There was but one topic — the imminent victory of Valiente Zarra — and despite his deep skepticism about effecting real change in the Mexican political system, Dan Warner was beginning to believe it.
The PRI were going to be overturned and Mexico was at last going to be able to realize its potential. The excitement in the air was electric. "Everywhere there was the two-syllable chant “ZAR-RA! ZAR-RA! ZAR-RA!”
* * * * *
The broadcast was coming in live from Mexico.
Lee Cochrane had left the confines of the camp to watch the rally with Grant Lamar in his house.
Dan Warner was very much on Cochrane's mind. Dan liked his Washington comforts and wheeling and dealing politically in Bullfeathers, but he had accepted the Zarra assignment without any more than the normal quota of bitching, and when down in Mexico had done — was doing — an outstanding job. With Zarra elected, there would be genuine dialog between Mexico and the United States. Protectionism would become a thing of the past. The two economies together would really go places.
Mexico would no longer be a haven for drug barons and terrorists. The country would begin to demonstrate its enormous economic potential and the United States would gain a genuinely strong ally. Such an alliance was sorely needed. China was suddenly becoming an economic and military force to be reckoned with, and Japan was showing increasing signs of being focused on its own regional objectives. As for Europe, that part of the world seemed tired and indecisive.
The camera panned around the building, showing endless excited brown faces and waving Zarrista banners.
There was a decided carnival atmosphere. There was going to be change, and it was going to be good change, and they were part of it. Unlike so many previous regimes throughout Mexico's bloody history, Valiente Zarra would not let them down. Here was a man who could drag Mexico from its feudal roots into the wealth and dynamism of the twenty-first century.
The Zarrista party was unstoppable. Within ten years, twenty years at the most, Mexico would enjoy the same wealth and prosperity as the United States. Countries in the Far East like Japan, Korea, Singapore, and Malaysia had done it on the back of a vast U.S. market. Why could not Mexico, so much closer, do it too? All it would take was shaking off the dead hand of the PRI and voting in a new progressive regime.
The camera zoomed in on the podium where Zarra and his immediate entourage would stand. The original plan had been for the podium to be in the bullring itself.
For security reasons, Dan Warner had been uneasy at Zarra being totally out in the open without a convenient exit, so, after his objections, the new podium had been located on the side of the arena where the band normally was located. The band were now playing from some seats normally occupied by spectators.
The slight change from their normal location had not dampened their ardor. Assisted by loudspeakers, music blasted out over the arena.
There was silence, then a single trumpet call followed by a huge shout from the crowd.
The bandstand, empty up to now, began to fill up with Zarra's inner group. Then came his immediate advisors, including Warner.
Six bodyguards followed, surrounding Zarra himself.
The party moved to the front of the bandstand and then the bodyguards moved to the sides, leaving Zarra, dressed in a white suit and shirt, in front of a bank of microphones in the center.
He was wearing a tie, but it had been loosened and his top shirt button was undone. Zarra was correctly dressed as befitted his status as a professor, but he was also informal and approachable — a man of the people.
Zarra raised his arms above his head in a salute to the crowd.
People rose to their feet as one and the air was filled with the rhythmic chants of “VIVA ZARRA! VIVA ZARRA!”
Zarra put his arms down and was about to speak. Suddenly he roared with laughter, and then, still shaking with mirth, pointed down at the bullring below.
The cameras followed the direction he was indicating.
Down below in the ring itself, seated on more comfortable chairs than the hard benches of the spectators, a group of officials and leading dignitaries from the town and surrounding countryside had been assembled to hear Zarra from this privileged location. All were dressed in their best clothes, and officials wore sashes of office.
They were running in every direction, tripping over fallen chairs and diving headfirst over the wooden barriers at the ringside.
A clown's bull had been let loose in the ring. His horns were padded and he was festooned with streamers, but he was no joke to the people actually in his way. He could not kill or seriously wound, but he could butt and create chaos, and that he was certainly doing.
Zarra's laughter was joined by that of the crowd, and the cameras picked up little vignettes of slapstick comedy a landowner had his pants ripped off and only just made it to cover, while the bull turned and chased an unpopular mayor.
It was the best day of the campaign so far, in Dan Warner's opinion.
18
"Shadow Four," continued Fitzduane, "is a mainly British SAS team with Oga for seasoning, Bob ‘Brick’ Stephens and a guy called Hayden.
"In principle, I like to mix up the nationalities and make the unit rather than nationality the focus, but with the professionals on this mission, it really has not proved necessary. Also, Stephens and Hayden have worked together so long and so well, it would be a waste. They don't have to speak to each other. A gesture, a look, and they all seem to understand. They love the Guntrack. It's right in the SAS tradition. They say changing a clutch in a Guntrack compared to the Land Rover is sheer pleasure. Minutes as opposed to hours."
"Do they know your father was a founding member of the SAS in North Africa?" said Kilmara.
"Sure," said Fitzduane with a smile, "and it doesn't hurt. On the other hand, trying to explain to the British why the Irish, while willing to fight with the British, prefer an independent country has been hard work."
