“As you wish, Miguel,” Herrera said. “But there is one other problem we should discuss."
Presidente Garcia folded his arms across chest with a sigh, and looked at Herrera with suspicion. "Take off the sunglasses, Hector. You're inside."
"The glare from the big windows…"
"Take them off. I want to see your eyes."
"As you wish, Miguel." Herrera said, removing the sunglasses and revealing a pair of wolf-like pale grey eyes
Garcia looked into Herrera's eyes, his gaze steady and searching. "Now, another problem, Hector? Not of your making, I sincerely hope."
"No. I've been asking myself how our allies—and our enemies—might react when we attack the Confederacy," Herrera said.
"And?"
"And I think we could have a problem with Germany?"
"Germany? Explain," Garcia said, unfolding his arms and leaning forward.
Herrera, blinking in the office's bright sunlight, glanced at the sunglasses in his hand and looked up to Garcia again. El Presidente waved a hand impatiently, and Herrera slipped the fashionably thin sunglasses back onto his face. "Well, we both know that the Germans have a vested interest in keeping the CSA afloat."
The light dawned. "Ah," said Garcia, understanding. "Yes. Bourque owes the Germans vast sums of money."
"Billions," Herrera said.
"And if the CSA goes down, they'll never get a penny of it. The Kaiser will not be pleased.”
"Exactly," Herrera said, pleased that his Boss agreed. "But it's even worse than that."
"How so?"
"As you have so often observed, the arrogant Germans see themselves as the world's police force. So, when we attack the CSA, they will be sorely tempted to intervene, to order us to stand down. They might set up an embargo. Maybe they'll even send warships."
El Presidente's face turned glum. "We can't fight the Germans," El Presidente said. He thought a moment. "But…I think I know another way to deal with them."
"What's that?"
Garcia grinned. "I think I'll keep that to myself until it's a done deal, if you don't mind, Hector."
"Certainly not."
Garcia rose, and Herrera had no choice but to do the same. "Hector," said El Presidente, "thank you for putting up with my, um, disappointment. But please, no more mistakes. Okay?"
"You have my word, Miguel," said Herrera.
"Good," Garcia said. Then he waved his hand in dismissal. "Good bye now."
When Herrera was gone, Garcia picked up his phone. "Rosalita," he said, "see if you can get the German ambassador to come see me tomorrow.”
"You mean Friedrich von Zimmerman," she asked.
"Yes, Von Zimmerman,” said Garcia, showing impatience. “I want to see him here tomorrow. Morning would be best."
"Of course, Presidente."
"And one more thing," said Garcia. "Summon General Espinosa. I want to see him immediately."
Ten minutes later, Espinosa chugged into Garcia's office, puffing and sweating piggishly, as usual. "Your Excellency? You wished to see me?" His eyes had a furtive look.
"Yes," Garcia said, pointing carelessly at the guest chair, inviting Espinosa to sit. The General did just that.
"General Espinosa," El Presidente said, "We need to change our plans for the Confederacy…"
"Our preparations are coming along on schedule, Excellency. Military training is going well and we've started mass producing the landing craft…"
"I want to move everything up by a month," Garcia said.
The general's mouth dropped open.
"Money is no object," Garcia went on. "And if you need more officers for training, you have my authorization."
"But why…"
"You know about the upcoming meeting between Bourque and Callaway, I must assume."
"Yes, but…"
"We have to strike before Bourque convinces Callaway to agree to some kind of alliance."
Espinosa was dumbstruck. "An alliance? Between the NAU and the CSA? Impossible!"
"Herrera and I believe that is Bourque's purpose, Carlos. We will do what we can to prevent it, but we cannot take the chance that Bourque will somehow succeed. We must move up our operations."
"But Excellency…"
"I know. Six months you told me. Absolute minimum."
"Yes."
"But Carlos, we both know that you left yourself a cushion," Garcia said. "How much time did you leave yourself?"
"Your Excellency, I assure you…"
"Don't fuck with me, Carlos. How much of a cushion did you leave yourself?"
Espinosa hesitated. This was a secret he hated to give up. He knew it could be used against him, for actions in the past and actions in the future.
