Zachary's assistant served a large bowl of pasta with a piquant sauce and called Margo Huerta to join them. "So you're suggesting an operation that runs like a franchise, one of these multilevel marketing organizations?" Zachary ventured.
"Right," Carter said. "And the incentive is profit."
"Which means," Zachary said as Margo entered the room, "that they're going to start wanting a return on their money quite soon."
Munoz plunked a hairy fist on the table. "They sent me for a crash course at the London School of Economics," he told them, "and that confirmed most of my suspicions about what pendejos, what pubic hairs those large multinational organizations are, but this" — he looked at Carter — "this beats all. I hope you're wrong, amigo."
Carter started in on his pasta. "That's why I need your help. Zachary stood to make room for Margo, but she seemed preoccupied, looking about the room for a moment while the men fell to their meal. As they ate, the conversation fell off, staying with compliments for the man who had prepared it from the seemingly inexhaustible war chest Zachary carried with him.
"I'm afraid this is it," Zachary said. "If we stay here any longer, it's either that lamb or nothing."
"What is there to keep us?" Munoz asked.
"We should do a thorough check on those corpses and then we should bury them," Carter advised. He was aware of the others nodding agreement. "Then we need a working plan — which I've just been formulating. I think it's time to get back to Mexico City, check in with my source, and try to pick up Piet Bezeidenhout's trail. If this is the parting of the ways for us right now. I think we'll be in touch on this very case not too far down the line."
As they sat waiting for him to give more details, Carter suddenly felt a searing, jagged sensation at his neck, literally causing his right hand to twitch and drop the crude fork it held.
"There. Mr. Nick Carter," Margo Huerta said.
Turning, Carter saw her holding the electrodes from the battery and coil that had been used to torture her.
Fiercely, Margo touched the leads together, producing a series of sparks and a burning smell. "There," she said. "I suppose you'll tell your friends here that this is still some phony device that can't possibly work."
She touched the electrodes once again to Carter's arm. He jerked reflexively away from them. "I could have cooked your lousy dinner with this contraption, Carter."
Carter nodded, stood, extended his hand. "I was wrong to think the way I did."
"Goddamn right," Margo said, setting the contraption down with a bang, then suddenly beginning to shake with emotion.
"We're all uptight and frustrated right now," Zachary said. "Let's get those bodies buried and get the hell out of here."
An hour later, the dead PLO guerrillas buried, Chepe Munoz and Margo Huerta climbed into the first helicopter while Carter and Zachary checked the buildings one more time for leads to Abdul Samadhi's base in Mexico. They found nothing except a stack of leaflets for a poetry reading by James Rogan of the U.S.A., the Pennsylvania Powerhouse, next day in Mexico City, and a brochure describing Rogan's arts center and festival of performing arts in Belize.
Carter looked at Zachary. "You see Samadhi and his gang going to poetry readings?"
"About as much as I see myself," Zachary snorted.
"I think it's worth the effort to check out this Rogan character. We…"
It was as far as the Killmaster got.
Heavy firing suddenly exploded outside. The two agents grabbed their weapons and ran to the windows. A helicopter engine roared into high. The chopper carrying Chepe Munoz and Margo Huerta rose into the air, and swung away at a sharp angle almost hitting the trees as bullets ripped through the rotors. Carter and Zachary held their breaths as the chopper dipped, almost hit a low ridge, then picked up speed and vanished, climbing over the surrounding mountain peaks.
"They made it," Zachary exulted.
"But I don't think we're going to," Carter said grimly.
Outside, at least a company of federales emerged from the brush and surrounded the buildings. A spit-and-polish lieutenant held up a bullhorn:
"You are completely surrounded. There is no escape. I give you the option to come out with your hands up."
The Killmaster shrugged.
"Sometimes you have to know when to fold your hand." He dropped his weapon and stepped out of the building with his hands up.
Nine
The trip back to Mexico City in the back of the troop carrier under the watchful eyes of four young federales was uneventful. In the small neat office they were hustled into, Carter guessed things were going to be a lot more exciting.
In the office the Killmaster and Zachary faced a heavily mustached man with graying sideburns, bright red suspenders, and a military identity tag with the name CAPITAN MOISES AL–VARADO H. Carter decided to try the usual innocent, outraged approach.
"All right Captain Alvarado, let's get on with it. Why were we brought here, manhandled, and placed under arrest? Those bandits were throwing heavy weapons at us. Our rights…"
"Just shut up, Senor Carter, eh? Am I such a fool to you? We find you and your friends heavily armed and engaged in a lethal exchange of fire with some other equally armed foreigners and you have the nerve to ask why we brought you here? As you say in your country, 'Gimme a break! " The captain glared almost in amazement at both Carter and Zachary. "And that, as we say in this country, is only the tail of the iguana. What you are really here for, in addition to a possible charge of armed insurrection, is because I have this strange awareness and suspicion of other activities in which you may be involved." There was not a trace of humor in Alvarado's obsidian eyes. "Unless I miss my guess, senores, you two are going to stonewall and be cute and as a result, something's going to happen to you that I assure you is rare in the history of our country." He waited a moment for emphasis, then leaned closer. "You're both going to get your asses booted out of Mexico, and none of your influence or string-pulling is going to make any difference."
Captain Alvarado began to toy with a pencil. "Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you're going to tell me what the hell's going on, why you both come into my country with a virtual arsenal and begin poking around on a venture without having the common courtesy to check in with our intelligence people in the first place. That's not only an arrogant thing to do, it's a dumb thing to do."
The Mexican intelligence officer impressed Carter as being an honest man, trying to do a straightforward job. "Let's start with you, Mr. Zachary. It is Mister, isn't it? No military titles or diplomatic stuff. "
"Actually," Zachary said, "it's Doctor. I never got very far in the military, but I did pick up a Ph.D. as I suspect you already know."
"Very good," Alvarado said. "From small truths come great confidences. What was your mission regarding Abdul Samadhi?"
Zachary shook his head. "This is the part you're going to have trouble with, Captain Alvarado. I had no mission as such with Samadhi. I was trailing him to see where he went and with whom he'd make contact."
"Why were you doing this?"
Zachary spread his palms. "It gets even worse from here on. I have no idea why I was trailing him. I can speculate, but that's as far as it goes."
"What about you. Senor Carter? What was your interest in the PLO?"
"I was hoping to learn why he's here myself."
Alvarado nodded without comment. "When did you first learn they were in Mexico?"
"Very early this morning," Carter said.
"Later this afternoon," Zachary said.
"I am fortunate that my position here is professional, not political," Captain Alvarado sighed "I have experience in the gathering of intelligence reports, the following of leads, the piecing together of seemingly unrelated bits of information."