Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (34 page)

“Don’t be soft with them—if they show any hint of resistance…”  

“I understand the mission, Inez—I was briefed by
Vicegobernador
Magón himself.  But that’s not why I’m here: you said you had something to show me?”

“I do.  Something very important, I think.”  She handed him a manila mailing envelope.  “Take a look, there’s a surveillance report and some photographs.”

Ramos slid out the papers, scanned the printed sheets of text, and turned to the large color photos.  “Do I know these men?  Should I know them? Where is this, a
camposanto
?”

“Mount Calvary Cemetery, yesterday.  Beneath where the interstate highways cross.  The one wearing the baseball hat is an FBI agent named Alexandro Garabanda.”

“FBI?”  

“Actually, he’s a supervisor, the leader of a squad of agents.  The gray-haired one is Luis Carvahal—he used to be a reporter for the Herald. That was an old Albuquerque newspaper; it closed a few years ago.  Did you ever hear of him?”

“No.”

“Well, now he’s Deleon’s biographer.  They were friends from the old days, Deleon and Carvahal.  They go all the way back to the Tierra Andalucia courthouse raid—did you ever hear of that?”

“Yes, of course.  I have a degree in Raza Studies.”

“Anyway, this Carvahal has been spending a lot of time with el gobernador, helping him to write his memoirs.”

Ramos sighed, flipping through the photos.  “And reporting everything Deleon says, right to the FBI.”

“Yes, apparently.  However, we can’t touch the FBI agent, that’s part of our, um,
understanding
with Washington.  We can’t punish this race-traitor Garabanda, at least not yet.  We can follow him, intimidate him to a certain extent…but that’s all.  Next year maybe, but not now.  And we certainly can’t push his car down into a canyon, like some…”

“Inez, I…!”

“Don’t worry about it Basilio, those gringos from the tramway meant nothing.”  She grinned and cut her eyes at him like a schoolgirl, seemingly pleased with herself to have caught him out in an unsanctioned peccadillo. “But my section has been monitoring their talk radio—you should exercise more discipline, control your temper.”

Ramos ignored her mild rebuke, and didn’t mention that he too had heard the same radio report by Rick Haywood.  There was no need to mention that he was practicing his English with Ranya Bardiwell, or listening to gringo talk radio.  It might give Inez an idea that he was ‘unreliable,’ which of course he was not.  Inez might put such questionable items into his personal dossier, and who knows what kind of trouble that could cause later?

Instead, he said, “What about exposing this Garabanda as a Yanqui spy? We could cause a lot of embarrassment for the FBI in Nuevo Mexico with these photographs.  The federal government running a spy operation against a United States Governor—now that’s a juicy story! The Yanqui news media will go crazy if they hear about it!  The scandal will force the FBI to back off of us.”

“Well, that’s worth considering. I’ll suggest it.  We still have certain ongoing arrangements with Washington—there may be no point in antagonizing them for no good reason.  Not yet.  If we have indeed caught the FBI spying on Gobernador Deleon through this
gusano
, this traitorous worm Carvahal, well, something like your idea may be worth exploring. We don’t have recordings of what they said, but clearly, Carvahal is a spy and a traitor.  Look at this picture—do you see the line on the ground here?”

“What is that, a hose? He’s getting gasoline from the FBI man’s car?”

“That’s right.  He’s a
vendido
traitor, sold out for free gasoline.  And there is more: look at the picture of this gravestone.  They were standing near it when they were talking later, away from their cars.  It was taken by our Special Surveillance Group team after the spies left the cemetery.”

Ramos studied the large photograph carefully.  “Davita Ester Carvahal? Strange name.”

“Not so strange, if you look at the carved flowers. Look at the center of the bouquet: what do those petals remind you of?”

Ramos squinted and stared at the photo, then shook his head.  “This is just a guess, but they almost look like Hebrew letters.  But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Basilio, you were raised in California.  Did you ever hear of the crypto-Jews of New Mexico?”

Inez had his full attention now.  “Crypto-Jews?  No, never.  Who are they?”