"Carlos?"
The General looked directly into El Presidente's eye. "Three weeks," he said. "Maybe a month."
Garcia rubbed a paw over his chin, thinking. "Move up the date by a month. I'm sure you'll still have a cushion."
"I swear, Excellency…"
Garcia made a dismissive gesture with his fingers, picked up some papers on his desk and looked once more at his beautiful, bejeweled globe, and at the vast expanse of the Mexico he imagined. Soon, he thought. Soon the globe will show the world as it is.
*
Frederich von Zimmerman—Count von Zimmerman—was not accustomed to be summoned by anyone, with the possible exception of his beautiful young girlfriend—and that was always a summons to pleasure. Even the German Foreign Minister never summoned or even asked anything of Count von Zimmerman. He made timid requests, always aware of the Count's rank and family.
Nonetheless, Count von Zimmerman had been summoned by El Presidente Miguel Garcia, told to report, in effect, and on a day that he had planned to spend sunning himself at his Yucatan mansion near the Maroma Resort, drinking Geiben, Kaseler Nies'chen Riesling Auslese 2004 and observing his teenage daughter's friends cavorting in the pool.
The summons from Garcia, however, was so unique, so unprecedented, that Count von Zimmerman's curiosity was aroused. He felt a nagging temptation to discover what was on Garcia's mind and, when faced with temptation, he was rarely able to resist.
The next morning, von Zimmerman walked into his clothes closet, one question in his mind: What does one wear when summoned to meet with a primitive mutterficker like Garcia? A stylish casual outfit? No, that would be a tastelessly obvious insult. Formalwear? No, Garcia would not see the humor in it. Something reflecting his class and breeding? Ah, yes. That was it. Even if Garcia didn't understand the details, he'd get the effect.
And so von Zimmerman appeared, at 10 a.m., at El Presidente's reception desk, wearing a grey $3,000 Hugo Boss suit, spun from the extraordinarily soft wool of a small, special herd of genetically-altered New Zealand sheep, a pair of handmade New & Lindwood Russian semi-brogues, made of pre-revolutionary reindeer leather, and, to add a touch of bling, a solid rose gold Sky Moon double-faced Patek Philippe wristwatch—one side for the time, the other for the orbit of the moon, one of just five made and sold for just over a million dollars.
The Count approached Rosalita, glancing at her garish nails, deciding within a nano-second that she was not to his taste, and therefore not worth an extra moment of his time. "Tell El Presidente that Count Frederick von Zimmerman, plenipotentiary ambassador to Mexico from the Empire of Germany, has arrived to see him, as he requested," he instructed the girl.
Rosalita's mouth fell open in wonder, and she sat, staring at the man, paralyzed.
"Now," von Zimmerman said, breaking the spell.
Rosalita spoke into the intercom, as instructed. "He'll see you now, Count von Zimmerman," she told him.
"I would hope so," von Zimmerman said, in perfect Mexican Spanish, Mexico City dialect. He did not look back to see the effect of his words, but strode through Garcia's office door without further ceremony.
"Ah, my friend Zimmerman!" Garcia said, coming out from behind his desk to give the ambassador a bear hug.
&nb
sp; "Von Zimmerman," the German ambassador said. His arms hung limp at his sides.
"Von Zimmerman, of course, of course." Garcia held him at arm's length. "You look wonderful," he said.
"Thank you, Presidente." Von Zimmerman disengaged himself.
"Here, have a seat," Garcia said, directing the Ambassador to the best guest chair in the office. "How long has it been since we've talked?"
Von Zimmerman sat, giving his trousers an automatic tug to preserve the crease, then leaned back and regarded Garcia neutrally, as El Presidente returned to the complicated modern chair behind his desk. "I think we greeted each other briefly at the state dinner for the new Guatemalan President last August," said the German Ambassador.
"Too long, too long," Garcia said. "We should meet more often. We have much in common, Mexico and Germany."
Von Zimmerman raised an eyebrow, said nothing.
"I wanted to talk to you about something," El Presidente ventured.
"If you insist," Von Zimmerman said. Then he smiled.
Garcia was momentarily confused, but continued nonetheless. "I want to get your reading on a possible situation," he said.
