Illovich must know the truth. As he poured drinks for the captured Americans, a thousand plots and countermeasures swirled through his mind. Somehow he must contact and then test the blond American known as "Ironman." Could these American agents lead him to the other man? His long joke with the employment form in the car had been a test. Somehow he must break through their resistance.
Holding the bottle to an empty glass, Illovich glanced to the Lebanese.
"And you, my friend?"
Akbar shook his head.
"Oh, forgive me. I forget. Your faith."
They sat in the library of the house. Shelves of books rose from the floor to the ceiling of the room. Heavy velvet drapes, smelling of dust and age, covered the windows. Desmarais paced the room, studying the framed prints on the walls, the titles of books, the pre-Conquest sculpture displayed on the tables.
"I'll take a refill." Powell put his tumbler on the old desk.
Illovich flashed his startlingly white false teeth. "It is not often you have the opportunity to drink with the opposition."
"Yes, the pleasure of drinking with the opposition," Powell mimicked. "Even if it's this strange cactus vodka, right, Illovich?"
The Soviet laughed. "Cactus vodka! How true. I had not thought of it like that. Is that what tequila is called in Texas?"
"We call it a lot of things. Like, deadly. Like, white lightning..."
A piercing, shuddering wail interrupted Powell. The captured Iranian screamed until he sobbed down a breath and screamed again.
"Oh, yeah! Do it to him!" Powell laughed and gulped tequila. "You Soviets know how to treat an Iranian. If I join up, will you put me in charge of questioning mullahs? I got some ideas I want to try out."
"You joke." Illovich touched an intercom key. He spoke quickly in Russian.
An aide immediately rushed into the library. With a long pole tipped with a hook, the aide closed the heating and cooling vents near the ceiling. Then he closed the vents in the floors. The Iranian's screams became distant, only a whisper in the background as they talked.
"Not often — not lately, that I get a chance to drink," Powell continued. "Hanging out with Shias, you know. Bottle of tequila could get you shot. Or whipped. Muslims are just crazy when it comes to alcohol and things like..."
Blancanales interrupted Powell. "Secretary Illovich, why are we here? Why the drinks and polite conversation? Why aren't we down in the basement?"
"Yes, yes. To business. Senor, you may appear Latin, but you certainly demonstrate the impatience of an American. To business. I would have thought I have made my interest and intent obvious."
Illovich paused to sip his vodka and consider his words. "As you know, the Soviet Union leads the world in the quest for peace. No, do not taunt me with your sarcasm. My words are true. Though your nation and the other capitalistic, imperialistic nations provoke us, we restrain ourselves, we wait, we attempt to negotiate, we never fail to demonstrate our peaceful intentions.
"We now face a problem that, though not of our making, if it comes to pass, will surely confront the world with unprecedented displays of American militaristic aggression. We are confident we could counter the American actions, but of course it would be much better if the crisis did not occur at all..."
"Illovich! Okay! What the hell are you talking about?" Powell demanded.
"Why... the Iranians, of course. They came to kill your President. We can't allow that. I am offering all the assistance of the Soviet Union to prevent that terrible occurrence from threatening the peace of the world!"
15
In a truck parked a few blocks from the walled mansion, Gadgets Schwarz monitored the three audio sources transmitting from inside the estate. He heard the sounds of clothing rustling, of footsteps, of voices speaking Russian and English and Spanish. Once he heard Powell and Akbar speak quickly in Arabic.
He mentally traced the locations of the minimikes as he listened.
The transmitters that Blancanales had placed on the Canadian woman did not move. Apparently, she had taken off her coat. He heard the sounds of a bed squeaking, then water running. Minutes later, he heard a door close. No more sound came from that microphone as the sound-activated circuits shut off.
Akbar seemed to be pacing in a room. Gadgets heard coins clinking against the disk of the transmitter as the Lebanese walked. Once when Akbar had spoken to Powell, Powell hissed him quiet. Powell knew the Soviets would be monitoring all the conversations of their guests.
Blancanales knew Gadgets listened. Blancanales could not risk a one-way conversation using the mini-mike in his pocket because of the Soviet microphones in the house, but he made a point of speaking to Illovich and Powell, commenting on the decor of the house, the rooms, the views from the windows, the angle of the sunlight in the garden.
Every comment helped Gadgets visualize the interior. He took notes, sketching the house and grounds. The sketches became diagrams. If Gadgets, Lyons and Mexicans had to break into the compound to rescue Blancanales and the others, they now had a map.
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.