Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (24 page)

“Oh my God, I had no idea, it’s so beautiful!” she said, looking out over the canyon, the city and the Rio Grande Valley.

“It’s almost sunset, the best time up here.”

“It’s just…stunning.”

Ramos said, “On a clear day, they say you can see for a thousand miles from up here.  All the way to California.  I’m not certain that it’s true, but I like to think it is.”

“This is where we’re going to have dinner?”

“Right there, at the Altavista.  It’s one of my favorite restaurants in Albuquerque.”

“Oh my, but the view!”  She hugged her arms around herself; it was suddenly cold at over 10,000 feet of altitude, with the wind whipping over the mountain crest.  Ramos put a friendly arm around her shoulder, to provide her some warmth and protection from the chill.  The last pinks and reds were disappearing from the sky, as far to the west a parade of thunderheads were transformed to gunmetal gray.  Flashes of summer lightning lit up curtains of rain low on the distant horizon, and yet the sun found a sliver of clear blue before disappearing over the edge of the world.

They lingered in silence by the railing, and watched a solitary hawk soaring through airy space hundreds of feet below.

Finally he said, “Let’s get inside and order dinner—I’m hungry, and I’m sure that you are too.”  He thought she seemed genuinely thrilled to be on the mountaintop with him.  The thin alpine air, the cold clear wind, the incredible views in all directions never failed to excite first time visitors to the top of Sandia Peak.  In the case of beautiful young women, the excitement frequently lasted for an entire night.  

And just to ensure that it did, he had brought two capsules of strong medicine, a potent new prescription pharmaceutical one could purchase easily in Mexico, to stir as a powder into her drink.  One capsule of
Libidinol
was the normal dosage for the treatment of “diminished sexual desire.”  He knew from prior experience that two capsules were enough to turn even a novitiate nun into an insatiable nymphomaniac, for several mutually pleasurable hours.

Basilio Ramos was a strong believer in the adage that all was fair in love and war.  He genuinely enjoyed the company of this wild Arab girl, Ranya Bardiwell, and he hoped their relationship would flower…for a while.  The
Libidinol
would merely guarantee that his physical desire for her would be abundantly reciprocated, on this first of what he planned to be their nights together.

***

The Altavista Restaurant
was only a few dozen steps from the tramway boarding platform. Just behind the platform was the ticket office and souvenir shop, where a handful of tourists were waiting to board the tram for the next trip back to the bottom.  There was a red-painted wooden deck with a high timber railing extending around the office and over to the restaurant. The restaurant was built in an octagonal shape, with a low bungalow-style roof, and plate glass windows all the way around.  The
maître d’
greeted them at the door, said, “Right this way,
Comandante
,” and led them to a table with a spectacular view of Albuquerque and the Rio Grande Valley.  Ranya noted that the restaurant had seating for at least a hundred guests, yet there were only a handful of diners scattered about. Two of Ramos’s personal bodyguards stayed outside, and two came in with them.  These two took up discreet positions in the raised area in the center of the restaurant, on either side of the bar.

The view was beyond spectacular, Ranya thought.  No doubt about it, Ramos was a smooth operator.  The
maître d’
had not blanched at the sight of the uniformed Milicia officer with his armed bodyguards—an unusual non-reaction, unless one was well accustomed to such visits.  She guessed that many other women had warmed the same seat she was occupying across from him, and who could blame them for enjoying the experience? Ramos was quite striking in appearance, a clean-shaven combination of Antonio Banderas and Che Guevara.  In the political world of Nuevo Mexico, he was a powerful man with much to offer a young woman.

“This is my favorite part,” he said, “Watching all of the lights coming on across the city.  I just love it up here.” 

“It looks like somebody spilled diamonds across a velvet sheet…it’s just mesmerizing.”  This time her reply was a genuine reaction, it needed no dramatic exaggeration. 

“And look,” he said, “You can still see the Rio Grande, see the line there? Watch how it shines like quicksilver, but in a minute it will turn to gold.”

A uniformed waiter appeared, and handed them both menus.  He asked them in Spanish, “Will you be having something to drink?”

“I’ll have a margarita,” said Ramos.  “They’re excellent here.”

“Do you have strawberry margaritas?” she asked the waiter.

