Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (45 page)

“You’re going to wear your uniform tonight? Don’t you ever get tired of it?  You have so many nice suits in your closet.”  As usual, when in private they spoke English.

“Of course I’m wearing my uniform. This is a meeting tonight, not just a reception.  Especially now that Deleon has been killed, and we have a new governor.  There will be more than enough politicians in their pretty suits.  Or do you think I should wear a flashy guayabera like they all wore today, maybe with a pocketful of Cuban cigars to pass around?”

“I think you just don’t want them to forget who the Comandante of the
Batallón Halcón
is.”  She pointed to his beret, lying on top of a nearby bureau, the silver falcon insignia prominent.

“Well…maybe. Is that so wrong?”

“No, not at all.  But why camouflage again? Even pressed and starched, it’s just…boring.  Don’t you have any dress uniforms? This might not be a party, but…I mean, you’re not exactly liberating a ranch tonight.”

“Very funny.  You are aware that my First Sergeant was shot and killed on that Lomalinda operation, standing two meters from me? Don’t ever take our missions lightly—I don’t! Anyway, the Milicia doesn’t believe in dress uniforms.  At least not yet—not while we’re still in the revolutionary phase.  Perhaps they will be added later.”

“I think you’d look quite dashing in a fancy dress uniform.  With red stripes on the pants, and fancy shoulder boards, and a sword, perhaps? Of course, you’d need to get a proper haircut.”

He flicked his damp hair back with a toss of his head, picked up the green web belt with its holstered pistol from the back of her chair, and cinched it around his waist. “I think you’re deliberately teasing me.”

“Always!” she said, flashing him her sexiest smile.

He stood behind her and ran his fingertips across her bare shoulders, and up to her neck.  “You know, it’s only seven thirty.  We still have time to…”

“To what?  After all the effort I’ve just put in to become beautiful for you, so that you can show me off like a prize mare?”  Ranya twisted in her chair and pouted her freshly painted red lips at him.

“Hmmm…”  He leaned down to kiss her, but she quickly turned back to the mirror, and he managed only a peck on the top of her head.  He asked her, “You are…all better now, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, I’m not a bit sore.  But Basilio…there will be much more time after the party.  I don’t want your fastest effort now—I want your best effort later!” She grinned, and poked him in the stomach with her finger. “And by the way, how late do your important guests usually stay at these ‘meetings’?”

“Well, it’s not up to me.  It all depends on Vicegobernador Magón.”

“You mean Gobernador Magón.”

“Yes. Gobernador Magón. As long as he wants to stay, the reception… that is… the meeting will continue.  But after his entourage leaves, I’ll throw the rest of them out and chase you back upstairs!”

She tilted her head coquettishly.  “Promise me?”

“Of course!”

***

Gobernador Magón had been preceded
by his own six-man advance security team, their suit jackets bulging with concealed firearms.  They all wore discrete earpieces, and spoke quietly into throat mikes concealed under their collars as they swept through the house and surrounding property.  Their team leader gave Basilio Ramos regular updates on the expected arrival time of the new governor.  When the governor’s motorcade swept up the driveway, Ramos was waiting just inside the massive oaken double doors at the top of the wide flagstone steps.  Ranya stood beside him; she was an inch taller than Ramos was while wearing her black stiletto heels.

Six more security men surrounded Magón as he exited his black Lincoln Navigator SUV and ascended the steps.  He was wearing a dark, almost funereal suit, far different from the cheerfully casual guayabera he had worn at the rally.  In mourning for Deleon? Ramos thought Magón looked much like Manual Noriega, the former Presidente of Panama, who had mockingly been called “the pineapple” for his round and pockmarked face. He noted with satisfaction that Magón was staring up at Ranya’s long sexy legs as he mounted the steps, probably trying to peek up her miniskirt.  Basilio Ramos accepted that he was not the highest ranking of the state’s new leaders, but they all knew who attracted the most beautiful women!

The new Gobernador and the Comandante of the elite Falcon Battalion met on the villa’s threshold and shook hands.  Magón’s rough, stumpy fingers disgusted the well-manicured Ramos.  The security men backed away, to allow them to converse privately.

