interviewed could just as easily have come from Scott's mouth, for she had heard it from him many times before. Slowly, unavoidably, this story was taking on a personal twist that was becoming unsettling to Jan. Though it was only a feeling, an uneasiness, she couldn't avoid it. Soon, she knew, she would have to confront it and deal with it.
So on this Labor Day weekend, as Texas prepared itself for a journey into the unknown, Jan wondered how much longer she would be able to deliver the same cool, objective view of the crisis that everyone had grown to expect from her. She wondered how she could go back to Mexico City and treat the members of the Council of 13 in a professional, civil manner. For it was more than the memories of the criticism that Americans who had stayed in Baghdad during the Persian Gulf War had taken from their fellow Americans that concerned her. Jan had taken heat before and, in her own way, enjoyed a little controversy. It wasn't that.
It was the idea of sitting down with a man who, regardless of how justified his cause, no matter how righteous his principles, could be the instrument of death to a man Jan so loved. That, above all else, upset her, leaving her to wonder if she could do it.
That such a decision was not hers to make hadn't dawned upon her yet.
But that was not unusual in these days, for people far wiser than she still imagined that they were in control of the situation. Men in both Mexico City and Washington, D.C., continued to act as if they directed the situation. The only difference, between them and Jan was that they were not yet ready to acknowledge their own dark foreboding. Instead, they pushed aside such feelings as frivolous and continued to seek a 'correct' and 'logical' solution that was at the same time politically acceptable — where no such solution existed.
With a flurry, Colonel Guajardo stood up from the small desk he had set up in the operations center and walked across the room to look at the situation map posted on the opposite wall. He remained there for several minutes, his hands behind his back, studying intently the designation and location of symbols that represented new U.S. units deployed along the border. When he got bored with this, he walked over to where the assistant intelligence officer on duty sat, reviewing incoming reports and scribbling notes for himself and his subordinates. The assistant intelligence officer, used to the colonel by now, ignored Guajardo and continued to jot down notes as he pored over the messages coming in faster than he could review them.
When Guajardo tired of being ignored, he walked over to where the assistant operations officer sat. He, like the assistant intelligence officer, was reviewing incoming reports as he prepared to write his sumrrtary of the Mexican armed forces activities for the past twelve hours. Like the assistant intelligence officer, he also ignored Guajardo. It was not that either of the officers, both majors, was disrespectful. It was just that they knew that if they stopped and talked to Colonel Guajardo every time he came by and looked over their shoulders, they would never be able to get anything done. Both understood that Guajardo, with nothing of value to do, was nervous, and anxious to do something, anything, to work that nervousness off. Wandering around the operations center, looking here and there, was just his way of doing that. For those who had to work there, it was at times unnerving, but since the colonel was the minister of defense, and this was his operations center, anything he did was right and, as a result, had to be tolerated.
When he finished his aimless rounds of the operations center, Guajardo walked over to the door leading into the main corridor and stopped. He turned and looked back into the room before leaving. Everyone, he thought, was busy, doing something. Everyone but him. There had to be something worthwhile that needed tending to that only he could do. But what? At that moment, he could think of nothing. Until the Americans finished their latest deployments and made their intentions clear, there was no need to act. All units of the Mexican Army were deployed or completing deployment according to their war plans. Every one of his subordinate commanders knew what to do and was doing it. In effect, Guajardo thought, he had planned so well that he had, for the moment, put himself out of a job. If that was so, then why did he feel so uneasy about what was happening?
Turning away, he headed down the corridor to the latrine. Although there was a private facility that he could have used next to a private office reserved for him just off of the operations center, Guajardo preferred to use the common latrine. An American friend of his, an infantry officer, had once told him that as a method of checking on what the troops were thinking, he would go into the latrines used by his troops and read the graffiti they left behind. In a few minutes, he told Guajardo, he knew what officers in his unit were unpopular, and what the soldiers were unhappy about. As an aside, he also noted that he sometimes got some real hot telephone numbers. Guajardo, always one to try new things, had adopted the practice after returning to Mexico and found that it was, indeed, quite useful, as well as entertaining.
As he relieved himself, Guajardo thought it was good for his soldiers to see that he, their leader, was no different than them. There was a certain leveling that took place when men understood that their leaders were men, men who put their pants on one leg at a time just as they did, and who had human needs just as they did. Besides, Guajardo thought as he finished stuffing himself back into his trousers, he had nothing at all to be ashamed of. If anything, he could be quite proud of his manhood.
From behind, Guajardo heard the door of the latrine open slightly. The voice of the assistant operations officer hesitantly called through the partial opening, 'Colonel Guajardo. Sorry to disturb you but Colonel Molina is on the phone. He would like to speak to you.'
'Did you tell el presidente that I had my hands full, Major?'
There was a pause. 'Ah, well, no, sir. I told him you had a pressing matter that needed your personal attention.'
Turning around and heading for the sinks, Guajardo groaned. 'Good lord, man! Now Colonel Molina will think I've been screwing a secretary on that beautiful mahogany desk in my private office. Go back and tell him I am on my way.'
With a crisp 'Yes, sir,' the major disappeared and left Guajardo laughing to himself.
Deciding to take Molina's call in his private office so that he could speak freely, Guajardo seated himself at the large mahogany desk, its shiny surface clear of everything but one black telephone. Picking up the receiver, Guajardo informed Molina's adjutant that he was ready to speak to the president. When Molina came on and began to speak, Guajardo cut him off. 'My friend, before you say anything, I was taking a piss.'
Guajardo could hear Molina laughing on the other end of the line.
When he finally spoke, Molina asked Guajardo if he had a guilty conscience, to which Guajardo responded, no, just a full bladder. Again, there was laughter that lasted several seconds before Molina was finally able to regain his composure.
'Well, I am glad that you have things down there well in hand, Colonel Guajardo.' Now it was Guajardo's turn to laugh.
When he was ready, Guajardo continued. 'I am sure, Hernando, that you did not call me because you needed a break in the dull routine of running this country. How can I serve my president?'
'Actually, you've already done wonders for me, Alfredo. I haven't had anything to laugh at all day.'
Guajardo, knowing that the conversation would soon turn serious, could not resist playing with his friend a little longer. 'Oh? And when you need a little levity in your life, you call the Army?'
When Molina spoke again, Guajardo noted that his voice had grown serious. 'Well, if I was looking for humor, I definitely would not call Barreda at Foreign Affairs.'
In an instant, Guajardo understood. 'Is Salvado climbing the'walls again?'
'No, Alfredo, he is well past that. Our foreign minister has gone through the ceiling. It seems that the American ambassador had no sooner left his office after explaining that the deployment of the American Army was only defensive when a special report on American television announced that a group of American congressmen had drafted a resolution that would authorize the president of the United States to invade Mexico.'
Guajardo shot upright in his seat. 'Are you serious? The American Congress throwing away their ability to control their president's use of the military? Did he say which congressmen made the statement?'
When Molina read the list of senators and congressmen who had al ready stated that they would support such a resolution, Guajardo could not speak. He had hoped, as had Barreda, that the American Congress would act as a brake on what they considered precipitous action on the part of the American president. Instead, if what Molina had told him was true — and Guajardo had no reason to doubt it — then the American Congress was in fact expediting, not hindering, the possible use of force.
For a moment, there was silence as both men, alone in their own offices, pondered the real purpose of this
