Against All Enemies

8 JORGE’S SHADOW

The morning after the fund-raiser, Miguel took Sonia to the library before breakfast. He hadn’t intended to show her the room until after they’d eaten, but en route to the main kitchen they had passed by and she’d caught sight of several framed photographs on the wall and had asked if they could spend a few moments inside.

The stone fireplace with great arch and black-ash burl mantel, along with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases constructed of more exotic hardwoods, took her breath away. Rolling ladders and tracks stood on each side of the room, and Sonia mounted one to take in all one thousand square feet.

“Your father likes to read!” she cried, her gaze playing over the thousands of hardcover texts. No paperbacks. His father had insisted that all books in the library be hardcovers, many of them leather-bound.

“Knowledge is power, right?” he replied with a grin.

A small wet bar stood near the entrance, from where Jorge often served cognac produced by houses like Courvoisier, Delamain, Hardy, and Hennessy. Leather sofas and tiger-skin rugs imported from India formed an L-shaped seating area in the middle, with smaller islands of heavy leather recliners positioned around them. On several broad coffee tables sat magnifying glasses for reading and stacks of old Forbes magazines, dog-eared by his father. Beside them, the coasters stacked in their holders were inlaid with eighteen-karat gold.

Sonia climbed down from the ladder and returned to one of the photographs that had caught her eye.

“What was her name?”

“Sofía.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“She was,” he said with a slight tremor, imagining what her funeral was like, the one he’d not been allowed to attend because it would have been “too traumatic for him.” He wished his father was aware of the guilt he suffered because he was on an airplane while others were paying their last respects to his mother. He’d cried all the way to Switzerland.

The photograph of his mother had been taken on the beach in Punta de Mita, and, with an expanse of turquoise water sweeping out behind her, Miguel’s mother stood there in her black bikini, smiling broadly for the camera, looking like a glamorous movie star from another era.

“My father loved this picture.”

“And what about this one,” Sonia said, drifting over to a smaller photograph of father, mother, and baby wrapped in linen and silk. They stood before a sea of candles and stained glass and icons adorning the walls.

“That’s my baptism. And the one over there is my first Holy Communion. Then my confirmation later on.”

Sonia stared deeply at the pictures of his mother. “She looks like …I don’t know …She just looks strong.”

“No one could tell my father what to do. No one but her. She was the boss. I don’t think I told you this, but one time we were in Cozumel on vacation, and she was snorkeling. We were looking at this sunken airplane, and she thought something bit her, and then we lost her and she almost drowned. We think she might’ve hit her head on some coral. My father went in after her, and he pulled her out and gave her mouth-to-mouth and she came around and spit up water, just like you see on TV.”

“Wow, that’s amazing. He saved her life.”

“When she told him that, he just said, ‘No, you saved mine.’”

“Your father is a romantic.”

“That’s true. He told me that night that if she had died, he didn’t know what we’d do. He told me he’d be lost. A few months later they found the cancer. It was like the trip was a premonition or something, like God was trying to prepare us for what would happen. But it didn’t work.”

“That’s just …I don’t know what to say …”

He smiled weakly. “Let’s go eat.”

They did, and their omelets with salsa, jack cheese, cumin, and garlic powder were prepared by his father’s private chef, Juan Carlos (aka J.C.), who’d said that Jorge had gone off to the beach for a run and a swim. Alexsi was at the pool, already into her third mimosa, according to J.C.

When they were finished eating, Miguel showed Sonia their workout facility, which she remarked was better equipped than most five-star hotels. He said his father was very dedicated to fitness and did two hours per day, five days per week, with a personal trainer.

“Only soccer for you?” she asked.

“Yeah. Those metal weights are heavy.”

She grinned, and they ventured on to the media room, with giant projection TV and seating for twenty-five.

“More like a movie theater,” she remarked.

He nodded. “Now I’m taking you to my favorite place in the entire house. He led her to a door, then down two flights of stairs and into the basement. They passed through a hall whose walls contained soundproofing material, and Miguel had to plug in a series of security codes on the electronic lock mounted on the next door. The door clicked open, and the lights ahead automatically flickered to cast reflections off a glistening white marble floor that unfurled for twenty meters. A rich black carpet divided the room in half, and on each side stood imposing metal display cases and display tables whose lights also switched on.

