America Libre (27 page)

“Welcome to our home, Señora,” Francisco said politely, then retreated to the small bedroom at the back of the trailer, leaving
the main room to the women and children.

After occupying the youngsters with a game, Maria took a seat next to Rosa. Following a few pleasantries, Maria startled Rosa
with the direction of her conversation.

“I think I’m familiar with your husband, Rosa,” Maria said, lowering her voice. “He’s Manolo Suarez, right? He worked for
the Green Planet Recycling Company?”

“Oh… yes,” Rosa said, the questions about Mano making her uneasy.

Maria leaned closer. “Well, I just want you to know that if you want to get in touch with him, I have a way of getting messages
out of this place without the censors getting their hands on it.”

“I don’t know where he is or how to reach him, Maria,” Rosa said truthfully. She knew her husband was involved in the resistance,
but she wasn’t sure in what capacity.

“OK, OK, I understand you might be reluctant to tell me where he’s hiding. But if you change your mind about contacting him,
just let me know.”

The way Maria had steered their conversation made Rosa wary. Something about this situation did not add up. The separate quarters,
the extra food, the perks—all clearly suggested the Prados were in the good graces of the authorities. Yet Maria seemed to
imply she was somehow part of the resistance.

Then the answer struck Rosa.
Maria is a snitch.
This had to be the source of these petty privileges. Rosa’s invitation to this party was probably a scheme to uncover Mano’s
whereabouts.

Rosa suddenly rose from the bench and called out to her children. “Elena… Pedro… it’s time for us to go.”

Maria begged her to stay, but Rosa politely insisted.

Walking back toward her dormitory, Rosa wondered once again about Mano.

Was he alive? Clearly, the Prado woman believed that. Even so, he was probably with
her.
Would she ever see her husband again? Her life seemed on hold, suspended by events beyond her knowledge and control. The
sense of unreality had not ended there.

Since arriving at the camp, Rosa had found something inside her missing, a thing she’d taken for granted like the air or the
sun: the feeling of having a country. Being treated like an enemy who could not be trusted was a constant reminder that she
was an outsider. Rosa knew most of the soldiers were not really cruel. They were simply doing a job and had little time to
be personal. All the same, their mistrust had taken its toll.

The soldiers no longer considered her an American—and now she felt the same.

G
uillermo walked into the room, proudly carrying a tray with three brimming cups. Delicate wafts of steam rose from the fawn-colored
drinks.

“Viejo loco! You forgot the sugar!” Juana yelled, following her husband out of the kitchen with a plastic sugar bowl.

“Go back, old woman. Atras! It’s my turn to serve Mano’s guests,” Guillermo said to his wife, placing the tray on the table
before Ramon, Jo, and Mano.

“Buenos días, amigos,” Guillermo said brightly to the group, handing each of them a cup. The old man moved nimbly despite
his stooped posture, the cups steady in his gnarled hands.

“Ah, café con leche. Guillermo, you spoil us,” Ramon said graciously, accepting the drink.

The old man beamed. “You three fight for our people every day. The least Juana and I can do is serve you a little coffee.”
Guillermo wagged his finger at Mano. “I would be fighting for our people too, if only this one would let me,” he said with
a smile.

Mano laughed softly. “You’ve done your share of fighting, viejito. Raising seven children is enough of a battle for anybody,”
he said, bringing the cup to his lips, warmed by the fresh coffee and Guillermo’s rough affection.

Guillermo and Juana Ortega, Mano’s former neighbors, had moved into his new house and become Mano’s self-appointed housekeepers
shortly after Rosa and the children had left for the camp. Without asking for payment, the aging couple had adopted the lone
man, taking on many domestic tasks in his house and showering him with affection that fell like fresh rain on parched soil.
In return, Mano shared his food with Guillermo and Juana, and that was payment enough for them.

Guillermo and Juana typified the changes the quarantine had brought to Mano’s barrio. After nearly a year inside the quarantine
walls, a new spirit of harmony was flourishing in a community where people had once been isolated by despair. They now had
a reason to pull together. In a society with few role models, the insurgents had become the heroes of the barrios, their exploits
talked about and celebrated. Those who fell were mourned as martyrs; those who triumphed were embraced with the fervor of
a small town cheering on its football team. The passion was infectious.

