by Dale Brown
Díaz was educated in the finest private schools in Mexico, attended the military academy at Chapultepec, went to undergraduate flight training in Arizona, then served four years in a variety of flying units in the Fuerza Aerea Mexicana, the Mexican Air Force, including one year as squadron commander of an air combat squadron of F-5A Freedom Fighter air defense jets and AT-33A propeller trainers modified for counterinsurgency missions.
While commanding the 202nd Air Combat Squadron in Santa Lucia, Díaz helped organize and conduct a series of exercises with the Cuban Air Force, where he flew his F-5s against several different models of MiG fighters and fighter-bombers. He received considerable attention from generals and defense ministers from around the world for his political as well as flying skills. He served out his military commitment as the Mexican air attaché to the Caribbean and Latin America, shuttling all over the hemisphere almost on a daily basis on behalf of the Mexican government.
Even though he spent eight successful years in the Mexican armed forces, Felix Díaz was destined for politics almost from birth. For most of the past eighty years, his family were loyal and high-ranking members of the Partido Revolucionario Institucional, or PRI. But Felix Díaz saw something happening that others failed to see: the emergence of a tremendous groundswell of support for a strong-willed, outgoing, hardworking, and hard-charging woman, Carmen Maravilloso, and her young husband. Mexican culture was slowly but surely changing, just as surely as its politics—Díaz knew he had to change with it, or be left behind.
He switched party allegiance to the Partido Accion Nacional just in time for the surprise ascension of Maravilloso’s husband, bringing a considerable amount of money and national prestige along with him, and was offered several positions in the new government as a reward. His personal gamble paid off, as he knew from past generations it would. When Carmen took the office of president, Díaz was immediately appointed Minister of Internal Affairs, the third-highest-ranking position in the executive branch of the Mexican government.
“I like that idea—let us go before the Security Council,” Maravilloso said. “Amassing those troops on the border is a clear provocation, meant to falsely imprison Mexican citizens and force unfair and oppressive economic and political terms on a peaceful neighbor. Very good suggestion, Minister Díaz.” She turned to another one of her advisers in her office: “General Rojas?”
“I agree that a diplomatic response would be far better than a military one, Madam President,” General Alberto Rojas, the silver-haired, grandfatherly-looking Mexican Minister of National Defense, said. “The more military forces the Americans place on the border, the worse it looks for them. Since President Conrad when asked did not tell you exactly why he placed all those heavily armed troops on the border, we have every right to demand that the UN and OAS get an answer. The UN General Assembly will surely be open to—”
“No. We will not go to the General Assembly—we will go directly to the Security Council,” Maravilloso said, taking a deep drag on her cigar. “This is no mere water, cattle-grazing, or cultural exchange issue—with missile-launching vehicles and armed helicopters flying dangerously close to our towns and villages, threatening our people with death or imprisonment, this is certainly an urgent national security issue.” The defense and foreign affairs ministers looked at each other worriedly but said nothing. “And I will address the Security Council myself.”
“I do not believe that is wise, Madam President,” Rojas said. “Addresses to the Security Council should be on issues that threaten peace and stability not just for the states involved, but for the entire world community. This incident, although serious to be sure, poses no imminent danger to the rest of the…”
“I do not care!” Maravilloso said. “I want this issue brought up before the Security Council, and I wish to present it myself. Do not tell me what reality for the world or for Mexico is. ¡Soy México! I am Mexico! Now make it happen! And get my speechwriters busy drafting up my address to the Council! I want a draft on my desk in four hours.”
Rojas looked at Maravilloso and sighed with obvious exasperation. “I will do as you say, Madam President,” he said with a defeated smile, “but I urge you not to use this situation for political or personal ventaja. I know it is in your nature to do so, but let us deal with this situation openly and honestly, not just to appeal to the television cameras.”
“What do you know of it, you old goat?” Maravilloso asked with an alluring, disarming smile on her face. “You are a good and wise fellow in international geopolitics, Alberto, but what you know about public relations and how to get the world’s attention for a worthy and noble cause wouldn’t even fill a thimble.”
“That may be so, Carmen.” Rojas stepped over to the beautiful, fiery president of Mexico as she smoked her Cuban cigar and made notes to herself at her desk. “But in my opinion, Mexico will not be served by doing anything just for the publicity value. Mexico already has an international reputation for poverty, crime, and corruption. More and more of our people are leaving every year, and the workers that leave are sending back less and less of the money they earn. We are losing our best workers, and we get little in return. This is a legitimate concern for Mexico—let’s treat it as such.”
“Do not give so much credit to the United Nations or the Security Council, General Rojas,” Felix Díaz said. “Do you expect them to do anything about our out-of-control émigré problem? Every industrialized country in the Western world has an immigration problem. The current rotating chairmanship of the Security Council is held by Australia, who has an illegal immigration problem ten times worse than the United States—they have illegal immigrants from most of Polynesia and half of Asia invading their shores every day. Do you think they will be sympathetic to us? You know as well as I that the United Nations Security Council is nothing but a collection of painted toy bobble-heads that respond only when rapped on the head—whoever raps hardest gets their nod.”
