“You were too busy posing for Paris Match and People magazine and screwing me on your desk, Carmen.”
“Bastard!” She jerked her arms free of the agents holding her, then reached down to her wristwatch and pressed the hidden alert button on the back.
“The alarm works, Carmen,” Díaz said casually, “but only my men are stationed outside—and do not forget that it is my men that protect the Federal District. No one will respond here unless I authorize it.”
“Puto!” Maravilloso screamed. “I suspected from the day we first met that you were not just some milquetoast rich boy with delusions of grandeur. I should have seen through the disguise long ago.” She looked around the room, hoping that one of the agents would come to her rescue, but knowing that was never going to happen. Her attention was drawn to a man in a seat in the corner, watching all that transpired with an amused smile on his face. “Who is that man?”
“Perdón mis maneras pobres, Madam Presidente,” the man said, standing and bowing slightly. “Mi nombre es Coronel Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov.”
“Zakharov!” Maravilloso exclaimed. “My God…Díaz, you are working with Colonel Yegor Zakharov, the world’s number one most-wanted criminal? There are a dozen countries that would throw you in prison for twenty years just for being associated with him!” She glared at him in total confusion. “Is he the puppet master, pulling all the strings in this marionette show of yours?”
“I have my own agenda, Madam President, and I guarantee you, it does not include anything concerning the government of Mexico,” Yegor Zakharov said. “I need ‘Comandante Veracruz’ and the Sombras in order to complete my mission in the United States. Once both our objectives are reached, with all of our mutual assurances, I will be out of your lives forever.” Zakharov stepped closer to Maravilloso and removed his sunglasses, letting her see his empty eye socket for the first time. He ran a hand across her cheek, then down her neck to her breasts and belly. “You truly are beautiful, Madam President.”
“Screw you, pija,” Maravilloso spat, slapping Zakharov’s hand away. “You don’t scare me with this boogeyman act of yours. I know lots of Mexican grandmothers with more horrifying faces than yours.” She turned to Díaz, hoping—no, praying—that every second she could delay the inevitable meant one more chance for her to survive. “What is the meaning of all this, Felix? Who are you? Are you the lapdog of a Russian terrorist, or are you the true Mexican revolutionary patriot I had always wanted ‘Comandante Veracruz’ to be?”
“I am the patriot who just heard the president of Mexico agree to kiss the ass of the American president and allow an army of imperialist assassins to come into our country,” Díaz said. “I had hoped the fire still burned in your belly, but it clearly has gone out. It is time to start the insurgency, the real revolution. It is time for the Mexican people to come out of the shadows and take their rightful place in society. It is time for the rights and welfare of hardworking Mexicans to be part of our foreign policy, not work in opposition to it. I hoped that you and I could lead this fight together, but like all the others, you sold out. You never truly believed that the people of Mexico could be anything else but third-rate citizens of a third-rate nation. The revolution means nothing to you.”
“Then teach me, Felix,” Maravilloso said softly, earnestly. “I am a woman and an entertainer. I do not have your vision. But I love you, and I have always thought you would make a great president. I wished for nothing except to be by your side, as your adviser as well as your lover.” She stepped closer to him, then placed her hands on his chest. “Take me, Felix,” she implored, looking deeply into his eyes, pressing herself against him. “Take my hand, take my heart, take my soul. I am ready to believe you. Tell me your vision for our country, and I will use all my powers to help you achieve it.”
Felix Díaz nodded, closed his eyes, and placed his hands in hers, holding her closely. “Very well, Carmen. This is my vision, my love.”
That was the last thing she would ever hear, except for the sudden roaring in her ears and the sound of her own muffled screams as the towel soaked with ketamine, a fast-acting veterinary anesthetic used to euthanize animals, was pressed over her nose and mouth. In seconds Maravilloso lost control of her voluntary muscles, so she was unable to struggle with José Elvarez, her assailant; in less than thirty seconds she was unconscious; and in less than a minute she was dead.
“Too bad she had to be eliminated—she was an extraordinarily beautiful woman,” Yegor Zakharov said idly as he watched four Sombras carry the body out of the office. “I trust you have a foolproof cover story prepared for her untimely death?”
“I have been working for months to plant incriminating evidence in her homes, her prior places of employment, her ex-husband’s and parents’ home, and her office,” Diaz said. “An investigation would eventually turn up enough long-standing corroborating evidence to make even General Alberto Rojas believe she did away with herself with a drug overdose. Distraught and under pressure from the disasters on the border, plus her earlier transgressions such as looting the treasury and establishing foreign bank accounts, she overdosed on heroin. Her medical records even hint at a possible heroin addiction when she was on TV. There is evidence of payoffs to a jealous homosexual lover for any really dedicated investigative journalists to discover. The ketamine will dissolve in less than an hour—there will be no trace of it to discover if there is an autopsy.”
“It seems you have done your homework, Díaz—I hope you know what you’re doing,” Zakharov said. “What about the rest of the Council of Government?”
“I get reports every half hour on their exact whereabouts,” Díaz said. “I have already targeted a few for elimination, such as General Rojas, if they become troublesome. I am not too concerned with the others. They care about their jobs, pensions, and girlfriends more than who is running the government. They have their escape plans ready.”
“I congratulate you, sir—it appears to be a fairly well-organized coup,” Zakharov said. “I thank you for rescuing me, but I must depart immediately. I have unfinished business in the United States.”
“With the robot and the American officer?” Díaz asked. “Have you been able to figure out how the thing works?”
“It responds to voice commands—that is all I know,” Zakharov admitted. “But there must be a way that a new user can employ the device without extensive training.”
“So you must convince Richter to reprogram the device to allow anyone to pilot it? Do you think that will be difficult?”
“Richter is a U.S. Army officer, but he was trained as an engineer, not a field combat officer,” Zakharov said. “My guess is that he will crack fairly easily under interrogation. But I will probably use drugs anyway to speed the process. Once we have control of the robot, he can be eliminated.”
“The Ministry of Internal Affairs has an extensive medical facility and interrogation centers set up to do exactly as you wish,” Díaz said. “We can transfer him here and begin immediately.”
“I prefer to do my own interrogation, Díaz.”
“Of course. But why not enjoy some Mexican hospitality for a while, polkovnik?”
“My mission is still incomplete.”