Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (46 page)

“No, we’re saying we found a rifle.  It’s been taken to the crime lab for forensic testing.”

“Why would an assassin leave it where it could be found so quickly?”

“You’ll have to ask him, when an arrest is made.  Maybe he panicked.  Maybe he was in a hurry to leave the hotel, and he didn’t want to be seen carrying a rifle. We’re checking all of the hotel’s security tapes.”

“Have you found the room the sniper fired from?”

“Yes. Next question.”

“Have you connected the rifle to a suspect yet?”

“We may have an announcement on that very soon.”

“When?”

“Soon.” 

***

As the evening wore on,
the reception gravitated to the patio area behind the mansion, around the swimming pool and the jacuzzi. The blackness of the mountain loomed up close behind them, providing a sense of safety, an immense rock-solid wall.  Out of respect for the death of Gobernador Deleon, the entertainment had been canceled and the Mariachi band sent home.  Heartfelt toasts were made to the ascending spirit of the old Mountain Lion, who had battled for the rights of his people until his very last breath. The catered buffet line and bar were still open.  A string of yellow party lanterns hanging between the house and the pool provided soft light.  Mesquite wood crackled in a
chimenea
fireplace on the far side of the hot tub.

Félix Magón, cigar in hand, was the center of attention.  He was seated on one of the upholstered patio chairs, in a small circle with billionaire tycoon Wayne Parker, aging leftist movie star Blake Bradford, CBA news star reporter Rich Mentiroso, and a member of his production staff, a stunning blond in her late twenties.  Basilio Ramos, puffing on his own cigar, was standing just behind the governor’s right elbow.  He was laughing at Magón’s jokes, paying rapt attention to his well-worn anecdotes. Ranya leaned against the uniformed Comandante; his arm was snaked around her narrow waist.  

Mentiroso’s pretty assistant, who had an audio plug in her ear, put up one hand and then made an announcement that a sniper rifle had just been discovered in the Regent Hotel.  This revelation prompted a brief flurry of speculation concerning the probable identity of the shooter.  It was agreed that the assassin must have been a gringo with a grudge against Gobernador Deleon, driven to commit murder by the course of events in Nuevo Mexico.  Ranya thought that Magón and Ramos seemed rather unimpressed by the news, and the conversation soon drifted back to state politics. 

She thought the talk might have been fascinating to anyone who was interested in the future of New Mexico, which she was not.  She knew that history was being made here tonight, but it was not her history.  Her stay in New Mexico was drawing rapidly to an end…she hoped.  Her time in the compound under the control of Basilio Ramos was now down to hours and minutes.

She was bored with their political chat, so she studied the subtle maneuverings going on around her.  There were other seated groups scattered around the pool area, but most of the ‘A’ list guests clustered around the stars, mingling oh-so-casually, while trying to penetrate to the inner sanctum.  Wait staff in white uniforms moved discreetly among them, bringing drinks and trays of savory
tapas
, and surrounding them all were phalanxes of bodyguards.

When the new governor arrived at the house, Ranya had learned that Professor Robert Johnson was attending the party.  She remembered his name from Caylen Barlow’s ranch in north Texas, and from the fateful letter of introduction in the Michigan students’ van, before the Chulada ambush. When she overheard two party guests introducing themselves, she learned that one of them was Johnson.

Professor Johnson was a paunchy man in his fifties, shorter than Ranya in her black high heels by several inches.  He had shoulder-length brown hair in the back and was bald in the front, with a thin beard trimmed close to the bottom of his jaw line like a feeble imitation of Abe Lincoln. He was wearing a red guayabera shirt, obviously trying to assimilate with the state power structure, after seeing their new style of dress at the Civic Plaza rally. Ironically, the governor and most of the power elite were wearing dark suits tonight, leaving the sycophants clearly identifiable by their newfound sense of Latin chic.

Ranya watched and eavesdropped as Johnson tried to put the moves on an attractive young Hispanic couple, assistants to one of the state cabinet members.  The two were
Voluntarios
, university graduate students. Curiously, the professor had seemed more intently focused on the handsome young man than on his girlfriend.  Johnson wasn’t too blatant about his attraction, but Ranya’s ‘gaydar’ was twitching, triggered by the invisible sparks shooting between the two men.

