Edge of Battle (37 page)

“Perdón mis maneras pobres, Madam Presidente,”
the man said, standing and bowing slightly.
“Mi nombre es Coronel Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov.”

“Zakharov!”
Maravilloso exclaimed. “My God…Díaz,
you
are working with Colonel Yegor Zakharov, the world’s number one most-wanted criminal? There are a dozen countries that would throw you in prison for twenty years just for being
associated
with him!” She glared at him in total confusion. “Is he the puppet master, pulling all the strings in this marionette show of yours?”

“I have my own agenda, Madam President, and I guarantee you, it does not include anything concerning the government of Mexico,” Yegor Zakharov said. “I need ‘Comandante Veracruz’ and the
Sombras
in order to complete my mission in the United States. Once both our objectives are reached, with all of our mutual assurances, I will be out of your lives forever.” Zakharov stepped closer to Maravilloso and removed his sunglasses, letting her see his empty eye socket for the first time. He ran a hand across her cheek, then down her neck to her breasts and belly. “You truly are beautiful, Madam President.”

“Screw you,
pija,
” Maravilloso spat, slapping Zakharov’s hand
away. “You don’t scare me with this boogeyman act of yours. I know lots of Mexican grandmothers with more horrifying faces than yours.” She turned to Díaz, hoping—no,
praying
—that every second she could delay the inevitable meant one more chance for her to survive. “What is the meaning of all this, Felix? Who
are
you? Are you the lapdog of a Russian terrorist, or are you the true Mexican revolutionary patriot I had always wanted ‘Comandante Veracruz’ to be?”

“I am the patriot who just heard the president of Mexico agree to kiss the ass of the American president and allow an army of imperialist assassins to come into our country,” Díaz said. “I had hoped the fire still burned in your belly, but it clearly has gone out. It is time to start the insurgency, the
real
revolution. It is time for the Mexican people to come out of the shadows and take their rightful place in society. It is time for the rights and welfare of hardworking Mexicans to be part of our foreign policy, not work in opposition to it. I hoped that you and I could lead this fight together, but like all the others, you sold out. You never truly believed that the people of Mexico could be anything else but third-rate citizens of a third-rate nation. The revolution means nothing to you.”

“Then teach me, Felix,” Maravilloso said softly, earnestly. “I am a woman and an entertainer. I do not have your vision. But I love you, and I have always thought you would make a great president. I wished for nothing except to be by your side, as your adviser as well as your lover.” She stepped closer to him, then placed her hands on his chest. “Take me, Felix,” she implored, looking deeply into his eyes, pressing herself against him. “Take my hand, take my heart, take my soul. I am ready to believe you. Tell me your vision for our country, and I will use all my powers to help you achieve it.”

Felix Díaz nodded, closed his eyes, and placed his hands in hers, holding her closely. “Very well, Carmen. This is my vision, my love.”

That was the last thing she would ever hear, except for the sud
den roaring in her ears and the sound of her own muffled screams as the towel soaked with ketamine, a fast-acting veterinary anesthetic used to euthanize animals, was pressed over her nose and mouth. In seconds Maravilloso lost control of her voluntary muscles, so she was unable to struggle with José Elvarez, her assailant; in less than thirty seconds she was unconscious; and in less than a minute she was dead.

“Too bad she had to be eliminated—she was an extraordinarily beautiful woman,” Yegor Zakharov said idly as he watched four
Sombras
carry the body out of the office. “I trust you have a foolproof cover story prepared for her untimely death?”

“I have been working for months to plant incriminating evidence in her homes, her prior places of employment, her ex-husband’s and parents’ home, and her office,” Diaz said. “An investigation would eventually turn up enough long-standing corroborating evidence to make even General Alberto Rojas believe she did away with herself with a drug overdose. Distraught and under pressure from the disasters on the border, plus her earlier transgressions such as looting the treasury and establishing foreign bank accounts, she overdosed on heroin. Her medical records even hint at a possible heroin addiction when she was on TV. There is evidence of payoffs to a jealous homosexual lover for any really dedicated investigative journalists to discover. The ketamine will dissolve in less than an hour—there will be no trace of it to discover if there is an autopsy.”

