From large cardboard boxes, each Falcon was handed a new t-shirt. Most received bright red shirts featuring an upraised black fist design on the front. Partido Internacional del Ejército de los Pobres was printed in a circle around the fist. This was the logo of the International Party of the Army of the Poor, more commonly referred to as the Army of the Poor, or simply as Los Pepes. Other Falcons were given green shirts from the Armed Ecological Group, or the black shirts of the Popular Revolutionary Insurgent Army. These were just three of the largest of the radical groups participating in the March for Social Justice, along with the Nation of Aztlan, FEChA, Nuestra Raza, and other more mainstream Hispanic rights organizations.
Black bandanas were also distributed to each man, to hide their faces if that became necessary, and to serve as a secondary recognition sign. Some of the men quickly tied on their new bandanas just below their eyes, laughing and aiming their fingers at one another like bandidos, before removing them and shoving them into their pockets.
***
Ranya was handed her own issue of gear along with the rest of them—an honorary Falcon for the day. She was given a red Army of the Poor t-shirt to wear over her own black one. The other special items included a cardboard “get out of jail free” card. It was made of stiff gray paper covered in a swirl pattern, and was the size of pair of business cards creased lengthwise down the middle. The printing was intricate and faint, deliberately difficult to read, to make the card next to impossible to photocopy. It read in formal Spanish:
The bearer of this pass is acting under the orders of state security. Do not stop, detain, hinder, question or interfere with him. This person is authorized to carry non-standard firearms and other weapons, in or out of uniform.
A single phone number was lightly penciled-in for verification purposes. Ranya slipped the folded card into the back pocket of her jeans.
In sharp contrast to his men, Falcon leader Basilio Ramos was wearing his usual camouflage uniform, complete with his brown beret and pistol belt. Today he would not be marching with his unit, but instead he was driving directly to the Civic Plaza by a roundabout route. The sleeves of his BDU blouse were carefully folded above his elbows, his trousers were sharply creased and his black jump boots were gleaming. Around him, his men were busy pulling on their new t-shirts, or adjusting their caps and bandanas. Ranya looked about the restaurant for familiar faces. She saw the men who had made the run up the mountain with her on Thursday morning; they smiled and gave her the thumbs-up sign. She did not see Genizaro or Chino, the Zetas who had been with her when she sighted in the hunting rifles at the range.
When they were finished, Comandante Ramos gave them a final briefing. For the most part it was the same information they had heard several times before at the Academy. He stood on a bench built along a wall so they could all see him. The Falcon’s fell silent and listened intently.
“Men, yesterday we fought together as combat soldiers, wearing helmets and carrying battle rifles to liberate stolen land. Today you are soldados clandestinos, but your mission is just as important, and it could be just as dangerous—so be on your guard.” Ramos scanned the room, making eye contact his troops.
“As you know, the final deadline for changing all business signs to Spanish has already passed. The Anglos have been warned many times that if they ignored the law, severe consequences would result. They have had more than sufficient time to comply with the new law. Now, the time of warning is over. Anglos who have decided to ignore the law have chosen their path, the path of defiance, and today they will be taught a hard lesson.” He made a fist, and waved it slowly in front of him, glaring.
“Now the important thing, and the reason we are here today, is to initiate the direct actions. Even in a revolutionary movement, most people are like sheep. They are naturally afraid, and like sheep, they have to be led. Fortunately, it takes only a few leaders in a crowd to break the ice, by smashing the first windows. That is your primary task during the march. The others will find their courage when they see that the police won’t interfere with them. I have seen this many times, in many countries.
“Now, about the police. The police have been ordered to stay away from Central Avenue, but anything could happen, and that is why you have your pistols. Let me be clear: any police who interfere with the march are traitors. They are enemies of the state who are disobeying their orders, and they should be dealt with accordingly!” Ramos patted his own service pistol, within its black nylon holster on his web belt, to emphasize the point.