Now, while Ranya was standing by Comandante Ramos, she observed as the professor completed his methodical advance toward the center, until he found himself standing in the gap between Rich Mentiroso and Blake Bradford.  During a pause, when the chuckles were dying down after another stale joke told by Gobernador Magón, Johnson asked, “So, Governor, now that we have rejected the treaty of shame, will you push for Nuevo Mexico to leave the United States and rejoin Mexico?”  His Spanish was fluent but painfully accented, revealing his New England origins.

Magón half-choked on his martini, sitting upright in his padded chair, his eyes wide in his pockmarked face.  “Rejoin Mexico? Why in the hell would we want to join with Mexico? Who are you?”

“Uh, I’m Professor Robert Johnson, from the university.  I helped to write the Land Reform Act.”  Johnson smiled, showing crooked teeth, thrilled to be sharing in Magón’s spotlight if even for a moment.

“Oh yes, I remember you.  No, we will not be rejoining Mexico. Clearly, that is not in our interest.  Anybody who supports reunification with Mexico is an idiot.”

Having been rudely dismissed, Johnson was mortified into silence and slunk back away from the inner circle.

***

CBA reporter Rich Mentiroso followed up.
“But what about the United States?  Is Nuevo Mexico going to remain in the Union?”  Mentiroso was also wearing a fancy guayabera shirt tonight, a blue one with the original creases from the store packing still visible.  

Magón waved his cigar hand airily.  “It’s not certain.  In the long term, I don’t think Nuevo Mexico will simply remain as one of the fifty states. Eventually, what the gringos call their Southwest will have to achieve some level of political autonomy.  Perhaps we’ll see some changes in the federal system after the gringo Constitutional Convention. 
¿Quien sabe?
Who knows?”

Mentiroso pursued the subject.  “Nuevo Mexico has always been a large net receiver of federal dollars.  If we…I mean…if Nuevo Mexico left the Union…”

“That may have been true in the past, but not any longer.  Except for the money going to the air force bases and the national labs, the state isn’t getting much at all from the federal government, especially not with the dollar falling by the week.  What good are the new blue dollars anyway, at one dollar for ten? The Yanqui federal budget just doesn’t carry over from one year to the next.  We can’t depend on it.”

“So, you’ll let the federal government keep the military bases?”

Magón paused, and then replied, “For now, yes.”

“And the National Forests?”

“They are ours!  This will be announced very soon.  The stolen lands will be returned to the people—that is, the stolen federal lands.  The President has already indicated that she will not stand in the way of justice. The private ranches, they will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis, under the Land Reform Act.”

Wayne Parker hadn’t participated in the discussion yet, but he perked up at the mention of private ranches.  Ranya knew that the left-wing billionaire “philanthropist” was at least seventy years old, and she could see that he had not mellowed with age.  His wild shock of white hair appeared not to have been combed in some time.  Alone among the guests, he was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, white pants, and boat shoes.  Tonight he appeared to be quite drunk, using a slurred mixture of English and Spanish.  “Félix, what about our goddamn
República Del Norte
?”

Magón turned to him, and said, “What?”

“La República Del Norte!  La goddamn República Del Norte. You know what the hell I’m talking about—our own damn country!  Don’t play coy Félix, we’ve already been through this.”

Magón had no difficulty in understanding Parker’s drunken Spanglish, but he answered in deliberate English for the benefit of the tycoon. None of the guests seemed to have any problem following the thread of the conversation, as it shifted between idioms.  Even Ranya paid close attention.  “Well…of course, some kind of federation with California, Arizona and Texas is always a possibility.  That is, when they are liberated, which, of course, we all hope will be soon.  Colorado, Utah and Nevada …they are not so simple.  Denver and Las Vegas are ours, of course, but where will the final line be drawn? Who knows? I’m sure that the idea of La República will come up at some point in the future.”

Wayne Parker lurched forward, spilling some of his drink on his pants.  “You can bet your sweet New Mexican ass it’ll come up!  Even if La República is just one damn state.  You can bet the ranch on that one— we got a deal!” He fell back against his chair, mumbling incoherently, winded from his exertion.

