“I’m certain that you will,” Ramos agreed.
“Comandante, what happened afterward? I heard some…disturbing reports. The fire, I mean. By the stage. The man…on the tree?”
Ramos lowered his voice. “We eliminated the Zionist spy.”
“Yes, I fully understand eliminating spies. But were the public…theatrics necessary?”
“Theatrics? I would not call it that. I would call it necessary revolutionary justice, just as publicly necklacing traitors and spies was important for the ANC’s victory in South Africa. Harsh, but necessary, in order to frighten the enemies of the revolution into submission.”
“Yes, perhaps, but Comandante, it’s not your place to make that decision!” Magón pushed a blunt forefinger into Ramos’s chest. “In the future, you will not take any more such unilateral actions, understood?”
“Yes, Governor. Understood.” Ramos pulled himself to a position of attention, his face flushed at being dressed down by the new maximum leader of Nuevo Mexico.
“I really don’t think that you appreciate the delicate situation we’re in with Washington. Your theatrics could put us into a very bad position. Thank God it was not shown on television—at least our media campaign is getting results! That reminds me, I understand that we won’t be having
any more trouble with Anglo talk radio, is that correct?”
“That is correct, Governor.”
“You know, Comandante, I was also disappointed that yesterday’s ranch liberation did not go as well as it might have.”
“Yes sir, First Sergeant Ramirez was a fine soldier. His death beside me in battle was a great loss to the Batallón Halcón. But fortunately, the pilot of the helicopter is expected to recover from his wound.”
“Eh? Who? A pilot? Sergeant Ramirez?” Magón seemed confused. “No, not that—I meant the house. La hacienda. It’s really a shame that you failed to save it. I was looking forward…that is...it’s a pity that it burned. An unfortunate waste. Even as we move ahead with land reform, we should try to retain as many of the finer artifacts of the old regime as possible. It was a beautiful house, a true classic of the type.” Magón looked around him, at Ramos’s villa. “It was almost as beautiful as this place. You know, you’re really quite fortunate to be able to keep your ‘headquarters’ here, as the Comandante of the Falcon Battalion.”
“Yes, quite fortunate, Governor. I assure you, in the future the Falcon Battalion will take better care to preserve the classic homes of the old regime.”
“Yes, see that you do. It’s just a matter of attention to detail, discipline and training. We don’t want any more treasures like Lomalinda to burn.”
“Yes sir, I understand, completely.”
Magón shifted his gaze to Ranya, and reached for her graceful hand with his thick fingers. Even with lifting heels in his shoes, he was only five and half feet tall. His gaze darted between her face and her cleavage.
While ravishing her with his eyes, he said, “So, Basilio, I see that you’ve been busy off of the field of battle, as well as on it. Who is your lovely lady friend?”
“This is…Angela Carrasco, Governor.” Ramos used the name on Ranya’s new state driver’s license. “And she is more than just a lovely lady. In fact, she will be attending Milicia training, beginning on Monday.”
“Really! Well Angela, I wish you luck! I must say that I haven’t met any other Milicianas as pretty as you…”
“Thank you sir. I’m honored to be able to contribute to the cause of bringing social justice to Nuevo Mexico.”
“Yes, yes. So, Basilio, who else is here tonight? Is there anyone of interest?”
“The Revolutionary Council, of course. But in their overt, official capacities.”
“I know that. I said anyone of interest.” Magón laughed at his own joke, his mouth splitting in a simian smile.
“Well sir, there are several notable academics who have been helpful to the cause. There is Professor Robert Johnson; he helped to formulate our new land reform policy, so that it would be acceptable to Washington...”
“That boring windbag? You know, I can never trust a man who betrays his own people.”
“The gringo movie actor Blake Bradford is here…”
Magón made a sour face. “That old goat hasn’t made a film worth watching in twenty years. Still, I suppose he’s influential enough. Who else?”
