America Libre (33 page)

The insistent warbling was irritating, but he knew better than to answer the phone this morning. Following yesterday’s release
of the Santiago Declaration, a blame storm of epic proportions was brewing at the White House and its fury would be directed
squarely at the CIA. With the Brenner team in the middle of a reelection campaign, the media bombshell had been devastating.

Editorials across the nation were accusing the president of being caught flat-footed at home by a preoccupation with his international
agenda. One widely distributed political cartoon depicted President Brenner blithely juggling a series of flaming torches
labeled Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Korea, Pakistan, and Venezuela while a mouse wearing a Mexican sombrero gleefully gave him
a hot foot. The media circus also had a serious side.

The
Wall Street Journal
declared the Santiago Declaration the most significant challenge to U.S. sovereignty since the Civil War. Some blamed the
administration for responding too timidly to the insurgents. Others claimed repressive government policies had been the cause
of the insurgency. Not surprisingly, an overnight
USA Today
poll showed President Brenner’s approval ratings plummeting.

Evans had been through this kind of PR nightmare before. You kept low until tempers cooled and then went to work to fix the
problem. So he ignored the phone and continued his review of field agent budget reports.

While he was finishing his second cherry danish, his administrative assistant entered the office trembling and near tears.
“I’m sorry, Hank,” she said, handing him a vu-phone set on hold. “It’s Mrs. Phelps from Washington. She said if I don’t find
you right away and put this phone in your hand, I’m gonna be fired.”

Evans put down the pastry and reached for the phone in disgust.
It’s just like Carol Phelps to bully a GS5
, he thought as his assistant retreated from the office.

“Hello, Carol,” Evans said cautiously after reconnecting the line.

“This is the last straw, Evans,” said the assistant director of the CIA tersely.

“Now look, Carol,” Evans said quickly. “I’ve thought about it, and there’s an upside to this. Now we have the names of all
the ringleaders.”

“You’ve had the names of many of these people for nearly a year. How many of them are in custody?”

“We’re trying to keep tails on them.”

“Keep tails on them? Judging by the smarts you’ve shown so far, Evans, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a tail on your copious
ass right now.”

“All right, goddammit! I’m going to give it to you straight, Carol,” Evans shouted angrily. “My people are working as hard
as they can under the severe handicap your administration has placed on us. First, you cut our budgets. And then you played
politics with our national security by locking up our Hispanic agents—”

Phelps cut him off. “I’m not buying your excuses, Hank. If you need to get tough with your mole, do it. Tell him it’s your
hide or his.”

“What are you saying, Carol? That we should threaten the life of an American citizen if he doesn’t cooperate with us? Why
not, huh? I mean, we’ve taken away their political rights. Why not just chuck the whole Bill of Rights?”

“Save your little civics lecture, Hank. We’re sending a bill to the Hill tomorrow that’s going to make it a capital crime
to take part in any kind of terrorist activity. We’ve had it on the shelf for a while, and after this Santiago business, it’s
going to pass through Congress faster than crap through a goose. So I’m warning you now, Hank. You won’t be able to hide behind
the Constitution to cover your incompetence anymore.”

“Carol, I—”

“I’m not finished,” she snapped. “These embarrassments have got to stop. Do you hear me? We’re not going to let a bunch of
pissant Pancho Villas make us look like fools in front of the world. This will not be the first administration in American
history to cede U.S. territory. You do whatever is necessary to take these people out. I want these terrorists, Hank—and I
don’t care if it’s in a body bag. Do I make myself clear? Or do I need to appoint another director in your region?”

Evans stared back at Phelps, saying nothing. He had known it would come to this. His integrity was at stake.

He would have to resign.

Then a wave of fear flooded his mind, dissolving his will like an acid.
Am I ready to throw away my career? How long will it take me to find another job in this economy? Besides, if I resign, who’ll
maintain the Agency’s integrity?

