"Luis," Vargas said coldly. "How long have we known each other?"
The scout counted the months. The months became a year, then two. "Since Zacatecas," he said. "Since the good days. Before the gringos came."
"That's right, my brother. And I know you well. I know, for instance, when you got something to tell me. Like now." Vargas swept the air with his hand. "All this shit about Hector Padilla. When we're not really talking about Hector at all." Vargas stared into the scout's inconstant eyes. "Are we?"
"No, my colonel."
"Then who are we talking about, Luis?"
The scout looked at Vargas with solemnity in the yellow light of the cantina. "About you, my colonel. They say this gringo has been sent to… take you."
Vargas laughed. But the laugh did not begin quickly enough, and it was preceded by an unexpected shadow of mortality that fell between the two men.
Vargas slapped the bar. Then he laughed again, spitting. "What are you talking about?" the Japanese adviser demanded. "What's he saying?"
Vargas stopped laughing. He gestured for the scout to leave the cantina, and the man moved quickly, in obvious relief. Vargas shifted his broad-footed stance to face the tiny yellow man who sat so smugly behind his table. Vargas did not trust the Japanese. He never imagined that these people were aiding the revolution out of the goodness of their hearts. It was all about power. Everything was about power. The relationship between men and women, between men and other men. Between governments and countries. The Japanese were very hungry for power. Crazy for it. As crazy as an old man who had lost his head over a younger woman.
It was a shame that the Japanese weapons were so good. And so necessary.
"He just said," Vargas told his inquisitor, "that I got to kill me one more fucking gringo."
"There was more than that," Morita said coldly. "A great deal more. Under the terms of the agreement between my government and the People's Government of Iguala, you must provide me with all of the information I require to do my work."
Yes, Vargas thought. The great People's Government of Iguala. What was left of them. Hiding like rats down in the mountains of Oaxaca. The glory days were over. Thanks to the fucking gringos. Now it was a matter of survival. Of holding on to your own piece of dirt, your own little kingdom. They had come a long way since they had paraded down the boulevards of Mexico City under the banner of the revolution.
Vargas snorted. "Government of Iguala, government of Monterrey — it don't mean a fucking thing up here, man. You know what the government is, Morita?" Vargas drew out the ivory-handled automatic he had taken from the American general and slammed it down on the table in front of the Japanese. "That's the fucking government."
Vargas watched the Japanese closely. The man was obviously trying not to show fear, but the situation was getting to him. Morita was new to Mexico, to the food and water, to the simplicity of death. He was a replacement for an adviser lost months before. The system was breaking down. Vargas's men had received their late-model antiaircraft missiles without readable instructions, without training. Vargas had suffered through a season of relative defenselessness against the American helicopters. He had only been able to stage small operations — raids, bombings, robberies. Then, finally, this impatient captain had made his way up through the mountains.
Now they were ready for the helicopters. Vargas thumped the bar. More tequila. When the bartender came within reach of Vargas's arm, he found himself yanked halfway across the bar.
"You're slow, old man."
The bartender paled. White as a gringo. It made Vargas smile. They were ready for the helicopters now. And they would be ready for this devil in spurs.
The gringos were always too soft. That was their problem. They never understood what a hard place Mexico had become. They were too respectful of death.
"Your agent," the Japanese said, "seemed unbalanced by the thought of this new American commander. In fact, he seemed afraid."
"Luis? Afraid? Of some fucking gringo?" Vargas shook his head at the hilarity of the thought, even as he realized that it was true, and that some things were so obvious in life that you did not need to share the same language. "Morita, you don't know how we do things here. You don't know how Mexicans live, how we think. We're emotional people, man. Luis, he's just worn out from all that traveling. And he's excited to be back with his brothers. But he ain't afraid. That ain't even possible. He and I been fighting together since Zacatecas. I seen him kill half a dozen Monterrey government sonsofbitches with his bare hands." Vargas paused to let the effect of the exaggeration sink in. In truth, the only time he had seen Luis kill a man with his bare hands had been the time the scout strangled a prisoner.
"Perhaps," the Japanese said, "we should take increased defensive measures. Your sentinels, for instance. I've noticed that they do not have good fields of fire in all cases. The defense of your headquarters should be better organized."
Vargas hitched up his trousers, resettling the precious gunbelt he had taken from the American general. "Morita, you worry too much. I know this country. I been fighting now for six years. And I'm still here." In the background, out in the street, one of his men tuned in a radio to a station whose music combined the bright sound of horns with rhythms that made a man want to move his feet, preferably toward a woman. Someone laughed out in the darkness, and a second voice answered with a routine curse. "Anyway," Vargas said, "there ain't nobody coming up here, man. No fucking way. You need a fourwheeler to make it up that trail. And we'd hear anybody before we could even see them. And we'd see them long before they ever saw us. The only other way is to hump it right across the mountains. And, if the rattlesnakes don't get you, the sun will."
"They could always stage an air assault," Morita said.
"Yeah. But that's where you come in. With your fucking missiles. First, they got to find us. Then they got to make it through the missiles. Right? And, even if they landed the whole U.S. Army up here, we'd just shoot them down like dogs." Vargas looked at the other man with a superior smile. "Would you want to land a helicopter up here?"
"No," the Japanese admitted.
"So what are you worried about, man?" Vargas said, happier now that he had reassured himself. "Anyway, we're not going to be here much longer."
From somewhere outside of the cantina, a low throbbing sound became audible. The noise spoiled the gorgeous calm of the night.
Vargas cursed his way across the room. "I told those crazy sonsofbitches not to start up the generators anymore. We don't—"
He had reached the doorway of the cantina, where an old blanket hung at a slant. The noise was much louder now, and it no longer reminded him so much of the familiar throb of the generator.
"Jesus Christ," Vargas said. He turned back toward the Japanese in disbelief.
Morita's face mirrored exactly the way Vargas felt his own face must look.
"Helicopters," the Japanese said, half whispering.
Vargas drew his pistol and fired it into the darkness.
"Wake up, you sonsofbitches," he screamed, bursting out into the street. "The fucking gringos are coming."
Morita was already running down the dirt street toward the nearest air defense post.
The helicopters were thunderously loud now. It sounded as though there must be hundreds of them, swarming around the plateau, circling the mountaintops. Throughout the village, men began to fire their automatic weapons at phantoms.
Vargas dashed to the nearest cluster of gunmen. He slapped the first one he could reach across the back of the head.