Children acted as lookouts. Mothers reported information on government troop movements. Old people ferried messages. Families
sheltered insurgents on the run. From active resistance to simply keeping silent, almost everyone was united against government
control, which was growing weaker every day.

Peacekeeping in the zones was now the duty of heavily armed troops; ordinary law enforcement was nonexistent. Yet Mano had
noticed that crime was diminishing. As supplies dried up, drug abuse had plummeted. Even the gang wars had declined.

Still, life was hard. Most city services had been shut down. Water and electricity were sporadically available, maintained
for humanitarian reasons—and to support the troop garrisons surrounding the zones.

Most hospital employees within the zones had stopped reporting for work. A few intrepid nurses and physicians now made up
the skeleton crews that offered rudimentary medical treatment. No major outbreaks of disease had been reported, but experts
thought an epidemic inevitable.

Food and medicine had become the government’s only leverage within the zones. Even here, the government’s role was tenuous.
Cornmeal, grain, and rice, along with antibiotics and medical supplies, were periodically trucked to delivery points at the
periphery of the zones. From there, La Defensa del Pueblo supervised their distribution. This quasi-official role for the
DDP was an arrangement the government accepted uneasily. As Jo and Ramon had envisioned, the DDP was filling the power vacuum
left by the collapse of city government.

The headquarters of La Defensa del Pueblo was now a well-known site where residents of the barrios sought help and support.
The DDP’s public facilities, however, were managed by minor functionaries. The real leadership of La Defensa del Pueblo remained
behind the scenes.

Today, the leaders of this shadow regime were gathered in Mano’s quarters to discuss their agenda. After Guillermo retreated
to the kitchen, Jo got down to business.

“When is the next issue of
La Voz del Pueblo
due?” Jo asked Ramon.

“You must not have heard yet. A baldie patrol knocked out our printing facility on Second Street yesterday,” Ramon reported
glumly.

Mano looked puzzled. “What’s a ‘baldie’?”

“That’s what Spanish-only Eslos have started calling the soldiers,” Jo explained with a smile. “It’s because of their helmets.
A ‘balde’ is a bucket in Spanish.”

“In any case,” Ramon continued, “the good news is that with all the abandoned print shops, presses we got aplenty. We’re refurbishing
another one, and
La Voz
should be out again next week.”

“Good,” Jo said, handing Ramon a DVD. “When you’re ready to publish again, here’s an article on vegetable gardening in vacant
lots. We’ve got good soil under all this pavement and a long growing season. We need to find ways to start feeding ourselves.”

“That’s excellent, Jo,” Ramon replied. “It’s only a matter of time before the government cuts off the food.”

“I’ve got a long list of items to cover,” Jo announced. “Before I get to them, is there anything either of you want to bring
up?”

“Yes, I’ve got something,” Ramon said, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his cup. “As you know, we’re going to need the manpower
of the gangs to continue our resistance. However, several of the meros I recruited earlier have started getting cold feet
since the Army began their tank patrols. They won’t admit it, but I think they’re afraid. Any thoughts on how much more cash
we should pony up to persuade them?”

“None,” Mano replied.

“What?” Ramon said, almost spilling his coffee. “How can we get the meros to join us if we don’t pay them?”

“Take out one of the tanks.”

“Que dices, hombre? Are you joking?”

“Once we show the meros we can take out a tank,” Mano said steadily, “they’ll lose their fear of them, Ramon.”

“Did Guillermo put something in your café con leche, Mano? How in the hell are we supposed to destroy a tank?”

“Deploying tanks in a city without infantry support is very risky,” Mano explained. “Armored vehicles are built to fight in
the open. They can be taken out in a close fight.” It had been a lesson drilled into him during his military training.

“And you think we can do this?” Jo asked.

“Yes.” Mano nodded. “It won’t be easy. But if we can get the RPGs from Nesto again, we have a chance. Four RPGs would work.
More would be better.”

