Drone

Britnev forced a smile. “Thank you, Mr. President. I could use a good steam.” Inwardly, he sighed. It was going to be a long time before he got that cigarette.

27

Mexico City, Mexico

It was five in the morning when Hernán’s chauffeur pulled out past the tall, bougainvillea-covered walls of his palatial estate in Lomas de Chapultepec, but it was a long drive across town to Tláhuac, one of the most impoverished barrios of Mexico City, a semirural enclave of muddy streets and urban sprawl on the far eastern side of the nation’s capital.

Hernán’s armored Land Rover sped along past Carlos Slim’s mansion just down the street from his own home, but the multibillionaire had a much larger estate, befitting his unimaginable wealth. No one missed the irony that the world’s richest human being lived so close to millions of people living in squalor within the same city limits. In fact, Hernán had used that line in his brother’s last campaign speech. Today was a chance to put a down payment on that veiled promise of structural reform. He just hoped that Antonio would arrive on time. Mexico’s working poor, despite the racist stereotypes of the yanquis, were the hardest-working people on the planet who, according to the Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development, logged more hours per day in paid and unpaid labor than any other OECD citizen. As a point of personal pride, Hernán didn’t want his brother to show any disrespect to the people he was appearing to help today, but Antonio wasn’t known for being either prompt or an early riser.

Tláhuac, Mexico City

Hernán wasn’t easily impressed, but the fact that so many television and newspaper people were here in Tláhuac at this hour of the day so far from their downtown offices meant that Antonio’s press relations department had gone the extra mile. He could only imagine what bribes and/or threats were levied to generate this kind of media turnout. Catered breakfast in the press-only tent certainly didn’t hurt. No matter what country he had ever traveled to, Hernán found that nobody was more susceptible to the lure of free food than the media.

The locals had turned out in big numbers, too, in their freshly scrubbed cotton shirts and simple print dresses. It was a fabulous and enthusiastic crowd. Lucha Libre wrestling stars were in attendance, along with clowns, balloons, mariachi bands, and bags of candy for the kids. Today it was meant to feel more like a national holiday than a press conference. It was a time for celebration and his rock-star brother did what he did best, all smiles and polished delivery as he cut the ribbon on the new health clinic and school for the neighborhood.

The TV cameras and radio microphones had picked up all the good sound bites, including the one key question Hernán had planted with Octavia Lopez, the super-sexy news anchor of the most watched evening broadcast. Lopez was desperate to change her image from a busty former beauty queen to a serious journalist, and Hernán knew the planted question would please her immensely. He hoped so. Because tonight after the broadcast, in exchange for the favor, she was supposed to please him immensely at the little love nest he had set up near her apartment.

“Is it true, Mr. President, that this clinic was funded in part by Victor Bravo and his drug money?” Lopez asked.

Antonio scowled, as if she’d posed an unexpected “gotcha” question rather than a carefully pitched softball. He was, after all, a trained actor. Hernán had prepped him with a carefully crafted response.

“There is an old saying. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ People think they know who Victor Bravo is. I don’t. Not socially. Not politically. The state police tell me he’s never been convicted of any drug crimes; in fact, he’s never even been arrested or accused of any crimes at all. But that’s modern-day journalism for you, isn’t it? But here is what I do know: the enemy of Mexico is her poverty. And if Victor Bravo or any other person is willing to help my administration fight that battle, then he is a friend of Mexico’s, which means he is a friend of mine.”

On that last note, the mariachis erupted on cue with a patriotic tune and the people cheered as the president made his way through an adoring crowd toward his limousine. Antonio had delivered the riposte perfectly, as befit his previous profession. Hernán’s words in his brother’s mouth would be repeated a thousand times on radio and television over the course of the twenty-four-hour news cycle.

Surely that would be enough of a first kiss to let Victor Bravo know that the Barraza wedding bed was warm and friendly enough. All Bravo had to do was jump in and everybody would have a good time.

Peto, Mexico