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    Changing of the Tides: Paul Decker assignments, #12
    Changing of the Tides: Paul Decker assignments, #12
    Changing of the Tides: Paul Decker assignments, #12
    Ebook521 pages7 hours

    Changing of the Tides: Paul Decker assignments, #12

    By Jeffry Weiss

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    Since the passage of NAFTA in 1993, thousands of Maquiladoras along the U.S. / Mexico border have been spewing their toxic waste into the Rio Grande River.  From that quagmire, a plague has erupted causing a quarantine of Mexico. 

     

    The plague is being allowed to run rampant by Mexican President DeMarta, using it as a cause to declare Marshall Law, postponing the coming elections in which the opposition party was projected to win. 

     

    U.S. President E.B. Edwards needs DeMarta and his PDR party to remain in power.  DeMarta is kicking back a billion dollars a year to the U.S. President to keep the border "porous". 

     

    In that murky environment, Paul's daughter is kidnapped by drug dealers intent on using her to slip out of the country by passing through a checkpoint on the border supervised by Paul's son, thereby escaping the plague.  Paul's singular problem, to rescue his daughter, broadens to encompass how to bring down the leaders of two countries willing to sacrifice millions of innocent lives in order to hold onto the reins of power. 

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJeffry Weiss
    Release dateSep 23, 2016
    ISBN9781536516463
    Changing of the Tides: Paul Decker assignments, #12
    Author

    Jeffry Weiss

    BIOGRAPHY Mr. Weiss attended Central High School, at the time recognized as the top High School academically in the U.S.  He then attended Drexel University where he gained a BS in History, Temple University where he earned an MA in Economics and the University of Pennsylvania where he received an MA in International Affairs.  Those studies provided him with unique insights in the realm of foreign policy, military capabilities, détente, and trade. He has been a writer for forty plus years and has penned hundreds of articles on social, political, and economic issues.  He has written position papers for the Carter and Clinton Administrations and his work on social issues has received recognition directly from the office of the President of México.  He speaks regularly with Noam Chomsky on political, economic, cultural, and military issues. Mr. Weiss writes political, military, economic and scientific thrillers.  There are now twelve books in the Paul Decker series.  All his stories come right off the front pages of the major magazines and newspapers but none of his plots has ever found their way into novel before.  His characters are ones readers can relate to: flawed, not superheroes.  His stories do not require a leap of faith or use deus ex machina. Finally, he has written a stage play, “Einstein at the Guten Zeiten (good times) Beer Garden, and an urban horror novel: “The Art of Theft”, a modern day version of “The Picture of Dorian Grey” by Oscar Wilde.

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      Book preview

      Changing of the Tides - Jeffry Weiss

      by

      Jeffry Weiss

      OTHER BOOKS BY JEFFRY WEISS

      POLITICAL THRILLER SERIES; PAUL DECKER ASSIGNMENTS

      1) The Go Code Protocol

      2) Web War One

      3) The Patriot Betrayal

      4) The Cern Revelation

      5) The Euro Option

      6) The Eugenics Solution

      7) Code 6 North of the DMZ

      8) We the People

      9) The Neanderthal Regression

      10) To Live and Die in Juarez

      11) The Mouth of Allah

      12) Changing Of the Tides

      13) Year of the Crocodile

      14) The Order

      15) The Death Zone

      16) The Kremlin Insider

      SCREENPLAYS

      From The Depth

      The Auto Auction

      DIET / NUTRITION

      Why We Eat...And Why We Keep Eating

      The Perfect Day

      The Caffeine Diet

      Turning Off the Hunger Gene

      Warning

      Living a Alzheimer Free Life

      SCI-FI

      A Dystopian Tale

      Message from Ceti-Alpha-6

      REMAKES OF OLD CLASSICS

      A Story Of Revenge (based on The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas)

      Faust 2000 A.D. (based on Faust by Goethe)

      The Art of Theft (based on The Portrait of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde)

      POLITICAL SATIRE

      The Wizards of Oz

      SOLVING THE KENNEDY ASSASSINATION

      Who Bought the Bullets

      STAGE PLAY

      Einstein at the Guten Zieten Beer Garden

      In this last of meeting places

      We mass together

      And shun talk of the future

      Gathered on the beach

      At the mouth of a proud bay

      This is the way our world ends

      Not with a bang, but a whimper

      T.S. Elliot

      November 1st: Halloween in North America, Giorno Dei Morti in Italy, Diwali in India, All Hallow’s Eve in the British Isles, Dia De Los Muertos...Day of the Dead in Latin America.  For the United States, a holiday, for the rest of the world a time when all wrongs are made right.

