where she worked. For the meeting, Ramos had discarded his usual camouflage uniform and brown beret, in favor of wearing jeans and a pale blue button-down shirt, open at the collar. He could easily pass for a young professor, he thought.
With school finished for the academic year, there were not so many students strolling around the shady paths on the perimeter of the small lake, which had always seemed to him to be the lively heart of the university campus. The duck pond’s fountains were not working, and a froth of yellow scum was beginning to build up on the water’s edges. For some unknown reason, the overall maintenance of the university’s physical infrastructure seemed to be in serious decline. Probably due to various parts shortages, he reflected. Another symptom of the faltering economy.
Most of the young Voluntarios who had come to Albuquerque were staying on the other side of the campus, in and around the dormitories and sporting complexes. Apparently, these idealistic volunteers had little interest in the library, and why should they? They had come to Nuevo Mexico to make history, not to read about it on dry and dusty pages.
Inez arrived alone, wearing a navy blue pants suit, her black and gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. Ramos didn’t rise to greet her, or make any overt display of even knowing her. She gave a last look around, and then sat on the open end of the bench, in the obscuring shade of an overhanging willow tree.
“So, Basilio, how is the girl working out? The Arab?”
“Bardiwell? She’s been fine. Just fine.”
“You have your rifles sorted out? She was of assistance to you?”
“Oh, very much so. She found hundreds of perfectly new rifles in that garage. More than thirty years old, and never fired.”
“Excellent. So, you’re ready for the March for Justice? Your men will not be in their uniforms, correct?”
“Some of them will be, and some will not.” She had no need to know the details of the operational planning.
“Saturday is going to be a very important day, a very exciting day for our movement!”
“Yes, of course.” He mused that Comrade Inez had no idea just how exciting.
“And you are moving ahead with the punishment mission? For the bus massacre?”
“It’s on for tomorrow, if nothing causes the plan to change.”
“Good. Attacks like that matanza must be answered in blood. It’s a simple calculation: if we don’t return blood for blood, we lose face, we lose respect, and la revolución loses momentum. Our enemies must fear us: they must understand that when they strike at us, we will exact blood revenge! How did you select the target? The closest ranch to the bus attack?”
“Not entirely, it’s a few miles from where the bus was ambushed. We found part of a topographical map near the bus massacre; we think it was dropped by one of the snipers. The ranch has a dirt air strip—it was marked with an X on the map.”
“You don’t think it was left intentionally, as bait for a trap?”
“We considered that, and we’ll be ready for anything, but no, we don’t think it was deliberate. Not at all. This ranch has been a problem for a long time; the owners are ‘Old New Mexicans.’ The idiots must think that because they have some Spanish blood, they’re immune to land reform! So anyway, they’re being obstinate and holding out. It’s 14,000 acres, and it’s the last big ranch in Monterey County that’s not under state control. They’ve been ignoring the land reform laws, and they’ve been setting a bad example for the other ranchers. Now we’re going to make an example of them.”
“Good,” she said. “Resistance is contagious. It has to be smashed.”
Ramos continued, agitated. “They were offered a hundred acres and some of their buildings if they complied, but they wouldn’t listen to reason. Even after the Land Reform Commission settled two hundred landless pobladores on part of their ranch, these stinking pocho bastards still didn’t get the message.”
“That was under the Idle Lands Act?”
“Right, we used that to put the settlers on their ranch, but they’re still holding out and refusing to give up one damned acre! Then after the bus matanza, we found the map with the X…and we’re not giving them any more chances. We’re going in hard, and we’ll be prepared for anything. This land reform mission is a top priority for Vice-gobernador Magón, and we have everything we need. We’ve even have two state guard helicopters
for the air assault, and a transport plane…”
“A transport plane? Really? I didn’t realize we had them.”
“It’s a Canadian twin-engine plane; it used to fly sport parachutists out of Coronado Field. It’s called an Otter, and it’s amazing—it can even take off from a soccer field! I had a frank discussion about aviation support with the vicegobernador, and now the plane is ours, whenever we need it. It’s perfect for us—in a state this big, it gives us the kind of speed and range we need.”
“You’re dropping paratroops on the ranch?”
“No, not this time, there is no need. Maybe in the future we will. This ranch has its own runway. The plane will land right after the helicopters, and bring in twenty more troops. The rest of the battalion will arrive in trucks after that. On a ranch that big, there are a lot of areas to secure, all at once.”
“Don’t be soft with them—if they show any hint of resistance…”
“I understand the mission, Inez—I was briefed by Vicegobernador Magón himself. But that’s not why I’m here: you said you had something to show me?”