“After you march under the railroad bridge into downtown, link up in your squads and platoons, then move out and undertake your assigned missions. Depending on your next missions, you will get rid of these new shirts, obviously. There may be some city police around the plaza, but they also have orders not to interfere. If the police won’t let you through, show them the special pass cards you have just been issued. Don’t take any crap from the police, but don’t start anything with them either, not if you can avoid it. Are there any questions?”
There were none.
A Falcon posted outside opened one of the glass doors to La Cocina, and indicated that the march had gotten underway by giving a thumbs-up sign. Ramos said, “Okay, here come Los Pepes—let’s go.” All morning thousands of marchers had been assembling on the complex of intramural sports fields a few block north on the University. Now the din of drums, whistles, horns and loudspeakers could be heard growing in volume as the crowd approached. The “Army of the Poor” was on the move.
In only a few years, this international socialist organization had become a powerful political force from Argentina to Guatemala, and now it was growing rapidly inside Mexico. The so-called Army of the Poor was paradoxically one of the best-funded of the major international radical leftist groups, with its leaders and cadres traveling from country to country with all of their expenses paid by unknown benefactors.
The first group coming down Avenida Central appeared as a crimson wave, with almost all of them wearing red shirts identical to the ones just handed out inside of the Cocina Del Campo. If the march and rally went completely out of control, any blame would fall on the groups the Falcons were infiltrating as agents-provocateurs. The Falcons could melt away simply by removing their new shirts and white ball caps.
A line of giant puppets led the Army of the Poor. There were huge caricatures of Uncle Sam, bankers wearing top hats, and fat-cat capitalists. All of them had shark teeth, dripping red-paint blood. Behind the puppets, enormous banners spanned the Avenue. Even at a distance of several blocks, the larger signs could easily be read, held aloft between poles:
¡Devuelva Lo Qué Fue Robada!—Return What Was Stolen!
¡Nuevo Mexico Para Los Mexicanos!—New Mexico for the Mexicans!
¡Gringos Vayan de Nuevo al Carajo!—Gringos Go Back to Hell!
And the most common messages:
¡Sí Se Puede! and ¡Tierra O Muerte!
***
The west side of the Civic Plaza was bordered by government office buildings, the east side by the Albuquerque Convention Center. Marquette Street ran along the north side, just beyond the stage. Across Marquette from the plaza were public parking lots, and the Albuquerque Police Department Headquarters. The twenty-five stories tall Regent Hotel dominated the south end of the plaza opposite the stage, looming above it.
Concealed in a vacant office, Alex Garabanda could see the entire plaza. He was spending his Saturday morning on the fifth floor of the twelve story Bernalillo County government building, in the empty office of a neighbor who worked for the county water district. This casual acquaintance was impressed enough by the fact that Garabanda was an FBI Supervisory Special Agent, that he had not raised the slightest objection to the request for weekend access to the office. The building was located near the stage, at the north end of the Civic Plaza.
Garabanda brought along a Sony digital video camera and tripod, FBI property. This was no problem—the cameras were one of his squad
’s basic tools of the trade. He knew he could have more easily stayed home and simply recorded the rally from any of several local television stations, but he did not trust them to provide uncut footage. Besides, much of what he was interested in filming was going to take place backstage, or in areas of no interest to the local news stations. Finally, he just wanted to watch the rally in person. He wanted to see it with his own eyes.
In fact, Alex Garabanda shouldn’t have been there at all, not even alone and on his own time. He had been instructed repeatedly by his superiors and in no uncertain terms to stay out of the politics of Nuevo Mexico, but he had been drawn to the Civic Plaza rally like a moth to a flame. Memos had been circulated in the Field Office stating explicitly that the March for Social Justice was entirely a local matter, and that there would be no federal involvement unless it was specifically requested by local authorities. His Saturday surveillance was unauthorized, strictly unofficial, solely a matter of personal curiosity.