      NAGOYA, JAPAN

      THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC

      PUERTO VALLARTA, MEXICO

      SOUTH BEACH – PUERTO VALLARTA, MEXICO

      THE PARTICIPANTS

      Paul Decker, retired CIA

      Lyida Estrella, pawn in Sebastian’s plan.

      Sebastian Ramos, drug overlord of Puerto Vallarta

      Pablo Cabera, second in command to Sebastian

      Daniel Decker, Paul’s son, border guard

      Carrie Decker, Paul’s daughter

      Miguel Contreras, Paul’s business partner

      E.B. Edwards, U.S. President

      Alan Heartland, U.S. Vice-President

      Jose Ruiz DeMarta, Mexican President

      Ahito Hotaka, President of Zumono Ltd. bank in Nagoya, Japan

      Kobe Natsuki, president of Tiger, Ltd. bank in Nagoya, Japan

      Hoshi Gentu of Regal Banks in Nagoya, Japan

      Ichiro Nakatani of Teka Securities in Nagoya, Japan

      Nomo Susto of Premier Alliance Bank in Nagoya Japan

      Gito Yurri, Japanese ambassador to America

      Ernesto Cervantes, political activist in Puerto Vallata

      Tom Hastings, U.S. President’s Chief of Staff

      Lawrence Dowd, head of economic policy

      David Copeland, Secretary of Foreign Affairs

      Robert Villas, U.S. Ambassador to Mexica

      Captain Phil McCleary, U.S. South Pacific Fleet

      THE PARTICIPANTS

      Captain Manuel Ortega, Policia Nationale.  Puerto Vallarta

      Martin Rodriguez, Sax player at Cuates y Cuetes, Puerto Vallarta

      Skyler Markly, head of the Committee to Preserve American Industry

      Suto Beni, head of the Yakuza in Nagoya, Japan

      Jorge, waiter at La Palapa, on Sebastian’s payroll

      Oswaldo, member of Sebastian’s organization

      Luis Salinas, on Sebastian’s payroll

      Dr. Francis Obrego, President DeMarta’s chief surgeon

      Steve McClure, CIA

      Kong, 200 pound Mastiff

      Raul Delgado, on Sebastian’s payroll

      Carlito, on Sebastian’s payroll

      Jośe, on Sebastian’s payroll

      Victor, on Sebastian’s payroll

      Rubin, on Sebastian’s payroll

      General McFlaraty, Drug Czar for President Edwards

      Emilio, on Sebastian’s payroll

      General Huerta, chief of Federales, on Sebastian’s payroll

      Joaquin at the River Café, Paul’s contact

      Tito, gym owner, Paul’s contact

      Amador, a horseman, Paul’s contact

      Tom Hastings, the President’s Chief of Staff

      Lawrence Dowd, U.S. head of economic policy

      Diego Sanchez, manager of Sebastian’s cocaine factory

      Señora Sanchez, Diego’s wife

      PAST

      Since the beginning of time, populations have been ravaged by gods, nature, and man himself.  In truth, the progress of man has been marked as much by periods of pestilence as by his accomplishments. 

      The ten Plagues of Egypt struck after Moses and Aaron delivered God's demand that the Israelite slaves be allowed to leave Egypt to worship and pray as they chose.  Pharaoh refused and the plagues began.  Rivers of blood, infestations of frogs, gnats, flies, disease on livestock, unhealable boils, hail mixed with fire, locusts, darkness, and death, eventually led to the capitulation of Pharaoh and triumph over the gods of Egypt.

      The Plague of Thucydides' Peloponnesian War started when Lacedaemonians and their allies, invaded Attica.  Under the command of Archidamus, son of Zeuxidamus, King of Lacedaemon, they laid waste the country.  Not many days after their arrival in Attica the plague first began to show itself among the Athenians.  Supplications in the temples, divinations, and sacrifice were found equally futile, till the overwhelming nature of the scourge at last put a stop to them altogether.

      The Black Plague began in Central Asia and spread to Europe by the late 1340s, and soon death was everywhere.  Fathers abandoned their sick sons.  Friars and nuns were left to care for the sick, and monasteries and convents were soon deserted, as they too were stricken.  Bodies were left in empty houses, and there was no one to give them a Christian burial.

      The disease took its toll on the church as well.  People throughout Christendom prayed devoutly for deliverance from the plague.  Why hadn't those prayers been answered? a parishioner asked.

