America Libre (34 page)

“Are you a hypocrite, Ramon?”

“There are worse things I could be called.”

“What could be worse than being a hypocrite?”

Ramon paused before answering. “Being apathetic. Not fighting for those less fortunate. Ignoring the struggle of our people.”

Mano considered Ramon’s words. His motives were worthy. But there was a part of Mano that felt the right motives were not
enough to justify doing something he knew was wrong.

“There has to be a better way, Ramon.”

Ramon yawned. “That’s not a problem we’ll solve tonight, amigo,” he said, rising from the chair. “These old bones need some
rest.”

“Mind if I stay? I’ve been wanting to check out the Tolstoy books you suggested.”

“You’re always welcome, Mano. Stay as long as you like,” Ramon said before leaving.

Mano was into the second chapter of
War and Peace
when the room’s heavy door opened and Jo stepped inside.

“I thought you might be here,” she said, her face pale and strained. “Have you been listening to the news?”

“No,” Mano said, raising Tolstoy’s novel as an explanation.

“Some BBC reports have been coming out of North Dakota that have me worried.”

“What kind of reports?”

“Apparently the government has been covering it up for months, but the story broke today,” she said anxiously. “There were
over seven thousand deaths in the Relocation Communities last winter.”

Mano rose to his feet. “Rosa and the children?”

“I don’t know. The BBC reported the number of dead by Community, but they don’t have individual names. One of the hardest
hit was Community Number Eight. They had more than two thousand deaths.”

“That’s where…” Mano’s voice trailed off, unable to say the words aloud.

“We don’t know anything for certain, Mano. Your family may be fine.”

Mano stood motionless, his eyes vacant. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat and dull. “You don’t understand, Jo—I thought
I’d finally found it. Since the day all this killing started, all I wanted was to find a place where my family would finally
be out of danger. That was the only thing that kept me going sometimes. But it’s gone, Jo. That place is gone now.”

A wave of remorse engulfed Jo. “This is my fault,” she said as a line of tears began a slow descent down her cheeks.

Her tears tore into Mano’s heart as deeply as the news of his family. He met her gaze, eyes alive once again. “You only did
what you thought was right,” he said gently. “I don’t blame you.”

“You’re a good man, Mano—and I took advantage of that,” she said, her lips trembling. “I talked you into sending your family
away without really questioning why I did it—or what might happen to them. That was a horrible thing to do.”

“Don’t do this to yourself, Jo. You couldn’t have known this would happen.”

Jo shook her head. “No. You trusted me and I deceived you. I even tried to hide it from myself. But the truth is that I asked
you to send them away because I—”

Before she could finish, Mano embraced her.

For a long time, they clung to each other tightly. Holding Jo, Mano found a solace missing since the parting from his family.
He let himself bask in the warmth of her touch. Jo’s body was supple and yielding; her hands caressed his back. Close against
him, the pressure of her firm breasts on his chest, Mano felt the passion rising in his loins. He’d fought back fantasies
of making love to Jo. Now the moment that had tortured and tantalized him for so long was finally here.

He wanted Jo. But he wanted to rejoin his family even more.

Rosa might still be alive and he could not betray her.

Mano tenderly lifted Jo’s face toward his own. “It’s time to go,” he said softly. “People are depending on us.”

As news of the deaths at the Relocation Communities spread, the consequences of the Brenner team’s attempts to cover up the
tragedy would reverberate around the world.

Following the BBC reports of massive fatalities at the camps in North Dakota, the United Nations passed an unprecedented resolution.
It called for an investigation into charges of genocide by the United States. France and Germany, long estranged from the
U.S., led a Security Council coalition leveling the accusations. Within days, teams of investigators from the U.N. and the
International Red Cross descended on North Dakota, demanding to inspect the camps.

The response of many Americans was outrage. The U.S. had been charged with committing one of history’s most heinous crimes—by
an organization on its own soil. Political momentum gathered behind a movement once supported only by the far right: withdrawal
from the United Nations.

Congressman Melvin Bates once again stepped into the political maelstrom, proposing a House resolution that would end U.S.
participation in the United Nations. Some pundits said Bates, a man addicted to media attention, was grandstanding. Others
claimed he was desperately attempting to retain the eroding support of followers disillusioned by the mounting failures of
the Quarantine and Relocation Act. The U.N. issue became another hotly debated topic in a nation already racked with discord.

Tensions outside U.S. borders were escalating as well. The often stormy relations between the United States and Latin America
were at an all-time low. Under the Quarantine and Relocation Act, not just illegal immigrants were being deported. Green-card-carrying
legal residents from Latin America were also banished. The millions of deportees were creating economic havoc in their countries
of origin, swamping job markets and depriving these nations of the hard currency their U.S. workers often sent home to their
families. A resolution of protest was filed against this new U.S. policy at the Organization of American States.

