ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (37 page)

“I will have the head guard take you to him immediately,” the deskman said. He
spoke a few words into an intercom and, in short order, a hatless,
sloppily-dressed, greasy-haired guard walked timidly into the room, like a cat
ready to retreat if something threatened him.

“Alonzo, what’s the joke…” He stopped and stared at Garcia, who was viewing him
with undisguised contempt. “
Presidente
, I didn’t know…”

“Take me to Herrera,” Garcia commanded.

“Yes, of course. This way,” said the guard. Then he noticed the paper bag.
“Excuse me, sir, may I ask what’s in the bag?”

“No, you may not.

“Yes,
Presidente
,” the Guard said, hoping he had not made a fatal error.
“Just follow me.”

Despite its name,
La Penitenciaria Federal de lost reclusos Especial
was
not a ‘country club,’ but a high security prison in which the prisoners were
kept in small, dank cells, behind solid iron doors.

As they passed down the corridor, Garcia made note of the names chalked on the
doors. He greeted the names with reactions ranging from satisfied smiles, to
puzzled shrugs, to sad head shakes.

They came to a dimly-lit set of steel stairs, leading to a floor below street
level. Garcia was momentarily confused, then he remembered his orders—the
smallest, darkest, smelliest, meanest cell in the prison. He was looking
forward to seeing it, especially with Herrera occupying it. He expected he
would be vastly entertained.

Herrera’s cell was the last one in the corridor, a low chamber half the width
of the others. Garcia stood aside while the guard unlocked it. He was amused by
the scrambling noises the unlocking triggered.

And there stood Herrera, unshaven and hollow-eyed, much thinner, every last
shred of elegance gone. His mouth dropped open at the sight
El Presidente
.
“Miguel?” he asked weakly, dumbfounded. “You have come at last?”

“I have come,” said Garcia, with a broad smile. He reached out, took Herrera’s
hand and shook it warmly.

“I thought you had forgotten me,” said Herrera, desperately asking himself if
he were being set free.”

“I could never forget my old friend Hector.” Garcia said. “I hope you have been
well.”

Herrera straightened up as much as he could. “As well as can be expected,” he
said.

“You know I wouldn’t have allowed this to happen if there had been any choice,”
Garcia said.

“I understand that,” Herrera said. He assumed an air of compliance, hoping he
would get credit for it, still looking for a clue as to why Garcia was here.

“The food is satisfactory?” Garcia inquired.

Herrera could think of no safe answer. He settled for “It is what it is.”

“Well, not tonight,” Garcia said, presenting his paper bag. “Tonight you will
have a treat—one of your favorite delicacies, Chinese take out.” He looked back
toward the guard. “Bring us a table,” he said, “and another chair.”

Herrera managed a grateful smile, but he knew this was not a good sign. You
don’t bring a nice meal to a prisoner you’re about to set free.

The guard quickly produced a rickety card table and an ancient card table
chair, and set them up in Herrera’s cell. Herrera sat on his bunk. Garcia took
the card table chair and began to empty out the paper bag, covering the table
with little white cardboard boxes with wire handles, packets of soy sauce,
plastic spoons and paper plates.

“Let’s see,” Garcia said, opening the boxes. “General Tso’s chicken, sweet and
sour pork, beef with snow peas, white rice, spring rolls, fried rice—don’t be
bashful, Hector, take what you want. There’s some beer in the bag too. Help
yourself.”

Herrera shrugged, mystified. He wasn’t going home today, that was clear enough.
So what was this all about. Well, he told himself, I will find out soon enough.
He spooned a variety of Chinese dishes onto his plate, almost dizzy with the
smell, and started eating.

“Good?” Garcia inquired, pausing between bites.

“China Song?”

“Only the best for my friend Hector,” Garcia confirmed.

“So,” Herrera said, feeling a bit more confident, “to what do I owe the
pleasure of your presence?”

Garcia displayed a lopsided grin. “Just bringing dinner to a friend.”

“And I am very grateful,” Herrera said, taking a bite of the sweet and sour
pork. “On the other hand, I have this niggling suspicion that you may want
something from me.”