      They died by the hundreds, a man related, both day and night, and all were thrown in ditches and covered with earth.  And as soon as those ditches were filled, more were dug.  I buried my five children with my own hands.  So many died that all believed it was the end of the world."

      The Influenza Pandemic of 1918-1919 killed more people than World War I; between 20 and 40 million.  What man had begun, nature had ended.  It has been cited as the most devastating epidemic in recorded world history.  Across the globe, something erupted that seemed as benign as the common cold.  The influenza of that season, however, was far more than a cold.  In the two years this scourge ravaged the earth, a fifth of the world's population was infected.

      PRESENT

      The great forces in the world, industrialized nations and men without allegiance to God or country, were opposed at a single moment in time, some to protect the foundations of democracy, others to build and preserve their fiefdoms.  It was the greater good verses those ruled only by personal agenda.  Nations vied for limited resources in the form of cheap labor, while men sought out safe havens from government intrusion in the information age.  Thousands of miles of militarily-controlled borders separated old cultures and great economies. 

      Six men, from three nations, were locked in grave conflict - to save their lives, protect their families, and preserve their countries.  And it was one catastrophic event that brought them all together: the inexorable plague moving rapidly through Mexico.  A creature spewed forth by an environment polluted, disregarded, and now revengeful, reaching beyond borders and cultures: a product of the maquiadoras, which in turn were consequences of avarice. 

      The lives of one hundred million people hung in the balance.  Which would achieve supremacy: the plague, man, or God, was not yet written.

      PROLOGUE

      Ciudad Juarez, Mexico

      Jorge Hernandez staggered off the bus a block from his house in the barrio of Nogales, Mexico.  He had struggled with the heat and stale air on the coche, squeezed together with men and women returning home from their twelve-hour shifts at the factory.  In eight years, he never took time off; but on this day he asked the manager at the maquiladora to let him go early.  He went to bed but didn't get up the following day to return to work.  Esmeralda, his faithful wife and mother to his five children, cared for him as best she could.  She used the remedies passed down by her mother, and her mother before her.  But this new affliction would not succumb to the old ways.  Jorge never returned to his job.  He died three days later.  Fearing for herself and her children, Esmeralda gathered the family and fled the village of tin-roof shacks.

      By that time, many of Jorge’s co-workers were stricken, lying dead or dying in their casas.  They were easily replaced by other desperately poor Mexicans anxious for work.  A month after Jorge Hernandez’s death, the toll had climbed sharply.  Even nature rebelled; the sky was soiled with a smog that transmitted both industrial waste and human despair.

      People gathered to protest the hazardous working conditions.  But homemade signs and ribbons did little to blunt the tide of disinformation coming out of the maquiadoras.  A neighbor said that the companies were pouring untreated waste and solvents right down the drain.  They risked their jobs...and possibly their lives in speaking out.  But the pollution did not stop. 

      The priest from the town’s church claimed that a creek called the Nogales Wash carried raw sewage from the factories to the shanty towns to the south.  A company representative disputed the findings.  And still the toll climbed.

      Very rapidly hundreds of factory workers died.  People they had contacted came down with the same mysterious disease and succumbed.  Two months after Jorge Hernandez's death, the illness was called an epidemic.  It was an invisible force spreading day by day, week by week, affecting people seemingly with no connection to the factories.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Puerto Vallarta, México – Oct. 1st.

      Sixteen hundred miles to the south, in a place yet unaffected by the sickness, Puerto Vallarta rose up from the sea.  Hotels and condos, piled one atop the other; the creations of man merging with the realm of the gods. 

      The sun’s rays darted through the narrow openings between buildings revealing silver white beaches fringed by palm trees rife with coconuts, the air pungent with mangoes, pineapple, and papaya.  Bougainvilleas spread their tentacles over balconies.  Hibiscus, Hibernia, and orchids flourished in the early morning dew.

      The sun continued its slow rise over the clouds that had settled on the Sierra Madre Mountains the night before.  One could almost feel an acceleration in the roll of the earth. 

      Out of the darkness and into the light . . . sun, sand, and sea came together at the mouth of the Bay of Bandaras: a cove that protected the people from ancient curses and modern intrusions.

      But Paul Decker was not immune to those curses.  He was one of those ex-patriots who settled in Vallarta, who never spoke of lost youth and wasted lives.  One of those who washed away memories and drowned out lost opportunity.  For him, Vallarta was a place where thoughts were restrained, regarded as something left over from a former world; a world from which he had fled, or been released. 

