Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 694 Old Man Ao!

As September arrived, Mexico was already immersed in a festive atmosphere.

For Mexicans, Independence Day holds far greater significance than any other holiday.

This marked the beginning of their liberation from colonial shackles and the declaration of national independence; it was a pride and passion etched into their very bones.

In Mexico City, the celebrations reached their peak.

The streets, from Reform Avenue to Constitution Square, were already covered with green, white and red tricolor national flags.

Huge national flags hang on the facades of skyscrapers, while small pennants are strung together, rustling in the breeze, connecting every lamppost.

The shop windows facing the street were all carefully decorated with patriotic themes, and the supermarket was filled with specially supplied Independence Day products.

On the streets at night, you can see crowds of people spontaneously gathering everywhere. They have national flag paint on their faces, wear wide-brimmed straw hats or traditional ethnic headdresses, wave small flags in their hands, and sing and dance to the music of street bands.

The air was filled with the aroma of roasted corn, the greasy smell of fried pork rinds, the sweetness of sugar syrup, and an omnipresent, restless, and exuberant hormonal scent.

The sounds of children's laughter, couples' playful banter, the Mariachi band's resounding trumpets and songs, and vendors' shouts of selling souvenirs... all these sounds blended together to form a massive wave of noise that almost overturned the city.

This is a joy that comes from the bottom of my heart.

September 15, 1995, the eve of Independence Day.

A military airport in Mexico City.

A Boeing VC-25A without any obvious markings landed silently on the runway and taxied to the designated area.

The airport is under far greater security than ever before.

In addition to the Mexican soldiers and military police that can be seen everywhere, there are also some special security personnel in black suits, wearing headsets, and with sharp eyes scattered around.

The aircraft cabin door opened, and the gangway vehicle quickly docked.

George Walker Bush appeared.

He deliberately avoided wearing his signature flight jacket or casual wear, opting instead for a formal suit and tie.

But he looked unusually haggard, with heavy bags under his eyes and a tight mouth. Every step he took down the gangway was heavy and stiff.

Casare, who had been waiting at the bottom of the gangway, immediately went to meet him.

He still had that round, chubby look, wearing a suit that always seemed a size too big, and his face was plastered with an overly enthusiastic smile, making him look like a Maitreya Buddha.

“Mr. President,” Casare extended his chubby hand, “Welcome to Mexico City. You must be tired from your journey.”

"Mr. Casare."

There was no red carpet, no honor guard, no welcoming children presenting flowers, and no swarms of reporters.

This was an absolutely secret and low-key reception.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, George W. Bush and his extremely small entourage were quickly led to a waiting motorcade.

The convoy consisted of five black Chevrolets with extremely dark tinted windows. Although they were American vehicles, the drivers and security personnel in the escort vehicles were all Mexican.

George W. Bush was asked to sit in the back of the middle car.

Casare skillfully opened the car door and sat down next to him.

With a "bang", the car door closed.

The convoy started immediately, without sirens or flashing lights, and silently drove out of the military airport and merged into the highway leading to the city.

The atmosphere inside the car was oppressive and suffocating.

Bush stubbornly turned his head to the window, watching the scenery rushing past.

Casare sat to the side with a smile, not taking the initiative to speak, but occasionally glancing at the American president beside him out of the corner of his eye, who was trying to remain calm but could not hide his dejection.

The convoy first passed through the industrial areas surrounding the airport and relatively remote suburban areas.

But soon, the scene before them began to change.

The closer you get to the city center, the more intense the festive atmosphere becomes.

The roads became congested, and despite their convoy having access to a dedicated lane, they could still feel the surging crowds and noise around them.

The streets were packed with people, shoulder to shoulder.

People waved national flags, glow sticks, sang and danced, their faces beaming with pure and unrestrained smiles.

"A unified, strong, and new Mexico! Glory to Mexico! Glory to Victor!"

The enthusiastic crowd erupted in even louder cheers whenever Viktor's image appeared.

"Viva México!" (Long live Mexico!)

"Viva Víctor!" (Long live Victor!)

Even through the well-insulated car windows, the sound waves could still be faintly heard, crashing against Bush's eardrums like waves.

Simple yet powerful slogans are pasted on lampposts, building walls, and even on some speeding cars:

"Unión, Fuerza, Orden!" (Unity, Strength, Order!)

"El Futuro es Nuestro!" (The future belongs to us!)
"Bienvenido Texas a Casa!" (Welcome home, Texas!)

These slogans stung Bush's eyes.

He saw a young couple passionately kissing on the street, while a group of students walked by laughing and joking.
All of this forms an absurd contrast to his current mood and the country he represents, which is bleeding and losing a vital part of itself.

A profound sense of absurdity enveloped him.