The widening rift between the U.S. and the European Union was now nearing the breaking point. America’s succession of military
incursions into Islamic nations was the cause of constant turmoil among the fast-growing Muslim populations of Western Europe.
Many pundits claimed the E.U.’s leaders secretly hoped America’s domestic problems would slow its military adventures overseas.

Meanwhile, the American government had ceased all attempts at maintaining control within the Quarantine Zones. Once used as
holding areas for Hispanics awaiting relocation, the zones had become insurgent bastions. “The Strategy Backfires,” read a
Newsweek
cover featuring a photo of armed insurgents guarding the wall inside San Antonio’s Quarantine Zone. The magazine reported
that internees in South Texas were defiantly calling the QZ El Nuevo Alamo—the New Alamo.

U.S. military efforts were now focused on stemming the tide of insurgent raids into vacated areas adjacent to the QZs across
the Southwest.

C
ommunity Number Eight’s fluorescent mess hall lights flickered back to life, flooding the crowded room with a cold, harsh
light. Rising to her feet near a primordial 16mm projector, the female missionary addressed the audience. “On behalf of the
First Apostolic Church, I want to thank you for attending tonight’s film. We certainly hope you enjoyed it,” she said, primly
smoothing out her dress.

After a smattering of polite applause, the crowd began clearing the room.

Rosa looked around warily as she shepherded Pedro out of the mess hall. Although the film was a welcome break in their bleak
existence, Rosa had been hesitant to attend the missionary’s showing of
The Ten Commandments.
Trouble seemed to be looming, despite the easing of the camp’s severe food rationing.

Last week, foreigners had visited the camp. Through an interpreter, one of them had asked her questions about living conditions.
Rosa had answered cautiously, suspicious of a ploy by the authorities to uncover troublemakers. Perhaps this missionary was
part of a similar scheme.

Rosa watched anxiously as the missionary addressed each family on their way out of the mess hall. There was something contradictory
about the tall blonde. Her drab outfit and outmoded glasses seemed almost deliberately unattractive.

As Rosa got nearer the exit, her heart fluttered. The missionary was casting sidelong glances in her direction.
Is she another spy like Maria Prado, trying to find Mano?
One thing was certain. There would be no way to avoid her. The woman had planted herself near the doorway and was speaking
to everyone as they exited.

“How do you do? I’m Emily Barnett,” the missionary said, extending her hand to Rosa.

“I’m Rosa Suarez,” she said coolly. “This is my son, Pedro.” As she took the woman’s hand, Rosa was startled by a sensation
in her palm. The missionary had covertly handed her a folded piece of paper.

“I’ll be visiting with families individually, Mrs. Suarez. Perhaps we can spend some time together.”

“I’m… I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” Rosa replied, keeping the note out of sight.

“Please think it over. I’m staying in the guest cabin at the south end of the camp.”

After donning the Army surplus coats Rosa and Pedro had been issued the previous week, the two returned to their dormitory.
Once she’d put her son to bed, Rosa slipped into the communal restroom and examined the note in one of the stalls.

Querida,

Josefina Herrera is delivering this note.

Talk to her. She is there to help you.

I am well. My love to you and the children.

—Mano

Rosa’s hands trembled as she read the small note. It was Mano’s handwriting. A warm flush of joy rose in her chest. He was
still alive.

It was the first good news Rosa had received since arriving at the Relocation Community nearly a year ago. She felt light
and giddy. She wanted to yell in triumph. Then the doubts crept in.

Was this woman really Josefina Herrera? Having never met Jo, Rosa could not be certain. She would need to meet with the woman
again. There had to be some way to confirm her identity.

Maria Prado was unable to sleep once again, tossing beside her husband as she relived moments from her CIA career.

It was a melancholy reverie.

She’d had a promising future. Then it had all ended, her career severed with the swiftness of a guillotine—all because a few
Hispanic extremists had terrified the nation with their mindless rebellion.

The mugshots of the many Hispanic radicals she’d investigated passed fleetingly through her half-awake mind—a gallery of rogues
that tormented her frequently. Then a face drifted into Maria’s hazy consciousness that brought her suddenly upright—Josefina
Herrera’s.

Herrera bore an uncanny resemblance to the missionary who’d hosted the film earlier that evening. If you stripped away the
glasses and the dowdy clothes, the woman looked very much like the striking blonde on the podium at the rally in East Los
Angeles. Was it really her?

The outline of a plan began forming in Maria’s mind. If it really was Josefina Herrera, and Maria could unmask her, it would
prove, beyond any doubt, Maria’s loyalty to the U.S. And if she could turn in one of the insurgents’ top leaders, she and
her family might be released from this wretched place.

Tomorrow morning, she’d find out more about this “missionary.”