"A hypothetical?"
"Yes, that's the word. Something that might happen, something that might not."
Von Zimmerman looked at his watch, knowing that Garcia's eye would follow. "That's why you summoned me?"
Garcia knew he wasn't being taking seriously and he had to force himself not to show his annoyance. "Yes. It could be important to both of our countries."
"Please tell me what you have in mind," von Zimmerman said, relenting.
"Well, Ambassador Zimmerman…"
"Von Zimmerman."
"Yes, yes, yes," Garcia said, waving both hands impatiently. "Von Zimmerman. Yes."
El Presidente seemed about to say something inappropriate and von Zimmerman waited for it, amused. But Garcia got hold of himself. "What if," he said portentously, "what if something were to happen between my country and the Confederacy?"
"Something?"
"Yes, a clash, a military clash."
"Do you mean, 'What would Germany say or do?'"
El Presidente nodded. "Yes, if we were forced by self-defense or other circumstances, to invade the CSA, perhaps even to occupy it? What would Germany do or say?"
Von Zimmerman regarded Garcia with a certain amount of interest. "Well," he said, "as the whole world knows. Germany is dedicated to world peace. So I think my government would very vocally oppose anything more than, say, a minor clash, a proportional punishment, if a punishment was merited."
"I see," Garcia growled. "But when you talk about vocal opposition, I assume you're not talking about an embargo or providing the CSA with military help."
"Why are you assuming that?"
"Well, you said nothing about…"
"If the hypothetical scenario we have been discussing should become a reality, I imagine that the Kaiser and his cabinet would consider any action likely to restore peace," von Zimmerman said.
"Hmmm," said El Presidente, momentarily stymied. Then he remembered his plan. "I understand that Germany has a vested interest in the Confederate government. Is that not right?"
"Vested interest?" von Zimmerman asked. He knew exactly what Garcia meant.
"Yes. I have heard rumors that the CSA is deeply in debt to the German Empire. True?"
"Our international financial dealings are confidential," von Zimmerman said.
"Of course, but…"
"But we have assisted the Confederacy from time to time."
Garcia nodded. Getting this macaroni to say anything was like a prying open pistachio nuts. "Being strictly hypothetical, to use your word, might the German Empire have a different attitude toward the event if I guaranteed repayment of the CSA's debt?"
Von Zimmerman had known for some time what was on Garcia's mind and he'd been pondering a reply. He chose his words carefully. "I am not sure," he said, "that the Kaiser would be willing to accept a simple promise to repay."
With his single bloodshot eye, Garcia gazed malevolently at the German Ambassador. He had just been told his word was worthless. If anyone else had spoken to him this way, anyone, regardless of nationality, he would have killed him, personally and on the spot. But this was the German Ambassador, representative of the one country he could not risk openly provoking. El Presidente mustered all of his self-control and tried desperately to stifle his rage.
Observing the struggle, and amused by it, von Zimmerman waited several seconds before relieving the tension. "On the other hand…" he said, letting the sentence dribble away.
Garcia seized on the phrase. "On the other hand what?"
"On the other hand, speaking hypothetically of course, if Mexico were to make an escrow deposit for the total amount in a Swiss bank before the, um, incident occurred…"
Garcia was back in familiar territory. "Half the total amount," he proposed.
"Hmmm," von Zimmerman said. He was not in a hurry to answer. "That might be adequate. In gold, of course."
"Of course."
"The amount reaches into the tens of billions," Von Zimmerman said. "Even for a country as wealthy and as prosperous as Mexico…"
"We have the money," Garcia said, annoyed.
"I'm sure you do."
"Then we have an agreement?"
"Hypothetically," von Zimmerman said.
Garcia leaned back in his chair. He’d long had a trap for this mouse, and he had now been provoked into springing it. “Count von Zimmerman,” he said benignly, “If memory serves, you have a daughter, do you not?”
Von Zimmerman instantly grasped where Garcia was going with this and he decided to strike first. “Yes, she was friends with your daughter. Her name was Estelle, if memory serves. Of sainted memory.”
