“You can’t kill me,” said Felix.
“Poppycock! Are you immortal, my dear Hare?”
“No. I’m dead and buried. Visit the Jardín Cemetery in Mexico City someday and see for yourself.”
“Do you realize that you’re proposing to me the ideal way to kill you without leaving a trace? Who’d be looking for a ‘dead’ man who’s already dead?”
“But if I die, no one will find Bernstein’s ring.”
“You think not?” said the Englishman, his face more innocent than that of a Dickens heroine. “All I have to do is retrace, link by link, the chain of events you so imprudently ruptured. The actors in the plot are perfectly interchangeable. Particularly the dead ones.”
Felix couldn’t control his pounding blood, the invisible enemy betraying the impassivity of his face. He was grateful for the scars that helped sustain the rigidity of his mask. Felix had had no physical contact with Trevor, but now the Englishman was affectionately patting his hand, and Felix flinched at the dry, sweatless touch.
“Come now, don’t be afraid. Consider the game I’m proposing. Let us call it, in honor of the Holy Patroness of your nation, Operation Guadalupe. A good Arabic name, Guadalupe. It means river of wolves.”
Even without intending it, Trevor’s features assumed a lupine expression. “But let us not dwell on philology; let us consider, instead, probable scenarios. Perhaps brutal scenarios. Combine the elements in any way you desire, my dear Maldonado. The perfectly calculated pretext of the Yom Kippur War and its equally calculated effect: the rapid acceleration of oil prices; Europe and Japan brought to their knees, once and for all stripped of any pretense of independence; Congress’s granting funds for the construction of the Alaska pipeline because of the oil panic, and the multiplication by millions of the earnings of the Five Sisters. Listen, and marvel: in 1974 alone, Exxon’s profits rose 23.6 percent, as compared to 1.76 percent in the ten previous years; those of Standard Oil rose 30.92 percent, compared to 0.55 percent during the preceding decade.”
He relinquished Felix’s hand and turned toward the window. “Look outside, and see the evidence of petrodollars. Let’s say we play Israel against the Arabs and the Arabs against Israel. Houston is the Arab capital of the United States, and New York the Jewish capital; the petrodollars flow in here and out there. Does anyone know for whom he’s working? But let’s confine ourselves to our game. All scenarios are possible. Even — or especially — one for a new war. Depending on the circumstances, we can close the New York valve and suffocate Israel, or close the Houston valve and freeze Arab funds. Follow the moves in our game, please. Imagine an isolated Israel plunged headlong into a war of desperation. Imagine the Arabs refusing to sell oil to the West. Choose your script, Maldonado; who would intervene first, the Soviets or the Americans?”
“You’re speaking of a confrontation as if it were a good thing.”
“It is a good thing. The present state of coexistence was born of the confrontation in Cuba. Conditions resulting from being on the brink of war provide the necessary shock that prolongs an armed peace for fifteen or twenty more years. A generation. The real danger is that the peace is weakened in the absence of the periodical crises that revitalize it. Then we enter the realm of chance, stupor, and accident. A well-prepared crisis is manageable, as Kissinger demonstrated at the beginning of the October War. On the other hand, an accident brought about by the simple material pressure of accumulated arms that are fast becoming obsolete is something that cannot be controlled.”
“You’re a perverted humanist, Trevor. And your imaginary scenarios appear every day in newspaper editorials.”
“But also in the councils of the nuclear powers. What is essential is that we take all eventualities into account. None must be excluded. Including, my dear friend, the nearby presence of Mexican oil. That’s more than a scenario, it appears to be the only solution at hand.”
“And is Mexico not to be consulted?”
“There are collaborationists in your country, just as there were in Czechoslovakia. Some are already in power. It would not be difficult to install a junta of Quislings in the National Palace, especially during a time of international emergency, and in a country without open political processes. Mexican political cabals are like amoebas: they fuse, divide, subdivide, and fuse again in the obscurity of the Palace, without the slightest awareness on the part of the public.”
“From time to time, we Mexicans awake.”
“Pancho Villa couldn’t have resisted a rain of napalm.”
“But Juárez could, as Ho Chi Minh did.”
“Save your patriotic exhortations, Maldonado. Mexico can’t sit forever on the most formidable oil reserves in the hemisphere, a veritable lake of black gold stretching from the Gulf of California to the Caribbean Sea. We simply want to be sure that Mexico profits from it. For the good, preferably. All this can be done without disturbing President Cárdenas’s sacred nationalization. Oil can be denationalized, by Jove! without changing appearances.”
“It won’t please Our Lady of Guadalupe that you’re using her name for this musical comedy.” Felix was only half joking.
“Don’t be difficult, Maldonado. What’s at stake here is much bigger than your poor corrupt country drowning in poverty, unemployment, inflation, and ineptitude. Look outside again, I beg you. This once belonged to you. You did nothing with it. Look what it’s become without you.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that song. It’s beginning to bore me.”
“Listen to me carefully, and repeat everything to your chiefs. The contingency plans of the Western world require precise information about the extent, the nature, and the location of the Mexican oil reserves. It is vital that we anticipate every possibility.”
“And that’s the information Bernstein was sending from Coatzacoalcos?”
Perhaps Trevor would have answered, perhaps not. In any case, he was denied the opportunity. Dolly burst into the office, her kitten face transformed, as if she were being chased by a pack of vicious bulldogs. “Oh, God, Mr. Mann, a terrible thing, Mr. Mann, a horrible accident. Look out the window…”
Felix couldn’t see the look exchanged between Trevor/ Mann and Rossetti. Dolly opened the window and the conditioned air flowed out, along with the momentarily frozen words of the double agent; the three men and the weeping woman leaned out into the sticky Houston air, and Dolly pointed with a poorly manicured finger.
In the street, a swarm of human flies was gathering around a body sprawled like a broken puppet. Several police cars were parked nearby, sirens howling, and an ambulance was threading through the traffic on the corner of San Jacinto.
Trevor/Mann slammed the window shut and told Dolly in a nasal Midwest accent: “Call the cops, stupid. I’m holding the dago for the premeditated murder of his wife.”
Mauricio Rossetti’s mouth dropped open, but no sound emerged. Trevor/Mann had an automatic in his hand and was pointing it straight at Rossetti’s heart, but it was an unnecessary gesture. Rossetti had crumpled on the sofa, and was weeping like a child. Trevor/Mann ignored him, but held on to the pistol. It was ugly in his scaly hand.
“Console yourself, Rossetti. The Mexican authorities will ask for your extradition, and it will be granted. There is no death penalty in Mexico, and the law is understandingly benign when a husband kills his own wife. And you won’t talk, Rossetti, because you’d rather be considered a murderer than a traitor. Think this over while you’re luxuriating in the Lecumberri prison. And consider, too, that you’re well rid of a terrible harpy.”
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