Trial by Fire

4

Throughout her years as a correspondent, Jan Fields had been asked many times, "What is the secret of your success? How did you make it in such a demanding business?"

Jan enjoyed playing down her considerable success, answering that question using the same charming and graceful style that she used to disarm people she interviewed. With a slight, almost imperceptible flick of her head, she would toss her long brown hair to one side. For a moment she would pause while she looked from the corner of her eye at the person talking to her. Turning her head slowly back toward the other person, a simple, almost mischievous smile would cross her face. For a moment, she would avert her eyes, looking down at her hands as if to ponder the question before answering. When she did respond, her tone was soft, almost shy. "Well, I've just been lucky, I guess, very lucky."

Then, quickly glancing up, she would look at the questioner, her big brown eyes wide open now, a broad smile lighting up her face. Throwing her hands out to the side, palms up, she would repeat her response:

"Luck, nothing but dumb luck."

Those who worked with her, however, knew better. If there was any luck involved in Jan Fields's success, it was because she made it. Her current assignment was a good case in point. Sent to Mexico City to do a story on the impact of American investments and American-controlled business in Mexico, Jan had worked sixteen hours a day for three days scheduling interviews. By wrangling invitations to several cocktail parties and affairs, including a formal state dinner, Jan was able to meet people who consented to being interviewed by the charming senorita with the dancing brown eyes.

In arranging for interviews, and while doing them, Jan worked like an artist selecting the proper brush and color, employing a variety of skills and talents to get what she wanted. When talking to one official, she would be all business. With another, all smiles and charm. And with yet another, shy, almost timid. Jan was not to be taken lightly, however.

When hacking through the layers of bureaucracy, she could be as determined and tough as she needed to be when someone stood between her and a story.

As to the technical side of her profession, not only was Jan dedicated and a perfectionist, she demanded no less from those who worked with her. Yet she could be professional without being impersonal, in control without being overbearing, by using the same charm and graceful manner on her camera crew that she used to put her subjects at ease. She understood that the process of putting a story together was a cooperative effort and acted accordingly. By making everyone a member of one team, Jan was able to extract the best from those who worked with her and for her.

When she was preparing for an interview, no detail was too small and no angle was left unconsidered. As part of her advance study of the interviewee, Jan made it a point to study how the person dressed. If the person was a man, she would examine photos of his wife, noting the style and even the color of her clothing in an attempt to find out preferences.

Anything and everything was used to put the subject at ease.

There was an aspect of Jan Fields's work, however, that most people in her profession would frown upon. Jan, for all her technical skills, yas, first and foremost, an artist. She did not simply cover a story, she created.

Everything — the lighting, angle of the shot, her attire, the background — was considered against an overall concept, an image, an idea that she wanted to communicate. Of all her skills, her ability to take abstract thoughts and images and translate them into images that could be captured by the camera was the most difficult to define, yet the most important.

Still, there was no denying that luck did play a part. June 29 was to be the last day of shooting. After an interview with the president in the morning, Jan and her Austin-based camera crew had been scheduled to leave for Texas. The death of the president, however, changed all that.

The morning started when her "fixer," a Mexican hired to make arrangements for hotels and transportation, as well as to deal with government bureaucrats, called her at 6:30 and told her that the president was dead. With rumors of a coup, he warned her that it was important to leave the city immediately. Naturally, Jan would hear nothing of that. Instead, she insisted that the fixer, an elderly man named Juan, arrange for an interview with a spokesman from the new government. Juan, not wanting to leave his home, let alone become involved with the new government, tried to talk her out of it. Jan, however, hung tough and demanded he try or lose his commission. Reluctantly, Juan agreed.

No sooner had she hung up the phone and turned to begin dressing, than it rang again. Without waiting for Jan to respond, a male voice, in impeccable English, identified himself as a captain in the Mexican Army calling on behalf of a Mexican Army colonel Jan had never heard of. In a very crisp yet polite voice, he informed Jan that in reviewing the president's daily schedule, his colonel had discovered that Jan was listed for an interview at the Palacio Nacional later that morning with the president. Jan, a little leery about where this conversation was going, paused before answering. Caution, however, was not one of her strong points. "Yes," she responded, "that's right. I am, I mean, I was scheduled for thirty minutes." Then, as an afterthought, she decided to push her luck and see what she could get the captain to confirm. After all, he didn't know how much she knew. "Is there something wrong with the time or the length of the interview, Captain? I have a very flexible schedule and can easily change it in order to accommodate the president."

Now the hesitation was on the other end of the line, while the captain thought before responding to Jan's probing questions. Finally, in a hushed voice, he informed Jan that President Carlos Montalvo's plane was missing and that an assassination attempt was suspected. He then went on, stating that, in order to ensure public safety and internal security, as of five o'clock that morning the Mexican Army had declared a state of emergency and imposed martial law.

Jan was becoming excited. She had confirmation, from an official source, of Montalvo's death. Furthermore, she knew that an Army captain, representing a colonel, wouldn't be calling her at a time like this if there weren't something that they wanted. Deciding to push a little further, she asked, in a soft voice preceded with a slightly audible sigh,

"Oh, how tragic. I don't know what to say." Then, before the captain could respond, Jan added. "I guess that means there is no point in my coming to the Palacio Nacional."

Jan's ploy worked. When the captain responded, he spoke quickly in order to soothe her fears. "Oh no, Miss Fields. On the contrary. My colonel has instructed me to advise you that it would be his pleasure to meet with you at noon, if that time is suitable for you. He will provide you with a summary of the past twelve hours and actions being taken by the Mexican Army to deal with the current crisis."

Pausing for dramatic effect before responding, Jan informed the captain that it would be a pleasure to meet with his colonel at noon. After a few pleasantries, they both hung up. Jan, excited by the manner in which the morning was developing, smiled and leaned over, pumping her right arm up and down and shouting, "Yes, yes." Fame and fortune, she knew, belonged to the lucky.

Once she was off the phone, Jan roused her crew, informing them of the news and getting them ready to go out into the street to shoot whatever they came across. There was no sense, she thought, of wasting the valuable time before her interview with the colonel. Next she called World News Network, her employer. When she informed them that she was still in Mexico City and had been contacted by people who claimed to be in charge, they were all ears. Though WNN already had two camera crews and a full production team, with direct feed capabilities, preparing to fly in from Dallas, Jan knew it would be hours before they were there and longer before they were ready to start covering the story. With some deft negotiating, she managed to get them to agree that she would be their chief correspondent in Mexico for the duration of the current crisis, with the right to edit her own material before beaming it back to Washington.

