Edge of Battle (27 page)

“Get out of here and get back to work, you old goat,” Maravilloso yelled after him jovially. “I wish to speak with Minister Díaz for a few minutes. Have the chief of staff report to me then. And find a way to make the damned Americans back off, or I will have your
cojones
in a jar on my desk—if you still
have
any!
Now
you may leave.” Before departing, Rojas shot her a warning glare, which he doubted she noticed.

“Ah, the smell of a good Cuban cigar,” Díaz said, walking toward Maravilloso. “Your husband never smoked cigars except for photo opportunities, as I recall, and he would only smoke Mexican-made cigars, like a good nationalist. I am glad you are a true aficionado.”

“Why do you bring him up, Minister Díaz?”

“The scent of your cigar reminded me that your husband chose never to be alone with you in the presidential office because he was afraid of what the people might think was going on,” Díaz said, a mischievous smile on his face. “A woman of your beauty, your passion, your energy—he was afraid people might think you and he spent all your time fornicating on the president’s desk. He was always so proper, so totally in control of everything—his environment, his image, his words, his emotions.”

“So?”

Díaz stepped closer to the president of Mexico, slipped his arms
around her waist, pulled her closer to him, and kissed her deeply. “
Ay,
I am so glad you are not like him,” Díaz breathed after their lips parted. “I always feel your fire, your passion, your spirit whenever I walk into this room. I could never keep it contained.”

“Felix, would you please just shut up and bring your hard Spanish
paro
over here,
now?
” she breathed, and pressed her body tightly against his as they kissed again.

They both explored, then used each other’s bodies quickly, efficiently, tactically—they were in tune with each other’s passion and could tell immediately how the other wanted it and knew exactly how best to get the other to that level. Maravilloso kept the shades drawn and her desk cleared off for exactly that reason. It was
polvo,
not lovemaking, but they both knew it and both accepted it because to do otherwise would not serve either of their desires or ambitions.

They shared what was left of her Cuban cigar afterward as they straightened their clothing and she fixed her makeup. “Did you tell Pedro to give us at least twenty minutes this time before he is to call, darling?” Díaz asked.

“Fifteen. You are quicker than you believe you are,
jodonton
.”

“Get a decent sofa and a door that locks from the inside, and I’ll be slower,
culito
.” She smiled like a schoolgirl on her first date—he was the only man in the Federal District who ever had the nerve to swear and talk dirty in front of her, even before he learned how aroused she got by it. “So. Rojas is all worried about the California National Guard, eh? Tell him to stop worrying. The Americans will be gone from the border before you know it.”

She was disturbed that he knew about her adviser’s fears, as if he had been in the meeting with them just now. “The
Politicos
are not still bugging my office, are they, Felíx?” she asked, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

“I told you I took all of the
Politico
’s bugs out months ago, my dear,” Díaz said. “I do not need to bug the general’s office to hear what he has to say—a few shots of tequila or glasses of cerveza in the afternoon and his deputies and aides blab like a housewife on
her neighbor’s fence. I pretend to be talking on my cell phone in his outer office and I can hear everything he says quite clearly.”

Felix Díaz knew a lot about chatty members of the Mexican government. It was the duty of the Minister of Internal Affairs to protect the republic, constitution, government, and courts from threats from inside the country, a purposely broad and far-reaching responsibility. Along with overseeing the ministry itself, Díaz had control of several other important bureaus and agencies in the government, including the Federal District Police, Political Police, Border Police, and the Rural Defense Force. Felix Díaz had extraordinary powers of investigation and commanded a large and well-equipped paramilitary force that equaled, and in some areas exceeded, the power of the armed forces.