“I do. Something very important, I think.” She handed him a manila mailing envelope. “Take a look, there’s a surveillance report and some photographs.”
Ramos slid out the papers, scanned the printed sheets of text, and turned to the large color photos. “Do I know these men? Should I know them? Where is this, a camposanto?”
“Mount Calvary Cemetery, yesterday. Beneath where the interstate highways cross. The one wearing the baseball hat is an FBI agent named Alexandro Garabanda.”<
br />
“FBI?”
“Actually, he’s a supervisor, the leader of a squad of agents. The gray-haired one is Luis Carvahal—he used to be a reporter for the Herald. That was an old Albuquerque newspaper; it closed a few years ago. Did you ever hear of him?”
“No.”
“Well, now he’s Deleon’s biographer. They were friends from the old days, Deleon and Carvahal. They go all the way back to the Tierra Andalucia courthouse raid—did you ever hear of that?”
“Yes, of course. I have a degree in Raza Studies.”
“Anyway, this Carvahal has been spending a lot of time with el gobernador, helping him to write his memoirs.”
Ramos sighed, flipping through the photos. “And reporting everything Deleon says, right to the FBI.”
“Yes, apparently. However, we can’t touch the FBI agent, that’s part of our, um, understanding with Washington. We can’t punish this race-traitor Garabanda, at least not yet. We can follow him, intimidate him to a certain extent…but that’s all. Next year maybe, but not now. And we certainly can’t push his car down into a canyon, like some…”
“Inez, I…!”
“Don’t worry about it Basilio, those gringos from the tramway meant nothing.” She grinned and cut her eyes at him like a schoolgirl, seemingly pleased with herself to have caught him out in an unsanctioned peccadillo. “But my section has been monitoring their talk radio—you should exercise more discipline, control your temper.”
Ramos ignored her mild rebuke, and didn’t mention that he too had heard the same radio report by Rick Haywood. There was no need to mention that he was practicing his English with Ranya Bardiwell, or listening to gringo talk radio. It might give Inez an idea that he was ‘unreliable,’ which of course he was not. Inez might put such questionable items into his personal dossier, and who knows what kind of trouble that could cause later?
Instead, he said, “What about exposing this Garabanda as a Yanqui spy? We could cause a lot of embarrassment for the FBI in Nuevo Mexico with these photographs. The federal government running a spy operation against a United States Governor—now that’s a juicy story! The Yanqui news media will go crazy if they hear about it! The scandal will force the FBI to back off of us.”
“Well, that’s worth considering. I’ll suggest it. We still have certain ongoing arrangements with Washington—there may be no point in antagonizing them for no good reason. Not yet. If we have indeed caught the FBI spying on Gobernador Deleon through this gusano, this traitorous worm Carvahal, well, something like your idea may be worth exploring. We don’t have recordings of what they said, but clearly, Carvahal is a spy and a traitor. Look at this picture—do you see the line on the ground here?”
“What is that, a hose? He’s getting gasoline from the FBI man’s car?”
“That’s right. He’s a vendido traitor, sold out for free gasoline. And there is more: look at the picture of this gravestone. They were standing near it when they were talking later, away from their cars. It was taken by our Special Surveillance Group team after the spies left the cemetery.”
Ramos studied the large photograph carefully. “Davita Ester Carvahal? Strange name.”
“Not so strange, if you look at the carved flowers. Look at the center of the bouquet: what do those petals remind you of?”
Ramos squinted and stared at the photo, then shook his head. “This is just a guess, but they almost look like Hebrew letters. But that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Basilio, you were raised in California. Did you ever hear of the crypto-Jews of New Mexico?”
Inez had his full attention now. “Crypto-Jews? No, never. Who are they?”
***
Alex Garabanda’s phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. This was the first call to his cell phone all morning, indicating that the service had been restored. The service outages were a constant reminder of the failure of his squad to find and stop the tower shooters, a fact which was not overlooked by his peers at the Field Office. When phone service was suddenly cut in mid-call, or during a computer download, it was common to hear “Dammit Garabanda! Your snipers just got another one!” shouted across the office. On the other hand, he received no words of appreciation when service was restored.
He flipped open the phone, glanced at the caller-ID display and raised it to his ear. The caller’s number was unknown, and Garabanda said a tentative hello.
“It’s me,” he heard through the phone.
He recognized the voice of Luis Carvahal. “Hi. What’s up?”
“Is this a good time to talk?”
Supervisory Special Agent Garabanda was alone in his small office. “Ahh…sure, go ahead.” There was always the chance the call was being monitored and recorded, but if Luis was careful with what he said, it was probably worth that risk to listen to him. At least he hadn’t called from home, or from his own cell phone.