With that settled, Jan called back to Juan to check on his progress. His news, presented in a rather unconvincing manner, was discouraging.

According to him, he was unable to contact anyone who knew what was going on. "Everything is in chaos, Senorita Fields. Everyone is very uncooperative. No one knows who's in charge."

Without hesitation, Jan fired back. "Then I guess we need to go down to-the government offices and find someone who is in charge."

"No! No! We can't do that, Senorita Fields. This is a coup, a revolution.

There may be trouble. That is no place for a woman to be."

Juan's last comment tripped a harsh response. "Listen, mister, that's what I'm paying you for. Either you take me down there and do your job, or kiss your commission, and your reputation, goodbye."

There was a moment's pause while Juan pondered his choices. Jan wondered which threat was more damaging, the loss of money or the loss of prestige. Not that it mattered much to her. All that mattered right then was getting a story, any story, shot and on the air.

Finally, Juan answered, "Si, yes. I will take you. But we must discuss my salary. Things have changed. This is now a very dangerous time, senorita. You understand."

Softening her tone, Jan responded. "Yes, Juan, I understand. What would be fair pay for a man of your talents in the current crisis?"

Feeling that he had regained a measure of control, Juan pondered the question out loud. "Well, things could become dangerous. They say government troops are all over and that other government police officials across the country are being arrested. There could be fighting."

Jan listened, responding with, "I see," and "Ah-huh," as Juan built a case for a higher salary. When he was finished, Jan repeated her question.

With the confidence of a man who knew she would never agree to such an outrageous sum, Juan demanded double his current fees. What he had not realized was that Jan was prepared to pay four times the current fee.

Without hesitation, she agreed to double his fee, told him to meet her in the lobby of her hotel in thirty minutes, and hung up before he had the chance to say another word.

Prepared for scenes of chaos and open fighting, Jan was somewhat disappointed as they drove through the deserted streets of the city with her tiny crew consisting of Juan, a cameraman, and a sound technician. After taping ten minutes of empty streetcorners and closed shops, they drove to the main plaza where the Palacio Nacional was located. Again, except for an occasional jeep filled with soldiers, there was nothing. Leaving the van, Jan, followed by the camera crew, began to walk toward the Palacio Nacional in an effort to attract attention or provoke a response from the Army patrols. Again, however, she was quite disappointed as the mounted patrols and guards posted at the doorways of government buildings ignored Jan and the camera.

When they passed the Palacio Nacional, Jan decided to take advantage of her invitation to interview one of the colonels who was supposed to be in charge. She stopped and looked at a knot of soldiers standing about the main entrance. "We had an interview scheduled with the president of Mexico this morning. Now, we have one with his replacement." Then, with a smile on her face, she turned to her sound man, Joe Bob. "So, my loyal friends and crew, that must mean we are welcomed and sanctioned.

Let's take advantage of that welcome and do some serious reporting."

Joe Bob took his cue and pulled the van up to a good place to park.

Without asking or waiting for the opinion of the others with her, Jan turned away and moved with purpose toward the Palacio Nacional. From what she had seen, if there had been a military coup, it had been efficient, quick, and controlled. If those assumptions were true, there was an organization in charge and operating. And if there was a system, it could be manipulated. Since the news wasn't going to come to them, it was time to dig for it, and what better place to start than at the top?

Juan, however, was shaken by the events of the morning, the presence of so many soldiers, and the brazen attitude of Jan Fields. Never missing a chance, he tried to persuade Jan to return to the hotel until things settled down. Jan would not be put off. Angered by Juan's timidity, Jan turned to him, throwing her arms out and shouting as she did so. "Settled? If things get any more settled, they'll roll up the sidewalk!"

Neither Juan nor Jan took into account that while they were looking at the same situation, each was dealing with it based on an entirely different perspective. For Juan, the sight of vacant streets in Mexico City populated only by armed soldiers was a new and disturbing sight. The Federales and their fat officers, after all, could not be trusted. Jan, on the other hand, who had seen firsthand bloody street fighting and cities choked with tanks and troops, began to wonder if the military was, after all, in charge, let alone behind the coup and the unrest that Juan kept worrying about.

After spinning about and looking at the deserted streets, she turned back to Juan. "Settled? If this place becomes any more settled we'll die from boredom." Dropping her arms, Jan stood there for a moment and thought. Slowly, a wicked smile lit her face. "What we need to do is stir something up." Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked right into the middle of the soldiers.

Like clockwork, everyone in Congressman Ed Lewis's outer office dropped what they were doing and turned to the television monitor whenever WNN reviewed the top news stories of the hour. Even the congressman, like a figure on a German cuckoo clock, came out of his own office every half hour to watch the news. Ever since Lewis, a Democratic representative from Tennessee, had been appointed a member of the House Intelligence Committee, both he and his staff took a keen interest in any news that involved foreign crisis or conflicts. An avid reader of just about anything in print and a news junkie, Lewis was capable of absorbing and retaining tremendous amounts of information and storing it away, ready for use. Only partially in jest did his fellow representatives refer to him as the next best thing to the Library of Congress.

Yet no one would think of describing Lewis as being bookish or an intellectual. At forty-two, he looked more like a college basketball coach than a U.S. congressman. His six-foot two-inch frame was lean without being skinny. His brown hair, streaked with stray strands of gray, was cut short, not styled. Though he often wore a warm and friendly smile, it was his eyes, more than any other feature, that expressed his moods and betrayed his thoughts. They could be warm and inviting to a new acquaintance, cold and cutting to an opponent, and friendly and mischievous to a friend. His eyes told everything and, like the college basketball coach, missed nothing. More than one witness who appeared before a panel on which Lewis sat commented on the manner in which Lewis used his eyes to unnerve them. An interdepartmental memo circulated within the CIA to members of that agency slated to appear before Lewis, advised that its members read or pretend to read notes and avoid eye contact with Lewis when answering questions.