“It seems you have done your homework, Díaz—I hope you know what you’re doing,” Zakharov said. “What about the rest of the Council of Government?”

“I get reports every half hour on their exact whereabouts,” Díaz said. “I have already targeted a few for elimination, such as General Rojas, if they become troublesome. I am not too concerned with the others. They care about their jobs, pensions, and girlfriends more than who is running the government. They have their escape plans ready.”

“I congratulate you, sir—it appears to be a fairly well-organized
coup,” Zakharov said. “I thank you for rescuing me, but I must depart immediately. I have unfinished business in the United States.”

“With the robot and the American officer?” Díaz asked. “Have you been able to figure out how the thing works?”

“It responds to voice commands—that is all I know,” Zakharov admitted. “But there must be a way that a new user can employ the device without extensive training.”

“So you must convince Richter to reprogram the device to allow anyone to pilot it? Do you think that will be difficult?”

“Richter is a U.S. Army officer, but he was trained as an engineer, not a field combat officer,” Zakharov said. “My guess is that he will crack fairly easily under interrogation. But I will probably use drugs anyway to speed the process. Once we have control of the robot, he can be eliminated.”

“The Ministry of Internal Affairs has an extensive medical facility and interrogation centers set up to do exactly as you wish,” Díaz said. “We can transfer him here and begin immediately.”

“I prefer to do my own interrogation, Díaz.”

“Of course. But why not enjoy some Mexican hospitality for a while,
polkovnik?
”

“My mission is still incomplete.”

“Your mysterious task in Amarillo, Texas?” Zakharov said nothing, but looked suspiciously at Díaz. “There are not many military-significant targets in that part of Texas, Colonel, so I have taken the liberty of having my operations staff draw up some general plans for an assault on some of the facilities they believe would make useful targets.” Now Zakharov looked plainly worried—he didn’t like outsiders horning in on his operations. “If you tell me your specific objective, I can arrange to have well-trained, well-equipped, and experienced scouts, intelligence agents, workers on the inside, and saboteurs in place well in time for you, your men, and the robot to begin your operation.”

“I can handle all that myself, Díaz,” Zakharov said. “Our original deal was to get my men and me to Amarillo. If you can get us
there immediately with Richter and the robot, our business will be completed and you can carry on with your plan to take over the government.”

“But you agreed to help train my men and provide security for…”

“That deal is terminated, Díaz,” Zakharov said. “You are on the threshold of taking control of the entire Mexican government. You don’t need me anymore.”

“Alliances and loyalties change at the drop of a hat around here, Colonel. I need someone who will fight for
me,
not for the highest bidder. And with you in control of the robot, our power will be unquestioned.” Zakharov was unmoved by that argument. “I’ll double your pay and pay double
that
for use of the robot, plus another one hundred thousand dollars to sign with me for just sixty days.”

“Not interested, Díaz.”

“
Thirty
days, then, and I’ll pay two hundred and fifty thousand dollars as a bonus.”

“Not interested.”

A flash of anger flashed across Díaz’s face, and for a moment Zakharov was certain he was going to explode and order his men to try something; instead, Díaz smiled confidently. “Then I have an interesting tidbit of information to pass along in exchange for one more operation by your men inside the United States for me.”

“I know now why your information is always so accurate, ‘Comandante Minister,’” Zakharov acknowledged. “What this time?”

“I did some checking on one of your friends, the lovely Dr. Ariadna Vega.”

“So?”

“As it so happens, Colonel, she is an illegal émigré from Mexico.”

“What?”

“I found her Mexican birth certificate and those of her parents,” Díaz said. “Her father is a university engineering professor in southern California; her mother works in her husband’s office.
They are all illegals, overstaying the father’s educational visa obtained over thirty years ago to attend the University of Southern California. She obtained false birth records that allowed her to be accepted into classified government research programs.”