Is this really the Mexico that was once considered America's backyard, rife with poverty, drugs, and corruption?
The light and shadow outside the car window flickered on Bush's face.

Mexico wasn't like this when his father was the CIA director!
In just a few years, it has become like this.

Back then, Mexico truly was our backyard.

How long has it been?

Five years?
Casare followed Bush's gaze to the bustling sea of ​​lights and people outside the window, his voice steady:

"Mr. President, the people are actually very simple."

"They don't care who rules them, whether it's Washington or Mexico City, the Democratic Party or the Revolution, or anything else."

"What they care about is order, safety, the price of bread, whether there is meat in their bowl, and whether they are afraid of hearing gunshots on their way home at night."

Casare paused, turned his head, and looked at Bush with a hint of "teaching" in his small eyes:

"Whoever gives them this, even just a sliver of seemingly stable hope, will cheer for you."

"As for the price..."

Casare chuckled softly, shrugged, and turned his gaze back to the reveling crowd outside the window, saying meaningfully:
“The cost is always paid by others, isn’t it? And most people don’t care about those ‘others’.”

"History is written by the victors, and joy belongs to those who survive and have enough to eat."

The car fell silent once again.

Only outside the car window, the revelry on the eve of Mexico City's Independence Day continued unabated, the deafening noise seemingly never ceasing.

Bush Jr. stopped talking.

The motorcade eventually drove into the National Palace, passed through heavy guards, and stopped in the inner courtyard.

Casare got out of the car first, still smiling, and opened the car door for George W. Bush: "Mr. President, we've arrived."

George W. Bush took a deep breath, straightened his suit, tried to appear calm, and stepped out of the car.

Guided by Casare, he met Victor, who was waiting at the door.

To Bush's surprise, Victor did not adopt the arrogant attitude of a victor. Instead, he greeted him with a warm, even friendly, smile.

"George!"

Victor's voice was loud and clear, with an almost friendly familiarity, "Welcome to Mexico City! Was the journey smooth?" He opened his arms and gave the somewhat stiff Bush a firm hug, even patting him on the back.

The hug left George W. Bush completely stunned; all the tough words and confrontational emotions he had prepared seemed to have landed on nothing.

He could only manage a weak reply, his throat dry: "Victor... thank you, was the journey alright?"

Victor released him, his hands still on his shoulders, and carefully examined his face. His brows furrowed slightly, and his tone became concerned: "You look tired, George. Have you been under a lot of pressure lately? I understand. With a bigger business, troubles always come one after another. How have you been doing lately?"

Damn it...

Don't you know whether I'm good or bad?

hypocritical!

Hypocritical man!
This overly "sincere" greeting left Bush feeling awkward, and he could only vaguely reply, "Luckily, I'm just jet-lagged."

jet lag…

Mexico and the United States have no time difference whatsoever.

It's right next door; if you pee and your urine is yellow, the smell will waft over.

"That's good. Health is the foundation of everything."

Viktor smiled and released his hand, naturally putting his arm around Bush's shoulder as if they were old friends. "Come on, let's talk inside. I've prepared some good coffee; we can chat while we drink. I know your time is precious, so let's get straight to business." Viktor then half-embraced Bush and walked side by side into the prepared meeting room.

Several key figures from Mexico, including President Lunacharski and Casare, were already seated on one side of the long table in the conference hall.

On the other side was an empty seat reserved for the American side. The atmosphere seemed harmonious, but an invisible pressure was already spreading.

After the key personnel from both sides took their seats and exchanged brief greetings and introductions, the talks quickly got down to business.

George W. Bush cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure and stance. He leaned forward, looking directly at Victor across from him: "Victor, let me be frank, the current situation in Texas is unacceptable. The entry of Mexican troops and their subsequent actions have seriously violated the sovereignty and territorial integrity of the United States. We must find a mutually acceptable solution to avoid further escalation or even loss of control."

Victor slowly stirred the coffee on the table, his expression calm: "George, I appreciate your directness, but first, we need to recognize a few facts. Mexico's intervention was at the request of the Texas Natives, to prevent a potential humanitarian disaster and full-blown civil war after the collapse of the Stuart regime. Now, order is being restored, and life is returning to normal, which is evident to all."

"That's not a request, that's separatist incitement!"

George W. Bush raised his voice slightly, "Texas is an integral part of the United States!"

"It used to be."

Victor put down his coffee spoon and said in a low voice, “Now, the facts have changed. Our troops are there maintaining order, our administrative system is taking over, and the vast majority of Texans have chosen cooperation and peace. George, the reality is that Mexico has effectively taken control of the entire territory of Texas.”

George W. Bush's face turned ashen: "Effective control is not the same as legal possession! This is blatant aggression!"