“Of course, señorita. 
Por supuesto
. Two large margaritas: one regular, and one strawberry for the lady.” 

The waiter disappeared, and Ramos said in English, “After being in prison, the food here may be too rich to suit you.”

“I don’t think so!  Honestly, I think I could eat everything on the menu.  Twice! What do you recommend?”

“Well, their steaks are fantastic, especially the filet mignon. Or, you could try the seafood.  The mahi-mahi is usually very nice.  Perhaps we should begin with an appetizer; would you like to try the shrimp quesadilla?”

“Oh yes, please, that sounds wonderful,” she replied, sliding back her chair.  “But first, I’ve got to go and wash up—I’ll be back in a moment.” The bodyguards eyed her carefully but didn’t impede her path.  Why should they? There was no way down the mountain in the darkness, except for the tramcar.  Besides, she was enjoying the cozy ambiance and spectacular views from the Altavista.  It was absolutely hypnotic, after five years of seeing nothing but desolate Oklahoma prairie.  Moreover, after five years of prison rations, she badly wanted to enjoy the delicious dinner to come, beginning with the strawberry margarita she had ordered.

She could think about escaping later.

***

The tramcar seemed to go faster
and faster on the way down, as the lights of the city drew closer.  Ranya had drunk too much, two of the large margaritas.  Basilio supported her as they stood together in the swaying tram.  The descent was dizzying, she was bordering on vertigo, but it was not at all unpleasant.  She felt like she was floating and gliding, freefalling weightlessly as she stared out through the front windows at the approaching city lights.

Upon leaving the tramcar, Basilio guided her down the back steps from the platform, and she slid into his Jaguar.  She would have gladly stayed in his Jag forever.  She was quite certain that it was the finest automobile ever conceived by the mind of man, a masterpiece of human engineering. Its seat drew her in like a gentle embrace; the soft jazz pouring from the stereo speakers seemed to pluck at strings and keys within her very heart.  

After leaving, they drove a short distance down Tramway Road, and then Basilio smoothly made a right turn into a residential area.  Once again, there was the reassuring presence of the black Suburbans in front and behind the Jaguar, protecting them from any possible harm.  The Suburban in the lead stopped by a little guard house under an intensely bright light.  Soldiers wearing berets and carrying rifles allowed it to pass. Basilio merely nodded to the soldiers as they waved him through, and he took another right turn, and began to climb up into the foothills again.

Ranya periodically glanced across at him.  She was quite certain that she had never been so close to any man as strikingly attractive as Basilio Ramos, this dashing leader of the elite Falcon Battalion. In the soft instrument panel glow within the Jaguar, his profile shone like a god. When he turned and smiled back at her, she almost melted into the soft leather seat, overcome to breathlessness by his movie star handsomeness. Now she understood why he wore a gleaming gold Rolex watch: any other wrist adornment would have been beneath him.

They passed fabulous luxury homes on multi-acre lots, and finally they reached another gate at the very top of the road.  At this gate they were greeted by more troops wearing berets and carrying M-16s.  This property was surrounded by a high ironwork fence; the top of each bar was crowned with a small black arrowhead.  On either side of the driveway there was a tall column made of stone masonry.  An arched iron double gate swung apart in the middle to allow them to enter.

The private driveway curved upward for another hundred yards, and then she saw the house. It was more of a mansion than a mere house, she observed.

“Basilio, whose place is this? Who lives here?”

“Actually, the people own this property now.  The former owner decided he didn’t want to pay his taxes, and he gave it to the state.  Now it’s designated as the official headquarters for the leader of the
Batallón Halcón
.”

“And that would be…you?” she tittered. It seemed like the most incredible good fortune that she had met Basilio Ramos.  The house was a palace, a fairy tale castle, and certainly no less than this prince of men deserved.

“Yes, at the present time, that is my privilege, to serve the people in that capacity.”

She giggled again.  Besides everything else, Basilio was so incredibly witty!

The three-story pueblo-style mansion was built into a steep slope. Wide curving stairs on the left side led up to a veranda and the front doors. Ramos pushed a console button, and the middle of three garage doors on the right side of the house rolled open.  He pulled the Jaguar into the garage, and turned off the motor as the door slid down behind them.  There were two other cars already in the garage: a silver Mercedes to the right, and a black Jeep with a hard top to the left.