“I understand, Carol,” Evans finally said, lowering his eyes. “I’ll get it done.”

“The next time I see any of the names from this god-damned Santiago Declaration, I expect it to be on an indictment… or in
the obituaries,” Phelps said and hung up.

Staring at the vu-phone in his plump hand, Evans felt incredibly heavy, like his bones were filled with lead. He reached for
his desk phone and slowly pressed the keys.

“Bill Perkins,” said the voice on the line.

“Bill, you need to reach our mole at the DDP right away. We’ve got to put the squeeze on him—hard.”

Nine days later, his computer linked to C-SPAN, Hank Evans watched the Senate vote the Terrorist Arraignment Act into law—exactly
as Carol Phelps had predicted. The core of the new legislation called for charges of high treason against anyone convicted
of fomenting sedition, making their actions punishable by death.

The threat of execution now loomed over every rebel—and anyone who aided them.

“What is it, Mami?” Pedro asked his mother. “What’s the matter?” The boy had never seen Rosa cry before—not even after his
sister’s death.

Seated on the edge of her bunk, Rosa was staring at a much-handled newspaper, her eyes red-rimmed and distant. Only last week,
she’d heard a frightening rumor spread through the camp: anyone caught aiding the rebellion—in any way—would be charged with
treason and condemned to death. The newspaper had confirmed the rumor. They were calling the new law the Terrorist Arraignment
Act. But there was something more shocking in the worn copy of the
Bismarck Tribune
being furtively circulated around the camp.

In an adjacent story, the paper had printed the complete text of the Santiago Declaration, including the names of all those
who had signed the document. Among the signers was Manolo Suarez.

Thank you, Blessed Virgin
, Rosa said silently to the statue’s mended remnants.
At least I know he’s alive
. But the authorities now had Mano’s name. How much longer could he evade them? Although teetering between relief and fear,
Rosa found something unexpected welling inside her: pride in her husband.

Pedro touched Rosa’s shoulder, drawing her back from her trance. “Why are you crying, Mami?”

Rosa wiped her cheeks and slid the newspaper under the covers. “I’m happy. That’s all. Women sometimes cry when they’re happy,”
she said, surprised to find her words were actually true. The bleak news had somehow raised her spirits.

Pedro pulled back the blanket and pointed to the newspaper. “Something you read in there made you happy?”

A sliver of a smile formed on Rosa’s face; her son was no longer so easy to fool. “Yes, m’hijo.”

“What does it say?”

It was useless to hide the news, Rosa realized. The boy would find out anyway. “You can read it if you want,” she said, handing
him the newspaper.

Watching her son scan the page, Rosa felt a sense of revelation. No matter how Mano felt about Josefina, she had no doubts
he loved his children. If her husband had willingly parted with Elena and Pedro, it was for something he believed deeply.
Mano had never started a fight in his life, but he would never back down from one to protect his loved ones. Now, with her
husband’s life at stake, she finally understood why he had joined the rebels.

The country had divided and they no longer had a choice.

Like it or not, all Hispanics were her people now. Their fate was her fate. There was no room left in the middle.
It’s for our children that I’m doing this
, Mano had told her. She now grasped why. Their future would depend on how all Hispanics were treated. In many ways, she’d
sensed it all along. Little by little, since the day she’d boarded the bus for this camp, Rosa had felt herself grow more
distant from the country she once called home. She could see now that Elena’s death had marked her final break with the Anglo
world.

“There’s Papi’s name!” Pedro said proudly, holding out the paper.

Rosa’s face warmed. She could not remember the last time Pedro had shown pride in his father. “Yes, m’hijo.”

“I don’t get a lot of this stuff written here, Mami. Why is Papi in the newspaper?”

Rosa gently cradled Pedro’s face in her hands. “Your father’s name is there because he’s done something very brave.”

M
ano knocked on the meat locker door and entered Ramon’s library after hearing his friend’s voice invite him inside.