If the tinted windows of his office lookout post could have been opened, Garabanda would have been able to toss paper airplanes down onto the stage area, less than fifty yards away and five stories below him. The permanent concrete stage was raised six feet higher than the rest of the Civic Plaza. Continuous steps ran around both sides and across the front of the stage, lending it the appearance of a miniature Mayan temple.
Just beyond each corner of the stage was a thirty-foot-tall cement pillar. An enormous sunshade made of welded tubular steel was supported above the entire stage by the four pillars. Hundreds of pieces of sky-blue canvas, angled to deflect the sun’s rays, were laced into the three dimensional pipe structure. Garabanda had selected the fifth floor office for his observation post, because it was just low enough to permit him to see all of the stage, beneath the immense sunshade.
Giant poster images of revolutionary icons were attached all around the perimeter of this overhead structure. He recognized Castro and Che, Mandela and Malcolm X, Arafat and Farrakhan, Cesar Chavez and Hugo Chavez. Many other faces were unknown to him. Garabanda studied the posters while he waited, looking for but not finding Marx, Lenin, Stalin or Mao. Not this year, he mused. The local socialists were still keeping their craziest uncles locked out of sight in the ideological attic…at least for now.
A band was already set up on the far side of the raised stage, blasting amplified baladas and corridos to the nearly empty Civic Plaza. The sound of guitars, violins, accordions and trumpets echoed off the surrounding buildings. Some reporters, concessionaires and others who had skipped the march had already staked out prime locations around the plaza. There was no sign yet of the marchers, or the guests of honor who would be making the speeches. He noted that the plaza’s unique fountain was back in operation after several dry months, the water cascading in all directions over the rectangular blocks, once again a cubist’s fantasy waterfall.
***
Ranya stood near the Falcon leader by the front of La Cocina, wearing her own white ball cap and dark wrap-around sports sunglasses. Like most of the others, she wore a red Army of the Poor t-shirt, and jeans. The Falcons (who already knew her as “the executioner”) had seemed to increase their respect for her after learning that she was about to begin Milicia training. She detected no overt sign of resentment at her inclusion among them today.
When Ramos finished his talk and stepped down from the bench, he turned to her and said, continuing in Spanish, “You don’t have to do this, you know. You can ride downtown with me in the Suburban.”
She pretended to be disappointed at his offer. Also in Spanish she replied, “What? And miss being a part of New Mexican history?”
“That’s the spirit! Then after all of the speeches, we’ll go home and get ready for the reception.” The Comandante appeared distracted, frequently checking his watch and his cell phone for messages. She noted that his gold Rolex had been left at home today, replaced by a more proletarian black plastic digital sports watch.
Ranya looked through the restaurant’s plate glass windows at Los Pepes, who were just beginning to march past, and asked him, “Why are they all carrying weapons? They look like they’re ready to attack a castle.” There were seemingly thousands of them coming, mostly young Hispanic men dressed in red t-shirts. Many of them were waving machetes, axes, sledgehammers and rock-picks above their heads as they streamed past.
Ramos smirked. “Los Pepes are simply bringing their tools, like all good workers. Their tools will be used as weapons only if any stupid gringos or gusanos try to stand in their way.”
“Gusanos? Worms?”
“That’s right, worms. Traitors. Latinos who are traitors to their own people, who support the Yanquis. Believe me; we hate these race-traitors even worse than we hate the gringos! And we know there are still some gusanos hidden among the police, so we have to be very careful today.”
The undercover Falcons left the restaurant in pairs, mingling with the Army of the Poor as they came streaming down Central Avenue. Ranya said a quick goodbye, and went out with two of the troops from yesterday’s mountain trail run who had volunteered to accompany her. Basilio Ramos had permitted her to take part in the march, proving that she had nearly won his complete trust. She understood the trust was not complete, because she had not been offered a pistol like those carried by his undercover Falcons.