“What is this? Some kind of museum?” she asked, stepping inside, her heels clicking across the marble.

“This is my father’s weapons collection. Guns, swords, knives — he likes them all. See that door over there? Just inside is a shooting range. It’s pretty cool.”

“Wow, look at this. He’s got some bows and arrows. Is that a crossbow?” She pointed to the weapon hanging from a peg.

“Yeah, it’s, like, hundreds of years old or something. Come over here.”

He led her down toward a table where more modern-day handguns and other assorted weapons were on display. There were AR-15 long guns, MP-5 submachine guns, AK-47s that his father called “goat horns,” along with dozens of other handguns, some inlaid with diamonds, plated in gold and silver, and engraved with the family name, collectibles that his father said should never be fired.

“These are the ones we like to shoot,” he said, gesturing to a row of Berettas, Glocks, and Sig Sauer pistols. “Pick one.”

“What?”

He lifted his brows. “I said pick one.”

“Are you serious?”

“Have you ever fired a gun?”

“Of course not. Are you crazy? If my father found out …”

“We won’t tell him.”

She winced, bit her lip. So sexy. “Miguel, I don’t know about this. Won’t your father be upset?”

“No way. We come down here all the time,” he lied. It’d been a few years since he’d engaged in target practice, but she didn’t have to know that.

“Can we fire fake bullets, like in the movies?”

“You’re scared?”

“Sort of.”

He pulled her in to his chest. “Don’t worry. Once you get that feeling of power in your hand, you’ll be addicted. It’s like a drug.”

“I can think of something else I’d rather put in my hand.” She wriggled her brows.

He shook his head. “Come on. We’re going to be badasses and shoot some guns.”

She sighed and chose one of the Berettas. He picked a similar pistol, then crossed to a cabinet, worked the padlock there, and pulled out some of the magazines. He led her to the back door, plugged in the code, and they entered the range, again the lights automatically switching on. He took her to one of the shooting booths, where he loaded both of their pistols, then handed her the headphones and safety glasses.

“Do I have to wear these?” she asked of the ear protection. “They’ll mess up my hair.”

He started laughing. “What’s more important? Your hair or your hearing?”

“All right …” She flinched and slowly donned the headphones.

Once they were ready to shoot, he motioned that he’d go first and that she should really pay attention. He demonstrated how to hold the weapon, showed her the safety, and then he fired two rounds into the target, the shots going a little wide. He was rustier than he’d thought.

Then they moved over to her shooting booth. He got behind her, breathing deeply into her hair, and taught her how to hold the pistol. Then, ever so gently, he released her, tapped her on the shoulder, then signaled that she should fire.

She took two shots. Their targets were the silhouettes of men, the type used by military and law enforcement officers. She scored two perfect headshots.

“Whoa!” he cried. “Look at that!”

She glanced at him, dumbfounded. “Beginner’s luck, I guess! Let me try again.”

She did, flinched, and didn’t even hit the target with her third shot.

“Try again,” he urged her.

She complied, but this time she closed her eyes and the shot actually hit his target.

With a groan, she placed the gun on the small table in front of her, then wrung her hands. “The gun’s getting hot! And that hurt!”

He took off his headphones and glasses, the stench of gunpowder heavy in the air. “Let me see your hand.” He took her palm in his own and worked his thumbs into her soft skin. Then she moved in close, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and pulled herself tightly against him, rubbing her thigh against his crotch.

At that point, she had him. And within three minutes they were on the floor. Her moans echoed throughout the range, and he kept putting a finger to his lips, frightened that his father might’ve returned from his run to search for them. Castillo would know they were down there. He knew everything and would report to Jorge; however, Castillo would remain discreet in regard to the exact nature of their visit to the shooting range.

He suddenly broke away from her.

She sat up and pouted. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, it’s me.”

“Then we should talk?”

“I don’t know …it’s just …the fund-raiser, all these people …You know everyone my father hires is afraid to get fired, so they kiss our asses. But do they really like us? Maybe they think we’re just a couple of fools. They pretend to respect us, pretend to honor us, when behind our backs they curse us.”

“That’s not true. Think about what your father said last night. He’s a good man.”

“But most men still fear him.”

“Maybe you’re mixing up fear with respect.”

“Maybe I am, but the kind of power my father has is a scary thing, even to me. I mean, we can never really be alone.”