Time came to a stop in Garcia’s mind. The sticking plaster he had so laboriously super-glued over those agonizing memories began to peel at one end. Though he fought to paste it down again, visions of flames leaked into his thoughts, along with the sounds of a child screaming in terror. Only by the force of will did he fight his way back to the present.
“Yes, thank you. Estelle,” El Presidente said, grimly, his face grey, “But I wasn’t referring to times gone by. I understand that your daughter is a beautiful young woman now and that she has a number of lovely friends, adolescent girls.”
“That is true,” von Zimmerman said, painfully aware that his counterstroke had failed.
“You know,” Garcia said, assuming a thoughtful expression, “I miss that. I mean the house being full of happy children. But in your case, it’s full of beautiful young women, isn’t it? How nice that must be.”
Von Zimmerman frowned. In yielding to his baser impulses, he had handed his adversary a weapon. But there was nothing to do about it now. “Yes, very nice.”
“Now you were saying that we had an agreement hypothetically,” Garcia said. “Exactly what did you mean?”
"Oh, nothing really,” von Zimmerman said through clenched teeth. “Only that the Chancellor will want the agreement in writing. Your writing."
“Of course,” Garcia said, smiling.
"And I will send the document to the German government in the diplomatic pouch," von Zimmerman said, his tone soothing and matter-of-fact. "The cabinet will ratify it—in secret, of course. And I will inform you immediately."
"They will agree?"
"I will make sure of it."
"Then you will have the document by the end of the day," Garcia said.
Chapter Nine
There were seven of them, in all, the entire executive committee of the International Brotherhood of Truckers’—Anthony Zolli, the president, Albert Zolli, the vice president, two former Presidents—the third Zolli brother, Arthur, and Mark Kapinski—Bill Walden, the treasurer, Carl Pollack, the secretary, and Sylvia Pinchick, widow of the Teamster's legendary President Sidney Pinchick, who died in 2004.
They had come together not in the commodious co
nference room at the union's national headquarters in mid-Manhattan, but a more salubrious location, a cozy private room at Gargiulo's Italian Restaurant on Coney Island.
The large round table at which they were sitting was sagging with the remains of a sumptuous feast—lasagna, gnocci, linguine with littleneck clams, baby pasta shells with calamari, Long Island tilefish, riff on pollo alla diavola, pan seared boneless pork chops, veal parmigiana, several varieties of Italian sausage, and half a dozen bottles of the finest Chianti, Barolo, and Pino Grigio.
As they picked over the last of the feast, Anthony "Big Tony" Zolli found a table knife and clinked it against the nearest wine glass. The friendly conversation, gossip and laughter slowly died away under Zolli's glowering gaze.
"We have bidness," he said. "Important bidness. Ya all know what I'm talkin’ about—da Callaway-Bourque meeting. It gotta be stopped."
"Hear, hear," said his brother Albert, three years younger and three or four inches taller, but otherwise a near twin of Big Tony—the same jowls, the same Neanderthal brow, the same five-o'clock shadow, and the same opinions.
"Yes, we know how you feel," said Sylvia Pinchick, a wispy woman in her late 70s, with unnaturally black hair, wearing pink-framed glasses with goggle-like lenses. Even at normal volume, her voice was harsh and screechy. "We know how you feel," she repeated, "but I don’t think we should throw the union into a fight without considering the consequences. If we're wrong about this, it could hurt us."
Arthur Zolli, the third brother, a small, worried man in a shiny blue polyester suit, shot a nervous look at Sylvia Pinchick. "Hurt us? How could it hurt us?"
"It could damage our credibility, Arthur." The speaker was Bill Walden, union treasurer, a tall, slow-talking fellow who might have resembled Gary Cooper, if it weren't for the bulbous nose. "You have to remember, Tony, we supported Callaway. We can't back away from him this quickly. The members will be thrown for a loop. They'll think we don't know what we're doing." He surgically removed the last tidbit of meat from a pork chop and ate it.
"Den we have to teach dem," Tony said. "We have to educate dem. We gotta convince dem their jobs are in danger, deyr whole fuckin' country is in danger. 'Scuse me Sylvia." He spooned another chunk of tilefish from the serving platter.
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 16