“Hector,” Garcia protested in mock innocence. “I am hurt. What would make you
say such a thing about an old friend?”

“Knowing him so well,” Herrera said, deciding that caution wasn’t going to get
him anywhere.

This time, Garcia laughed. “Have some of that General Tso’s chicken, Hector. It
is delicious. Other matters can come later.”

Herrera shrugged. They both resumed eating, and in 15 minutes, nothing remained
of the Chinese feast but a few random kernels of fried rice.

“Shall we talk now about those other matters?” Herrera said. He was starting to
feel a little more human.

Garcia picked at his teeth with a fingernail, looked at the debris it had
removed and flicked it away. “You got a phone call,” he said.

“A phone call?”

“Yes, at your office.”

“My former office.”

“Yes. It was from Pinckney,” Garcia said.

“Ah.” Herrera finally understood. “What did he say?”

“He left an odd message.”

It was Herrera’s turn to smile. “You were unable to decipher it?”

“Oh, I have a pretty good idea,” Garcia lied, “But I would like you to confirm
my suspicion.”

“Of course. What do you suspect?”

Outmaneuvered, Garcia shot his old friend a dirty look. “Just tell me what this
means: F-99. That was the message, just F-99. What does it mean?”

“It means—wait a minute. If I tell you what it means…”

“Hector, are you bargaining with me?”

“No,
Presidente
, of course not. I would never do such a thing. But I was
hoping, one favor in exchange for another, between friends?”

“What favor did you have in mind?”

Herrera look at his old friend and former Boss and performed a two-shoulder
shrug, with open hands. “Whatever you may be inclined to grant,” he said.

Garcia groaned. He hated being put in this position. “An upstairs cell?”

Herrera smiled slightly.

“The same food the guards eat,” Garcia offered.

Herrera continued to look at Garcia expectantly.

“Monthly conjugal visits,” Garcia said.

“
Weekly
conjugal visits?”

“Yes, okay,” said
El Presidente
impatiently.

“And showers,” said Herrera.

Garcia glared at his former Intelligence Director. “Yes, yes. And
showers. Now what does it mean, Hector?”

“It’s a very simple code, between me and Pinckney.
C
means
continued
.
S
means
successful
…”

“Yes, yes, and
F
?”

“
F
means
failing
. There are other letters as well…”

“And
99
?” Garcia demanded. “What does
99
mean?”

“That’s a measure of how confident he is. F99 means he is practically certain
that the meetings between Bourque and Callaway have failed.”

“Failed,” Garcia repeated. It hadn’t sunk in yet.

“Failed, yes. As in ‘didn’t succeed,’ as in ‘fell apart,’ as in ‘collapsed’.”

A gloriously malignant grin appeared on Garcia’s face. “I knew it,” he said. “I
predicted it. Didn’t I predict it?”

“You certainly did,
Presidente
. You had it right.”

“So Bourque gets no help from the NAU. He’s on his own.”

“And he’s dying,” Herrera reminded him.

Garcia considered that. “Yes. Which means we must be ready. Which means we must
move quickly.”

“I agree,” Herrera said.

“I value your opinion,” Garcia said.

“I’m glad I can be of use, even here.”

Garcia stood. “Do you have the whole code between yourself and Pinckney?”

“In here,” Herrera said, pointing to his head and smiling.

“Yes,” Garcia said. “I understand. Well, perhaps Pinckney will send another
message.”

“If so,” Herrera said, “bring Italian next time.”

*

Helmut Metzger stood at one of the enormous windows in the Eagles Aerie, gazing
out at the city’s lights, twinkling in the dusk. This was his domain, but not
just this. All of America. And Germany. And France. And England. The people,
the politicians, the generals, all of them dancing to his tune and paying for
the privilege.

Some people, he reflected, would have wanted the glory, the Crown, the Oval
Office, the Royal Scepter. But he preferred being talked about in hushed, angry
tones, by people who barely realized how helpless they were. He enjoyed pulling
the strings.

