“Your mysterious task in Amarillo, Texas?” Zakharov said nothing, but looked suspiciously at Díaz. “There are not many military-significant targets in that part of Texas, Colonel, so I have taken the liberty of having my operations staff draw up some general plans for an assault on some of the facilities they believe would make useful targets.” Now Zakharov looked plainly worried—he didn’t like outsiders horning in on his operations. “If you tell me your specific objective, I can arrange to have well-trained, well-equipped, and experienced scouts, intelligence agents, workers on the inside, and saboteurs in place well in time for you, your men, and the robot to begin your operation.”
“I can handle all that myself, Díaz,” Zakharov said. “Our original deal was to get my men and me to Amarillo. If you can get us there immediately with Richter and the robot, our business will be completed and you can carry on with your plan to take over the government.”
“But you agreed to help train my men and provide security for…”
“That deal is terminated, Díaz,” Zakharov said. “You are on the threshold of taking control of the entire Mexican government. You don’t need me anymore.”
“Alliances and loyalties change at the drop of a hat around here, Colonel. I need someone who will fight for me, not for the highest bidder. And with you in control of the robot, our power will be unquestioned.” Zakharov was unmoved by that argument. “I’ll double your pay and pay double that for use of the robot, plus another one hundred thousand dollars to sign with me for just sixty days.”
“Not interested, Díaz.”
“Thirty days, then, and I’ll pay two hundred and fifty thousand dollars as a bonus.”
“Not interested.”
A flash of anger flashed across Díaz’s face, and for a moment Zakharov was certain he was going to explode and order his men to try something; instead, Díaz smiled confidently. “Then I have an interesting tidbit of information to pass along in exchange for one more operation by your men inside the United States for me.”
“I know now why your information is always so accurate, ‘Comandante Minister,’” Zakharov acknowledged. “What this time?”
“I did some checking on one of your friends, the lovely Dr. Ariadna Vega.”
“So?”
“As it so happens, Colonel, she is an illegal émigré from Mexico.”
“What?”
“I found her Mexican birth certificate and those of her parents,” Díaz said. “Her father is a university engineering professor in southern California; her mother works in her husband’s office. They are all illegals, overstaying the father’s educational visa obtained over thirty years ago to attend the University of Southern California. She obtained false birth records that allowed her to be accepted into classified government research programs.”
“So not only illegal—but criminal?” Zakharov exclaimed. “How perfect! How ironic…the deputy commander of America’s military task force charged with border security to be from a family of illegal aliens? I would like to pay a visit to Dr. Vega’s family.”
“Now who is taking chances here, tovarisch polkovnik?”
“You worry about yourself and forget about me, Veracruz…Fuerza…Díaz, whatever the hell your name is now,” Zakharov warned.
“Very well, Colonel,” Díaz said, smiling casually. “You shall have support from the Internal Affairs Ministry to get you back to the United States together with your men and equipment.”
“Gracias, Díaz,” Zakharov said. “But I warn you: if I even sniff the faintest whiff of a double-cross, you will be the next illegal immigrant casualty–turned buzzard food rotting in the California desert.”
It wasn’t until Zakharov was escorted out by Díaz’s Sombras that Díaz’s deputy, José Elvarez, fastened the holster strap over his pistol at his side and buttoned his suit jacket again. “The quicker we get rid of him, the better I’ll feel, sir,” he said.
“I as well, José,” Díaz said. “But not before we get our hands on that robot he stole. That thing could be more valuable than any mercenary army he could ever raise in a lifetime.”
“Then why do we not simply eliminate him right now and take his prisoner and that machine?” Elvarez asked. “His men are good, and their security is strong, but they cannot withstand an attack by the entire ministry.”
“Because he has one more important function to serve for us, and then we will let the Americans deal with him,” Díaz said. “I need to know precisely when he begins to move against Vega’s family. It might be right away.”
“Do you believe he will risk discovery by going after the family, sir?”
“He is obsessed with revenge so strong that it overrides any common sense or tactical advantage the man possesses—almost to the point where he might forget this suicide plan in Amarillo, Texas,” Díaz said. “We need to be close to him in case he asks us for our help in Texas. But he really wants revenge on the ones who defeated him the first time. He’ll do it, I’m positive—and we need to be ready when he does.”
SUMMERLIN, NEAR LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
“Did you hear Veracruz’s last message, Bob?” Fand Kent said excitedly.
“Yes, of course I heard it,” Bob O’Rourke said on his cellular phone as he took a sip of coffee in the kitchen of his five-thousand-square-foot luxury home in an exclusive gated community west of Las Vegas. “So what? It’s just another one of his rantings.”
“I don’t think so, Bob. This one was broadcast live all over the world on Mexico’s largest radio network, streamed live on the Internet, and broadcast by shortwave—it wasn’t secretly taped and delivered anonymously to a few news outlets like the other messages. I think the government is somehow supporting Veracruz now. What if folks start to do what he tells them to do?”
“What—leave here and start heading back toward Mexico?” he asked incredulously. “First of all, if they want to leave, fine—it’ll save us the trouble and expense of deporting them. But they won’t leave. As much as they may not like living the life of an illegal alien, that life is a million times better than life in Mexico. Wages are ten times higher here than in Mexico, even for undocumented aliens, and that’s if they can find a job down there. Here there’s work, and if they keep their noses clean and stay out of trouble, they can have a good life. Heck, some states give them every benefit and entitlement citizens receive—they have everything but citizenship. They get all the perks but none of the responsibilities.”
“I’m not talking about all that, Bob. I’m talking about what might happen if the people do listen to Veracruz and start leaving,” Kent argued. “Latest numbers are that there are almost two hundred thousand illegals in Clark County alone. If half of those are of working age, and only ten percent of them do what Veracruz says, that’s ten thousand workers walking off the job! What do you think that would do to Las Vegas?”
“Granted, it would be inconvenient and chaotic right off,” O’Rourke said dismissively, “but eventually the system would adjust. The casinos, restaurants, and hotels would immediately start hiring; wages would go up to attract more workers; things would eventually return to normal—except the prices, of course, which would stay high after folks got accustomed to paying them.”
“Do you really think everything would just go back to normal? I think…”
“Listen, Fand, we can discuss all this at the station, when I can take some notes and we can get our facts and figures carefully researched,” O’Rourke interrupted, finishing his coffee and grabbing his car keys. “I gotta talk to Lana and tell her to do the shopping after she gets done cleaning, and my tux is still at the cleaners; she has to pick it up before the Friday night fund-raiser thing. Talk at you later.”