As he stood in his doorway watching the news on the situation in Mexico, Lewis compared the story to the information he already had.

That, unfortunately, was not only skimpy, but contradictory. Official statements and contacts he had cultivated at the CIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency, or DIA, and the National Security Agency, or NSA, provided only bits and pieces of the story, bits and pieces that didn't fit together.

What he had heard was not at all satisfactory. From the CIA, he got the impression that the coup in Mexico was a bolt out of the blue. Though he was given few details, the DIA described the coup as an efficient and comprehensive operation that had decapitated the Mexican government.

The NSA, on the other hand, noted that the situation was confused and quite chaotic. Based on his experiences with intelligence people, Lewis knew that, in reality, the situation in Mexico contained all those elements.

The material from the nation's intelligence agencies, after all, was no better than the sources they used and the opinions of the people doing the data analysis. Each agency depended on different sources and used different criteria when determining what was relevant and what could be ignored. While the information they provided was nice, it wasn't what he needed at a time like this. What he and the nation's decision-makers needed was a clear, concise, and comprehensive overview of the situation, a view that brought all the stray pieces together. Unfortunately, Lewis knew it would be days before anyone in the intelligence community would be able, or willing, to commit themselves to such a summary.

So until then, all they would get was raw data and bits and pieces.

Still, Lewis was disturbed that no one had seen the coup coming. It was like the fall of Cuba in 1959, the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 and of Afghanistan in 1979, the reunification of Germany in 1989, the invasion of Kuwait in 1990, the Soviet coup in 1991, and a score of other "bolts out of the blue": America's leaders were handed a crisis which they had not been prepared to deal with, leaving them no choice but to throw together a policy on the fly. What made this failure even more disturbing was the fact that the U.S. had massive resources deployed in Mexico and along the border as part of the drug-interdiction mission.

Surely, Lewis thought, someone working with the Mexican military or government must have come across something. No one, he knew, could hide an undertaking massive enough to topple the Mexican government in a matter of hours without someone noticing.

As he watched the news, he considered his next move. He would give the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee until noon to begin asking questions before he did anything. If, by noon, no one else had, Lewis would throw a few turds in the punch bowl and start hounding people, not only for information bjut for answers. With the amount of money the Congress sank into the intelligence community, there was absolutely no excuse for the nation's depending on a twit like Jan Fields to provide them with their only source of information on world events.

As if by magic, the image of Jan Fields flashed onto the screen across the office. With the Palacio Nacional as a background, the bright-eyed journalist stood reporting from the heart of Mexico City. Ranked by well-armed and grinning soldiers, she casually recapped what she had seen, mentioning that she had arranged an interview with a member of the Council of 13, the organization she described as comprised of Army and Air Force officers who had assumed control of the government.

Lewis could feel his anger building up. Mumbling, he turned away.

"Christ, in a few hours she knows more about what's going on than the CIA. What a farce! What a bloody farce!"

Sitting across from the Mexican colonel, Jan couldn't be more pleased with herself. In a matter of a few hours, she had shot a piece, made contact with the ruling council, arranged for an interview with a member of that council, and even got the Mexican military to help her transmit her first story to WNN headquarters in Washington, D.C.

Seated across from her was, from what she had been told, one of the architects of the coup that had brought to an end "the corrupt and self serving government of the few," as an official spokesman had called President Montalvo's administration. Although the Mexican colonel's uniform was slightly wrinkled, and specked with dirt and dust, his presence and carriage were commanding. That, coupled with his extraordinary command of English and his position on the Council of 13, provided Jan with an opportunity to create a piece that would be head-and-shoulders above anything the other news agencies could possibly hope to put together for days. Now all she needed was to get this colonel to give her a few interesting comments that she could add to the framework of the official comments she had in hand.

"So, Colonel Guajardo, what finally convinced you and the other members of the council that the duly elected government of Mexico no longer represented the people?"

Though the question by the American correspondent bothered Guajardo, he didn't show it. Looking straight into Jan Fields's eyes, he framed his response, translating his thoughts from Spanish to English in his mind. When he was ready, Guajardo leaned forward, toward Jan.

"There is no simple answer to that question, I am afraid. In the past few weeks, I have often pondered that same thought." Guajardo paused, allowing himself to settle back in his seat before continuing. When he began to speak, he waved his right hand about, sometimes throwing it out to the side with the palm up and open, other times pointing his index finger at Jan to emphasize a point. "Is such a violent response, I asked myself many times, really necessary? Isn't there a better way? Not a day passed that I didn't say to myself, you are not giving the system a chance.

Perhaps, just perhaps, things will get better." Pausing, Guajardo let out a sigh, letting his right hand come to rest on his right thigh while he let his head drop down as if to study his resting hand. "But, alas, nothing changed. The politicians, they came and went. Programs to solve our debt, create jobs, and remedy our social problems were launched with great fanfare and wonderful speeches. For a while, whatever problem the program was aimed at solving would improve."

In a flash, Guajardo changed. Jan was startled by the sudden transformation.

When their eyes met, she was greeted by eyes that were cold and distant, set in a face contorted in anger. Though she didn't notice, Guajardo's right hand was now clenched into a fist, a fist that he was slowly using to pound his right thigh as he spoke with a harsh, cutting voice.

"But then, when no one was looking, the politicians went back to their big houses and the programs were forgotten. The only thing that did not change was the faces of the people. In their eyes, you could see the flame of hope slowly dying, drowned by the harsh reality of survival in modern Mexico."

Jan, momentarily caught off guard by Guajardo's response, paused.

After thirty minutes of simple banter and short, crisp answers, she had finally gotten the colonel to react. Sensing it was time, she seized the mood and drove on. "So, you and your fellow colonels decided that you had to act. But I wonder, was it necessary to eliminate the entire government and the leadership of the PRI, as well as the other political parties? Surely there was no-need to turn on the PAN and the PSUM. If anything, wouldn't they have been better as allies, not rivals, in your efforts to establish a new government?"

Again Guajardo paused before answering. He continued to look into Jan Fields's eyes while he thought. She was attempting to provoke him.

It was as if she had driven a knife into him and was slowly twisting it.

Well, he thought, if you want a reaction, you shall have one. But Guajardo, ever the professional soldier, sought to maintain control.

