“I am not sure of much when it comes to Veracruz, Carmen.”
Her stare intensified. “You seem to have very good, reliable contacts throughout the world, Felix,” Maravilloso said suspiciously, “but I find it very strange that you cannot tell me very much about Veracruz. Why is that, Felix?”
“Because he is probably not Mexican,” Diaz replied. “All of our internal investigations have come up empty so far, and most foreign governments will not share information on anyone who might have had specialized military or guerrilla training.”
“Well, what can you tell me about him?”
“Just the basics. His name is Ernesto Fuerza, reported in a French newspaper interview a couple years ago but never independently verified. His nationality is unknown. He is in his late thirties or early forties, male, tall, and slender…”
“I mean some real information about him, Felix,” she said irritably. “The whole world knows that trivia—I read all that last week in People magazine…”
“Next to the article on you, I noticed, the one on ‘The New Faces of Mexico.’” She gave him a warning glare, and Díaz’s tone turned serious: “The uniform he often wears looks American, English, or Canadian, and the headdress he wears looks very Middle Eastern—very confusing to analysts. His Spanish is good, but it sounds more South American, perhaps Brazilian or Venezuelan, more sophisticated, more European. He obviously has some military training, judging by the way he speaks and the way he holds a weapon…”
“How can you tell anything by how one holds a weapon?”
“A trained man will never put his finger on a trigger unless he is ready to shoot—he will lay his finger on the side of the trigger guard,” Diaz said. “That is pounded into a soldier from the first moment he is given a gun.”
“What else?”
“Everything is guesswork and speculation—it can hardly even be called ‘analysis,’” Díaz admitted. “One thing is for certain: he is bound to slip up, try to cross the border once too often, or take a shot at the wrong target, and he will either be dead or captured. Revolutionaries do not have much of a shelf life these days, since the Americans started clamping down hard on anyone who might even remotely smell like a terrorist.” Díaz fell silent for a moment. Then, “Maybe we should not be trying to hunt this man down,” he said. “Maybe we should use him instead.”
“Bad idea, Felix,” Maravilloso said. “He is certainly popular all around the world. But the magazine articles state he was—perhaps still is—a drug smuggler. Why would I want to be associated with such a man?”
“I do not think it matters much,” the Minister of Internal Affairs said. “As long as he is truly committed to helping the Mexican people who choose to work in the United States, I think our cause would be greatly helped. A slight imperfection might enhance his character a bit.”
“There is no way on earth we can find that out for sure without a face-to-face meeting.”
“I can make it happen, Carmen.”
“A meeting with the infamous Comandante Veracruz?” Her face turned from serious to thoughtful. “You are the one person in the world who could pull off such a meeting, my dear.” Maravilloso thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Collect more information on this man—hopefully even capture him so you can question him directly.”
“Or kill him, if necessary, if he proves a threat to your administration’s plans to work with the Americans and solve this immigration dilemma,” Diaz said matter-of-factly.
Maravilloso smiled, stepped over to Díaz, put her arms around him, and kissed his lips. “Why, Felix, you almost sound as if you really care about what happens to me,” she said.
He kissed her again, grasping her shoulders seriously. “I admitted to you from the first day we met that I aspired to the presidency, Carmen,” he said. “We even would not talk about marriage for that very reason, although you know how much I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. But I am not your political rival, or just your lover. I am a member of your government, and I am a Mexican. Whether you believe it or not, I do care about what happens to our country—and yes, I care about this government too, if for no other reason than I will have less to clean up after assuming this office.”
“Do not try to pretend that you care that much, Felix,” Maravilloso said. She pushed away from him and looked at him with great concern. “Why that stunt with the helicopter, Felix? You embarrassed me on worldwide television. You provoked a riot while I was talking to the President of the United States!”
“Carmen, I was out there inspecting that base firsthand—I didn’t go out there to incite a riot or embarrass you,” Diaz said. “It just made me angry that our people were being herded around like that. I wanted to be sure they knew their government was there looking out for them.”
“That is my job, Felix—yours is to inform me of developments like this Rampart One abomination and help me decide the best course of action,” Maravilloso said. “We need to keep avenues of dialogue open with the Americans, not shut them down. Do you understand, Felix?”
“Of course, Madam President.”
The phone on her desk rang. She kissed him again, then held his face between her hands. “What in hell am I going to do with you, Felix Díaz?” she asked, then released him and went to her desk and picked up the phone. “I told you not to disturb me,” she said into the receiver. “I will kick you in the…what? He what? Bring it in here immediately!” She hung up the phone.
“Fifteen minutes, on the dot,” Díaz said.
“This is the real thing, Felix—another videotape by that Veracruz character, released to the press, with a detailed account of the incident in Arizona and calling for a worldwide insurgency against America to avenge the killings.”
“The man might be a genius,” Díaz said. “Imagine the power one could have if she could sway every Hispanic man and woman in the United States, Carmen! Imagine the influence one could have if you could take one tenth of America’s entire workforce and not only order them not to show up for work, but to rise up against their employers! The American government would be forced to make a just deal for worker amnesty!”
“This Fuerza guy is a complete unknown—worse than a loose cannon, he is a criminal with a popular following,” Maravilloso said. “How can you trust someone like that?”
“I think it is worth a try,” Díaz said. “I might be able to use my special investigators, the Sombras, to find this man.”
Maravilloso was silent for a long moment, then: “This is something I cannot support, Felix,” she said finally. “This Fuerza is too dangerous. He could turn on his handlers in an instant, like a wild animal trainer surrounded by lions.”
“You and he, together—it would certainly be a very powerful combination.”
She looked at him with a knowing smile. “Or it could be a disaster, and you would certainly benefit from that, would you not, Felix?” He did not reply. “You are not ready to give up your chance at the presidency of Mexico…for me,” she said. His smile dimmed, only for a moment, but she knew she had hit her target. She made a little show of acting disappointed, happy that she had uncovered a tiny bit of the man, the real man, before her; then, as her assistant came into the office after a very quiet knock, shrugged her shoulders. “Good day to you, Minister Díaz,” she said icily. “Please come again.” Her tense body language and hooded eyes told him the meeting was definitely over—perhaps for good—and he departed with a courteous bow and no words.