“Well, there are several famous Yanqui news reporters who are sympathetic to our struggle. Ricardo Mentiroso from CBA News is here— he’s collecting background for a Timeline special report on ‘The New New Mexico’.”
“CBA News eh? Excellent!” Magón clapped his short hands together, grinning. “They’ve always been…more than fair in their coverage.”
“And Wayne Parker might drop in.”
“Wayne Parker? Did you know that his Vedado Ranch is bigger than the entire Yanqui state of Rhode Island? Well, let’s get inside—what have you got to eat?”
***
Alex Garabanda lay on the sofa in the cramped living room of his apartment, his TV on mute across the room. His Sig pistol was on the end table within easy reach, next to a half-finished bottle of bourbon whisky. He was staring up at the circling ceiling fan, thinking about the quick death of the governor, and the agonizing death of his friend Luis Carvahal, burned alive while tied to a tree. He had come home after the Critical Incident Response Group was stood down, their federal assistance unwanted by the state. He had nowhere else to go, and was not the type to publicly drown his sorrows in a bar.
He had been watching television news all afternoon, and into the evening. On the national news channels, the assassination of the governor of New Mexico did not even rate top billing, pushed aside by a critical refinery complex ablaze near Los Angeles, and a fresh outbreak of Cameroon Fever burning through eastern Tennessee.
On the local channels, the assassination received wall-to-wall coverage, as was to be expected. On the other hand, the horrific immolation murder of Luis Carvahal did not merit a single mention on the news. There was not even one picture of his friend’s horrible death, either before, during, or after. Garabanda even checked the most reliable Anglo talk radio station, but he inexplicably found it off the air, producing nothing but a steady hiss of static on its assigned frequency. None of the remaining English language radio stations mentioned Carvahal’s murder. They were kept busy covering the governor’s assassination, which had happened only minutes and yards away.
His cell phone chirped. Guessing it was FBI business, he pondered for a moment whether to answer it or let his voice mail catch it. Finally, he decided he might as well, and reached over and grabbed it. The number on the screen said that it was Karin, calling from her cell phone. He wondered if she was at home—at his old home.
“Yeah? What’s up Karin?”
“Al? Have you been drinking?”
“My, how…perceptive of you.”
“Whew. Al, you never fail to disappoint. I thought you’d be out on the case, what with the governor being assassinated right under your noses.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, no. We’re not on the case. The state wants us nowhere near the case. Karin, is this why you called, to talk shop and lend moral support? For old times sake?”
“No, it’s not. It’s not. It’s Brian. He wants to see you.”
“Is that so? Well, put him on, I’ll talk to the tiger right now.”
“I can’t, he’s…asleep. Tomorrow. Come by tomorrow.”
“To the house? What about your restraining order? Is this a setup? Karin, I might have had a couple, but I’m not drunk.”
“No Al, it’s not a setup. Come to the playground by the house, at eight o’clock. We’ve got things to do tomorrow, so if you want to see Brian, be at the playground at eight, okay?”
“Karin, you have got to be bullshitting me. If you think…”
“Eight o’clock sharp.”
Click.
***
There was som
ething new on the television. Some type of a news conference was about to begin. The text crawl beneath the local news anchors said, “Assassin’s rifle found in Regent Hotel.” Alex Garabanda picked up the remote control from the carpet by the sofa and turned up the sound. The news scene switched to a hotel hallway, swimming in bright television lights. Set in an alcove was a stainless steel ice-making machine. A uniformed police officer was pointing to the area behind the machine, describing where the rifle had been discovered. The scene switched again, this time to an ad hoc press conference, with police and civilians in suits crowding around a podium. Garabanda recognized the place as one of the Regent’s meeting rooms. Microphones were still being added even as reporters began to fire questions at the Chief of Police.
“You’re sure that the sniper rifle has been recovered?”
“No, we’re saying we found a rifle. It’s been taken to the crime lab for forensic testing.”
“Why would an assassin leave it where it could be found so quickly?”