***

Alex Garabanda’s phone
vibrated in his shirt pocket. This was the first call to his cell phone all morning, indicating that the service had been restored.  The service outages were a constant reminder of the failure of his squad to find and stop the tower shooters, a fact which was not overlooked by his peers at the Field Office.  When phone service was suddenly cut in mid-call, or during a computer download, it was common to hear “Dammit Garabanda!  Your snipers just got another one!” shouted across the office. On the other hand, he received no words of appreciation when service was restored.

He flipped open the phone, glanced at the caller-ID display and raised it to his ear. The caller’s number was unknown, and Garabanda said a tentative hello.

“It’s me,” he heard through the phone. 

He recognized the voice of Luis Carvahal.  “Hi.  What’s up?”

“Is this a good time to talk?”

Supervisory Special Agent Garabanda was alone in his small office. “Ahh…sure, go ahead.”  There was always the chance the call was being monitored and recorded, but if Luis was careful with what he said, it was probably worth that risk to listen to him. At least he hadn’t called from home, or from his own cell phone.

“Oh, umm… You know about the big party on Saturday? We’ve discussed it.”

“Sure. Downtown.”

“Right.  I’ve got some more on that,” said Carvahal.  “And, ahh, if you were thinking about attending the party, well—don’t.  I don’t think it’ll be safe.  Things could get…out of hand.  That’s what I’m hearing.  I’ll be right there, front and center, but you probably don’t want to be anywhere around that place on Saturday.  And none of your associates, either.”

“I got it, thanks.  Is that it?”

“That’s it.  I’ll call if I hear anything else.”

“Okay then, bye now.”  Garabanda pushed end, concluding the brief conversation, wondering if anyone else would ever hear it or read a transcript.  The meaning of the call, the reference to the March for Social Justice, was transparent.  Working with amateurs, even a friend like Luis, was enough to give him an ulcer.

***

The oblong pool was about thirty feet across
at the its widest.  There were steps at each end, so it was impossible to do speed-turns on the very short laps.  Ranya wore the same stretchy black jogging top and black nylon running shorts she had worn on the La Luz Trail, going up the mountain with the battalion’s poorest marksmen.

When she woke up after seven, Basilio was already gone.  She was more comfortable in his house now, and she slipped on a plush bathrobe and wandered downstairs to find something to eat.  She knew that she had been accepted into the household on some level, when the plump cook rose from her kitchen chair and asked politely if “the lady” would like breakfast.  The middle-aged cook was very dark, pure Mayan, and less than five feet tall. Clearly, certain cultural and class aspects of “la revolución” had yet to affect the Comandante’s house staff.

The eggs for her omelet were being cracked when, from the dining room window, she had seen a group of Falcons down the driveway below the house.  The men were dressed alike in black shorts and brown t-shirts, stretching and evidently preparing for a run.  She remembered the marksmanship contest at the rifle range, and Ramos threatening punishment for the ten shooters with the lowest scores.  She quickly decided to try to join them, both to test the limits which would be placed on her freedom of movement in Ramos’s absence, and because she simply wanted to run.

She reasoned that going for a run in the company of ten Falcons could not possibly be construed as an escape attempt.  Running would simply be taken as sensible preparation for her forthcoming Milicia basic training. She abandoned her breakfast plans and quickly went upstairs to change into appropriate clothes: her new cross-trainers, black nylon shorts, and a loose gray t-shirt over her jogging bra.  

The ten Falcons had been pleased, even excited, by the unexpected appearance of “el Comandante’s woman.”  One coyly asked her if the rumor was true that she had been a
prisionera,
and she joked that she had merely been on “an extended vacation” paid by the government.  The tattooed Falcons were obviously a rough bunch, who would consider prison to be a standard rite of passage.  Her vague non-answer was greeted with knowing smiles and nods.  She told them that she had not run for a long time, and she would not make it all the way to the top with them.

They laughingly called themselves
los diez ciegos
, the ten blind men, for their lack of shooting prowess, but they proved to be mountain goats on the run.  She ran two rock-strewn miles up the trail, losing ground steadily to the ten, and then she stopped and rested on a flat boulder overlooking Albuquerque and the Rio Grand Valley.  The morning sun was still on the other side of the mountains, so the trail was thankfully all in shadow.  After a few minutes to catch her breath, she descended by herself, while the ten Falcons continued steadily toward the summit.