“Oh, umm… You know about the big party on Saturday? We’ve discussed it.”
“Sure. Downtown.”
“Right. I’ve got some more on that,” said Carvahal. “And, ahh, if you were thinking about attending the party, well—don’t. I don’t think it’ll be safe. Things could get…out of hand. That’s what I’m hearing. I’ll be right there, front and center, but you probably don’t want to be anywhere around that place on Saturday. And none of your associates, either.”
“I got it, thanks. Is that it?”
“That’s it. I’ll call if I hear anything else.”
“Okay then, bye now.” Garabanda pushed end, concluding the brief conversation, wondering if anyone else would ever hear it or read a transcript. The meaning of the call, the reference to the March for Social Justice, was transparent. Working with amateurs, even a friend like Luis, was enough to give him an ulcer.
***
The oblong pool was about thirty feet across at the its widest. There were steps at each end, so it was impossible to do speed-turns on the very short laps. Ranya wore the same stretchy black jogging top and black nylon running shorts she had worn on the La Luz Trail, going up the mountain with the battalion’s poorest marksmen.
When she woke up after seven, Basilio was already gone. She was more comfortable in his house now, and she slipped on a plush bathrobe and wandered downstairs to find something to eat. She knew that she had been accepted into the household on some level, when the plump cook rose from her kitchen chair and asked politely if “the lady” would like breakfast. The middle-aged cook was very dark, pure Mayan, and less than five feet tall. Clearly, certain cultural and class aspects of “la revolución” had yet to affect the Comandante’s house staff.
The eggs for her omelet were being cracked when, from the dining room window, she had seen a group of Falcons down the driveway below the house. The men were dressed alike in black shorts and brown t-shirts, stretching and evidently preparing for a run. She remembered the marksmanship contest at the rifle range, and Ramos threatening punishment for the ten shooters with the lowest scores. She quickly decided to try to join them, both to test the limits which would be placed on her freedom of movement in Ramos’s absence, and because she simply wanted to run.
She reasoned that going for a run in the company of ten Falcons could not possibly be construed as an escape attempt. Running would simply be taken as sensible preparation for her forthcoming Milicia basic training. She abandoned her breakfast plans and quickly went upstairs to change into appropriate clothes: her new cross-trainers, black nylon shorts, and a loose gray t-shirt over her jogging bra.
The ten Falcons had been pleased, even excited, by the unexpected appearance of “el Comandante’s woman.” One coyly asked her if the rumor was true that she had been a prisionera, and she joked that she had merely been on “an extended vacation” paid by the government. The tattooed Falcons were obviously a rough bunch, who would consider prison to be a standard rite of passage. Her vague non-answer was greeted with knowing smiles and nods. She told them that she had not run for a long time, and she would not
make it all the way to the top with them.
They laughingly called themselves los diez ciegos, the ten blind men, for their lack of shooting prowess, but they proved to be mountain goats on the run. She ran two rock-strewn miles up the trail, losing ground steadily to the ten, and then she stopped and rested on a flat boulder overlooking Albuquerque and the Rio Grand Valley. The morning sun was still on the other side of the mountains, so the trail was thankfully all in shadow. After a few minutes to catch her breath, she descended by herself, while the ten Falcons continued steadily toward the summit.
The topographical contrast between flatland Oklahoma and the rugged Sandia Mountains of New Mexico could not have been greater. Her lungs had burned while running at the 7,000 foot elevation, but she was used to heat and discomfort from her forced labor in Oklahoma. The dramatic vistas of jagged cliffs and soaring pines around every twist of the stony trail pulled her upward, but she knew that she had to be cautious, and not risk an injury that could jeopardize her upcoming escape attempt.
On her return down the trail, she waved to the riflemen standing watch above the house. They did not have the silver Falcons on their berets; they were ordinary Milicia, wearing the standard brown t-shirt and camouflage pants and boots. They each carried an M-16 with a thirty round magazine inserted, and an extra magazine pouch and a canteen on a web belt. At the driveway gate, the same two guards who had waved to her on her way out with the ten Falcons were unconcerned by her solitary reappearance. They opened the wrought-iron double gate for her from their little guardhouse, both sides swinging outward with an electric whine.
The run had been a worthwhile exercise on several levels, beyond conditioning herself for high altitude endurance. She had seen the trails above the house, and learned that she could not possibly hope to outrun the Falcons as part of any escape attempt. The men were uniformly tough, lean and physically fit, even if at five feet nine, she was as tall or taller than most of them.
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 26