He opened Ranya’s car door, and took her hand to help her up from the Jaguar’s cushiony embrace.  She thought it was the most incredibly gallant gesture she had ever experienced. He led her by the hand through the garage, and into a tastefully decorated recreation room centered around a billiard table, and up two sets of stairs.  Then he guided her down a short hallway lined with elegant artwork, and into and across an enormous bedroom to a pair of French doors, which he opened before her.  The summer breeze was a sweet caress, carrying the scent of jasmine.

They were standing side-by-side at the edge of a room-sized balcony, against its ornamental-iron railing.  He said, “We’re not as high as we were on the top of the mountain, but it’s still a nice view, don’t you think?”  The lights of the city spread below them toward the horizon.

“It’s just as beautiful, Basilio, just as beautiful.  I never knew Albuquerque was so lovely.  I don’t know what I expected, but I never imagined it would be like…this.”

Then Ranya turned to him, pressed her hungry body against his, ran her fingers through his gorgeous hair and slid her arms around his neck, finally lifting her parted lips to his, unable to deny herself for another moment.  Basilio Ramos was the most astonishingly handsome and charming man she had ever met, and she was going to show him her affection tonight, in every possible way that she could imagine.  It must have been the margaritas, or perhaps it was the altitude, but she felt an entirely new kind of sensual urge spreading warmth through her body…and her needs would not be denied.

After their first prolonged embrace and deep kiss on the balcony, she whispered to him, “Please Basilio…please…take me to your bed.”

11
 

Wednesday June 25

The San Diego police
cordoned off a hundred yard stretch of the cement boardwalk, and all of the beach behind it, for the on-location film shoot. It was the first full light of Wednesday morning, and only a few walkers and joggers paused from their daily exercise to observe the modest production. The director was fussing over the spokesman, making final adjustments prior to shooting the public service announcement.

“I’m sorry Bob, but the hair is just not working,” said the gaunt director, who was dressed from head to foot in skin-tight black leather. From behind, he could pass for a teenager, but his boyish body was betrayed by his deeply lined face.  “The light is perfect, but your, um…
new hair
…how can I put this delicately…it looks like it was planted in little rows.  It’s…thin.  When we come in for the close-up, it won’t look
natural
. It just does not convey
charisma
. Bob, are you really,
really
sure we can’t try one of the toupees?”

“We’ve been over this: no wig!  What do you think I am—a friggin’ fairy?”  Bob Bullard chortled when he said this, and the diminutive director was not sure if it was meant as a good-natured jibe or…something else. Earlier, during makeup, Bullard had threatened to rip his arms off and use them for shark bait. He had exactly the same strange smile on his face when he had made those other jokes…if they were jokes.

The fat unshaven cameraman was wearing a stained gray sweat suit. He was standing behind his tripod-mounted Sony, a lit cigarette in one hand, and a cup of 7-11 coffee in the other, waiting. In a raspy voice he said, “Listen Bjorn, we’re losing the light.  We’ve got maybe ten minutes to get this shot before the sun is all over us.  Put the Homeland Security hat on him.  It’ll be fine.”

“The baseball hat? Oh, that is
so
cliché! Are you certain?” implored the director.  A female assistant appeared with the cap, and placed it on Bullard’s head.

The gruff cameraman said, “Look, it’ll work, and we haven’t got all day. It’s more Bob’s image anyway.  That’s it Lindsey, a little higher— right there!”  The ball cap was navy blue, with the letters DHS across the front in white.  “Now, Lindsey honey, just bring the reflector in tighter, with more of an up-angle. Yeah, that’ll do the trick—perfect.  Come on people!  Is everybody ready?”  

Bob Bullard was wearing a light blue windbreaker and khaki slacks, casually standing on the boardwalk in the Pacific Beach section of San Diego. The film location was overlooking the ocean, with a long fishing pier and a distant point of land jutting toward the horizon in the background.  He had his hands in his jacket pockets, an avuncular smile on his face and a sparkle in his blue eyes.  On the boardwalk off to either side, extras were waiting to move on cue.  An animal trainer had seagulls penned in a dozen wire cages, ready to release one at a time.