"All the other times," Blancanales interrupted to clarify the point. "The director — the voice on the telephone — sent you against Americans?"
"Yes. Stories about American activities for the Canadian and European newspapers, sometimes for Soviet newspapers. But this time I used my job only for cover. I knew my director would not want a story published about these Iranians and Syrians. But I followed it..."
"Why were you certain?" Blancanales asked.
"Because the Syrians are allies of the Soviet Union. And I saw that they were working together with the Iranian fundamentalists. I did not learn what the project would be, but it involved only terrorist groups. It had to be terrorism. When the Iranians killed the CIA men in Beirut, that could be a story. I investigated that as if I were writing a story. That took me to Powell. I knew Shabakkar — he is the fighter for the creation of the Black Nation of Islam in North America — and Shabakkar said he would speak with Powell, but it was a trap and the Iranians took me..."
"Did they actually rape you? Or was that another..."
"Yes! I wish it had been staged. Oshakkar betrayed me to those animals. They intended to kill me but I killed them."
"And what of the information you claimed to have overheard between the Libyan and the Nicaraguan?"
"That was talk of the rockets, that they would be flown in and then transported in trucks. But I would not have told you Americans that, not until I discussed the information with Illovich."
"You called ahead to Illovich?"
"Of course. I called the Soviet embassy in Mexico, I gave them my code number and they connected me to Illovich. He took over from there."
"What can you tell us about Illovich?"
"He is KGB."
"No shit?" Gadgets laughed. He sat on a box of 40mm grenades, his feet on the MK-19 launcher. "What a revelation. I got to write that one down. Tell us something we don't know."
"Easy, partner," Blancanales cautioned. "Miss, what did he know of the rockets?"
"Nothing."
"What did he know when you arrived? He had two days to consult with Moscow."
"He knew nothing. He said it was very important that the terrorists be destroyed. He sent his men against the Iranians and you killed them all. That was when you captured us."
"What happened after... after you escaped?"
"We returned to Mexico City. We learned that you Americans had destroyed the terrorists. And that was that."
"But then you followed us again. How did that happen?"
"I received a call from my director. Because I knew your team by sight and could identify you, they told me to follow you."
"You spotted us on Cyprus."
Desmarais did not answer.
"We know you followed us to Cyprus. And our boat was attacked. Did you identify us there for a hit squad?"
"Yes."
"And then you came to Lebanon?"
"To find Powell."
"Why is Powell important?"
"He is an American. He is CIA..."
"Wow, he's an American!" Gadgets interrupted again. "What do you got against us? What is your problem?"
"You Americans! You ignore my country, you dominate all the hemisphere — Quebec, Canada, all the nations. You force your corporate fascist culture on us. Of course I oppose you. All the Quebecois hate you. Even the Anglos of Canada. We will someday rise against you."
"How did you get out here?"
"I followed you."
"Alone! You came into this insane war alone?"
"No."
Staring at the floor, the young woman did not speak for a moment. In the silence, they heard the droning of the diesel engine and the endless sound of tires on asphalt. Then she looked up, her eyes studying Blancanales. She spoke again.
"I have many documents from the Syrians. I persuaded some soldiers to take me to Damascus. And then in the shelling, they all died. I jumped out to take photos and then a shell hit the truck and they all died. It was so terrible. Only boys..."
Her voice died away.
"Thank you," Blancanales said. "For the information. I hope we can help you. At least we can help you get safely out of the war." He crossed the trailer and sat on the floor. Aware that Desmarais heard what he said, he spoke softly into his hand-radio. "Ironman, Powell, I've questioned her. None of it really helps. Except one thing. Remember what our pilot friend told us about where the courier went? Said it was an interesting detail?"
Blancanales put the radio against his ear to muffle his partner's voice, so that only he could hear. "Yeah, about Iraq. You got info on that?"
Blancanales plugged in the earphone attachment. Now the prisoner could hear only his words. "Yeah, about that. Indirectly. The KGB has no idea about what's going on with the rockets."
"She says. She says all kinds of things. Anything else she said?"
"Nothing we couldn't have guessed."
"So what do we do with her now?"
"She goes with us, then we take her out."
Powell's voice joined them. Shouting over the wind rush in the open Rover, he told them. "I got a solution for our Soviet problem. Let her walk out."
"This isn't Mexico," Blancanales countered. "She'll die out there."
"She's Canadian," Powell countered. "She can handle the snow."
"She set you up for execution," Lyons reminded Blancanales.
Speaking slightly louder so that his prisoner overheard, Blancanales stated, "I told her we would help her get out of this insanity. My word is my word."
Powell laughed, the sound a mad cackle in the road noise. "Think she'd keep her word to you?"
"I gave my word. Period."
In the back of the troop transport, Lyons jammed his hand-radio back into the pocket of his Soviet army greatcoat. He clutched the blanket tight around his face and shoulders and stood up. Squinting against the freezing wind, he peered into the darkness.
Snow swirled in the headlights of the Land Rover and the Mercedes troop transport. But beyond the wide asphalt band of the modern highway, the night and storm reclaimed the Bekaa. They passed dark houses and villages, no lights showing from windows or shops, even the streetlights dark. Fighting continued in the distance, sparks of light marking fights where soldiers and fanatics — and innocent Lebanese — died for the incomprehensible politics of Syria.
Other headlights appeared behind them, and a Syrian troop convoy passed the American convoy. The Syrian drivers, disregarding the falling snow and slick roads, swerved into the opposing lanes and passed at a suicidal 120 kilometers per hour. Lyons waved to the soldiers in the backs of the trucks. They did not return the waves. Crouched in the transports, wrapped in plastic, they stared at him, their faces sullen. The Syrian convoy continued into the distance, the red points of the taillights finally lost in the night.
A scene of recent combat appeared. None of the Shia drivers even slowed. Ahead, Lyons saw Powell swivel the MK-19 grenade launcher to cover the village and burning vehicles. But no firing came from the defeated.
Soviet armored personnel carriers had assaulted a cluster of houses. Only broken stone and the stink of smoldering fires remained of the village. The gutted hulks of three APCs indicated the victors had suffered heavy casualties in the attack. A light frosting of snow covered the wild circles and zigzagging ruts left by the maneuvering vehicles. The snow also covered the anonymous dead sprawled where they fell. Nothing moved now.