February 9, 1998, 8 PM, Quito, Carondelet Palace.
The Presidential Palace has been surrounded for six hours.
The square outside is filled with people—citizens holding the national flag, soldiers carrying guns, members of the "Patriotic Front" in civilian clothes, and reporters carrying cameras. The shafts of the searchlights sweep through the crowd, making faces flicker bright and dark like a group of ghosts dancing in torchlight.
Alarcón stands on the balcony on the second floor, with seven cameras and over a dozen microphones set up in front of him.
He has changed his clothes. No longer wearing the drab gray suit from the day, he is now in military attire—the honorary uniform bestowed by the Commander-in-Chief of the Ecuadorian Army, adorned with two stars on the epaulets and his chest laden with medals, some earned, some borrowed.
The makeup artist has just powdered his face, covering the bags and wrinkles, but cannot conceal the trembling in his hands.
"Mr. President,"