"It is a necessary action to maintain regional stability."

Victor corrected him, his tone still steady, "What we're talking about now isn't the established fact that Texas belongs to Mexico, but how to formally acknowledge and manage this new geopolitical reality in a way that's good for everyone."

"Absolutely impossible!"

George W. Bush flatly refused, stating, "The United States of America will never recognize the annexation of Texas! That's the bottom line!"

The smile on Viktor's face vanished instantly, replaced by extreme impatience.

He leaned back abruptly in his chair, pulled out a metal cigarette case, took out a cigarette, lit it with a lighter with a "snap," took a deep drag, and exhaled a smoke ring.

George W. Bush and the other American personnel were taken aback by this sudden and impolite act.

Before George W. Bush could reiterate his "bottom line," Victor took another drag of his cigarette, then pointed at Bush with the finger holding the cigarette: "George, save your breath. What you're saying are just pretty words politicians use on TV to win votes. You flew all this way secretly, not to recite your State of the Union address in front of me, were you?"

Before he could finish speaking, he suddenly stood up.

This action caused the American security personnel to tense up instantly, while Lunacharski and Casare from Mexico remained expressionless, as if they had expected it.

Just get used to it, get used to it.

Even more shockingly, Viktor casually picked up the heavy glass ashtray on the table, not to smash it, but to slam it down on the table with a thud, like a gavel, and pointed it directly at Bush's nose.

"You fucking disagree with this and that!"

Victor's voice suddenly rose, carrying a street thug-like savagery and ferocity, a stark contrast to his earlier enthusiasm. "That idiot Stuart treated our words like farts, and now you can't even find his head hanging over your head! You're sitting here talking to me about 'indivisibility'? Who the hell created the reality of Texas with guns, your Washington pens?!"

George W. Bush's face turned deathly pale with anger. As president, when had he ever been subjected to such blatant insults and threats?

He jumped to his feet, slamming his hands on the table, his body trembling slightly with rage: "Viktor! Mind your manners and the occasion! Is this a meeting between heads of state?! This is thuggish behavior!"

"Identity? Occasion?"

Victor scoffed, pushing the ashtray forward until it almost poked Bush in the face. "My identity is that of someone who can decide whether millions of Texas will eat bread or be shot tomorrow! Someone who can decide whether those states on the West Coast of America can get a good night's sleep tonight! Talking to you is giving you face, offering you a way out, and you won't take it?"

He slammed the ashtray back onto the table with a loud thud, braced himself on the table, leaned forward, his face almost touching Bush's, and his eyes flashed with a fierce light:
"Then go back! Go back to your Air Force One! We have nothing more to talk about!"

"You want to fight? Then come on! Let's fight to the death!"

"Let's see if your airborne divisions set foot on Texas soil first, or if my missiles smash into Houston, Los Angeles, and even your damn White House first! Let's see if your Wall Street stock market crashes first, or if Mexico uses all its national strength to fight you to the bitter end! Let's see if your American pampered soldiers are afraid of death, or if my lads who have crawled out of mountains of corpses are even less afraid of losing their heads!"

The air in the conference room seemed to freeze.

The members of the US delegation were pale-faced. They had anticipated the difficulties of the negotiations, but they never expected it to turn into a blatant threat of war and a street brawl.
Bush's chest heaved violently as he tried to remain calm, but Victor's completely unpredictable and roguish style threw him into disarray.

The person in front of me truly doesn't care about conventional diplomatic etiquette, nor about so-called international public opinion; he might even genuinely not care about the consequences of a full-scale war.

Casare chimed in at the opportune moment, slowly and deliberately: "Mr. President, please calm down. Mr. Victor is just a bit blunt, but his words are not without merit. War is not good for either side, especially for your country's current... well, rather fragile economic and social state. Aren't we sitting here precisely to prevent the worst from happening?"

Victor sat back down in his chair, took another drag of his cigarette, and stared at George W. Bush: "The choice is yours, George. Do you go back with a passable agreement and tell the Americans you've averted a full-blown war and secured the other states, or do you get out of here now and we're preparing for a major war? I'll give you time to think it over."

After Victor finished speaking, ignoring the mixed red and blue faces of Bush and the members of the American delegation, he snorted twice and stood up straight: "Take a half-hour break, have some coffee, take a leak, or call your damned Congress for instructions, whatever you like."

With a wave of his hand, he turned and walked out of the tense meeting room. President Lunacharsky immediately stood up and quickly followed him out.

In the restroom.

Viktor stood in front of the urinal, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, smoke billowing around him.

Lunacharsky, standing next to him, relieved himself while asking in a low voice with a hint of worry on his face, "Sir, have we... been too forceful? I'm worried that the Americans are being pushed too far, and what if they really do something reckless..."