      The arcing sun revealed life; at first a shadow here, the rustle of tarpaulin there: fishermen preparing to go out for the day’s catch, the first beach vendors readying their inventory of shirts, dresses, and blankets. 

      Fortified against his past, a beer bottle clutched in his hand, Paul came upon a straggly white-haired, shirtless, shoeless skeleton of a man leaning unsteadily against a fishing boat.  His eyes were bloodshot at the edges, with scarcely a rim of white around them, teeth long, green-tinged and deformed.  There was an agitated look on his face.  Yet as Paul beheld the hapless form, he could not help but feel that in some odd way he had already encountered the same expression and gestures that stopped him now.

      Paul made eye contact and took a step in his direction.  Don’ bother with me, the derelict called out in a guttural voice, while waving a dismissive hand.  I’m already on my way to hell.

      The thought and the words came to Paul at the same moment, as a man might realize simultaneously that he was in a trap and that there might be an exit from it, a door emanating light from the other side.  Someday, that could be me, he said to himself. 

      Paul considered the old fella’s plight, but there was a chasm between the thought and the action.  A man doesn’t engage in wars without a capacity for detachment.  He had seen the basest of human nature, a nature that revealed the corroded metal of civilization.  Now, at fifty, bereft, a man lost in his past. 

      He moved on, walking the way one does when it is the only way to find one’s self.

      He took another rip of beer, trying to blot out dark scenarios that raced to the surface.  His memories were too painful to revisit, the present an enigma, the future beyond his control.  But at that very moment in time all three came into alignment.  Ten years too late, a reunion with his daughter was at hand.  Paul didn’t know yet that it would be the defining moment of his life.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Puerto Vallarta, Mexico – Oct. 7th

      His life came down to this.  All his love, all his caring compressed into a few days.  His definition of forever turned into a week...

      The breeze off the Bay of Bandaras drove the last of the evening clouds beyond the Sierra Madre Mountains.  Stars seized command of the sky.  Constellations took shape as the Earth turned slowly on its axis.  A full moon ascending lit the way for travelers.  The day relented; the night held sway.

      Paul Decker, his daughter Carrie, and his Mexican business partner Miguel Contreras, continued their journey over an old stone bridge into the South Beach District.  Hugging storefronts, the three moved quickly down the sidewalk, carried along by the rush of pedestrians seeking a bargain, a bus, or a late dinner from a street-side vendor. 

      They continued south on Insurjentes Boulevard, weaving in between buses sitting two deep, three in a row.  Crowds of people waited patiently for their coche to fill, even as the clock atop the Guadalupe Church approached 8:00 p.m. 

      Miguel guided them west on Lazaro Cardenes, towards the ocean.  As the trio traveled through old neighborhoods and back in time, the air grew heavier and salty.  Faces of tourists were supplanted by locals; street lights grew sparse; stores were simply bodegas attached to homes.  Hombres y mujeres shuffled down the street, stopping at every doorway to share the news of the day with a neighbor, and a cerveza if the night provided. 

      The windows and shutters of second story apartments were flung open.  Curious faces from above protruded into the night, voyeurs of the unchanging.  Traditional Mexican music drifted out; life was rudimentary.

      Kids ran after them, hands outstretched, brown eyes pleading.  Pesos, pesos, they cried in their high-pitched voices.  The niños may have troubled some, but for Paul they had always been a reminder of why wars were sometimes necessary: to protect the children.  He fought in third world countries where the poor didn’t just suffer, they died, places where death knew no physical borders or generational boundaries.  And he was certain the boys and girls who surrounded him were from families so poor that the only food they had at times was whatever they could steal.

      The niños performed clownish acts in an effort to induce favors: back flips, handstands, wheelies on bicycles.  Paul rubbed each head and filled each hand with a coin so none were disappointed, the same thing he had done in the streets of Somalia, villages in Darfur, and the small shanty towns of Sri Lanka.  Reluctantly, he shooed them away when they came to a crosswalk.

      The three joined hands as they hustled across to the east side of Olas Altas.  They skirted their way around a flower stand perched in the middle of the sidewalk, but something made Paul turn back.  It was not like him.  He had learned to separate his feelings from his life.  But many things were different now.  He was together with his daughter.  Yet she had made it clear: for her a vacation; for him a deadline.

      Carrie arrived two days before, just in time to be trapped by the quarantine.  He even wondered if she thought he’d planned it that way.  Was there hope?  Paul recalled the Mexican proverb his friends had told him.  No pedimos a Dios por el perdón, perosólo para tener la oportunidad de ser perdonados.  Do not ask God for forgiveness, but only to be provided the opportunity to be forgiven.  Would he have that chance?