"Which leaves Shadow Five," said Kilmara.
"One of our lads from the Rangers," said Fitzduane, "plus two Delta. Harty, Ernesto Robles, and Ross Gallini."
"Tell me more about Calvin Welbourne?" said Kilmara.
"Calvin flies," said Fitzduane, "in the kind of aircraft that you might expect to fall out of a Christmas cracker. It's a frightening little machine, but it works. They drag it around in a tube behind their Guntrack. I do not recommend it unless you are a masochist."
There was a pounding on the door. Fitzduane looked up at the security monitor. It was Lee Cochrane looking very agitated. He let him in.
Cochrane had been running. He was breathing more heavily than normal, but he was very fit. There was only a slight sweat.
"You alone?" he said to Fitzduane.
Fitzduane ushered him in. "Shane is here. No one else. You can speak."
Cochrane sank into a chair. Fitzduane handed him a glass of water, which he drank greedily.
"It's not secret," he said. "The whole fucking world knows. The did it on television. You could see them killing him. They put a bull in the ring as a distraction, and when people were looking the other way, two of his bodyguards drew their guns and killed him. The camera came back on him as they were still firing.
"You could see the blood spewing out over that white suit. And then one of them blew off the side of his head to make sure. You could see his skull coming to pieces."
"Who was killed?" said Fitzduane, who already had a suspicion.
"Dan Warner and Zarra," said Cochrane. "Valiente Zarra."
He suddenly looked defeated and aged. "Dan tried to intervene. He was close and he made a grab for one of them. The Mexicans would not let him carry a piece. Dan got one of the killers' guns, but the other just stepped forward and let him have it in the back of the neck. They butchered him like some animal."
Cochrane put his head in his hands. "Oh, Jesus! We're up against some bad, bad people."
Kilmara took Fitzduane to one side. "Zarra was your reserve," he
said. "If things had gone wrong in Tecuno, he could perhaps have helped you. Now you're on your own. The PRI will do nothing. Quintana has too much of a lock on them." There was a question in the statement.
"We go anyway," said Fitzduane. "But there'll be one change. We'll cut the NationalTrainingCenter sessions in half and move the assault date up."
"Why?" said Kilmara.
"Quintana has killed Zarra. He'll be feeling cocky and invulnerable, and so will his people. I want to hit them while they still feel like that. Cocky makes you careless."
Kilmara shook his head. "People gravitate towards success," he said. "Quintana will now pick up support. He may even get the Mexican Army on his side. After this, he stands a good chance of making president if he wants to. Either way, he will be stronger."
"We're going to spend three days in the Mojave at the NTC," said Fitzduane, "and two days doing a final check. Then we'll go."
"You'll be on your own," said Kilmara. "You fuck up and there will be nobody to help. You'll be in the middle of nowhere in bad company. They'll cut your balls off and your skin off in strips. These are evil fucks."
"Faith and firepower are great equalizers," said Fitzduane, "and good people help, too. Believe me." He smiled grimly. "Besides, you may recall a promise. I'm getting Kathleen back. No matter what. No matter what!"
He walked across to Lee Cochrane. "Do you think it can be done, Lee?"
"I don't know," said Cochrane, his voice tired. "I don't know anything anymore. But we've got to try. Damn it, we've got to do something, or else they win. We can't just make speeches."
Fitzduane studied the chief of staff. "I would be honored, Lee, if you would come with us."
Cochrane looked up and his face was transformed from fatigue and sadness into a resolution that damn near glowed. "Are you sure, Hugo?"
Fitzduane smiled. "Positively," he said.
* * * * *
There was a difference in the sound of Rheiman's footsteps, thought Kathleen.
Something as simple as different shoes? She considered this carefully. No, this was more an eagerness as if he had news to impart. Good news? In his terms, probably yes. She would find out soon enough.
There was scant conversation with the guard today. This time Rheiman was in a hurry. Of course, he had missed a day. Now he wanted to make up for lost time. A by-product of the Rheiman visits was that she was now fed regularly if not well, and could monitor the passing of the days with reasonable accuracy.
She heard him sit down. He almost always sat before he spoke, curious behavior now that she thought of it. Given the friendly tone he adopted, it would have been more natural for him to call a greeting as he entered. But normally he did not.
He would enter the room, sit down, and then look at her for some while before he spoke.
As if he was contemplating a prized possession.
It was an unsettling thought.
Kathleen never spoke first. This was not a deliberate strategy but had developed naturally from her original silence. It had seemed appropriate then. It still seemed like the correct way to handle things. If someone wanted to speak to her, then they had to acknowledge her as a human being first.
In her soul, Kathleen was terrified. She lived every moment in fear so great she now regarded it as a living force. Something you could touch and feel like fire or water. Something so horrible and yet so familiar, she almost regarded it as a friend. Fear I can trust. But nothing else.
No one else?
Rheiman? Pleasant, warm, concerned.
Could Rheiman be trusted? Would Hugo trust him? Would Hugo Fitzduane trust him if he was chained and blindfolded and hungry and thirsty and desperate for human contact. Would he? Would he?