“I’m guessing you’ve come to spar about some topic again,” Ramon said, seated in one of the room’s two plush leather chairs.

Carrying a cardboard portfolio, Mano dropped into the chair opposite Ramon. “Yes, but I think my chances would be better if
we arm-wrestled.”

Ramon laughed. “So what’s the subject this time?”

“I’ve been reading Marcha,” Mano said, pulling out a stack of loose sheets from the folder. “The guy was a loser, Ramon. He
was a hotel clerk.”

Since parting from his family, reading had become Mano’s refuge from the stress of battle and the emptiness of his solitary
life. He’d embraced the endeavor with the same methodical discipline he still devoted to his physical training. His frequent
debates with Ramon on what he’d read were a natural extension of his competitive nature.

Ramon tapped his chin, gathering his thoughts, and then said, “Mano, are you familiar with Thomas Paine?”

“I remember his name from school. Something to do with the American Revolution, right?”

“That’s right. Paine wrote
Common Sense
, one of the most compelling arguments for American independence. He persuaded a lot of colonists to oppose British rule.
But what they probably didn’t tell you in school was that Paine was penniless most of his life. He died a drunken pauper.
But that doesn’t mean what he wrote was worthless. Sometimes a man’s ideas are far greater than the man himself.” Ramon paused.
“Jo understood this when she began translating Marcha’s writings into English. You should ask her opinion sometime.”

“OK, I see your point. But there’s a lot more that bothers me about Marcha. For example, he wrote, ‘Words that inspire us
to valiant deeds can be hindered by petty details.’ Wasn’t he justifying the use of lies?”

“Bending the truth is a staple of politics, Mano. Do you think any government could operate without lying? Let’s take the
most honest nation on earth today—the United States. The U.S. went to war in Vietnam over a fabricated incident in the Gulf
of Tonkin. And what about Iraq? Has anyone yet found the weapons of mass destruction used to justify that invasion? History
is full of half-truths governments have used to rouse their people into fighting.”

“You’re saying it’s necessary for a government to lie?”

“Plato said lying is a privilege that should be reserved only for those who govern—and that was over two thousand years ago,”
Ramon said, grinning. “Look at it this way. It’s impossible to maintain security without withholding the truth. If we revealed
our location to the baldies, we’d be in jail before dark, or dead by morning. Every government faces the same challenge. They
must keep secrets. Once you’re maintaining secrets, the next logical step is to misdirect the enemy with false information.
We’ve done that, too, through Nesto. Once you’ve accepted that kind of truth-bending, it becomes easier to justify feeding
your people half-truths.”

“It still seems wrong.”

“That’s why it’s important for citizens to question their governments. Each person has to think critically about the real
motives behind the patriotic rhetoric of any government. Flag-waving is usually used to distract you from the real motives
of the people in power. It’s also a highly effective motivator.”

“Are you saying it’s wrong to be patriotic?”

“People are driven to act by emotions, Mano. A well-reasoned argument may get a person to nod her head in agreement, but very
little else. To get a person to act, you need to create strong emotions—fear, anger, hate, even love. Every smart leader knows
you can’t motivate a person into action through intellectual arguments alone. That’s why they often resort to emotional patriotic
appeals, which by their very nature are overly simplistic and usually shortsighted.”

“So you agree with Marcha? You think that lying is not only acceptable, it’s actually necessary?”

“Yes, put very simply, that’s correct, Mano.”

“That’s dishonest, Ramon.”

“Perhaps. But Marcha was expressing an idealized version of reality. Don’t you think Thomas Jefferson idealized reality when
he was drafting the Declaration of Independence? Jefferson wrote, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident. That all men are
created equal.’ Yet Jefferson was not only a slave-holder, he kept in bondage the very children he fathered with his slave
Sally Hemings. That, however, did not stop him from creating the most beautiful and important words ever written on human
freedom. Does the fact that Jefferson was a hypocrite make his ideals any less worthy?”