“Your father is using his position to do good in the world. And why are you even thinking about this now?”

He breathed deeply and finally nodded. He felt guilty as he got dressed. He hadn’t told her about the hidden security cameras. Their entire escapade had been recorded, because turning off the cameras would’ve immediately alerted Castillo. There was no privacy at Casa de Rojas, because its price was too steep.

They spent the day at the beach, swimming, taking pictures, and drinking. Even though Sonia wore a blue bikini, a few of the pics reminded him very much of his mother, since that shot in the library had been taken on the very same beach. Even their names were similar — Sofía/Sonia — and he began to place himself in the context of Greek tragedies.

Although they attempted to remain discreet, two of his father’s security men were there with them, seated on chairs about ten meters away, with Castillo not straying far from the pool deck to spy on them through a pair of binoculars.

“Those guys work for your father, too,” Sonia said, staring at them over the rim of her sunglasses.

“How can you tell?” he asked sarcastically.

“I guess you’re used to this, huh?”

“It was nice when we were in Spain. I think my father had some people there, but I didn’t know who they were, so I never really noticed them.”

She shrugged. “When you have money, some people hate you.”

“Of course. Kidnapping is never far from my father’s mind. He has friends who’ve suffered through terrible ordeals when their loved ones were taken. The police are useless. The ransom money is ridiculously high. You either pay or you never see your family again.”

“The gangs from the cartels do that all the time.”

“I’m sure they’d like nothing more than to kidnap my father and get a huge ransom.”

“I don’t know, he’s so well protected. I doubt that would ever happen. Besides, he travels so much. It’s hard to predict where he’ll be. He said something about having to pack.”

“Yes, he’s taking off again.”

“Where? The International Space Station?”

He laughed. “Colombia, probably. I heard him talking about seeing the president and maybe some other friends down there. We own some businesses in Bogotá. He’s got a friend who makes him special suits.”

“My father met the French president once, at the Tour de France, but it’s not like he’s friends with presidents around the world like your father is.”

“You know what?” he began, brightening over a thought. “Maybe we’ll do a little traveling ourselves …”

Dinner was served promptly at six p.m., and Miguel and Sonia had showered and dressed for the occasion. Miguel had warned Sonia that his father placed great emphasis on family meals, because they were so few and far between. Dinners at home were precious experiences, and they should be treated with the utmost respect.

Since there would be only four, they dined at one of the smaller tables just off the main kitchen, and J.C. prepared a four-course meal of beef and chicken that had become one of the signature experiences at every Sofía’s throughout the world. The family owned sixteen of the exclusive restaurants, all named after his mother, and they served both traditional and fusion Mexican cuisine, embracing all six regions of the country. Their world-renowned dishes were served in an atmosphere that Jorge had said should suggest the great ancient civilizations of Mexico, from the Olmecs to the Aztecs. Colossal sculptures of heads, fish vessels, and ancient masks were just a few of the art pieces hanging in every dining room. Dinner for two at the Sofía’s in Dallas, Texas, set back most patrons nearly two hundred dollars — before ordering the wine.

“Sonia, how are you enjoying your stay here?” Jorge asked, after taking a long sip on his mineral water.

“Well, it’s just horrible. I feel like I’m being mistreated, and I’m ready to go home. You people are obnoxious, terrible hosts; the food is just disgusting.”

Miguel nearly dropped his fork. He turned to her.

She burst out laughing and added, “No, seriously, I’m only kidding. Of course it’s incredible.”

Jorge finally smiled and turned to Alexsi. “You see? That is a sense of humor. That is what I’m talking about. You are much too lovely and much too serious.”

Alexsi smiled and reached for her wine. “Being lovely requires serious work.”

“Ah, and clever,” Jorge added, then reached over and gave her a kiss.

Miguel sighed and glanced away.

The conversation throughout dinner was focused on Sonia, her experiences at school, what she thought about the government in Spain, and her opinions about the European economy in general. She held her own as his father continued to interrogate her. When the meal was over, and they were leaning back and trying to breathe past their swelling waistlines, Jorge leaned toward the table and hardened his gaze on Miguel.

“Son, I have great news for you. I’ve been waiting to announce this, but I think this is as good a time as any. You’ve been accepted for a summer apprenticeship at Banorte.”