"The PRI has rooted itself throughout our nation like a great cancer. It is everywhere, it touches everything and everyone. And everyone it touches it infects. For decades, men like my father struggled to cure the cancer from within. He served the party well, doing what was asked in the belief that he was doing something important for Mexico. And all the while, he closed his eyes to the graft, the corruption, the fixed elections, the misappropriation of funds. I would hear him at night telling my mother that someday, when he had the power, he would do what was right. He would come forth, like the knight on the white horse, and change everything."

Pausing for a moment, Guajardo shifted in his seat, turning his head to look up at the great mural depicting the heroes of the first revolution.

Without looking back at Jan, he continued. "I think, in his heart, he really believed he was doing what was right. Just like the politicians in the PAN and PSUM, I truly believe he was trying as hard as he could. But the cancer had seized him. Its roots slowly wrapped themselves about him, squeezing every trace of compassion out of him. By the time he died, he was like a man who had stared at the sun too long, he was blind to the reality of the world around him, a reality that threatens to destroy everything that the Revolution stands for.''

"Is that how you see yourself, Colonel, a savior on a white horse, coming forward to correct all the ills of Mexico by execution and terror?''

Guajardo could feel the blood rush to his head. He snapped his entire body about and faced the American female. For a moment, he eyed Jan Fields, fighting hard to maintain his composure. What arrogance, he thought. How can she, sitting here, dressed in clothes and shoes that cost her more money than the average family in Mexico made in half a year, understand what we are trying to do? What does she know of poverty, of crushed dreams and stillborn hopes? How dare she come into my country and impose her morals on our people when she has no idea what it means to be a Mexican?

For the longest time, Jan watched as Guajardo glared at her. Perhaps, she thought, she had gone too far.

As if in response to Jan's thoughts, Guajardo stood up, coming to a ramrod straight position of attention in front of Jan. There was a moment of silence as everyone waited for Guajardo to announce that the interview was over. Instead, Guajardo summoned, with a slight motion of his hand, a captain who had been patiently waiting in the background.

As the captain came forward, Jan looked at her crew. Ted the cameraman, nicknamed Theodore because of the round wire-rimmed glasses he wore, not seeing any cues from Jan, had his eye glued to the camera as he continued to shoot. Joe Bob, her sound tech and the only native Texan in the crew, looked at Jan, shaking his head. Also at a loss, Jan shrugged her shoulders and threw her hands out, palms up. Only Juan, standing against the wall, was visibly upset. Like a barefooted man on a hot beach, he nervously moved and shuffled his feet about, his eyes jumping from the spot where Guajardo stood conferring with the captain to the door at the far end of the room. To Jan, it appeared as if Juan were mentally measuring the distance he would have to run if something happened.

Did he know something, Jan thought, that we didn't? Or was he just overreacting? For the first time, Jan began to take the situation seriously, reminding herself that the man standing in front of her had something to do with a revolution that had begun by killing the same leaders he had, as a soldier, pledged fidelity to.

The clicking of the captain's heels as he turned and walked away caused Jan to turn back and face Guajardo. In a moment, he had changed.

His face was transformed, his eyes, his whole attitude had changed. The calm, relaxed man in the overstuffed chair was now towering over her.

From her chair, she looked up at him. In his brown uniform, he looked like a great grizzly bear. The soft brown eyes that had been so disarming were now dark, vacant, and piercing. Whether he intended to be intimidating didn't matter as far as Jan was concerned; she was duly intimidated, though she tried not to show it.

"Ms. Fields, a minute ago you asked me what finally drove me to turn against my government and the political system that kept it in power.

Come, I will show you." Without waiting for an acknowledgment, Guajardo turned and left the room.

The colonel's announcement had been an order, plain and simple.

Although she had no idea where he was going to take them, Jan knew she had hit a nerve and that whatever he was going to show them could only enhance the material they had collected during the interview. Without hesitation, she was up out of her seat and scurrying across the floor, leaving Ted and Joe Bob scrambling to grab cases and cables. Juan, seizing the confusion of the moment, deciding that he had greater need of his life and liberty than of double pay, quickly and quietly slipped away through the door he had been eyeing.

With Colonel Guajardo leading, Jan and her crew trotted through the corridors and down the grand staircases, in an effort to match the colonel's great strides. None of them noticed that Juan was not with them.

Even when they walked into the great courtyard where a military sedan and the rental van Jan's small crew was using sat waiting with doors open and engines already running. Neither Jan nor Joe Bob, the driver, thought to ask how or by whom the van had been moved. Such details weren't important at that moment.

What was important was where they were going and what the colonel wanted them to see. Pausing at the open side door, Jan all but shoved Ted and Joe Bob in, shouting, "Go, go, go," as they passed her. As soon as Joe Bob was clear, Jan turned to follow, but was held back by a hand on her arm. Turning, she saw that the captain Guajardo had talked to was holding her. With a slight smile, he informed her that Colonel Guajardo would like her to come with him in the sedan. Caught off guard, Jan looked back to Joe Bob, noticing for the first time that there was a soldier in the van's driver's seat.

In an instant, Jan realized that she was no longer in control of the situation. Her first reaction was to turn on the captain and explain that she had to stay with the rest of the crew. That, however, quickly passed from her mind when she noticed for the first time that Juan was not with them.

Instead of defiance, Jan decided to stall in an effort to gain some time to assess the situation..

''Juan, my fixer, is not here yet. We must wait."

The captain, still smiling and still holding her arm with a gentle but firm grip, simply shook his head. "I am sorry, Ms. Fields. Your man has already left. The colonel is quite busy and we must leave, now."

"I assume the man you have driving our van knows where we are going."

The captain nodded his head. "He is a very good man. The van will follow. Please, Ms. Fields, we must go. The colonel is waiting." With that, he gave a slight tug on Jan's arm, a tug she initially resisted.

Wanting the last word, if for no other reason than to show that she was going of her own free will, Jan called to Joe Bob and Ted. "I'll be with the colonel. Keep the camera ready and roll on anything that might be of interest."

Looking at Jan, Joe Bob wondered if she meant that as a threat to the captain, reminding him that they were filming in case he had evil intent, or if she was just giving simple directions. Regardless of what she meant, Joe Bob began to regret leaving his.357 Magnum back home in Austin.