Rojas remained silent, but inwardly he felt a twinge of concern as he looked at this young politician. Díaz was intelligent, but he was also impulsive—and Maravilloso was quite simply enamored with him. It was a dangerous—no, an explosive—combination.
“I have told you this many times before, Alberto—there are proper channels to follow to get things done, and then there are my channels,” Maravilloso went on. “I wish to speak before the Security Council because I know my speech will be carried live by half the news outlets in the world. I will be on the covers of a hundred magazines and several hundred newspapers around the world—not just major outlets and political rags, but every kind of publication: fashion, teens, gossip, human rights, celebrity, even lesbian publications, reaching hundreds of millions around the world. With all your education and wisdom, my friend, and with all due respect, do you think you have any chance in hell of getting that kind of coverage?” She took another deep puff of her cigar, her perfume mixing with the smooth, aromatic aroma of the cigar, forming a musky, intoxicating potion. “I am not seeking action from the United Nations, Alberto—I am looking for a reaction from the people, Alberto.”
“People? What people? The Mexican people? Perhaps one percent of our people read newspapers or watch television for hard news stories. Who is your target audience? What is your message?”
“There are millions of wealthy Latinos in North America that want to be told what to do for their motherland, General, and President Maravilloso is the one who should tell them,” Díaz said confidently. “They, or their parents, a relative, or a close friend, managed to escape the crushing poverty and creeping despair of their homelands, and they all feel the guilt of abandoning their motherland. Even if they gave up everything they owned, left their wives and children, sat in a sweltering U-Haul truck or cargo container for days or even weeks with three dozen other refugees, walked across miles of scorching desert with nothing but a jug of water, or floated for days in homemade rafts to reach American shores, they feel the guilt of leaving their brothers and sis
ters behind. The more money they make in the New World, the guiltier they feel.”
“They are the ones I will reach,” Maravilloso chimed in. “They are the ones who will help us.”
“Help us? Help us…do what?” Rojas asked, almost begging. “What is it you want to do, Madam President?”
“Induce the American Congress to pass a simple guest worker program, one without onerous conditions, bureaucracy, and requirements,” Díaz said. “The current program making its way through Congress would require all Mexican citizens to return to Mexico first before applying. If even half of those that wished to comply did so, it would bankrupt this country! Can you imagine the chaos that would erupt if ten million men, women, and children returned to Mexico over the next five years?”
Rojas glared at Díaz, showing his displeasure at cutting off his conversation with Maravilloso. He was definitely being ganged up on here, and he didn’t like it. “I agree, Minister, that it would place an enormous burden on our government…”
“And do you think for one minute that the American government will pay for any of it? No way.” Maravilloso took another angry puff of her cigar.
“If the United States wants Mexican workers, they need to pass legislation that will allow them to apply for a guest worker program from wherever they are—which will be working away in farms, factories, kitchen, and laundry rooms all across America, doing the work the lazy, pretentious Americans will not do,” Diaz said determinedly. “The government does not need to uproot families, destroy jobs, drain our economy, and create a tidal wave of economic and political refugees just to appease the far-right conservative neofascists in their country.
“And if they want to apply for American citizenship, they should be rewarded for their courage and service to America by receiving it automatically—no tests, no classes, no more paperwork. If they work for five years, keep their noses clean, pay their taxes, and learn the language, they should not have to do anything more than raise their right hand and swear loyalty to the United States—even though they have already demonstrated their loyalty by sacrificing all to live and work in America.”
“I agree, Minister, I agree—we have had this discussion many times before,” Rojas said patiently. “We and the citizen groups and human rights organizations we sponsor have been lobbying the American Congress for many years to pass meaningful, open, fair, and simple guest worker legislation. We cannot do more than what we are already doing.”
“I do not believe that,” Díaz said. “Even stuffy, old blowhard American politicians respond to issues that grab headlines and the public’s attention.”
“I know the American media,” Maravilloso said. “I know how the people are riveted to the right controversy or the right personality.”
“Well, you can certainly be that personality, Madam President,” Rojas said. “But do you think the American people will listen to you now after one of your Council of Government ministers incited a riot in their detention facility?”
“You have seen the polls as well as I, General,” Díaz said. “The polls indicate that most Americans thought that detention facility was illegal, evil, demeaning, and un-American…”
“But those same polls also said that you were wrong to call for those detainees to break free and riot, even though most did not like the sight of immigrants being penned-up like animals in the hot desert,” Rojas pointed out. “A slight majority blame you, Madam President, for our people’s deaths and for that soldier’s suicide.”
“I am not worried about slight majorities,” Maravilloso said, waving her cigar dismissively. “The point is, Alberto, Americans are divided and unsure of what should happen. They are afraid of acts of terrorism, and they are certainly paranoid, bigoted, and xenophobic—even the blacks and other minorities who have suffered under white bigotry and hatred dislike the thought of Mexicans crossing the borders illegally and taking jobs. But then when the government actually does something about it, like build a detention facility or put even a very few troops on the border, they strongly condemn it.”