Miguel was about to frown but held back the reaction. His father was beaming, his eyes full of a wonder Miguel had not seen in years.

An apprenticeship at Banorte? What would they have him doing? Filing financial records? Would he be working in a branch or a corporate office? What was his father trying to do? Ruin his entire summer?

“Miguel …what’s wrong?”

He swallowed.

“You’re not excited. This will be a valuable experience. You can take what you’ve learned as an undergraduate and put it in action. Theory can only take you so far. You need to work in the field to see how these things operate. And then you’ll return to school for your MBA, knowing full well what is happening at the bank. This kind of experience you cannot get any other way.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You disagree?”

“Uh, I just …”

“If you’ll excuse me?” asked Sonia, rising from her chair. Miguel immediately stood and helped her out. “I need to use the bathroom,” she added.

“Me, too,” said Alexsi, glancing emphatically at Miguel.

Jorge waited until the women left and the servants had finished clearing their plates. Then he gestured that they should venture onto the deck to take in the moonlit ocean.

They stood there at a railing, his father with a drink still in hand, Miguel trying to muster the courage to decline his father’s offer.

“Miguel, did you think you were going to run around all summer and do nothing?”

“No, I did not.”

“This is a great opportunity.”

“I understand.”

“But you don’t want it.”

He sighed and finally faced his father. “I wanted to take Sonia on a vacation.”

“But you’re just back from Spain.”

“I know, but I want to show her our country. I was thinking about San Cristóbal de las Casas.”

Jorge’s expression began to soften, and his gaze drifted past Miguel and to the ocean. San Cristóbal was a place his parents had often visited, one of his mother’s favorite cities in all of Mexico. She loved the highlands of Chiapas and used to talk about the twisting streets, the brightly colored houses with their red-tiled roofs, and the green mountains all around. The place was rich in culture and Mayan history.

“I remember the first time I took your mother there …” He took another deep breath and could not go on.

“I think Sonia would love it, too.”

He nodded. “I’ll call them at the bank. You take the helicopter and spend a week there. Then, after that, you will go to work. If you want Sonia to remain here, that’s fine, but you will be working.”

Miguel drew back his head in shock. “Thank you.”

“You’ll have an escort while you’re there,” his father reminded him.

“I understand. But can they remain discreet, like they did in Spain?”

“I’ll make that happen. So what do you think of this girl?”

“She’s …great.”

“I think so, too.”

“Of course. You found her for me.”

“No, not just that. She’s very elegant. She would be a magnificent addition to our family.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to rush anything.”

“Of course not.”

“Well, we’ve stopped by for dessert,” called Miguel’s aunt from the doorway, with Arturo at her shoulder. “Are we too late?”

“Never too late,” said Jorge, giving her a kiss, then shaking Arturo’s hand.

While they chatted, Castillo was behind him, lifting his chin at Miguel, who shifted over to the man. “Do you need something, Fernando?”

“Yes, I’ve been trying to watch the monitors with my bad eye — if you know what I mean.”

“Thank you very much.”

“I wouldn’t do that again, though,” he said. “Your father would not appreciate it. He would say you are not treating her like a lady.”

“Understood. Thank you, Fernando. That was foolish.”

“I was young, too. I did things like that.”

Miguel placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’re a good friend.” He then drifted back onto the deck, where he caught his father telling Arturo that he can really make a difference and that they should work together to stem the violence in Juárez.

“I’m only the governor, Jorge. There is only so much I can do. The president’s policies are not working. They are only causing more violence. I just received another report today about more killings in the city, and just yesterday I received yet another death threat.”

“You are the best and the brightest we have. You know what to do. But above all, don’t get discouraged. This violence will come to an end. I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“Jorge, you may have heard this before, but not yet from me. I must add my voice to the others.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You should become the next president of Mexico.”

Jorge recoiled. “Me?”

“You have the connections and the finances. You could run a remarkable campaign.”

Jorge began laughing. “No, no, no. I am a businessman, nothing more.”

Miguel studied his father, the look of incredulity on the man’s face, with just a hint of guilt in his eyes, as though he was letting everyone down if he didn’t run.

“Did you miss me?” Sonia asked, hooking her arm around Miguel’s.

He turned to her and whispered, “I did. And I have a surprise for you.”