There ain't nothin' more pathetic, he thought, than an unarmed cowboy surrounded by a bunch of pissed-off greasers. "Okay, Miss Fields, we'll be right behind you." Not that we can do squat, he thought.

Guiding her around the van, the captain led Jan to the sedan where Colonel Guajardo waited in the backseat. Jan had hoped to sit up front, preferring to have some distance and a nice seat back between her and the colonel. But the captain took her to the rear door, which he closed behind her with a quick, crisp slam.

Guajardo, without a word, looked over to Jan while she settled herself.

His cold, hard expression hadn't changed. Even when she smiled and told him she was ready, Guajardo said nothing to her, greeting her announcement with a slight nod. Turning to the driver, Guajardo rattled off instructions in Spanish.

To Jan's surprise, instead of a simple nod or si, the driver suddenly stiffened. In the rearview mirror, she could see an expression of shock on his face. The order the colonel had given had certainly upset him, a fact that did nothing to calm the tightness Jan began to feel growing in the pit of her stomach. Moving only her eyes, Jan glanced back and forth between Guajardo and the driver.

When Corporal Fares, the driver, failed to respond to his order, Guajardo leaned forward and repeated it. Fares, his face now contorted with an expression that reminded Jan of the same frightened look Juan had had, whispered what sounded like a hesitant plea in response to Guajardo's second order.

In a flash, Guajardo raised his right hand, made a fist, and pounded his right thigh with it as he hissed his order for a third time. Choking out a

"Si" that was barely audible, Corporal Fares mechanically released the parking brake, shifted the sedan into gear, and began to drive. Satisfied, Guajardo eased back into his seat, not bothering to look at Jan, who was trying to sink into her corner as far as she could.

Once out of the courtyard and on the streets, Jan did her best to avoid attracting Guajardo's attention. Looking out the window, she tried to suppress the fear that was gnawing away at her. Though she had been in difficult spots before, she had never been the focus of attention as she was now. Before, she had always been the casual observer, able to keep herself apart from the event she was reporting or the person being interviewed.

What was happening now was totally out of control. Knowing that she had put herself and her crew into such a situation so willingly and without weighing all the consequences didn't do anything to assist her efforts to calm down and collect her thoughts.

And the presence of Colonel Guajardo was also troubling. Even though she kept her face turned to her window, Jan could sense his presence. In the large room of the Palacio Nacional where they had conducted the interview, she had noticed mud on Guajardo's boots and traces of dirt and soot on his uniform. Now, in the confines of the car, Jan noted the unusual.mixture of odors that permeated Guajardo's uniform.

Without looking at the colonel, Jan began trying to determine what he had been up to by analyzing the scents that emanated from him. The dominant odor was that of a man who had been very active and either not taken the time or hadn't had the opportunity to shower. Jan was familiar with the musky smell of masculine sweat. Her lover, Scott Dixon, who was a lieutenant colonel in the American Army, usually smelled like that when he came back from a field exercise. Guajardo had another smell to him that often permeated Scott's field gear, the odor of hydraulic fluids.

As the operations officer of the 16th Armored Division, Scott often used a helicopter. So it was not uncommon for him to smell like one after a field problem. A third scent, fainter than the others, yet quite distinct, reminded Jan of burned flesh. The question of how Guajardo had managed to pick up that odor intrigued her while, at the same time, it brought her back to the realization that the man sitting next to her was no soapbox politician. The power he held was the result of direct and brutal action.

For a brief second, Jan felt the urge to look at Guajardo's hands to see if there was still blood on them. She quickly dismissed that thought, however.

After all, modern man had progressed a long way from the Old Testament, becoming quite adept at washing hands.

Jan began to concentrate on the scenes that flashed by her window.

Without her noticing it, they had passed from the almost deserted streets of the center of the city to a residential and shopping district crowded with cars, trucks, people, shops, small stands and stalls. Outside, on the street, shoppers, workers, vendors, and beggars jostled each other as they went about their daily business as if nothing had changed in Mexico. Jan sat up when she realized this and began to look for the soldiers that had been so evident in the center city. She saw none. She didn't even see any police.

For all practical purposes, whatever was happening with the government had, so far, had no effect on these people.

When the sedan reached an intersection and stopped for a light, a young man ran out from the curb and came up to Jan's window. He looked at her, smiled, and turned his head. Puzzled, Jan wondered if he was a beggar or peddler. Then, without warning, as he held a lighter inches from his face, he spit out a ball of flame from his mouth.

The sudden feat of the fire-breathing man startled Jan, causing her to jump backward, bumping Guajardo in the process. Guajardo, who had been lost deep in thought as he looked out his window, turned to see what had startled Jan. The fire-breather, finished with his act, had turned back to wait for his reward. Only then did he notice that Jan was seated next to a colonel of the Mexican Army. Slowly, the fire-breather's face turned from a broad smile to a quizzical frown. Still, the man stood there, not moving. He was still staring at Jan and Guajardo, as if in a daze, until the light turned and the sedan pulled away.

Suddenly realizing that she was leaning against the colonel, Jan sat up straight and moved back to her side of the seat, running her hand through her hair. As she began to regain her composure, she glanced over at Guajardo. He was looking at her.

Seeing that he was studying her, waiting for her next action, Jan faced Guajardo. "I'm so sorry, Colonel. I wasn't expecting that. He caught me off guard."

"They are called tragafuegos, our slang for fire-breathers."

"Why do they do that? I mean, isn't it dangerous?"

Guajardo looked at Jan and let out a cynical laugh. "To live, my dear Ms. Fields. They do what is necessary to live. On a good day, a tragafuego can make eight or nine thousand pesos."

Doing some quick mental math, Jan figured how much nine thousand pesos was in dollars. Guajardo watched as she did so, smirking when Jan's expression turned from a blank to a look of surprise. "But that's only a little more than three U.S. dollars."

With a self-satisfied look on his face, Guajardo nodded. "Yes, somewhat better than the average minimum wage."

"But it is dangerous. It must be easy to burn himself."

Realizing that he had her, Guajardo played with her. "Oh, if they are careful, and use diesel instead of gasoline or cooking oil, they do well."