“You’ll have to ask him, when an arrest is made. Maybe he panicked. Maybe he was in a hurry to leave the hotel, and he didn’t want to be seen carrying a rifle. We’re checking all of the hotel’s security tapes.”
“Have you found the room the sniper fired from?”
“Yes. Next question.”
“Have you connected the rifle to a suspect yet?”
“We may have an announcement on that very soon.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
***
As the evening wore on, the reception gravitated to the patio area behind the mansion, around the swimming pool and the jacuzzi. The blackness of the mountain loomed up close behind them, providing a sense of safety, an immense rock-solid wall. Out of respect for the death of Gobernador Deleon, the entertainment had been canceled and the Mariachi band sent home. Heartfelt toasts were made to the ascending spirit of the old Mountain Lion, who had battled for the rights of his people until his very last breath. The catered buffet line and bar were still open. A string of yellow party lanterns hanging between the house and the pool provided soft light. Mesquite wood crackled in a chimenea fireplace on the far side of the hot tub.
Félix Magón, cigar in hand, was the center of attention. He was seated on one of the upholstered patio chairs, in a small circle with billionaire tycoon Wayne Parker, aging leftist movie star Blake Bradford, CBA news star reporter Rich Mentiroso, and a member of his production staff, a stunning blond in her late twenties. Basilio Ramos, puffing on his own cigar, was standing just behind the governor’s right elbow. He was laughing at Magón’s jokes, paying rapt attention to his well-worn anecdotes. Ranya leaned against the uniformed Comandante; his arm was snaked around her narrow waist.
Mentiroso’s pretty assistant, who had an audio plug in her ear, put up one hand and then made an announcement that a sniper rifle had just been discovered in the Regent Hotel. This revelation prompted a brief flurry of speculation concerning the probable identity of the shooter. It was agreed that the assassin must have been a gringo with a grudge against Gobernador Deleon, driven to commit murder by the course of events in Nuevo Mexico. Ranya thought that Magón and Ramos seemed rather unimpressed by the news, and the conversation soon drifted back to state politics.
She thought the talk might have been fascinating to anyone who was interested in the future of New Mexico, which she was not. She knew that history was being made here tonight, but it was not her history. Her stay in New Mexico was drawing rapidly to an end…she hoped. Her time in the compound under the control of Basilio Ramos was now down to hours and minutes.
She was bored with their political chat, so she studied the subtle maneuverings going on around her. There were other seated groups scattered around the pool area, but most of the ‘A’ list guests clustered around the stars, mingling oh-so-casually, while trying to penetrate to the inner sanctum. Wait staff in white uniforms moved discreetly among them, bringing drinks and trays of savory tapas, and surrounding them all were phalanxes of bodyguards.
When the new governor arrived at the house, Ranya had learned that Professor Robert Johnson was attending the party. She remembered his name from Caylen Barlow’s ranch in north Texas, and from the fateful letter of introduction in the Michigan students’ van, before the Chulada ambush. When she overheard two party guests introducing themselves, she learned that one of them was Johnson.
Professor Johnson was a paunchy man in his fifties, shorter than Ranya in her black high heels by several inches. He had shoulder-length brown hair in the back and was bald in the front, with a thin beard trimmed close to the bottom of his jaw line like a feeble imitation of Abe Lincoln. He was wearing a red guayabera shirt, obviously trying to assimilate with the state power structure, after seeing their new style of dress at the Civic Plaza rally. Ironically, the governor and most of the power elite were wearing dark suits tonight, leaving the sycophants clearly identifiable by their newfound sense of Latin chic.
Ranya watched and eavesdropped as Johnson tried to put the moves on an attractive young Hispanic couple, assistants to one of the state cabinet members. The two were Voluntarios, university graduate students. Curiously, the professor had seemed more intently focused on the handsome young man than on his girlfriend. Johnson wasn’t too blatant about his attraction, but Ranya’s ‘gaydar’ was twitching, triggered by the invisible sparks shooting between the two men.