      He had not estimated properly the distance between the finality of good-bye and the first moments of reunion; and now he was paying for that lack of insight.

      The merchant smiled at Paul, reached over to a bucket of roses and picked out a perfect yellow one.  He offered it proudly to Paul, cradling the petals like a newborn baby; a flower ready for adoption.  Paul handed it to Carrie. 

      She accepted the gift but said in a voice that haunted him, Look, I just don’t know if I’m ready.  It’s all too much, too soon.  Choking back tears, in a breaking voice she blurted out, Ten years of unanswered questions, a decade of not knowing if I was loved, or even thought about.  Can you even imagine how difficult it was?

      The pain of the past welled up inside Paul.  Old wounds reopened with every thought.  What is it we crave most in life? he asked himself.  The sense that we love someone so much that it’s like a bridge that spans the chasm of time and distance.  Even better if they love us in return.  Anything can be endured if that idea holds true.  What could be worse than discovering how ignorant those assumptions can be?

      He tried to repress that which could not be undone and to accept the present on its own terms.  I guess I can’t.  He held back his reflections, like pearls in a fist.

      They turned east on Basilio Badillo.  Walking precariously on the cobblestone street, Paul stumbled, barely catching himself from falling.

      You okay, Dad? Carrie asked, reaching out to steady him.

      It’s nothing, he replied unconcerned, while rubbing a permanently stiff leg.  An old injury that’s become a close friend.  Was it The Congo?  Bogotá?  Mogadishu? Kabul?  He realized he couldn’t even remember where he’d sustained the wound.  Nor did it matter anymore.  In his old line of work that was the price one paid . . . for glory, for country, for a pay check, depending on one’s motives.  But it did get him out of the line of fire and into a desk job at the NSA.   

      With one swipe of the pen he went from pawn to player.  The boys in the field thought they were the only ones who made a difference.  But after twelve years behind the lines, and six years of working with Max in the money-laundering and counter-terrorism unit at the NSA he knew different.  Chasing the money, playing chess with an unseen opponent, was the new game.  There was no place in the field anymore for an old soldier.  The time for fighting just wars was long past. 

      A few steps down the street a crowd gathered around a small TV sitting atop a street vendor’s cart.  "Silencio," a local called out.

      The camera panned through the U.S. House of Representatives.  Every seat was taken by Senators, Congressmen, and the heads of the military branches; balconies were standing room only.  The Sergeant at Arms banged his silver and ebony mace on the floor and announced, Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States!

      The audience rose and applauded.  A standing ovation for a man who hadn’t yet said a word.  Then there was the face of U.S. President E.B. Edwards filling the screen. 

      As you-all know, two weeks ago, the U.S., in conjunction with the government of Jose Ruiz DeMarta, convened a medical task force to evaluate the status of what is now being called the Factories Disease.  Based on their recommendations, President DeMarta and I have instituted a quarantine on the nation of Mexico that began 6 p.m. Eastern Standard Time yesterday.  While this action is deemed solely a precaution, a state of emergency remains in effect, he said, nodding in a deferring manner to the Mexican Ambassador glued to his side.  The naval blockade, Edwards went on, pointing to a map on the wall behind him, "in place in the Gulf of Mexico and Gulf of California is bein’ administered by the U.S. Navy and Marines with the support of Belize and Guatemalan troops to the south.  President DeMarta is administerin’ the com-part-mental-Ah-zation from within.  Alerts via television, newspapers, and leaflets dropped by plane, are requestin’ that our neighbors to the south to cooperate fully with our efforts.

      "The twenty-two hundred mile border b’tween the United States and Mexico, patrolled by the Ah-eN, eS, is now reinforced by the National Guard.  They have been issued orders to turn away anyone or anything approachin’ the perimeter.

      While martial law remains in effect in Mexico, Edwards continued, "the U-nited States has assured the DeMarta government and its people that we will immediately step up production and distribution of a vaccine.  American citizens detained in Mexico will continue receivin’ subsidies through U.S. consulates until the e-mergency is lifted.  All regular forms of communicashun’ remain operational.

      We do not expect this situation to persist very much longer, and we will - through our cooperative resources, mutual Ahrmed forces, and good Entent - maintain the peace and safety of our respective nations.  Thank you.  President Edwards was quickly whisked away by secret service, but his message lingered.