As he talked, Jan's face showed signs of surprise. In a rather nonchalant manner, Guajardo continued to drive his point home. "The problem is not the burns. They can heal. What does not heal is the damage the tragafuegos do to their health. The first thing they lose is their sense of taste. The petroleum products, regardless of what they use, are corrosive.

They eat at the human tissue. Eventually, the tragafuegos lose all feeling in their mouth, followed by their teeth." Then, as an afterthought, he added, lightly, "And of course, ulcers on the tongue are not at all unusual."

Jan's expression was slowly turning to disgust. "That, however, is only the beginning, Ms. Fields. The worst is the brain damage. The speech becomes slurred as they become brain dead, unable to fend for themselves. The process is slow, taking eight to ten years. Eventually, they will simply disappear, their places on the streetcorners taken by younger men who are still able to perform."

Jan was becoming uncomfortable. In part Guajardo knew that it was because she was no longer in control. Like most Americans, Jan was used to having things her way. That she couldn't, bothered her. Even more disturbing, though, was the fact that she no longer had the option to pick those things that fit neatly with her preconceived ideas and images. She had not been ready, or willing, to face the reality of Mexico. That face, one easily ignored, was not pleasing to her. Guajardo could see this and was quite pleased. The trip was paying off. "And what, Colonel, is the government doing? Aren't there social programs, or welfare, or something better than that? Doesn't he know what he is doing?"

Turning his face away from Jan, he looked out the window as he answered. "Yes, Ms. Fields, he knows." Then, looking back to her, his eyes narrowed. "But he is a man, a proud man. What you just saw was the result of failed or sham programs that the former government used to justify its existence. I have no doubt that somewhere along the line, a politician or social worker arranged a mediocre job for the tragafuego that we saw. And no doubt, the tragafuego worked at it until the funds ran out or the program closed down after the politician was re-elected. As for welfare, I shouldn't need to remind you that we are a proud people. Your North American ideas of welfare serve only to break the spirit. That man, the tragafuego, would rather die a slow and miserable death than lose his pride."

No sooner had Guajardo said that than the sedan stopped. Jan turned to see where they were. She had been so absorbed in her conversation that she had not noticed they had driven into an area that was little better than a shantytown. The sudden transition, from the clean, broad boulevards of the city center to the squalor of this slum of Mexico City, was unsettling to Jan. She was not ready to deal with this. In her travels, she had been in such ghettos before. Still, she never grew used to them. She had a great deal of difficulty accepting that people had to live in such conditions, and that there was nothing she could do to change that. Whenever she knew she would need to go into a ghetto or into a place like this, it took her days to condition herself to deal with the despair, filth, and poverty she knew she would see. She had not been able to prepare herself for this trip, and it threw her mentally and emotionally off balance, a condition she was struggling to correct as Guajardo prepared to leave the safety of the sedan.

The driver opened his door, jumped out, and ran to open Guajardo's.

When Jan looked back at the colonel, he smiled a sly smile, one that reminded Jan of a cat eyeing a bird. "At the Palacio Nacional you asked what motivated us to do what we did, Ms. Fields. Come with me, and I will show you." Without waiting, Guajardo turned away and exited the sedan.

The stench hit Jan before she even left the car. A dizzying combination of decaying garbage and human waste assaulted her nose, irritating its lining like pepper and causing her to gag. Pausing, Jan instinctively brought her hand up to her mouth and nose. Guajardo, waiting for her several feet from the sedan, watched in amusement. For a moment, he felt like calling out a snide comment, but decided to wait. There would be ample time to rub her nose into the reality of Modern Mexico.

Regaining her composure, Jan swung her legs out of the sedan, planting her feet into the discolored goo of the unpaved and rutted street.

Again, a momentary expression of disgust registered on her face, causing the smirk on Guajardo's face to broaden.

Jan, looking up at Guajardo, realized that she was not only making a spectacle of herself, but was reacting in a way that Guajardo, no doubt, had anticipated, perhaps even had counted on. This, and her own inability to control her reactions, suddenly angered her. Determined to show that she was made of sterner stuff, she sucked in a deep breath, distasteful as this was, and forced herself to stare back at Guajardo with a face that was as determined as it was defiant.

The change in Jan's demeanor wiped the grin off of Guajardo's face.

Realizing that she had managed to rally to his first challenge, he decided it was time to press on. Time was valuable and he was already falling behind. In a tone that was, for the circumstances, artificially polite and sweet, Guajardo invited Jan and her crew to follow his driver, Corporal Fares.

As if on cue, Ted and Joe Bob came up, equipment at the ready, on either side of her. Placing a free hand on her left shoulder, Joe Bob leaned over and whispered in Jan's ear, "You okay, Miss Fields?"

Reaching across her chest with her right hand and lightly grasping the hand Joe Bob had on her shoulder, Jan nodded. "I'm fine. Now let's go see what the good colonel wants to show us." With that, she let go of Joe Bob's hand and stepped off.

The strange procession caused the people in the streets of the slum to stop what they were doing and watch as it went by. Corporal Fares, wearing a nervous look on.his face, led the group. Every so often he looked to the side, nervously nodding his head at a neighbor who recognized him. Behind him came Guajardo, walking tall, erect, and seemingly unconcerned with the squalor of his surroundings. Several feet behind the colonel were Jan, Ted, and Joe Bob, all traveling in a tight little knot with Ted and Joe Bob holding their equipment at the ready.

Only the soldier who had driven the van for the camera crew remained behind, occasionally shooing away dirty children dressed in rags when they came too close to the sedan and van.

The tumbledown shanties, shacks, and hovels that lined the filth-strewn dirt street were constructed of every imaginable material. Some were made with cinder blocks, either loosely piled up one upon the other or cemented together with uneven layers of mortar used by the amateur builders who laid the blocks. Scattered between the hovels made of cinder blocks were other homes built with irregular scraps of plywood or wooden boards. These, like the cinder-block homes, varied depending upon the skill of the builder. All were no more than six or seven feet high, had a single door, often without a frame, and few if any windows. Their roofs, flat and barely visible to Jan, were either boards covered with a thin layer of tarpaper or loosely connected strips of corrugated metal.