Numbering over five thousand agents, technicians, and support staff, the Political Police, or
Politicos
, investigated any possible threats to all Mexican political institutions, including the president, legislature, the judiciary, the treasury, the Council of Government, political parties, opposition groups, and insurgent or revolutionary groups. Within the Political Police was a clandestine unit of almost five hundred specially trained and equipped agents called the
Escuadrilla Especial De las Investigaciones,
but known by their nickname
Los Sombras
—the “Shadows”—their identities secret to all but Díaz and José Elvarez, Deputy Minsiter of Internal Affairs. The
Sombras
could seize any documents they deemed necessary, wiretap any phone, open any door or safe deposit box, access any record, and arrest any person for any reason whatsoever—or for no reason at all.

Of course, Carmen Maravilloso knew all this—which is why she first appointed him to the position of Minister of Internal Affairs, and then began sleeping with him. At best she could keep an eye on him and use her feminine charms on his postpubescent urges to keep him sympathetic and loyal to her, as much as any man could stay loyal to a woman; at worst, their affair might buy his silence, or at least cause a lot of distrust against him among others in the government. The culture of machismo still existed, even
in the highest levels of Latino government—women, even powerful and influential women working outside the home, were not to be taken advantage of. They could be subdued, embarrassed, even silenced. But a man’s power over a woman was assumed to be absolute and universal, and it was in poor taste for a man to abuse his God-given sexual, physical, or anthropological power and authority against the weaker sex.

But it turned out that Felix Díaz was a good choice for the post, because he appeared to have no burning vendetta against any person or political party and didn’t seem to have any sort of resentment against a woman being his superior. His extreme wealth, and his family’s long-standing policy of siding with whoever was in power or soon to be in power, left him with few strong enemies. He had personal political aspirations, of course—it was no secret that he wanted to be president of Mexico, a position that no others in his family had ever attained. But, typically, politicians in Mexico tried to exploit the least little bit of power they attained, and at least as far as Maravilloso’s trained eye could see, Felix Díaz was not acting like a typical Mexican politician.

Even so, she was careful to be forever watchful for any signs of a power grab by this man or any other man close to her. No politician in Mexico could afford to be a nice guy, even nice guys like Felix Díaz. She had made a woman’s mistake by letting him take sexual liberties in this, her base of power—that made her vulnerable. If he ever exhibited any desire whatsoever to take advantage of that vulnerability, she would have to squash it immediately.

Now it was time to challenge him, put him back on the defensive, before he had a chance to even pull up the fly on his pants: “How in hell do you know what the Americans will do, Felix?” she asked.

“One of my agents intercepted a message sent from Washington for the American ambassador here in Mexico City,” Díaz said. “The message stated that effective immediately their Operation Rampart was suspended and all of their Cybernetic Infantry Devices were being withdrawn from the border.”

“So? We already know they have replaced those robots with National Guard troops. They haven’t withdrawn—if anything, they have increased and reinforced their presence.”

“Our informants in Washington tell us that the American President has summoned the commander of those National Guard forces to the White House, as well as the Secretary of Defense and the Attorney General, and that he is not happy at all,” Díaz said, wiping bright red lipstick from his neck and straightening his necktie. “The analysts say he will gradually pull forces back from the border so it will not look like a retreat. He does not want to be seen as backing down in the face of pressure from Mexico. But he
will
back down.”

“Perhaps—until the next terrorist or smuggler decides to kill an American vigilante or Border Patrol agent,” Maravilloso said bitterly. She looked at him carefully. “You insist these attacks are not being done by Mexicans, Felix, but then you give me reports of yet another videotape being distributed by this ‘Comandante Veracruz’ character, inciting the Mexican people to commit even more atrocities. How sure are you that these attacks are not being perpetuated by him?”

“I am not sure of much when it comes to Veracruz, Carmen.”

Her stare intensified. “You seem to have very good, reliable contacts throughout the world, Felix,” Maravilloso said suspiciously, “but I find it very strange that you cannot tell me very much about Veracruz. Why is that, Felix?”

“Because he is probably not Mexican,” Diaz replied. “All of our internal investigations have come up empty so far, and most foreign governments will not share information on anyone who might have had specialized military or guerrilla training.”