She could see Fitzduane as she thought. God, I love you, Hugo. Our baby! I wish. Oh, how I wish. Oh, how I yearn.
"Kathleen," said Rheiman in a pleased voice.
She had felt so close to Fitzduane, she could hear him. It could not just be imagination. There was a bond between them. It was not physical, but it was there nonetheless. Fitzduane was focused on her — in her — in some way. She could not, would not.
Tears welled unbidden and stained her cheeks.
"Good news!" said Rheiman. His voice was like an invasion. She could see nothing, feel nothing, and then there was this sound that cut through the silence like a jagged knife.
The voice of a man who sounded trustworthy — but whom she did not trust. The voice of a man who by his own admission had murdered.
"But, Kathleen, you're crying," he said, his voice suddenly concerned. "You missed me. I'm so sorry. I try and get away every day, but sometimes it is not possible. There is so much to do and we're near the first test firing. Everyone has one question: Will it work?"
"I missed you, Edgar," she said, and it was true. Good or bad, trustworthy or not, Rheiman was company. He brought news. He was her only link to the outside world.
Rheiman took her hand without speaking. He almost never touched her except for the occasional fleeting caress. This time he took her hand as a lover might, the back of his hand resting against her breast.
He moved his hand very slightly, as if accidentally, stroking her nipple through the material of the rough shirt she had been given. She could sense his mounting excitement, but then he pulled away and sat back in his seat.
She was playing a dangerous game, she knew, but there was not an alternative. Rheiman was all she had right now. Rheiman was what she had to use. If it took sex, she would use sex, whatever was required, however bizarre. If it took violence, she would use that too.
Without hesitation! Fitzduane had taught her. Violence should be a last resort, but where it was required, it must be fast and deadly and delivered with total commitment. Never hesitate. Never pull back. Do it to them before they do it to you. Or you will die.
She shuddered.
Despair swept over her, and then as suddenly as it had hit it was quelled.
I will live. Our baby will live. Hugo will come. It seems impossible, but he will come.
Rheiman had been silent. The watcher playing with her. He reminded her of a cat. She was the mouse, chained and blindfolded.
It couldn't be much fun for the cat. A real mouse could still move, could try and make a break for freedom. It was hopeless, but it kept the game alive. Restricted as she was, she could do nothing. He could not even see her properly. Her eyes were still taped over.
It was as if Rheiman had been reading her mind. "Kathleen," he said. "I said I have good news. I have been negotiating with Oshima. She has agreed that your blindfold may be removed subject to certain conditions. There is something she wants you to see. And some things that she does not want you to see."
Kathleen smiled faintly. "I'm not sure I understand, Edgar. What does she want me to see?"
"An execution," said Rheiman.
19
It was an aspect of the operation that had given Fitzduane more concern that almost any other.
The Japanese Koancho agent was still inside the Devil's Footprint. When the assault team went they were going to be racking up the bodies. It would be dark and they would be programmed to kill without hesitation. The agent was going to be chopped liver unless he could be contacted in advance, kept out of the firing line in some way, and then pulled out with the team. A dangerous complication for an already hazardous mission.
But the man deserved a special effort. Hori-san's courage and initiative were extraordinary. He had put together an intelligence operation of daring and at direct risk to his own life. Reiko Oshima was inarguably the most dangerous terrorist currently at large, and for every second of every day Hori was under her control. This was a man of special courage.
Further, he was Chifune's colleague and Fitzduane was in Chifune's debt. Hori's fate could not be left to chance.
The problem lay in balancing risks. The linchpin of the success of the mission was surprise. Sending someone into the terrorist compound in advance risked premature
discovery. One slip and the operation was blown. To save Hori, was it worth it?
The situation with Kathleen was different. Her location was known and there would be no difficulty in identifying her. Hori, even though his picture had been handed out, in the split seconds available was going to appear just like another terrorist, especially if he was asleep with his face in the pillow or wearing the black balaclavas many wore at night when on guard duty both for camouflage and against the chill of the desert air.
Chifune had sworn she could get in without being discovered. A rough mockup of the terrorist camp had been set up in an obscure corner of the NationalTrainingCenter, and six times in a row, despite the sentries' being alerted that she was coming, and despite the fact that they were outfitted with both night-vision equipment and thermal detectors, she had managed it.
But Fitzduane was still uneasy. The compromise was that she would go in only ten minutes in advance. That way, if something did go wrong, they could still go in hard and heavy and achieve their objectives.
But he did not like it. Total surprise was his objective. Anything less could compromise the mission.
The right thing would be to let Hori, brave man though he was, take his chances.
The ‘right thing’ or ‘the most effective’? Who was to know? Fitzduane had thought of involving the entire unit in this particular dilemma, but had then decided otherwise. There were some issues that had to be an individual burden. You made a decision and you took the consequences.
At that stage choice did not enter into it. Nor did right or wrong.
Occasionally, Fitzduane wondered if morality or ethics or values or whatever you wanted to call such thoughts ever counted, or if they were some unreal set of notions fostered by academics who were not at the bleeding edge.
It did not help him much. He believed in Camelot.
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