Professor Johnson had been edged out of the discussion, shunted aside.  Ranya saw an opening, and a new plan began to form in her mind. She detached herself from Ramos, and sidled over to him.  Johnson looked miserable, like a pampered house cat that had been hurled into the alley by a new owner.

It was usually quite easy for her to open a conversation with a man, or at least with a heterosexual man.  Normally, all she had to do was smile and make eye contact.  Ranya wondered how he would react, considering his dubious sexual orientation.  “Hi!  You’re Professor Johnson?” she asked in English.

“Yes, but please, call me Robert.”  He was obviously flattered by her attention.  “Do I know you? Are you in one of my classes?”

“No, I’m sorry to say.  But I did read some of your work on the Spanish Land Grants.  You might even say that
you’re
part of the reason I came to Nuevo Mexico.”

He smiled back at her, his recent sense of rejection easing. “Then…do I understand that you’re a volunteer?”

“Yes, I am…or I was, anyway.  I’m joining the Milicia—in fact, my basic training starts Monday.”

“Well!  That’s quite impressive!  You must really be dedicated to the cause, to be willing to make such a sacrifice!  Obviously, you’re not just a ‘summertime comrade’ like so many of the other student volunteers.” Johnson glanced back over to the inner circle, still clustered around the governor.  “I see that you’re with Comandante Ramos?”

“Yes, you might say that he’s been my mentor, ever since I arrived in the city.”

“Then you’re very lucky. Very!  You know, some of my students say that Basilio Ramos is our revolution’s ‘Che.’  Personally, I can’t think of a higher honor than to be compared to the great Che Guevara.”  

Ranya suppressed her loathing for the professor, while nodding in feigned agreement, thinking of the thousands of Cubans who had been executed on Guevara’s orders.  “Yes, the Comandante is a wonderful man, just wonderful.  Actually, I’ve been very fortunate to get to know him personally.  And you know Robert, Basilio is actually quite a fan of yours.”

“R-really?  Seriously?”  Johnson stammered, flustered by this welcome surprise.

“Yes, seriously!  He often says that land reform is the very cornerstone of our revolution, and he frequently quotes your work.”

“Oh…my!  Well…I’m just so
honored
that the Comandante has even heard of me!”

“He’s very familiar with your body of work—he’s quite a serious student of land reform.”

“Yes, but the Comandante does much more than just write papers! We have all been so proud, watching his Falcons liberate the stolen lands from the gringo invaders!”

Ranya almost choked at these words, coming from a pale-faced Anglo, who by his accent had spent most of his life in New England. “Yes, Basilio is truly a man of action.”

“A...man of action.”  Even in the dim torchlight, Johnson appeared flushed.

“And you know, Robert…” She paused, as if carefully considering her words.  “Really, I shouldn’t say this at all…”  Ranya dropped her voice to just a whisper, stepping back, leading him further away from the main body of guests.

“Shouldn’t say what?”  Johnson slurped his drink, staring hard at her.

“Basilio would absolutely
kill
me if he knew I was going to mention this…”

“Kill you? What?” Johnson’s eyes opened wide, as he leaned toward Ranya, his gaze flickering between her face and her well-exposed bust line.

“Robert, as I’m sure you know, Basilio is
quite
a ladies’ man.”

“Uh, yes, so I have heard,” Johnson nodded eagerly.

“Well…umm…he’s also, well…quite a
man’s man
—if you follow my meaning.” She gave him a sly wink, and squeezed his arm.  Johnson appeared to be choking, and Ranya wondered if he would soon need CPR, or perhaps the Heimlich maneuver.

“A…
man’s
…man?” Johnson replied weakly.

“You know, sometimes…Basilio…he’s really quite…
adventurous
.”

“I’m sure that he is…”

“And sometimes he enjoys a bit of…
variety
…but only with someone he knows he can trust intimately, of course…”

“Of course…”

“Someone that he sees eye-to-eye with.”

“Yes, yes, eye-to-eye…”

“So…Robert…after the governor’s group leaves, after Wayne Parker and Rich Mentiroso and the rest have gone…well, perhaps you can stick around? I’ll come and find you…and we’ll go upstairs.  Then you can meet Basilio…on a
personal
level.”