      People surrounding the cart began backing away.  Whispered conversations created a sense of urgency that spread from the center like ripples in a lake disturbed by a stone.  What’s going to happen to us? Carrie demanded, looking to Paul for answers.

      Don’t worry; we’ll be fine, sweetie, he replied with a false sense of assurance.

      Well I didn’t come here to take up residence,’ she said in a shrill voice.  I only came to find out why you left us the way you did."

      Miguel gently separated the two.  Let us be joyful on this magical evening in Vallarta, he said, spreading his arms as if to encompass the whole city.

      I just want to- Paul began.

      Miguel took Paul’s elbow, turned him away from his daughter, and said, "’No por mucho madrugar amanece más temprano.’  ‘No matter how early you rise, the dawn comes no sooner’...there are some things we cannot hurry."  He then hooked arms with both and urged them on.   

      When they turned a corner at Basilio Badillo and Ignacio L Madero, trumpets seemed to herald their arrival.  This is the place I spoke of, Miguel said proudly as he eagerly pushed Paul and Carrie into the darkened lounge.  Here, there are the finest Mariachi players in the state of Jalisco!

      The maitre-d’ - a man with an enormous belly, wearing a salsa-stained shirt - greeted them.  Turning on the charm, he announced. "Welcome, bienvenidos, mis amigos."  The big man‘s laugh put his stomach in motion.  He waved them forward. 

      They made their way between tables jammed tightly together, with people leaning back from laughter born of tequila and Tecate.  As they passed through, a conversation from a nearby table captured Paul’s attention, and so he lingered.  A frail woman’s voice lapsed into a prayer.  No one knows what to believe, Sylvia.  People are scared.

      There’s nothing to worry about, Eleanor, her stout friend assured as she reached out across the table.  The border’s over sixteen hundred miles away and this quarantine won’t last long.

      How can you be certain of things that aren’t even on the news? Eleanor asked, thin fingers fidgeting with her place setting.

      Pushing aside a half-eaten plate of prawns, Sylvia trumpeted, My brother works in Foreign Affairs and believe me, our government’s not going to desert us.

      But there’s talk of this . . . plague being out of control, Eleanor whispered.

      That’s foolishness, Sylvia replied with authority.  Our government has said they’ve contained it and we’re safe."

      Maybe, Paul said to himself.  Knowing what his government had done...what he had done, nothing seemed out of he realm of possibility.

      The maitre-d’ escorted Paul and his party to the only table with a Reserved sign on it and set down the menus.

      "Pacificos all around!" Miguel ordered in his best English.

      And an iced tea for me, Paul reminded his friend.

      Apologetically, Miguel said, "Si, si, mi amigo.  Me he perdido.  I had forgotten."

      A young girl, no more than nine years old, came through the club selling souvenirs. 

      She wore a white lace dress with red flowers.  "Un peso," she implored.

      Miguel bought a sweet in the shape of a skull and gave her twice what she wanted.

      Showing the candy to Carrie, he asked, Do you know why the women make candles and cakes in the shape of skulls?  And the men build puppets that look like skeletons?

      No, Carrie replied half-heartedly.

      "Dia de Los Muertos...Day of the Dead, Miguel explained.  On the first day of November each year, the dead reunite with the living.  Friends and relatives place sweets and gifts on the graves of the departed to show proper respect.  In this way, it is held that those who have passed will return to confer their blessings and forgive those who have sinned against God and man, rather than confront the living with their transgressions."

      Do you believe that? she asked, incredulously.

      It is not just myself who believes this.  Many countries honor this event.

      It sounds like voodoo, Carrie decided, in a voice making light of traditions.

      I have seen for myself the results of people who have come face to face with their sins.  They have either changed their ways or come to ruin.  Others may laugh at such accounts, but these customs have endured for hundreds of years.  It will not be me who challenges them.

      Sebastian Ramos, warlord of Vallarta, and his henchman, Pablo Cabrera, slipped into the club and took their place across the room from their prey.  Strategically seated, the two had a commanding view of Paul and his party, and the front and rear exits.

      A waiter bowed low, stealing a glance at the sheen emanating from the fine clothes of the two hardened Mexicans.  Cautious but curious he looked up; there was fear in the man’s eyes.  Sebastian understood what caused the reaction.  Every day he saw it in the mirror while shaving: one eye drooped, the other brimming with sin; straight black hair parted in the middle covered his ears and half his pock-marked cheeks, a thin nose always dripping from a deviated septum, a rude mouth, and a long, veiny neck.  The waiter diverted his gaze as he moved away, never turning back.