In any event, she had already decided that she would not attempt to escape during the march, in spite of the fact that she was carrying a brand new driver’s license in her wallet. The best time to escape—fully equipped and with a vehicle—would come later tonight. Her behavior during the march and the rally would further cement Ramos’s confidence in her ideological reliability, and in her personal commitment to him.
As they had been previously briefed, a dump truck had tipped off a load of broken bricks to be used as missiles. The brick fragments lay in heaps along the curb on the north side of Central Avenue, the University side. As they passed the piles of brick fragments, most of the marchers picked up a selection for later use. Ranya left the rocks on the ground.
A short distance beyond the bricks was a jumbled pile of random lengths of half-inch thick steel rebar, thoughtfully provided for any “workers” who had not brought a sledgehammer or an ax along on the March for Social Justice. She selected a two-foot piece of rebar, feeling that it might come in handy for self-defense if things went crazy during the march, or later at the rally. As usual, she also had her folding knife in the front right pocket of her jeans.
***
Alex Garabanda scanned the roads leading into the Civic Plaza, but there was still no sign of the main column of marchers. There were already a few hundred people on the plaza, between the government buildings and the Civic Center across from his position. There were no uniformed police visible, even though the squat three stories tall Albuquerque Police Department building was located only a block away to his left, north of the plaza across Marquette Avenue. Numerous small groups of rifle-carrying Milicianos stopped and searched street vendors and other pedestrians who were walking onto the plaza early to take up the best spots.
The raised stage area itself was surrounded on all four sides by temporary chest-high festival railings. The galvanized steel sections were linked together to form a physical barrier between the speakers and other VIPs on the stage, and the expected crowds on the plaza. Garabanda noted that the Milicianos were now checking the IDs of those already within the stage area, comparing their names to lists on clipboards. Security was tightening up, prior to the rally. Non-official traffic was blocked off on Marquette Avenue north of the plaza, and on Third Street, which ran along the east side in front of the Convention Center.
More Milicianos carrying M-16s arrived on two yellow school buses, and were stationed at close intervals all the way around the temporary fencing that surrounded the stage. These troops wore the standard Milicia brown berets and brown t-shirts. Garabanda observed that they had all been issued camouflage pants and combat boots—gone were the old
Milicia trademark hodge-podge of jeans and sneakers. Each man was wearing a load-bearing harness, with GI magazine pouches and canteens on their web belts.
He looked for their leaders, and found them standing in a small cluster on Marquette Avenue by the front of the buses. There were four men in complete camouflage uniforms, including matching BDU blouses, and pistols on web belts. One he recognized immediately from previous surveillance, by his black and gray Vandyke beard: Carlos Guzman, the Peruvian communist military trainer-for-hire. He zoomed the video camera in on these leaders’ faces, for later close examination and possible lip-reading.
A lone bicyclist pedaled around the traffic barricades on Marquette, and up onto the sidewalk behind the stage. He dismounted and walked his bike onto the grassy area between the stage and Garabanda’s position in the Bernalillo County government building. The man removed his helmet and leaned his bike against a small tree. It was little more than a sapling, one of a dozen or so planted in the grassy areas on both sides of the stage. As he locked his bike to the tree, he looked up and nodded a subtle greeting. Luis Carvahal had arrived, alone. Despite the heat, Luis was wearing dark slacks today, and a cream-colored long-sleeved shirt. He walked a dozen yards to a gap in the temporary fencing, showed some sort of credentials to a pair of Milicianos, and was allowed into the stage area. Luis Carvahal, Garabanda’s informant and formerly a local reporter, was once again covering the New Mexico political beat.
***
The Milicianos gave him no trouble about entering the speakers’ area, not when he showed them his New Mexico press credential and the handwritten note on El Gobernador’s official letterhead, signed by Agustín Deleon himself. After granting him entrance, the young Milicianos paid no attention whatsoever to the skinny old man with the curly gray hair. Luis Carvahal didn’t even warrant a quick frisking when entering the stage area, which suited him just fine.
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 30