PROLOGUE
The fate of the world economy is now totally
dependent on the growth of the U.S. economy,
which is dependent on the stock market, whose growth is
dependent upon about 50 stocks, half of which
have never reported any earnings.
—Paul Volcker
Miraflores Palace, Caracas, Venezuela
In a boomerang-shaped green park west of the palace, bounded by it, by Avenida Sucre, and by Avenida Urdaneta, Ernesto “Che” Morales and Michael Antoniewicz, sometimes called “Eeyore,” stood wearing red shirts amidst a sea of red shirts Between them stood a very tiny, very pretty, and very young-seeming, milk-skinned girl She, Lada, was by background a spy, of sorts, though she often described her job in more pungent terms: “I’m an organizational whore.”Morales and Eeyore were former U.S. Navy SEALs All three now worked for M Day, Inc., or, as its members and friends called it, “The Regiment.”Lada was a veteran of some years service with Russia’s FSB.
On the other side of Avenida Sucre, where the park continued and transformed into a baseball diamond, were still more people and still more red shirts Lots of red shirts It was a political rally The sound of that rally was deafening and the smell defied precise description, being composed of a mix of flowers, exhaust fumes, garbage, the sea undulating some miles to the north, sweet-smelling, dark and beautiful girls wearing perfume and as little else as minimal modesty permitted, all overlaid with the greater aroma of a human sea, much of which hadn’t seen water for bathing in a while.
“I don’t know about you, Morales,” said Eeyore, who was an aficionado of science fiction, “but these red shirts give me the creeps.”He plucked at the material for emphasis.
Morales shook his head “You and your science fiction bullshit There’s nothing magic or fated about red shirts.”
The two men were much of a type, being short, stocky, immensely strong, and swarthy If Eeyore looked more eastern European than Latin, and he did, Morales was so typically Puerto Rican in appearance that any given, up-to-date, encyclopedia might have had a two-by-three color glossy of his face next to the entry for Puerto Rico For all that, neither looked especially out of place in the cosmopolitan capital of Venezuela, a city of such mixed genetic heritage that it could produce both a string of Miss Worlds, Miss Universes, and Miss Internationals, and the —as the regiment’s Chief of Staff and executive officer, Boxer, had phrased it—“short, fat, neckless, baboon-faced, wannabe Stalin-dancing-a-Joropo” who currently occupied the palace on the other side of the street.
For that matter, the Russian girl with them, Lada, wasn’t entirely out of the mainstream, looks-wise, and she was chalk-white, raven-haired, and looked about fourteen years old.
“It’s still creepy,” Eeyore responded, speaking literally over the girl’s head.
“Shut up, Eeyore,” Morales said, his face scowling “Listen to the crowd The bastard’s about to speak.”
The forty thousand people crammed into the park across the street and the Plaza to the south represented less than one percent of the metropolitan area’s population Still, as they chanted, “Hugo!Hugo!Hugo!Hugo!” they sounded like all of it, together They were, in fact, so loud that they filled the palace itself with sound, making the windows rattle and contributing mightily to Hugo Chavez’s already crushing headache.
I suppose I have to speak to the rabble, thought Chavez, seated at his desk, elbows upon it, rubbing his temples for whatever relief that might bring To his credit, thinking the word, “rabble,” made him immediately ashamed He put the unkind thought down to the headache.
What is it?The third time today?Or maybe the fourth, if we count that midnight rally And don’t count the TV time Fuck Like I don’t have enough troubles.
And troubles the president of Venezuela had in plenty Some were of his own making Others had come from events far outside of his control Of these, the worst, the most insuperable, was the state of the world’s economy and the absolutely crappy price for oil Oil built Venezuela It funded it It had funded Chavez’s military buildup, such as it was It had bought him allies on several continents and any number of islands.
And I’m lucky when I can get twenty freaking United States dollars a barrel when I need a hundred Oh, sure, it might cost the never sufficiently to be damned gringos and Euros twelve or fifteen dollars a gallon for gasoline, the few of them that can afford it and a car, but that’s all tax, and it goes to their government, not to me And the more they tax, the less they use The less they use, the more the price drops And at some point, and we’ve reached that, the price drops to where survival kicks in, and the rulers of OPEC countries can’t keep production down and the price up, or they’ll all end up dangling from lampposts As I will, in time, if I don’t find some way to divert people from the fact that my Bolivarian Revolution is close to bankrupt, that I can’t pay for the giveaways anymore Shit I don’t want to end up like Evo, down in Bolivia, kicking my life away, and shit and piss off my toes, at the end of a length of telephone wire.
And the bloody army? Can’t trust the bastards Bitch, bitch, bitch, all the time “We’ve got these shiny new toys, Mr. President, but no money to train with them.” “We can’t guarantee to stop the gringos for five minutes, Mr. President, if they decide you have to go.”Worst of all, “Mr. President, there are some currents among the junior officers that are worrisome, at best They’ve lost faith in the Revolution.”
They try to sound sincere when they say that, their voices all full of concern, the hypocritical swine But they mean it as a threat Crap!
The chanting outside reached a crescendo again, causing Chavez to wince with the pain in his head
Oh, well, time to meet my “public.”Again Maybe I can find some way to distract them, preferably before they try to make me a date with the hangman.
Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, the president of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela waited for the liveried guard to open the glass doors before emerging to speak to the crowd.