      Sebastian threw a contemptuous look at locals in threadbare clothing and tourists in their baggy Bermuda shorts and voluminous Paisley tops.  He weighed them as if they were small change.  Dismissively, Sebastian turned his attention to Paul and his party.  "Look at him.  Señor Paul sits there, ramrod straight, as if he still represents his government.  But he will soon be ours.  That man will provide us the key to a door that is locked right now."

      "Jefe, how did you know that Señor Decker and his amigos would be here tonight?"

      There is little I do not know of in Puerto Vallarta, Sebastian assured, and nothing I cannot find out.  The beach vendors always inquire where couples are going in the evening.  Regardless of where they went, we would be there to watch the drama unfold.

      And what is my role in this play? Pablo inquired, his curiosity unbecoming of him.

      Sebastian laughed heartily.  For now, watch and see the result of careful planning.

      A huge man - sporting long, greasy dreadlocks, eyes set within red and heavy lids, a thick, black moustache and a dirty white shirt that barely covered his belly - stepped forward and hovered over a Mexican señorita seated at a table adjoining Paul’s.  She was stunning.  Her mouth and lips dominated a face with high cheek-bones and large, almond eyes.  Jet black hair hung straight, past a long slim neck. Her breasts were full and high; accentuated by a narrow waist and long-legs.  She wore a thin black cotton dress that clung tightly to her frame, as if painted on.  In all, she was a woman of over-whelming beauty.  Paul found himself drawn to the situation...beyond what was right, or safe, for a gringo.

      "Señorita, I have something to make this a most memorable evening, the hombre suggested alluringly.  He opened his fingers like a wizard, displaying a small plastic bag filled with white powder.  This is my very special love potion."

      "I came here for the music, Señor.  Not for your poison."

      "Do not insult me, Señorita.  You have no hombre to defend you."

      Miguel stood up and took a step toward the woman’s table.  "Tome tu basura desde aqui.  Take your trash from here."

      Paul reached out a powerful arm, gently guided Miguel back down, and took control of the situation.  He started to get up to confront the drug dealer, but the bigger man quickly pushed him down into his chair.

      "This is still mi pias, my country, Señor.  You are just a visitor here.  It would be wise for you to remember your place...and very dangerous to do otherwise."

      Vallarta is my home as well, Paul challenged, and you pollute it like a foreigner who has no respect for this country,

      "You talk to me as if I care about such things, Señor, the hombre said with a sneer.  I answer to no one!  Americano or Mexicano."

      The man took a step forward.  Paul began to stand up again.  Carrie reached over and said, Please, Dad, can’t you just let it be?  Do you have to win every battle?

      The drug dealer looked at Paul, then around the club, displaying a fear of being exposed.  "Hasta luego, Señor, the man said with a gapped-tooth smile.  We will meet again soon...perhaps in a less crowded place."

      Wonderful!  Then I have something to look forward to, Paul exclaimed.

      "Your words cannot harm me, Señor.  I am a Black Shaman.  I cast out curses.  The man laughed maliciously.  It is you and your friends who are at risk."

      When the Mexican was swallowed up by the crowd, the woman slinked over to Paul’s table.  "Please, Señor.  May I sit with you? she said, eyes darting around room.  My friends have not arrived and I fear this man will return."

      But there are other men here who are more powerful and know your country better than I...Miss? 

      Lydia.  Lydia Estrella.  She took Paul’s hand and intertwined her fingers with his.  I have seen your bravery tonight, how you dealt with that man.  And yours is the one kind face in this room.

      Miguel carried over an empty chair, positioned it regally, and announced, "We must help this woman, do you not think, Señor Paul?  Such trust should not be disregarded."  With Latin charm, he escorted Lydia to her seat. 

      "Muchas gracias, Señor, she said to Miguel.  Then to all, Is it not a glorious night?  A night beyond imagination?"   

      "De verdad ...It is so, Señorita," Miguel agreed.

      A young Mexican boy brought over the first round of drinks and a hand-painted ceramic bowl overflowing with chips and salsa, placing them down with pride.

      "You are a very courageous man, Señor," Lydia insisted.

      Yes, he’s a very good soldier, Carrie said mockingly.

      We haven’t seen each other for ten years. Paul shared, trying to break through the barrier Carrie had put up.

      Then let us make up for the past, Lydia announced, by celebrating the present.

      Carrie nodded.  Paul saw what seemed like a look of understanding, even forgiveness, in her eyes that buoyed his spirits; he smiled for the first time in a long while.

