Then he heard the sounds of doors slamming, of people running through the rooms. A Russian-accented voice shouted," We go now!"
"You got the information from the Iranians?" Powell asked.
"Yes. We have. We go now."
"Finally..."
"Where are they all running to?" Blancanales asked. "Why are they bringing out the cars? Five cars? Do they think they're going to a battle?"
Gadgets signaled the Mexican lounging across the front seats. Because the Soviets had taken Blancanales's hand radio, Gadgets and Lyons could not risk using their radios. Instead, they used the radios of Captain Soto's antiterrorist unit. The Mexican spoke into his handset, relaying the information in words Gadgets recognized as Nahuatl the pre-Castillian language of Mexico and street jive.
"They are ready," the Mexican reported to Gadgets.
Sounds came from the minimike in the Canadian's room. Gadgets turned down the other frequencies and heard the door open, then the woman's quick footsteps. Slow, heavy footsteps accompanied her.
Bus noises from the street forced Gadgets to turn the monitor up louder. Listening, he heard the deep voice of Illovich, speaking French.
Gadgets flipped the switch of his cassette recorder. As Illovich and the Canadian spoke, the cassette machine recording their French dialogue, Gadgets checked his other equipment. He switched on the directional-impulse receiver and listened to the steady beeps on three frequencies.
Illovich and Desmarais continued talking.
What do they have to talk about, Gadgets wondered. He watched the cassette turn inside the recorder. Don't know now, but we'll know later...
Finally their conversation ended. Gadgets heard the slap of heavy footsteps receding, followed by the sound of Desmarais gathering her camera and tape recorder, then a rustling sound as she slipped on her coat. He faded down her frequency and turned up the minimikes on Blancanales and Akbar.
He heard car doors slamming. Engines gunning. Illovich issued instructions in Russian.
Gadgets turned to his driver. "This is it!"
Powell and Akbar rode in a new Dodge with Illovich. Their driver followed the line of cars through the traffic of a viaducto, one of the expressways cutting through the seemingly endless sprawl of the world's largest city.
Ahead, in a Mitsubishi passenger van, Blancanales rode with Desmarais and several Soviet gunmen. They saw the young woman turn around to snap a photo of the Dodge. A gunman blocked the lens.
"Why you letting that reporter come along?" Powell asked.
"I could ask the same question of you, American. You brought her to Mexico."
"Freedom of the press, you know. Told me she'd cut me in on the money."
"Behind the sacred principle, a profit. You Americans are not so difficult to understand."
"Hey, Ruskie, what about you?" Powell replied. "I doubt if the President knows that you of the evil empire is his friend. But you're helping him. Fact is, you're probably helping both sides. Tricky Ruskies. You all make snakes look like higher-life forms."
Illovich smiled. "I know it is difficult to understand. To think that my country would protect a government that hates us. Incomprehensible. Personally, I find you Americans incomprehensible. Your people, your government, your leaders impossible!
"Your senators and congressmen, your President, and your President's advisors, they believe they are blessed. They walk about as if all the world loved them. Only your President has the minimum of protection. And even he, a malcontent with a twenty-two-caliber pistol shot him!
"Why must they endanger themselves? Do they realize their insatiable urge to touch the citizens, to pose and strut before the crowd threatens world peace? Are a few votes so important? Is voting so important? I think it is ironic that the Soviet Union must defend democracy from its malcontents. Oh, well," Illovich said, shrugging, "anything for peace."
"They ain't our malcontents. They're Iranian Revolutionary Guards," Powell responded.
"True. My apology. They are not Americans. But they are a product of the United States of America. The occupation and subjugation of Iran by the CIA and their puppet the Shah produced the Revolutionary Guards. Now they come to take revenge for the..."
"Yeah? What about Afghanistan? Maybe the Big Red in the Kremlin's next for a hit squad."
"Afghanistan is another example. Fortunately we Soviets and the progressive Afghan masses united in brotherly opposition to the forces of..."
Powell cut off the Soviet. "Those police cars with us? Or is the show over?"
"They are with us. This may become very sticky, you understand."
"Oh, yeah," Powell agreed. "I know about Iranians. Wish I didn't."
Staying low in the back of the panel truck, Gadgets took the Mexican walkie-talkie and buzzed Lyons. "Those police are with the commies."
"Organized operation."
"No doubt about it."
"Any word where?"
"They're not saying anything. Powell's rapping with the El Numbero Uno Ruskie, talking jive politics. Don't mean a thing. Picking up Russian from the other car. Soto know Russian? Or French? I taped Quebecky talking with El Rusko."
"I'll ask."
After a moment, Captain Soto spoke from the walkie-talkie. "I studied French in the university."
"But can you understand it?" Gadgets asked.
"I worked in a tourist shop as part of an investigation. I will attempt a translation of the tape."
Gadgets put the cassette recorder to the walkie-talkie and played back the conversation between Illovich and Desmarais.
"So what're they saying? I know it concerns us, she used our names."
"Please play the tape again. The Russian speaks French. The woman's accent is very difficult for me."
Gadgets played it again. "You got it that time?"
"I cannot give you a literal translation. But the woman works for the Russian. The Mexican police will kill the Iranians and your friends. The woman will photograph it and distribute the story. I did not understand everything they said, but..."
"You're positive? They're going to off..."
"There is more. The Soviet questioned the woman about you norteamericanos. Your descriptions. Your names. She told him you were called 'Politician,' 'Wizard,' and 'Ironman.' He asked many questions about you."
"So now he knows about the rest of us. Put the Ironman on the talkie."
"I heard..." Lyons announced.
"We've got to stop them, like now."
"Hit them first. And fast," Lyons said.
"That's my man. Always ready with the plan."
In truth, Lyons had no plan. He did not know the location of the Iranians. He did not know how the Russians would mount the assault on the Iranians. He did not know the role of the Mexican police.
But he knew the assault would end with the executions of Blancanales and Powell.
Rather than allow the unknown elements to paralyze his reasoning, to create overwhelming doubts and inaction that would condemn his friends to death, he turned his thoughts away from the unknowns and concentrated on his assets in the situation.
As he rode through the midday traffic of Mexico City, the noise of thousands of cars and trucks beating at his concentration, he mentally listed the positives.
The minimikes relaying the conversations in the Russians' vehicles.
The directional transmitters.
The limited weaponry of the Soviets and Mexican police. He knew they had pistols and submachine guns, but he doubted if they had armament matching the modern military weapons of Able Team and Captain Soto's antiterrorist squad.
Surprise. The Soviets thought they had eluded the American force tracking the Iranians.
And more important, knowledge. He knew the approximate strength of the combined Soviet and Mexican force. The Soviet leader knew nothing of the Americans following and almost nothing of the Iranians.
A realization came to Lyons. The Iranians had lost three men, two dead and one captured. They might think all three had been killed, but a cautious leader would assume their location had been compromised.