“So not only illegal—but
criminal?
” Zakharov exclaimed. “How perfect! How ironic…the deputy commander of America’s military task force charged with border security to be from a family of illegal aliens? I would like to pay a visit to Dr. Vega’s family.”

“Now who is taking chances here,
tovarisch polkovnik?
”

“You worry about yourself and forget about me, Veracruz…Fuerza…Díaz, whatever the hell your name is now,” Zakharov warned.

“Very well, Colonel,” Díaz said, smiling casually. “You shall have support from the Internal Affairs Ministry to get you back to the United States together with your men and equipment.”

“Gracias, Díaz,”
Zakharov said. “But I warn you: if I even sniff the faintest whiff of a double-cross, you will be the
next
illegal immigrant casualty–turned buzzard food rotting in the California desert.”

It wasn’t until Zakharov was escorted out by Díaz’s
Sombras
that Díaz’s deputy, José Elvarez, fastened the holster strap over his pistol at his side and buttoned his suit jacket again. “The quicker we get rid of him, the better I’ll feel, sir,” he said.

“I as well, José,” Díaz said. “But not before we get our hands on that robot he stole. That thing could be more valuable than any mercenary army he could ever raise in a
lifetime
.”

“Then why do we not simply eliminate him right now and take his prisoner and that machine?” Elvarez asked. “His men are good, and their security is strong, but they cannot withstand an attack by the entire ministry.”

“Because he has one more important function to serve for us, and then we will let the Americans deal with him,” Díaz said. “I need to know precisely when he begins to move against Vega’s family. It might be right away.”

“Do you believe he will risk discovery by going after the family, sir?”

“He is obsessed with revenge so strong that it overrides any common sense or tactical advantage the man possesses—almost to the point where he might forget this suicide plan in Amarillo, Texas,” Díaz said. “We need to be close to him in case he asks us for our help in Texas. But he really wants revenge on the ones who defeated him the first time. He’ll do it, I’m positive—and we need to be ready when he does.”

S
UMMERLIN
,
NEAR
L
AS
V
EGAS
, N
EVADA
E
ARLY THE NEXT MORNING

“Did you hear Veracruz’s last message, Bob?” Fand Kent said excitedly.

“Yes, of course I heard it,” Bob O’Rourke said on his cellular phone as he took a sip of coffee in the kitchen of his five-thousand-square-foot luxury home in an exclusive gated community west of Las Vegas. “So what? It’s just another one of his rantings.”

“I don’t think so, Bob. This one was broadcast live all over the world on Mexico’s largest radio network, streamed live on the Internet, and broadcast by shortwave—it wasn’t secretly taped and delivered anonymously to a few news outlets like the other messages. I think the government is somehow supporting Veracruz now. What if folks start to do what he tells them to do?”

“What—leave here and start heading back toward Mexico?” he asked incredulously. “First of all, if they want to leave, fine—it’ll save us the trouble and expense of deporting them. But they
won’t
leave. As much as they may not like living the life of an illegal alien, that life is a million times better than life in Mexico. Wages are ten times higher here than in Mexico, even for undocumented aliens, and that’s
if
they can find a job down there. Here there’s work, and if they keep their noses clean and stay out of trouble,
they can have a good life. Heck, some states give them every benefit and entitlement citizens receive—they have everything but citizenship. They get all the perks but none of the responsibilities.”

“I’m not talking about all that, Bob. I’m talking about what might happen if the people
do
listen to Veracruz and start leaving,” Kent argued. “Latest numbers are that there are almost two hundred thousand illegals in Clark County alone. If half of those are of working age, and only ten percent of them do what Veracruz says, that’s
ten thousand
workers walking off the job! What do you think that would do to Las Vegas?”

“Granted, it would be inconvenient and chaotic right off,” O’Rourke said dismissively, “but eventually the system would adjust. The casinos, restaurants, and hotels would immediately start hiring; wages would go up to attract more workers; things would eventually return to normal—except the prices, of course, which would stay high after folks got accustomed to paying them.”

“Do you really think everything would just go back to normal? I think…”