Only after becoming parents do you realize, the bond between your child and you truly resonates through your bloodline.
Hearing the movement, Krista Schroeder turned around and saw him holding the child, rubbing his beard forcefully against him. Caesar was pushing back with his small hands, voicing his displeasure with grunts.
Victor nodded, looking at the food on the table, his tone softening, "We have maids at home. Why not let them handle it?"
"They're already tired, and besides, I wanted to find something to do myself. You can eat now—this is Mexican oatmeal porridge, with abalone and saffron inside." Krista Schroeder served him a bowl.
A rare and relaxing morning.
As it turns out, as long as the Yanks don't cause a fuss, life in Mexico can actually be quite pleasant. The smaller North American countries nearby are all in a wait-and-watch mode.
It also affirms a certain principle.
Sleeping in someone else's bed, truly at ease.
After finishing the meal, Krista Schroeder wanted to go shopping. She looked at him hopefully, seeking to go together. Victor hesitated, patted her hand, "There have been too many spies in Mexico City recently. It's not very safe. Maybe in a couple of days, after we've cleaned out the bugs lurking around."
Though a bit disappointed, the mistress still nodded.
No nagging or pestering at all.
Victor pushed Caesar along a path in the garden, but the peaceful time didn't last long before he spotted George Smiley standing not far away.
"Looks like I've got work."
Krista Schroeder glanced over, took Caesar from him. "Then go ahead. Will you be home for lunch?"
Victor nodded, "I'd like some empanadas."
The woman happily agreed, taking Caesar with her and leaving. As she passed George Smiley, she nodded slightly, catching him off-guard.
"General, according to the address you provided, we've indeed located Pablo's whereabouts. Approximately in the southwestern United States, Colorado State. Someone spotted him and his convoy."
Victor blinked in confusion but vaguely recalled something.
Last night, he had a bit too much to drink. He had initially wanted the Intelligence Bureau to locate Pablo, but by the time their discussion was finished and they were about to leave, he suddenly remembered: Golden Finger could perform the pinpointing!
So, he searched for Pablo Escobar.
The result showed a location within the U.S., somewhere in the Rocky Mountains—though the exact spot narrowed only to a particular village… He vaguely remembered this.
He had been too thrilled, drank a little too much last night.
At least a whole bottle of vodka by himself, plus red wine, beer… mixing them all together.
Alcohol screws things up!
Alcohol screws things up!
Alcohol screws things up!
"How did he manage to end up in the United States?" Victor frowned.
"Should we send a small team to infiltrate? But if there are too many of us, I'm afraid it'll attract the U.S. Government's Special Forces." George Smiley suggested.
"No need. Right now, the Americans want to cooperate with us. Let them handle this. Pablo's head is our lever for advancing peace."
"The Americans? Willing to help us?"
"Donald Rumsfeld is my girlfriend's grandfather."
George Smiley was left speechless by this statement.
Of course, he knew that already. It's just that this response—saying it so straightforwardly—made it sound like, "Well, since my girlfriend's family owns The Pentagon, calling in a favor shouldn't be a problem."
Come to think of it, it actually made sense...
The U.S. is a society built on connections, too.
Didn't someone's son commit a crime once, yet as president, the father pardoned him?
So free and democratic, huh?
Even if his son had committed murder, arson, and every atrocity under the sun, after all...
The world of politics and war still operates on interpersonal favors.
George Smiley licked his lips. "But our internal assessment agency also believes that if Pablo is killed, even though the Latin American drug trafficking groups would fall into disarray, crime intensity could actually escalate. Right now, he acts like a rope binding the various factions together. Once he's dead, no one would be able to control those bandits."
"The line separating drug traffickers from anti-government armed forces is but a thin one."
Victor listened, staring deeply at him. He replied meaningfully, "Chaos? The more chaotic, the better. Only then can the United Nations Drug Control Agency send troops and wipe out those damn drug traffickers completely."
"The bigger the storm, the more fish there are, and the higher the selling price."