Robert Butler - The Hot Country

The first was a letter in German. The Imperial Eagle sat spreading his wings at the top. At the bottom was a signature. Clearly Wilhelm’s, with wide slurs of ink at the peaks of the “W” and the “l’s” and the “h,” the man pushing heavily, grossly at a flexible nib. My German wasn’t good enough to waste time trying to read it. I moved this document to the bottom of the stack. And I found a letter in Spanish on the same paper, with the same eagle. I pulled the bottom letter up again and I matched a few words, and the two documents were the same. This was a translation for Villa. Full of warm, fellow-warrior backslapping. And a promise of general financial support and the immediate gifts of arms if they were used to advance their “appropriate, immediate common goals,” as would be explained in person by the Kaiser’s special emissary, Friedrich von Mensinger. A further promise was made of unwavering support in whatever form was necessary in the event of “longer-term engagements with common enemies.”

All of this was consistent with the suspicions I’d already formed. The Germans wanted Villa to take on the Americans. And they would be very happy, I was sure, if it became a longer-term engagement.

Both letters went to the bottom of the stack. And now I was looking at another eagle. The American eagle. The appropriate common goal. I was holding heavier paper, curled at the edges, a photograph that was not quite the size of a letter. The image was somewhat blurred, rather dim, as if the original item was photographed covertly in low light and was enlarged beyond its negative’s natural capacity. And what I was looking at was a typewritten memo on the apparent letterhead of the President of the United States. It read:

19 February 1914

To Secretary of State Bryan,

I think our conversation clarified our thoughts. Under no circumstances can the United States of America allow the bandit Pancho Villa to gain control of Mexico. He is an illiterate man who can not think rationally. Venustiano Carranza is a man of breeding, education, rational good sense. Our total support of him would allow to control the Mexican government for our business and political interests. We shall speak soon about ways for implementing this.

And it was signed “Wilson” in a clearly legible, pretty straightforward hand, sharp-edged and forward-slanting, with the “n” extended outward and then slashed downward and slightly to the rear, a flourish, but a stiff one. It struck me — though without an authentic one to compare it to — as reminiscent of the President’s actual signature, which I’d seen a few times. But it had always struck me that his signature was simple enough and legible enough that someone with any such skill at all could easily create a forgery of it.

And certainly the memo was a forgery. I doubted the form of the dateline. It was the Europeans who put the day before the month. The phrasing sounded off. From its stiffness to the odd “allow to control.” The word “us” might have simply been omitted by accident in that phrase, but I thought I’d heard Germans make this mistake in English. There must be a phrase in German they were trying to reproduce.

Not that Wilson and Bryan were incapable of coming to the conclusion expressed here. It might even be likely. I just didn’t believe the proof was authentic.

But Villa would have no way to doubt this memo. The next sheet under the photograph was the Spanish translation, which was all he’d care about. And even that, he wouldn’t be able to read very effectively. The irony was that this element of the Mensinger mission was based on the very assessment of Villa they were ascribing to Wilson. The forged memo exploited the man’s near illiteracy and emotionalism.

And maps were next. The first was large and folded. I laid the papers on the desktop and unfolded it. A Rand McNally map of Texas, only two years old, specially featuring the railroads and military forts of the state.

I refolded the map.

I was aware again of the shortness of my breath.

I opened the next map. It was a U.S. Department of the Interior topographical map of San Antonio and its surrounding area, detailing the streets and the railroads and highlighting the military posts in red.

I’d been making a major incorrect assumption all along.

And there was one more map. An original. Hand-drawn. But professionally so. By some German-American. No. Gerhard Vogel, the real one, was a German-American, and he gave his life for his country. This was a German in America. Seeming to be an aspiring artist. Visiting this tourist site. Making sketches. Chatting with the guards. A charming man. A talented man. And he’d made a detailed map showing entrances, guard stations, communication lines, the parts of the walls that were in disrepair, the places of weakness. He’d drawn a map of the Alamo.

The immediate goal.

Ignore the Americans in Vera Cruz. Raid America itself. Destroy the Alamo and cause whatever damage you could along the way. And even maybe try to hold on to southwest Texas. Hold on till the rest of Mexico stopped fighting itself and united behind Villa and, as one, undertook a glorious campaign to avenge their loss in 1848. Between all the rebel factions and the Federales, the Mexicans had significantly more men in arms than the whole of the U.S. Army. And they were battle-seasoned. And they could even dream of getting it all back, all the way to California.

And even if Villa and his country would be crazy to do it, even if they were doomed to fail, with the Kaiser working up his own conflict in Europe, German interests would be well-served if they could arrange a major, protracted war between America and Mexico. And the war would cut off Mexican oil, which the U.S. and Britain both greatly relied on, with Mexico’s prime ally, Germany, reaping the supply

What a hell of a front-page story.

And my hands were already working quickly. Quickly but carefully. I was bent very near to the portfolio to put these things back in, just as they were when I found them. They were inside now. Right order. Squared up. The portfolio was closed. I pulled the inner flap out of the saddlebag. I laid the portfolio in its space. I pushed the flap back in. I reached deep inside the saddlebag and found the first of the two buttons on the flap down there.

Too much of a hell of a story. I was racing too fast inside. My hands weren’t working like they should. The goddam button wouldn’t go. Wouldn’t go. Were my hands trembling? Hell no. Maybe.

Voices. I clenched in the chest. I unbent a little, though my hand stayed where it was, still struggling with the button. The voices passed. He wouldn’t come with a heralding of voices. He would be alone. He would appear suddenly at the door. He could appear at any moment.

I didn’t like this. It felt like goddam stage fright. Which I had once, as a very young man going on the stage for the first time. To carry a spear. To open a carriage door. Something. I felt like that. I’d rather face machine gun fire than this.

I put both hands inside the portfolio. One to hold the button hole open. They fumbled in there, my hands. I couldn’t even find the buttonhole now. This was not who I was. This was not. I took my hands out of the portfolio. I pressed them against the tabletop, braced myself there. I worked to control my breath.

And a sound from the door.

And I found my body upright, my head turned toward the back end of the car, my right arm extended, my Browning pistol pointed at the door. All this happened just now by reflex, I realized. And I held my breath. Held it. My breath was not clenched. I was holding it. And my hand was steady. The barrel of the pistol was utterly motionless. I could squeeze the trigger as softly as I needed so as to put a bullet in the center of his forehead. I was who I was again.