February 17, 1998, Mexico City, National Palace.
Victor sat in his office, watching the crowds marching on Paseo de la Reforma through the window.
It had been seven days.
Those people held up signs and shouted slogans, from morning till night, rain or shine. Their faces were tanned by the sun, their voices hoarse from shouting, but not a single one left.
"Avenge Diego!" "Try the murderers!" "Victor, we support you!"
The words on the signs were all handwritten, crooked, but every one was legible.
Bramo pushed the door open and came in.
"Someone in Congress is causing trouble again."
Victor did not turn around.
"Who is it this time?"
"Alvarez. That old guy says your approach to the Ecuador issue is too much 'personal heroism,' leaving Congress out and undermining the democratic process. He also said Mexico cannot become a one-man show."
Victor turned around.
"Alvarez. That old man nearly eighty?"
Bramo nodded.