“Well, what
can
you tell me about him?”

“Just the basics. His name is Ernesto Fuerza, reported in a French newspaper interview a couple years ago but never independently verified. His nationality is unknown. He is in his late thirties or early forties, male, tall, and slender…”

“I mean some
real
information about him, Felix,” she said irri
tably. “The whole world knows that trivia—I read all that last week in
People
magazine…”

“Next to the article on you, I noticed, the one on ‘The New Faces of Mexico.’” She gave him a warning glare, and Díaz’s tone turned serious: “The uniform he often wears looks American, English, or Canadian, and the headdress he wears looks very Middle Eastern—very confusing to analysts. His Spanish is good, but it sounds more South American, perhaps Brazilian or Venezuelan, more sophisticated, more European. He obviously has some military training, judging by the way he speaks and the way he holds a weapon…”

“How can you tell anything by how one holds a weapon?”

“A trained man will never put his finger on a trigger unless he is ready to shoot—he will lay his finger on the side of the trigger guard,” Diaz said. “That is pounded into a soldier from the first moment he is given a gun.”

“What else?”

“Everything is guesswork and speculation—it can hardly even be called ‘analysis,’” Díaz admitted. “One thing is for certain: he is bound to slip up, try to cross the border once too often, or take a shot at the wrong target, and he will either be dead or captured. Revolutionaries do not have much of a shelf life these days, since the Americans started clamping down hard on anyone who might even remotely smell like a terrorist.” Díaz fell silent for a moment. Then, “Maybe we should not be trying to hunt this man down,” he said. “Maybe we should use him instead.”

“Bad idea, Felix,” Maravilloso said. “He is certainly popular all around the world. But the magazine articles state he was—perhaps still is—a drug smuggler. Why would I want to be associated with such a man?”

“I do not think it matters much,” the Minister of Internal Affairs said. “As long as he is truly committed to helping the Mexican people who choose to work in the United States, I think our cause would be greatly helped. A slight imperfection might enhance his character a bit.”

“There is no way on earth we can find that out for sure without a face-to-face meeting.”

“I can make it happen, Carmen.”

“A meeting with the infamous Comandante Veracruz?” Her face turned from serious to thoughtful. “You are the one person in the world who could pull off such a meeting, my dear.” Maravilloso thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Collect more information on this man—hopefully even capture him so you can question him directly.”

“Or kill him, if necessary, if he proves a threat to your administration’s plans to work with the Americans and solve this immigration dilemma,” Diaz said matter-of-factly.

Maravilloso smiled, stepped over to Díaz, put her arms around him, and kissed his lips. “Why, Felix, you almost sound as if you really care about what happens to me,” she said.

He kissed her again, grasping her shoulders seriously. “I admitted to you from the first day we met that I aspired to the presidency, Carmen,” he said. “We even would not talk about marriage for that very reason, although you know how much I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. But I am not your political rival, or just your lover. I am a member of your government, and I am a Mexican. Whether you believe it or not, I do care about what happens to our country—and yes, I care about this government too, if for no other reason than I will have less to clean up after assuming this office.”

“Do not try to pretend that you care that much, Felix,” Maravilloso said. She pushed away from him and looked at him with great concern. “Why that stunt with the helicopter, Felix? You embarrassed me on worldwide television. You provoked a riot while I was talking to the President of the United States!”

“Carmen, I was out there inspecting that base firsthand—I didn’t go out there to incite a riot or embarrass you,” Diaz said. “It just made me angry that our people were being herded around like that. I wanted to be sure they knew their government was there looking out for them.”

“That is
my
job, Felix—yours is to inform me of developments like this Rampart One abomination and help me decide the best course of action,” Maravilloso said. “We need to keep avenues of dialogue open with the Americans, not shut them down. Do you understand, Felix?”

“Of course, Madam President.”