As they trudged along, Jan began to take note of the people. They parted as Corporal Fares and Colonel Guajardo approached, slipping away into their homes or into the dark, narrow spaces between them. Jan looked at them as she passed. In the spaces between the homes, amid heaps of rubbish and discarded building material, small children and women watched as she went by. In one alley, Jan was shocked to see a woman, her back to the street, squatting over an open hole, relieving herself. That, no doubt, Jan thought, accounted for part of the stench. For a moment, Jan wondered why she was doing that in the open. Then, looking back at the size of the houses, she realized that they were far too small and crude to hold a bathroom inside. For the next few feet, Jan looked between the homes, searching for any signs of an outhouse, but saw none. Satisfied, and disgusted at the same time, she stopped looking.

Other details began to jump out at her. Above the houses, a wild patchwork of electric wires and extension cords running from telephone poles crisscrossed, running into access holes in the houses. On the ground, running between the houses, garden hoses of every color and size snaked in and out of other holes chipped or cut through the walls. It took no great genius to figure that this was how those fortunate enough to afford the material provided their homes with water and electricity.

In their wanderings, Jan could not find any street markings or numbers on the houses. She began to wonder if there were any. While she was working on this problem, Corporal Fares stopped in front of a cinderblock house, no different than many of those they had already passed.

Sheepishly, he looked up at Colonel Guajardo. The colonel, without changing expression, simply nodded, giving permission to, or ordering, Fares to enter.

Turning to Jan and her crew, Guajardo finally spoke. "Before, Ms.

Fields, you asked me what made me decide to raise my hand against the government to which I had pledged undying loyalty. I tried to think of the words that could describe this to you." He paused, stretching out his arms, palms up, and rotating his torso as he looked away from Jan and at the crowded slum in which they stood. Dropping his arms, he turned back to Jan. "But I could not. How, I thought, could I describe this in words that a well-bred, cared-for, and educated yanqui woman such as yourself could understand. Better, I thought, that I allow you to see, for yourself, what it meant to be a Mexican under the callous rule of the PRI. So I have brought you to the home of my driver, Corporal Fares. Perhaps, when you have seen this, you can better understand what is causing not only me, but millions of others like me, to take desperate steps. You may, if you like, film this. Perhaps you can think of the words that have escaped me."

Suddenly, the confrontation with his driver, the nervous silence in the sedan, and Corporal Fares's uneasiness as they had walked down the street, made sense. The corporal, obviously ashamed of his home, was being forced to expose it to strangers. That, and the fact that Jan realized that the colonel was making a crude effort to use them for propaganda, angered her. Her dark expression, displaying the anger and contempt she felt for Guajardo, was returned by the colonel, who, for his part, felt hatred for a person who sought only the truth that fit her own clean perception of how the world should be.

Jan turned toward Joe Bob and barked out her instructions in a tone that betrayed her disgust with Guajardo. "All right, let's get on with this.

Give me a hand mike."

Pulling out his earphones and sliding them over his head, Joe Bob turned on the recorder, listened for a moment, then reached into a side pocket and pulled out a mike for Jan. While he was doing so, Ted hoisted the camera onto his shoulder and waited for Jan's cue to start shooting.

Without any of the normal preliminaries, except for a quick check of her long reddish-brown hair, Jan gave the cue to start shooting. When she saw the red record light and Joe Bob give her a thumbs-up, indicating the mike was hot, Jan began without really knowing what she was going to say. "Jan Fields from Mexico City. About an hour ago, while interviewing Colonel Alfredo Guajardo, a member of the council of colonels responsible for today's dramatic coup here in Mexico, I asked the colonel why he decided to turn against the popularly elected government of Mexico. His response was to take me, and my camera crew, to this slum in the suburbs of Mexico City. The home we are standing in front of, barely better than a shack, supposedly belongs to his driver, a corporal in the Mexican Army. While it is not unusual for rebels to claim that they represent the will of the people or justify their actions by publicly displaying the plight of the people, thought it would be appropriate to allow the colonel an opportunity to state his case. So here we are, at the home of Corporal Fares, Mexican Army."

Giving Ted the signal to keep rolling, Jan turned to enter the cinderblock house. For a moment, she felt good. The brief piece before the camera, her little introduction, had had a calming effect on her. For a second, she felt she was back in control, running the show. All she had to do now was maintain the edge and keep Guajardo from dominating the interview. Like a fighter entering the ring, she was ready.

The scene that greeted her, however, shook her. With the trained eye of an observer, in a single sweep of the one-room house, she took everything and everyone in, and was appalled. A single light bulb, precariously dangling from a cord in the center of the room, provided the only source of light. Guajardo, standing just inside the door to the right, was silently watching Corporal Fares as he hugged a girl of six or seven. She was thin, bordering on scrawny, with jet black hair pulled together in a braid. Her big eyes, wide with fright, were turned up to her father as she held his leg with a viselike grip.

Across from Fares, on the wall to the left of Jan, was a small portable two-burner stove, the only kitchen appliance in evidence. Next to it stood several wooden boxes, neatly stacked and attached by boards on either side, creating a shelving unit in which pots and pans occupied the lower section, or box, while other cooking utensils and boxes filled the top two.

In the corner, next to the stove, was an old kitchen table with a broken leg, surrounded by four chairs, none of which matched. Against the far wall was a mattress sitting on the floor. Though Corporal Fares partially blocked Jan from seeing the entire mattress, she could see that someone was on it. Curious, and anxious to see what was so important about this particular home, Jan moved around the corporal.

As she made this move, Jan's head struck the bulb, causing it to swing haphazardly from its long wire. Distracted, she moved farther into the room, almost up to the edge of the mattress, before looking down to see who was on it. When she did, she gasped in horror.

The child lying there was little more than a skeleton. It was hard to judge her age because her face was distorted by bulging eyes sunk deep into their sockets and surrounded by black circles and hollow cheeks.

Still, based on her length, the girl had to be ten, maybe eleven. Her arms and legs showed no sign of muscle; the joints, both kneecaps and elbows, were clearly visible. The only indication that she was alive was a shallow, raspy breathing that caused her chest to rise and fall ever so slightly.

Once she was over the initial shock, Jan began to notice that, for all the misery that wracked the girl, she appeared to be well cared-for. Her hair, long and black like her sister's, was neatly combed and arranged to either side of her head. Her nightgown, and the single sheet that covered the mattress, though frayed and threadbare in spots, were spotless.