      She is very good, is she not? Sebastian suggested.  He flicked his fingers toward Lydia as if she were a puppet attached to his strings.  See how easily she excites men, causing them to loose their sensibility and act without regard to the consequences.  He tapped a fresh smoke onto his silver cigarette case with classic aplomb.  The flame from his lighter illuminated a gold watch, rings and chains.  Yet I do not think she would be so convincing if she knew how this little charade will end, he said as he alternated his attention from Pablo to Paul.

      Why have you kept me in the dark about tonight’s plan? Pablo questioned.

      I enjoy surprising both my friends and my enemies. 

      "But how can Señor Decker be of benefit to us?  He is just a borracho, an old drunk, a gringo who can’t hold his liquor or his tongue, a man of words, not actions.  He runs all over Playa de Los Muertos bragging about his children: a girl who changes bed pans in a hospital, and a son who works in the government as a lackey.  A waiter bringing over menus and chips was summarily dismissed.  Un hombre who brags of the deeds of others is not a man at all.  Pablo swept his hand to the side, as if brushing away a slow-moving flea.  He is insignificant.  There is nothing he can do that we cannot accomplish ourselves."

      Things are not always as they seem.  Pointing a rude finger at Paul’s table, Sebastian said, One who leads a hunter to game is almost as important as the game itself.  He leaned in close, his head almost touching Pablo’s.  The son you call a lackey is a Captain of the Border Guards in Nogales, Arizona.  He is the one who oversees the men and equipment at the crossing...and decides who crosses.  With orders from his father, our safe passage is guaranteed.

      How will you get Señor Paul to give such an order?

      You will understand all this very soon. Sebastian assured, patting Pablo on the shoulder as a parent would a child.

      What of the Mexican that is with them?

      "He is nothing to be concerned about; a simpleton, a partner in Señor Paul’s convenience store."

      And she? Pablo asked, nodding at Carrie.

      "She is the bait...and the insurance.  We must be prepared to cross the border if the plague continues to spread.  With the help of Señor Decker we can enter Ustados Unidos in safety, while others wait here to die of a disease that is unseen and does not discriminate between campesinos y peninsulares.

      I have heard the United States is providing a vaccine, Pablo stated with certainty.

      You are a fool if you believe the Americanos, Sebastian replied with disdain.  "To them we are an outhouse, a place to dump their trash and someone to blame their problems on.  I have family up north, in Hermosillo.  They say that many have died and even more are sick."

      "Yet El Presidente has assured us that—"

      "Do you believe a government that allows our people to work for pesetas until they break their backs and their hearts, while our officials cook up fairytales in rancid oil for each new generation?"

      But they are inoculating people.

      Maybe they are using piss, or maybe it is simply ineffective.  Sebastian pushed back from Pablo in disgust.  "Whatever the truth, we must control our own destiny.  To sit

      and wait for justice is the course of a fool, or a dreamer.  Surely you remember how our honest efforts were repaid?"

      Yes, of course, Pablo recalled.  Our government plowed over our families’ stores to make room for new hotels for the tourists.

      And now they build walls, moats, and concrete barriers around our country, treating us like garbage and imprisoning free people.

      If the danger is so great, why do we not simply take our pesos and leave this god-forsaken country? Pablo asked.

      "Pesos?  In the United States they use pesos for toilet paper.  Good only for wiping your ass."

      We have our cocaina; that is the universal currency, Pablo argued.  We can make our way across the border as so many others do and begin again.

      Cross the border with one thousand kilos of cocaina barred by a twelve foot high electrified fence patrolled by the INS and 6,000 National Guard troops?  Sebastian nodded at Paul’s table.  But we have always found a way, haven’t we?

      Paul stole a glance at Carrie.  Several beers had changed the expression on her face.  Any tenderness was gone.  Tapping the side of her beer bottle, Carrie said with a cool demeanor, I want you to tell me why you didn’t try to work things out with mom.  When Paul did not respond quick enough, she pressed on.  Tell me!

      It was your mother who divorced me, Paul said in a weak defense. 

      Maybe if you’d been home more often she might not have given up.

      I thought what I was doing meant something.  Struggling against his emotions, he tried to explain, When your mother took you and Daniel, I played out my time in the military, then came here to start over.  He turned away teary eyed.  I was sure, by then, you’d never forgive me.

      I wish I could, Carrie said.

      And I wish I could forgive myself.  But I was too busy playing God.  Strangled by guilt, he got up from the table.  Will you ladies pardon me? he asked, turning to the bathroom.

      Sebastian positioned himself like a predator stalking its prey.  He watched as Miguel

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