Magón said, “Terrible what happened today, but life must go on.”  He held a tight grip, while peering directly into Ramos’s eyes.  “As usual, the Falcons came through, and did their duty.”

The Comandante made a slight bow.  “Always at your orders, my Governor.”  Ramos understood the nonverbal subtext, they both did. The facts surrounding the assassination were not a mystery to either man.  “We are all very sorry for the tragic loss of Gobernador Deleon.”

“Indeed. His death was a great blow to us all, but I will do my utmost to carry on his sacred mission in his place.” Magón released his handshake.

“I’m certain that you will,” Ramos agreed.

“Comandante, what happened afterward? I heard some…disturbing reports.  The fire, I mean.  By the stage.  The man…on the tree?”

Ramos lowered his voice.  “We eliminated the Zionist spy.”

“Yes, I fully understand eliminating spies. But were the public…theatrics necessary?”

“Theatrics? I would not call it that. I would call it necessary revolutionary justice, just as publicly necklacing traitors and spies was important for the ANC’s victory in South Africa.  Harsh, but necessary, in order to frighten the enemies of the revolution into submission.”

“Yes, perhaps, but Comandante, it’s not your place to make that decision!”  Magón pushed a blunt forefinger into Ramos’s chest.  “In the future, you will not take any more such unilateral actions, understood?”

“Yes, Governor.  Understood.”  Ramos pulled himself to a position of attention, his face flushed at being dressed down by the new maximum leader of Nuevo Mexico.

“I really don’t think that you appreciate the delicate situation we’re in with Washington.  Your theatrics could put us into a very bad position. Thank God it was not shown on television—at least our media campaign is getting results!  That reminds me, I understand that we won’t be having

any more trouble with Anglo talk radio, is that correct?”

“That is correct, Governor.”

“You know, Comandante, I was also disappointed that yesterday’s ranch liberation did not go as well as it might have.”

“Yes sir, First Sergeant Ramirez was a fine soldier.  His death beside me in battle was a great loss to the
Batallón Halcón
. But fortunately, the pilot of the helicopter is expected to recover from his wound.”

“Eh? Who? A pilot? Sergeant Ramirez?”  Magón seemed confused. “No, not that—I meant the house.
La hacienda
. It’s really a shame that you failed to save it.  I was looking forward…that is...it’s a pity that it burned. An unfortunate waste.  Even as we move ahead with land reform, we should try to retain as many of the finer artifacts of the old regime as possible.  It was a beautiful house, a true classic of the type.”  Magón looked around him, at Ramos’s villa.  “It was almost as beautiful as this place. You know, you’re really quite fortunate to be able to keep your ‘headquarters’ here, as the Comandante of the Falcon Battalion.”

“Yes, quite fortunate, Governor.  I assure you, in the future the Falcon Battalion will take better care to preserve the classic homes of the old regime.”

“Yes, see that you do.  It’s just a matter of attention to detail, discipline and training.  We don’t want any more treasures like Lomalinda to burn.”

“Yes sir, I understand, completely.”  

Magón shifted his gaze to Ranya, and reached for her graceful hand with his thick fingers.  Even with lifting heels in his shoes, he was only five and half feet tall.  His gaze darted between her face and her cleavage.

While ravishing her with his eyes, he said, “So, Basilio, I see that you’ve been busy off of the field of battle, as well as on it.  Who is your lovely lady friend?”

“This is…Angela Carrasco, Governor.”  Ramos used the name on Ranya’s new state driver’s license.  “And she is more than just a lovely lady.  In fact, she will be attending Milicia training, beginning on Monday.”

“Really! Well Angela, I wish you luck!  I must say that I haven’t met any other
Milicianas
as pretty as you…”

“Thank you sir.  I’m honored to be able to contribute to the cause of bringing social justice to Nuevo Mexico.”

“Yes, yes. So, Basilio, who else is here tonight?  Is there anyone of interest?”

“The Revolutionary Council, of course.  But in their overt, official capacities.”

“I know that. I said anyone of interest.” Magón laughed at his own joke, his mouth splitting in a simian smile.

“Well sir, there are several notable academics who have been helpful to the cause.  There is Professor Robert Johnson; he helped to formulate our new land reform policy, so that it would be acceptable to Washington...”