Metzger walked back to his glass-topped desk, sat down and picked up his little
voice recorder. It was time to give Robert D. Wade his weekly marching orders,
to instruct him how to use the INN radio and television stations, newspapers
and magazines, web sites and blogs, the vast media network whose tentacles
reached into every home and business in America, to give Metzger an even
tighter grip on America’s hearts and minds.

He studied the little device in his hand, trying to figure out which of the
nearly microscopic buttons made it start recording. His first two attempts
failed, his gnarled forefinger hitting ‘play,’ the first time out, and rewind
the second time. He stifled an impulse to stomp on the thing, but controlled
himself and hit another button.

“
Testen
eins, zwei, drei,
” he said, “
testen eins, zwei, drei.”
Then, to his
surprise, he successfully rewound the recording and played it. “Hello, Robert,”
he said, “I want to give you your instructions for the coming week.

“I am getting more and more annoyed with the way the New York
Tribune
is
soft-pedaling Sen. Martin’s involvement with those male pages. Tell Wesley I
want this stuff on the front page, with photographs of the boys, if possible.
Pay if you have to. I believe I mentioned this last week. I hope I do not have
to mention it again.”

Metzger hit the pause button, reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes
and lit up. He took a deep drag, then started the recorder again.

“And while I’m taking about the
Tribune
, tell the page six editor
he hasn’t been printing enough blind gossip items. I want at least three in
every issue--bankruptcy, divorce, terminal illnesses, embezzlement,
homosexuality, anything will do. And he can match the sins with anonymous
sports figures, politicians, Hollywood stars—tell him to use his imagination,
if he has one. Scare the crap out of anyone who thinks we’re writing about him
and get everyone whispering about everyone else. I want buzz, Wade, and
readership. The
Tribune
has been lagging.”

Metzger paused the recorder again, took another drag, thought for a moment,
then resumed.

“Let’s talk about the websites. we both know they are not producing the income
I expected. We need more controversy, more outrage—and for God’s sake, tell our
editors to stop apologizing if they’re caught in a factual error. Remind them
that we’re in business to make money, not to prove we’re good journalists. we
want to be talked about. we want page views. If our writers can’t get them, get
new writers.”

Metzger’s cell phone suddenly produced a musical excerpt from ‘Ride of the
Valkyries.’ He listened for a moment, checked the caller ID, then hit
disconnect. He wound the recording back to where the Wagner had started and
began speaking again.

“Now, I want to talk about the INN. we are entering a very important period,
with a good chance of shaping public opinion. I’m talking about the
possibility of a Callaway-Bourque deal. I want to do everything possible to
stop it. I want this to be the lead story on every news show. Talk about
Bourque’s outrageous demands and Callaway’s inexperience at negotiating with
foreign leaders. Use the words ‘sellout’ and ‘mass migration.’ Emphasize the
CSA’s poverty, its inborn bigotry, its one-man government. I want it to sound
worse than hell itself.”

“And I have an assignment for Sullivan. I want him to attack the meetings
again on the Edge, and this time take the gloves off. I want him to
conduct on-air interviews with others opposed to an agreement—Cardinal
Ruggiero, Nelson Waterford, and what’s his name, the Mayor of Chicago. I want
it to seem like all of the smart and important people are against this thing.
And tell Gary Hobart to do the same thing, with Anthony Zolli, and that
university President. I can’t remember the name.

“I want Sullivan to say any agreement between the NAU and the CSA would be
Callaway’s Waterloo, a sharp turn to the left to satisfy his political base,
with no regard for the future of the North American Union. Be sure he uses
those words.

“Have him say that Bourque wants to make the NAU responsible for the CSA’s
bankrupt safety net, that he wants to open the borders between our countries
and burden us with millions of illegal immigrants, putting an enormous strain
on our schools, hospitals and social services, threatening not only our
prosperity, but also our racial harmony.

“I want to hear him use those very words, Wade, and I don’t mind if he repeats
them a few times. I expect to be obeyed on this, Wade. I won’t accept any
excuses. By meeting with Bourque, our naïve young President has made a fatal
mistake and I intend to use it to cripple him.”