“It is the politically correct thing to oppose any new government excess, especially when it involves imprisoning or even slightly affecting a weaker person’s life…”
“This is much more than just political correctness—it is even more than trying to deal with racism and bigotry,” Felix Díaz said. “I believe the American people want to be led on this issue. They want a person to step forward, speak to them, give them their thoughts and arguments plainly and simply, and have a plan to do something about the matter. Right now, all they have is the government and neofascist wackos like Bob O’Rourke preaching hate and fear to them. O’Rourke is a powerful personality—it will take someone equally as powerful to get our side of the argument across to the people. Preferably someone younger, smarter, and better-looking than he.”
“That person will be difficult to find,” Rojas said. He looked on nervously as he saw Maravilloso and Díaz silently gaze into each other’s eyes. “What do you wish to do, Madam President?” he asked, trying to break the spell between them.
“Get out of here and get back to work, you old goat,” Maravilloso yelled after him jovially. “I wish to speak with Minister Díaz for a few minutes. Have the chief of staff report to me then. And find a way to make the damned Americans back off, or I will have your cojones in a jar on my desk—if you still have any! Now you may leave.” Before departing, Rojas shot her a warning glare, which he doubted she noticed.
“Ah, the smell of a good Cuban cigar,” Díaz said, walking toward Maravilloso. “Your husband never smoked cigars except for photo opportunities, as I recall, and he would only smoke Mexican-made cigars, like a good nationalist. I am glad you are a true aficionado.”
“Why do you bring him up, Minister Díaz?”
“The scent of your cigar reminded me that your husband chose never to be alone with you in the presidential office because he was afraid of what the people might think was going on,” Díaz said, a mischievous smile on his face. “A woman of your beauty, your passion, your energy—he was afraid people might think you and he spent all your time fornicating on the president’s desk. He was always so proper, so totally in control of everything—his environment, his image, his words, his emotions.”
“So?”
Díaz stepped closer to the president of Mexico, slipped his arms around her waist, pulled her closer to him, and kissed her deeply. “Ay, I am so glad you are not like him,” Díaz breathed after their lips parted. “I always feel your fire, your passion, your spirit whenever I walk into this room. I could never keep it contained.”
“Felix, would you please just shut up and bring your hard Spanish paro over here, now?” she breathed, and pressed her body tightly against his as they kissed again.
They both explored, then used each other’s bodies quickly, efficiently, tactically—they were in tune with each other’s passion and could tell immediately how the other wanted it and knew exactly how best to get the other to that level. Maravilloso kept the shades drawn and her desk cleared off for exactly that reason. It was polvo, not lovemaking, but they both knew it and both accepted it because to do otherwise would not serve either of their desires or ambitions.
They shared what was left of her Cuban cigar afterward as they straightened their clothing and she fixed her makeup. “Did you tell Pedro to give us at least twenty minutes this time before he is to call, darling?” Díaz asked.
“Fifteen. You are quicker than you believe you are, jodonton.”
“Get a decent sofa and a door that locks from the inside, and I’ll be slower, culito.” She smiled like a schoolgirl on her first date—he was the only man in the Federal District who ever had the nerve to swear and talk dirty in front of her, even before he learned how aroused she got by it. “So. Rojas is all worried about the California National Guard, eh? Tell him to stop worrying. The Americans will be gone from the border before you know it.”
She was disturbed that he knew abo
ut her adviser’s fears, as if he had been in the meeting with them just now. “The Politicos are not still bugging my office, are they, Felíx?” she asked, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.
“I told you I took all of the Politico’s bugs out months ago, my dear,” Díaz said. “I do not need to bug the general’s office to hear what he has to say—a few shots of tequila or glasses of cerveza in the afternoon and his deputies and aides blab like a housewife on her neighbor’s fence. I pretend to be talking on my cell phone in his outer office and I can hear everything he says quite clearly.”
Felix Díaz knew a lot about chatty members of the Mexican government. It was the duty of the Minister of Internal Affairs to protect the republic, constitution, government, and courts from threats from inside the country, a purposely broad and far-reaching responsibility. Along with overseeing the ministry itself, Díaz had control of several other important bureaus and agencies in the government, including the Federal District Police, Political Police, Border Police, and the Rural Defense Force. Felix Díaz had extraordinary powers of investigation and commanded a large and well-equipped paramilitary force that equaled, and in some areas exceeded, the power of the armed forces.
Numbering over five thousand agents, technicians, and support staff, the Political Police, or Politicos, investigated any possible threats to all Mexican political institutions, including the president, legislature, the judiciary, the treasury, the Council of Government, political parties, opposition groups, and insurgent or revolutionary groups. Within the Political Police was a clandestine unit of almost five hundred specially trained and equipped agents called the Escuadrilla Especial De las Investigaciones, but known by their nickname Los Sombras—the “Shadows”—their identities secret to all but Díaz and José Elvarez, Deputy Minsiter of Internal Affairs. The Sombras could seize any documents they deemed necessary, wiretap any phone, open any door or safe deposit box, access any record, and arrest any person for any reason whatsoever—or for no reason at all.
