Microwave antennae provided satellite links with other International forces in the cities of Mexico and the hemisphere. Rows of electronic consoles processed incoming data and messages, automatically decoding and printing fold-sheets for the attention of a commander's staff. Technicians monitored the operation of the machines and maintained the flow of printouts to the offices on the penthouse floor of the tower.
In a high-security cubicle, a lieutenant took notes on a voice message from Washington, D.C. The voice of the North American radioing from an NSA office a continent away came from the decoding circuits like a machine speaking, metallic and disembodied.
"We did not tape all the transmitted information. But what we recorded, we will relay to your commander. A translation will follow."
"Excellent!" The lieutenant underlined a notation. "We have units in motion."
The metallic voice laughed. "You get them. We're tired of those hotshots running around making trouble. Get them."
Lyons whipped through the turns, the bumper of his compact sedan only a few steps behind the Mitsubishi van that Blancanales drove. Vato led in the first compact. On the long blocks between turns, Ixto watched the traffic behind them.
"El camidn estd alu," Ixto told him.
In the rearview mirror Lyons saw the gunmen following in a Ford pickup truck.
They came to a traffic circle. Lyons accelerated to close the gap behind the van. Cars and trucks sped around the monument at the center, weaving through the city buses. Someone ahead braked. Blancanales braked, Lyons smashed the bumpers together, then Blancanales veered to the right. Lyons hit the bumper again. The van sped away.
Swerving across the wide boulevard, Vato made a right turn, accelerated, then skidded through a left turn. Blancanales followed only seconds later. Ixto gripped the panic handle on the dashboard as Lyons skidded through a turn. The gunmen in the pickup tried to follow but sideswiped a bus. Another bus rear-ended the truck.
Pedestrians stared at the wild driving of the blond North American. A traffic cop put up a hand to stop the crazed tourist, but Lyons skidded around the officer — the cop's sky-blue uniform shirt flashing past the passenger window — and accelerated for another block. A hard right turn took them into the shaded streets around a park.
Lyons watched the traffic in his rearview mirror. He saw no truck.
Vato and Blancanales slowed. Lyons flashed his headlights to signal them. They did not risk using their hand-radios. If the International could detect the electronic signature of the decoding components, the transmissions would lead the surveillance units to them. Lyons pulled up parallel to Blancanales's van.
"Where do we go to get rid of that wreck?" Lyons asked, shouting across Ixto to Blancanales.
Squares of white adhesive tape matching the van's white paint covered the patterns of 9mm bullet holes. But the improvised patches and the smashed-out windows would not pass the inspection of police or investigators.
"The tourist section," Blancanales answered. "The Zona Rosa. Rent one there. Stay close."
"If I get any closer, I'll be parked in your back seat."
"Figure of speech..."
An hour later, they had another passenger van. They stopped on a side street and transferred the heavy trunks and suitcases of weapons to the new rental. They left the bullet-pocked rental there. Then they crossed the district to a restaurant and ate a leisurely lunch while Blancanales called landlords and commercial real-estate agencies throughout the metropolitan area.
Blancanales described himself as a Puerto Rican entrepreneur who needed warehouse space immediately. Agencies referred him to one office after another. Finally he made an appointment with a rental manager. Blancanales and Vato went together to examine the warehouses.
The others waited at one of the neighborhood parks. Lyons watched old women walk babies in prams as Davis and the Yaquis tutored him in basic Spanish. As the hours passed, the nursemaids and small children left the park. Groups of shouting boys, in the white-shirt-and-black-pants uniform of a school, ran through the park, kicking a ball made of wadded paper in a plastic bag. Teenagers from another school walked through minutes later, boys with boys, girls in other groups, sweethearts two by two.
Finally, Blancanales and Vato returned. "We got a problem."
"Perms," Vato explained.
"Dogs in the warehouse?" Lyons asked.
Vato shook his head. He explained. "Perros calle-jeros. Street boys. They have nowhere to go. The manager said we must go get police to evict them.''
Lyons shook his head. "No police. Pay the punks to leave if..."
"The problem's solved," Blancanales interrupted. "We told the boys we represented a government agency shipping cargo for the army. If they aren't gone when we get back, soldiers will throw them out."
"And it just so happens we got four Mexican army soldiers, right?"
"It just so happens..."
"They wore the uniforms of soldiers, but they were not soldiers."
Miguel Coral and Pedro Ramirez listened to Rico describe his eviction. Homeless for years, Rico survived on the streets by shining shoes. He slept where he could, in doorways, in alleys, or in abandoned buildings. He wore sandals and torn pants and a stained sweat shirt. Street filth crusted his skin. Shoe blacking stained his hands.
As a shoeshine boy, he listened as he worked. Often he heard important information. Men talked while boys shined their shoes, thinking the boys did not understand. But Rico understood the value of information. He had learned to listen and watch and remember. Today, he had heard of the reward for information on the North Americans who traveled with soldiers. He had talked with all his friends, all the people he knew from the streets. And then the North Americans had come, had actually appeared at the place where he and many other boys stayed.
"They wanted to rent the warehouse. Many of us are there and the Mexican says he will call the police. Then one of the other ones, he tells us..."
"This was the Puerto Rican?"
"Yes, the old one. The other one was young. He came back dressed like a soldier, the young one. The other one acted like a boss, telling the soldiers to move us out. All of them shout and say they will shoot us, so we went. That is when I saw the gringos outside. A blond one. And two others, North Americans.''
"Here..." Coral slid a sheet of paper and a pen to the boy "...draw the place."
Across the table from the older men, Rico sat on his shoeshine kit and carefully sketched the outlines of and entries to the warehouse.
A television blared in the next room. Below the windows of the apartment, traffic rushed through the narrow street, horns sounding, brakes squealing. Ramirez, middle-aged like Coral, wore bifocal glasses to study the map Rico drew.
"How much will you pay me?"
Coral took a thousand-peso note from his pocket. He put it in front of the boy. Rico shook his head.
"One thousand is nothing for this. This is very important. I know. They said they were soldiers and they had machine guns and they were with North Americans. Maybe they are drug smugglers. Maybe they are terrorists. I want a thousand dollars."
"You what?" Ramirez sputtered, astounded by the shoeshine boy's demand.
"If they are there," Coral told him, "we will pay another thousand. Pesos."
"They are there!" Rico protested. "One hour ago, they were there. I come here. They are still there."