Victor scoffed and exhaled a smoke ring: "Reckless? You overestimate them."

He zipped up his jacket, walked to the sink, turned on the tap, and amidst the rushing water:

"They were like the most vain and cowardly rich people, wearing expensive silk shirts, and their biggest fear was getting mud on their skin, and even more so, rolling around in the mud with barefoot desperados."

"They have everything, so they are most afraid of losing it."

Viktor turned off the water, took a tissue and slowly dried his hands. Looking at Lunacharsky behind him in the mirror, he smiled meaningfully.

"Remember, American imperialism and all its activists, in the final analysis—"

He paused, crumpled the tissue into a ball, and precisely tossed it into the trash can, uttering that famous statement:
"They're all paper tigers."

He patted Lunacharsky on the shoulder: "They're in a lot of trouble internally right now. The economy is crumbling, anti-war sentiment is running high, and the Wall Street tycoons are more concerned with their stock accounts than the Texas desert. That spoiled brat George W. Bush doesn't have the guts or the resources to wage a full-scale war against us. How long can he squander the political legacy and team his father left behind?"

"What he needs most is an excuse to save face and a 'victory' to explain to the country."

"This is called the art of winning."

"We've pushed him to the edge of a cliff, and now it's time to throw him a rope that looks sturdy. Just wait, after the break, you'll see a much more humble American president."

After saying that, he straightened his collar: "Let's go back and hand the rope to our American friends. Don't forget, the task of playing the bad cop later will be yours and Casare's."

After the break, both parties sat down again.

George W. Bush's expression remained grim, but his previous tough stance had softened considerably. Clearly, he had indeed engaged in urgent communication with his country during that brief interval, and the instructions he received were likely not optimistic.

Viktor stopped being aggressive and leaned back in his chair, leisurely sipping his freshly brewed coffee, as if he weren't the one who had just been slamming his fist on the table and cursing.

George W. Bush took a deep breath, as if he had exhausted all his strength. The stubbornness he had put on earlier had vanished, replaced by a pragmatic, or rather, helpless, demeanor born of extreme exhaustion.

His gaze swept over the composed Viktor across from him, and the two masters of facial expression control beside him. Lunacharsky showed just the right amount of concern, while Casare still had that smiling, Buddha-like expression.

Bush's voice was a little hoarse; he deliberately avoided the other person's gaze, staring at the table.

"We all know the reality: for the next possible step, for stability, the United States of America needs some basic guarantees."

Victor didn't speak, but simply raised his chin, signaling him to continue.

George W. Bush carefully chose his words: “First, the Mexican government must publicly and explicitly cease its claims of occupation or annexation of Texas. You could use a different… a more neutral term, such as ‘at the request of the authorities to maintain order,’ ‘a special administrative arrangement for the transition period,’ but any provocative official statements involving changes in sovereignty must cease.”

What is this called?
If you don't make a public statement, will I lose face?
Viktor looked at him with a half-smile, then gestured for him to continue.

"Secondly, during the transition period, Mexico's military presence and administrative influence in Texas should be consciously and gradually reduced in terms of visibility, which will help... reduce domestic public opinion pressure."

After stating these two points, he paused to observe Viktor's reaction.

“Continue,” Victor said.

"Finally, and most importantly, the Mexican government and all media channels under its control must immediately cease all public attacks and insulting propaganda against the United States government, its institutions, and myself. Moreover, when necessary, Mexico needs to stand up and explicitly criticize those statements and actions that attempt to undermine the stability and legitimacy of the U.S. government, regardless of where such statements come from. You must publicly acknowledge that a stable and legitimate U.S. government is in the common interest of the region."

He finally finished speaking, but his eyes remained fixed on Viktor.

This is tantamount to demanding that Mexico not only stop criticizing the United States, but also turn around and help the United States criticize those who criticize the United States. This is undoubtedly a kind of spiritual "surrender".

But it was the most effective "fig leaf" that Bush could bring back to cover up his military and territorial defeats.

The meeting room fell silent for a moment.

Victor leaned back slightly, his gaze slowly shifting to his advisor, Chris Russell Chi, who was sitting to his left.

He subtly raised an eyebrow and made a light rubbing motion with his fingers under the table, implying that more value could be extracted, or that some ambiguity could be created in the program to our advantage.

Viktor understood.

Then he started chatting with little Bush for a long time.

They talked until about 3 a.m.

After it's over.

George W. Bush's eyelids were practically drooping.

This tactic is called "enduring the old man's exhaustion"!

Victor stood up and reached out his hand, "George, you are truly a very capable politician!"

It's hard to tell whether this was a compliment or a sarcastic remark.

Anyway, the old man almost died from overwork.

……

(End of this chapter)