"Her name is Angela. She is ten years old." Jan, startled by Guajardo's statement, turned away from the girl and looked at the colonel. To his right, in the doorway, stood the rest of her crew, Ted taping and Joe Bob listening to the quality of the sound recording and adjusting it as necessary.

Looking back at Angela, Jan asked what was wrong with her.

Guajardo grunted. "Mexico City, Ms. Fields, Mexico City and poverty."

Jan looked up again, first at Corporal Fares and his other daughter, both of whom were watching her intently, then at Guajardo. For the first time since entering the room, she noticed it was terribly hot and she was sweating. Except for the door, there was no other opening in the room.

The sun, on the exposed tarpaper on the roof, was turning the room into an oven. Guajardo was using her.

Though she knew in her heart that what was happening had not been a setup, Jan felt anger. She didn't quite know why she was angry, let alone who she should be angry at. Was she angry because she was unable to handle the sights of poverty, sights that were part of the real world that was so much a part of her profession? Was she angry at the arrogant Mexican Army colonel for rubbing her nose in that poverty? Was she angry because she wasn't in control of the situation? Was she angry that she was being manipulated so skillfully by the colonel? She didn't know.

At that moment, surrounded by the grim reality of real life in Mexico, all she knew was that she was angry and had no one to lash out at. Determined to regain her mental balance and establish some degree of moral ascendency over the colonel, her retort was sharp, almost bitter.

"Cities do not kill children. Nor do governments. This poor creature has an illness that, I am sure, can be cured if properly cared for."

Guajardo, in a very controlled and even voice, slowly responded, carefully picking his words for effect. "How naive you are, Ms. Fields.

Naive and arrogant. You come south, into Mexico, from your rich middle-class world in the north where everyone has an education and there is always an answer, always a solution to the problems of the poor.

Yet for all your sophistication and knowledge, you know so little. Or is it that you choose not to know the truth? Cities do kill people, Ms. Fields.

Just look about you, out there in the street, if you care to call it that. It is an open sewer, a dung heap. People and animals who live here leave their waste out there, day in and day out. In the heat of the day, human waste, uncovered, dries and flakes. Tiny microscopic flakes of feces are picked up by the wind, mixed with exhaust fumes from hundreds of thousands of cars, trucks, and buses that run on leaded gas and poor exhaust systems, and are carried about the city. These people, living in these slums, breathe this mix in, every day of their lives. Some, like Angela, aren't strong enough to survive."

Guajardo paused, looking away from Jan and at the frail figure on the mattress. "Perhaps she is the lucky one. Her lungs, corrupted beyond repair, will kill her before she becomes a woman. Death will save her from living in a hole like this, scratching out a living and raising a family where the children have no hope, no fantasies, no dreams. Angela will not have to watch her son stand on a corner and breathe fire to make a few dollars a day, killing himself as he does it. Angela will not have to watch her daughters become old and haggard before their time, scrubbing floors or doing laundry in the homes of the rich. And Angela will not have to be told that her husband, or son, was gunned down in the streets by the thugs of a rival drug lord."

Turning, he began to walk away, but then stopped and looked back at Jan. As he spoke, Guajardo breathed in deeply, struggling to control his anger and tears. Between breaths, his choppy words hammered Jan like blows. "No, Ms. Fields, if you have tears to shed, shed them for Angela's sister. She is a girl with no future. A child who cannot go to school because she must care for Angela while her mother earns two dollars a day scrubbing floors and her father serves in the military. It is the sister, not Angela, that I can save. And if I fail, if the old system is allowed to return, she will be condemned to live and die in a hole like this."

Finished, Guajardo took another deep breath, held it for a moment as he looked back at Jan, then left the room, brushing aside Ted and Joe Bob as he did so. Seeing the colonel leave, Corporal Fares quickly bent down, told his daughter something, gave her quick hug, then followed Guajardo out the door.

For a moment, Jan stood at the foot of the mattress, at a loss. Her anger began to swell up in her again. Needing to do something to dissipate this anger, to give it a name and a target, Jan ran out the door after Guajardo, practically running him down.

"And what about you, Colonel? What makes you any different? You knew about that girl. You are a man who is obviously well off, who has the power to help that girl. Why have you done nothing to save Angela?"

To Jan's surprise, Guajardo's response was neither hurried nor angered.

On the contrary, at first, he smiled and merely shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "I see. Your solution is to save one child. If I do that, I suppose, I can rest in peace, just like you yanquis do."

Jan, her anger still unchecked by Guajardo's calm demeanor, asked him why that was such a bad thing.

"I remember, Ms. Fields, when I attended a course in Kansas, I was taken to a restaurant in town that had a small container shaped like a loaf of bread next to the cash register. The sign behind that loaf of bread claimed that a fifty-cent donation could feed a hungry child in a poor country for two days. I looked at that sign and became quite angry at my host and his countrymen. I could not understand a people who could so easily dispose of the poor and hungry of the world and, for such a small amount, create the impression that they had done a good, meaningful deed. For just fifty cents, they could feel good for a whole week, maybe a month, and go back to their homes with their fat children who wanted for nothing and would never know the agony of hunger."

Stopping for a moment, Guajardo looked about him before he continued.

Jan did likewise. "No, Ms. Fields, we are playing for much bigger stakes, as you would say up north. I will not rest until not only all of this is gone, but the system that created this is gone as well."

As he looked at Jan, Guajardo's face suddenly became cold, his eyes narrowing into there slits. "Yes, you are right! I could save Angela. I could go back there, right now, and take that girl away from here and save her. But who would save the others like her? You, Ms. Fields, with a fifty-cent donation? No, because the screams of hunger or Angela's pain do not reach far enough north for you to hear. We are fighting for the very soul and existence of Mexico. We want nothing less than you want; freedom, security, and a life worth living. That, Ms. Fields, is well worth fighting for and, if necessary, dying for."

Finished, Guajardo walked past Jan toward the sedan, brushing her aside as he did so. The interview had finally ended. But the anger and confusion that Jan felt hadn't. For the longest time, she stood there, letting his words, mixed with the sights, sounds, and smells of the barrio, hammer away at her. By the time Joe Bob reached her, Jan was able to begin to think clearly. Guajardo was right. He knew it. And so did she.

Now all that remained was for her to figure out what to do with that revelation.