“That boring windbag?  You know, I can never trust a man who betrays his own people.”

“The gringo movie actor Blake Bradford is here…”

Magón made a sour face.  “That old goat hasn’t made a film worth watching in twenty years.  Still, I suppose he’s influential enough.  Who else?”

“Well, there are several famous Yanqui news reporters who are sympathetic to our struggle. Ricardo Mentiroso from CBA News is here— he’s collecting background for a Timeline special report on ‘The New New Mexico’.”

“CBA News eh?  Excellent!”  Magón clapped his short hands together, grinning.  “They’ve always been…
more
than fair in their coverage.”

“And Wayne Parker might drop in.”

“Wayne Parker? Did you know that his Vedado Ranch is bigger than the entire Yanqui state of Rhode Island?  Well, let’s get inside—what have you got to eat?”

***

Alex Garabanda lay on the sofa
in the cramped living room of his apartment, his TV on mute across the room.  His Sig pistol was on the end table within easy reach, next to a half-finished bottle of bourbon whisky. He was staring up at the circling ceiling fan, thinking about the quick death of the governor, and the agonizing death of his friend Luis Carvahal, burned alive while tied to a tree.  He had come home after the Critical Incident Response Group was stood down, their federal assistance unwanted by the state.  He had nowhere else to go, and was not the type to publicly drown his sorrows in a bar.

He had been watching television news all afternoon, and into the evening.  On the national news channels, the assassination of the governor of New Mexico did not even rate top billing, pushed aside by a critical refinery complex ablaze near Los Angeles, and a fresh outbreak of Cameroon Fever burning through eastern Tennessee.

On the local channels, the assassination received wall-to-wall coverage, as was to be expected.  On the other hand, the horrific immolation murder of Luis Carvahal did not merit a single mention on the news.  There was not even one picture of his friend’s horrible death, either before, during, or after.  Garabanda even checked the most reliable Anglo talk radio station, but he inexplicably found it off the air, producing nothing but a steady hiss of static on its assigned frequency.  None of the remaining English language radio stations mentioned Carvahal’s murder. They were kept busy covering the governor’s assassination, which had happened only minutes and yards away.

His cell phone chirped. Guessing it was FBI business, he pondered for a moment whether to answer it or let his voice mail catch it.  Finally, he decided he might as well, and reached over and grabbed it.  The number on the screen said that it was Karin, calling from her cell phone.  He wondered if she was at home—at his old home. 

“Yeah?  What’s up Karin?”

“Al?  Have you been drinking?”

“My, how…
perceptive
of you.”

“Whew. Al, you never fail to disappoint.  I thought you’d be out on the case, what with the governor being assassinated right under your noses.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, no.  We’re not on the case.  The state wants us nowhere near the case.  Karin, is this why you called, to talk shop and lend moral support? For old times sake?”

“No, it’s not.  It’s not.  It’s Brian.  He wants to see you.”

“Is that so? Well, put him on, I’ll talk to the tiger right now.”

“I can’t, he’s…asleep.  Tomorrow.  Come by tomorrow.”

“To the house? What about your restraining order?  Is this a setup? Karin, I might have had a couple, but I’m not drunk.”

“No Al, it’s not a setup. Come to the playground by the house, at eight o’clock. We’ve got things to do tomorrow, so if you want to see Brian, be at the playground at eight, okay?”

“Karin, you have got to be bullshitting me.  If you think…”

“Eight o’clock sharp.”

Click.

***

There was something new on the television. 
Some type of a news conference was about to begin. The text crawl beneath the local news anchors said, “Assassin’s rifle found in Regent Hotel.”  Alex Garabanda picked up the remote control from the carpet by the sofa and turned up the sound. The news scene switched to a hotel hallway, swimming in bright television lights.  Set in an alcove was a stainless steel ice-making machine.  A uniformed police officer was pointing to the area behind the machine, describing where the rifle had been discovered.  The scene switched again, this time to an ad hoc press conference, with police and civilians in suits crowding around a podium.  Garabanda recognized the place as one of the Regent’s meeting rooms. Microphones were still being added even as reporters began to fire questions at the Chief of Police.

“You’re sure that the sniper rifle has been recovered?”