Now, while Ranya was standing by Comandante Ramos, she observed as the professor completed his methodical advance toward the center, until he found himself standing in the gap between Rich Mentiroso and Blake Bradford. During a pause, when the chuckles were dying down after another stale joke told by Gobernador Magón, Johnson asked, “So, Governor, now that we have rejected the treaty of shame, will you push for Nuevo Mexico to leave the United States and rejoin Mexico?” His Spanish was fluent but painfully accented, revealing his New England origins.
Magón half-choked on his martini, sitting upright in his padded chair, his eyes wide in his pockmarked face. “Rejoin Mexico? Why in the hell would we want to join with Mexico? Who are you?”
“Uh, I’m Professor Robert Johnson, from the university. I helped to write the Land Reform Act.” Johnson smiled, showing crooked teeth, thrilled to be sharing in Magón’s spotlight if even for a moment.
“Oh yes, I remember you. No, we will not be rejoining Mexico. Clearly, that is not in our interest. Anybody who supports reunification with Mexico is an idiot.”
Having been rudely dismissed, Johnson was mortified into silence and slunk back away from the inner circle.
***
CBA reporter Rich Mentiroso followed up. “But what about the United States? Is Nuevo Mexico going to remain in the Union?” Mentiroso was also wearing a fancy guayabera shirt tonight, a blue one with the original creases from the store packing still visible.
Magón waved his cigar hand airily. “It’s not certain. In the long term, I don’t think Nuevo Mexico will simply remain as one of the fifty states. Eventually, what the gringos call their Southwest will have to achieve some level of political autonomy. Perhaps we’ll see some changes in the federal system after the gringo Constitutional Convention. ¿Quien sabe? Who knows?”
Mentiroso pursued the subject. “Nuevo Mexico has always been a large net receiver of federal dollars. If we…I mean…if Nuevo Mexico left the Union…”
“That may have been true in the past, but not any longer. Except for the money going to the air force bases and the national labs, the state isn’t getting much at all from the federal government, especially not with the dollar falling by the week. What good are the new blue dollars anyway, at one dollar for ten? The Yanqui federal budget just doesn’t carry over from one year to the next. We can’t depend on it.”
“So, you’ll let the federal government keep the military bases?”
Magón paused, and then replied, “For now, yes.”
“And the National Forests?”
“They
are ours! This will be announced very soon. The stolen lands will be returned to the people—that is, the stolen federal lands. The President has already indicated that she will not stand in the way of justice. The private ranches, they will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis, under the Land Reform Act.”
Wayne Parker hadn’t participated in the discussion yet, but he perked up at the mention of private ranches. Ranya knew that the left-wing billionaire “philanthropist” was at least seventy years old, and she could see that he had not mellowed with age. His wild shock of white hair appeared not to have been combed in some time. Alone among the guests, he was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, white pants, and boat shoes. Tonight he appeared to be quite drunk, using a slurred mixture of English and Spanish. “Félix, what about our goddamn República Del Norte?”
Magón turned to him, and said, “What?”
“La República Del Norte! La goddamn República Del Norte. You know what the hell I’m talking about—our own damn country! Don’t play coy Félix, we’ve already been through this.”
Magón had no difficulty in understanding Parker’s drunken Spanglish, but he answered in deliberate English for the benefit of the tycoon. None of the guests seemed to have any problem following the thread of the conversation, as it shifted between idioms. Even Ranya paid close attention. “Well…of course, some kind of federation with California, Arizona and Texas is always a possibility. That is, when they are liberated, which, of course, we all hope will be soon. Colorado, Utah and Nevada …they are not so simple. Denver and Las Vegas are ours, of course, but where will the final line be drawn? Who knows? I’m sure that the idea of La República will come up at some point in the future.”
Wayne Parker lurched forward, spilling some of his drink on his pants. “You can bet your sweet New Mexican ass it’ll come up! Even if La República is just one damn state. You can bet the ranch on that one— we got a deal!” He fell back against his chair, mumbling incoherently, winded from his exertion.
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 35