“That’s going to cost us—a lot,” Ramon said.

“You’re right, Ray,” Jo agreed. “But remember, you were ready to pay the meros more money on a regular basis. Paying Nesto
once will cost us less in the long run. What do you say, Ramon? Do we have the cojones to do this?”

Ramon scratched his chin. “It’s risky, Jo. If we fail, we’ll look weak.”

“We look weak already,” Mano said.

“Mano’s right,” Jo agreed. “I think it’s a risk we have to take.”

“There’s still a flaw in this plan. Even if we manage to destroy one of the tanks, how will anybody know about it?” Ramon
asked. “If the attack takes place inside the zone, the military will do everything they can to cover it up.”

All three fell silent, pondering the problem. Then Jo snapped her fingers. “Simon Potts!”

Ramon nodded slowly. “Yes, Simon would be perfect.”

“Who’s Simon Potts?” Mano asked.

“Potts is a freelance cinematographer Maggie and I know,” Ramon explained. “He’s a real maverick… filmed wars and revolutions
all over the world. He’d jump at the chance to shoot an exclusive documentary about us. It’d probably get him an Oscar.”

“How soon can we get him?” Jo asked.

“I can have Maggie get in touch with him.”

Jo pounded her fist on the table like a gavel. “Then let’s do it!”

“All right,” Ramon agreed. “I’ll talk to Nesto about the weapons, too.”

Mano put his hand gently on the older man’s shoulder. “There’s something else, Ramon. Don’t accept Nesto’s first price this
time; he’ll lower it if you bargain with him.”

At first, Ramon glared at Mano, but his expression softened when he realized Mano was right—he hadn’t haggled with Nesto the
last time. This was a luxury they could no longer afford. Anticipating the quarantine, Ramon and Margaret had arranged for
a divorce that had awarded her sole legal authority over the bulk of their wealth. No longer married to a Hispanic, Margaret
was exempt from the quarantine. This “divorce of convenience,” as Maggie called it, allowed her to remain outside the Quarantine
Zone—and in control of their money. Maggie’s money, however, was available sporadically and only in small amounts. The government
kept tabs on the bank accounts of people like her.

Jo had converted most of her wealth into gold bullion and cash. But the government had confiscated a sizable portion of her
estate. The compensation process would likely drag on for years. With Jo now underground and unable to recover the money,
her wealth had been nearly halved.

“Not haggling with Nesto was a mistake,” Ramon said, managing a tight smile. “Our pockets aren’t as deep as they used to be.
I’ll be more of a cranky old miser in the future.”

“One more thing,” Mano began. “As long as possible, we need to keep Nesto in the dark about the time and place of the attack.
I don’t trust him.”

Ramon looked at Mano in amazement. “Your instincts are uncanny, Mano. There’s something about Nesto we haven’t shared with
you yet: he was approached by the CIA. He told us about it two days ago.”

Mano laughed grimly. “I’m not surprised he told you about it. This way, he gets paid by two sources at once.”

“Frankly, that hadn’t occurred to me,” Ramon admitted.

Jo leaned forward eagerly. “But think of the tactical opportunities, Mano. We can misdirect the CIA through Nesto. It gives
us an incredible advantage.”

“That advantage won’t last long, Jo,” Mano said. “After they come up empty, the CIA will figure out Nesto has been lying to
them.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Jo agreed. “We’ll have to throw them some crumbs from time to time, let the government find some obsolete
weapons or equipment… anything that will give them the idea Nesto’s tips are leading somewhere.”

“Nevertheless, Mano’s right, Jo,” Ramon said. “Dealing with Nesto will be like surfing on a shark’s back. We can’t afford
to slip. He’ll turn on us when things get difficult.”

“Or we run out of money,” Mano added.

“But the risk is worth it,” Jo said, her voice rising. “Nesto can provide us with weapons
and
keep the government looking the wrong way. It’s just too good to pass up. Look, when the time comes, we’ll deal with Nesto.
In the meantime, let’s get this operation against the tanks going. I think it’s time we gave the baldies a bloody nose.”