The topographical contrast between flatland Oklahoma and the rugged Sandia Mountains of New Mexico could not have been greater. Her lungs had burned while running at the 7,000 foot elevation, but she was used to heat and discomfort from her forced labor in Oklahoma.  The dramatic vistas of jagged cliffs and soaring pines around every twist of the stony trail pulled her upward, but she knew that she had to be cautious, and not risk an injury that could jeopardize her upcoming escape attempt.

On her return down the trail, she waved to the riflemen standing watch above the house.  They did not have the silver Falcons on their berets; they were ordinary Milicia, wearing the standard brown t-shirt and camouflage pants and boots.  They each carried an M-16 with a thirty round magazine inserted, and an extra magazine pouch and a canteen on a web belt.  At the driveway gate, the same two guards who had waved to her on her way out with the ten Falcons were unconcerned by her solitary reappearance.  They opened the wrought-iron double gate for her from their little guardhouse, both sides swinging outward with an electric whine.

The run had been a worthwhile exercise on several levels, beyond conditioning herself for high altitude endurance.  She had seen the trails above the house, and learned that she could not possibly hope to outrun the Falcons as part of any escape attempt.  The men were uniformly tough, lean and physically fit, even if at five feet nine, she was as tall or taller than most of them.

But most importantly she had established that she could be trusted to leave the compound, and return on her own accord.  Once the guards became accustomed to seeing her leave the estate on her own, her escape would be straightforward, and could be initiated at the time of her choosing.  She had waited for five years, she would wait a few more days and do it right.

The strenuous trail run had made her subsequent plunge into the swimming pool behind the house an experience that was blissful beyond compare.  The pleasure of the moment made her feel a twinge of guilt for accepting and enjoying the hospitality of Basilio Ramos.  Yes, he was handsome and charming, but he was a heartless bastard at the same time. Ranya had not forgotten the fate of the three unlucky gringos, who had the misfortune of crossing his path at the Tramway lift station.  She had certainly not forgotten that he had drugged her with Libidinol, or the night of unbridled lust that had followed.

Since then, he was getting his own bit of payback in return for that sleazy trick.  So far, he had bought her explanation that after their night of endless passion, she was far too sore, too abraded and tender for any more lovemaking.  So far, he was accepting this feminine stratagem—which anyway, was half-true.

And in the meantime, why not enjoy the fancy restaurants and expensive dinners with Comandante Basilio Ramos, “el Che?”  Why not enjoy his magnificent house, and the benefits his power could bring to her? Why not enjoy a trail run with his Falcons, followed by a dip in his pool? Why not enjoy a little slice of this New Mexican
vida loca
that she had been thrust into, while she could? Why not turn the tables, and
use him
for all he was worth?

Why the hell not?  Hadn’t she already done enough penance in her life? In fact, every enjoyable moment this week: the shopping, the beauty salons, the expensive dinners…they were all completely justified.  They were all a deliberate part of her campaign to win his trust, so that she could escape at the most opportune moment, fully outfitted and equipped.

She dolphin-kicked under water, her legs together and her arms at her sides, using only her body movement to propel herself from one blue-tiled wall to the other.  The cool water slid around her skin.  She could float and spin, or hover a foot above the bottom, weightless, the sun rays from above flickering around her.  With eyes closed, she could disappear into an internal space within her mind, emptiness without pain.  If not for the need to occasionally surface to breathe, she would gladly stay underwater forever.

***

When Basilio Ramos returned home,
his chief housekeeper nervously mentioned that
la señorita
was in the swimming pool.  Consuelo looked down at the tiled floor when she stammered that
la señorita
had gone running up the mountain with a group of his Falcons, and had later returned alone.  It was obvious that while middle-aged Consuelo disapproved of him bringing home girlfriends, she considered it completely without shame—
sin verguenza
—that a half-dressed girl would consort with his troops on the mountain.  Ramos merely thanked her, and swept through the house and out to the back patio, eager to see Ranya again.