Diego Galvez was not perturbed by Clemente’s ranting. Even as several of the younger Green Shirts who had been assigned to guard the Leader tried very hard not to look through the door, Galvez strode past them, carefully smoothing the expression of contempt that threatened to overtake his features.
The Green Shirts had converted Jurado’s entertainment room into Clemente’s office. It was well-placed, opening up onto the balcony that overlooked the plaza. From there, Clemente could give his speeches and “inspire” the people the Green Shirts had “liberated” from their capitalist oppressors.
In truth, while Galvez believed strongly in the goal of eventual global Communism, far more than Clemente did, he had nothing but contempt for “the people.” They were small-minded, hidebound, and far too religious for their own good. Even those who weren’t religious were still too obsessed with “morality.” They were good for nothing but forced labor.
Much like Clemente himself. The people were only tools to be used—and used up—in service to The Cause.
Clemente turned as Galvez stepped inside the office, clasping his hands behind his back. The Leader—clad in the pseudo-uniform that he had spent entirely too much time and energy working up after Jurado’s hanging—stared at him, his face flushed.
“You! Tell me you didn’t know that the Americans have sent operatives into Bogota!” Clemente stabbed a finger at Galvez, and the Green Shirts’ chosen killer had to briefly bite back the white-hot flare of rage that tempted him to draw the Jericho 941 from its patent leather holster at his belt and finish Clemente early.
Who does this corrupt bastard think he is? He’d be nothing without us. A puppet in a uniform.
But the plan was too well-thought-out to abandon it now. There was too much to gain. Even at the expense of some of its chief players.
“What is surprising about Americans in Bogota?” Galvez kept his voice level and calm. “They have been working with their puppets there for decades. Their special operations troops come to Colombia every year. Even their Secret Service trains here. What would make you think that Americans in Bogota have anything to do with us here in San Tabal?”
What would make you think that? Has someone talked? Has that fat fool, Ballesteros, given something away? If he has, I’ll kill him just after you make your ultimate sacrifice for the Revolution.
“I have my spies in Bogota,” Clemente snapped. “Spies you know nothing about. Not everyone went along with those bastards when they stripped me of my position. They know the American special forces, they know where they come from and where they go. These men were like them, but they came by charter flight and then disappeared into the city.”
That did sound strange, but Galvez didn’t react. “Many of those special forces troops take lovers here in Colombia. It was probably only a couple of them on vacation.” Things were too far along for Clemente, already paranoid, to begin to suspect that the noose was tightening. He would need to find out who Clemente’s spies were and have them arrested or eliminated.
Clemente eyed him with naked hostility. Galvez met his gaze with a blank expression, well-practiced from years of circulating through revolutionary and criminal circles—there was a considerable overlap there—that were never entirely trustworthy.
“General.” Galvez spread his hands. “Two Americans coming into Bogota means nothing. They are far from here, and our partners in Washington would have warned us if any moves against us were afoot.”
“We have everything under control, General.” Ballesteros probably thought he was being soothing, but his unctuous tone grated on Galvez’s nerves. He could only imagine how much more it was going to infuriate Clemente. “This has been long in the planning, and we were prepared for many of these eventualities when we seized the city. The Americans have their own problems, and enough lobbyists to bog down any response for months, at least. The presence of the Venezuelans so close by will keep the Colombians in check. We are safe here, General.”
Galvez watched Clemente carefully, waiting for the outburst. But the expected temper tantrum didn’t materialize. Instead, Clemente looked with narrowed eyes from one to the other of them, clearly weighing their words in his head with what he’d already found out, not to mention the endless planning meetings they’d had in ELN camps and several official—if clandestine—buildings in Caracas.
He suspects something. But such is the nature of the Revolution. We must always suspect those around us. He does not know our plans. At least, Galvez hoped not. That would mean he would have to move the schedule up, and he didn’t want to do that. Not all the pieces were in place. Not yet.
“Of course. You are right.” Clemente leaned on the table with a sigh, one that Galvez suspected was more than slightly affected. “Forgive me, comrades. The strain of dealing with the resistance to the people’s will has weighed on me.” Clemente was mouthing the right words, but Galvez could hear the insincerity there. No matter. He knew where they all stood. “What did you find at Camacho’s house?”
“Very little. He wouldn’t talk, no matter what we did to him and his family. I executed them all and burned their house. The photos will be distributed and posted up in the plaza in the morning, as a warning to the rest.” He poured a glass of Jurado’s aguardiente. Enjoying the mayor’s luxuries was one of the perks of being a leader of the revolution. “Do not worry. Camacho was always going to be a hard case. We will root them out.” You might not live to see it, but it will happen.
“See to it that you do. We have already had problems with the farmers.” That was no great surprise. Most of the farmers in those mountains who weren’t already growing coca
