"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.
The Iranians had two options: they could run or they could stay and fight.
In Beirut, the Iranians and Libyans had set ambushes. Why not in Mexico City?
But would a firefight advance their plot to assassinate the President? The Soviets and Mexicans might find no one at the location.
Lyons thought through the possibilities. He visualized the line of Soviet and Mexican cars approaching the Iranian position. He ceased to be Carl Lyons of Able Team and considered the approach as the Soviet leader would. Then he considered the action from the viewpoint of the Iranian leader.
No one plan could anticipate all the variables. Lyons blanked out his doubts and fears. He forced his mind to formulate a plan. Then he briefed the others.
The line of Soviet unmarked cars and Mexican police cars caravanned through an industrial district. Listening to a Soviet gunman talk via walkie-talkie with other Soviets, Blancanales scanned the gray warehouses and filthy streets. Diesel trucks parked in alleys, others backed up to loading docks. Laborers crowded around the trucks, unloading boxes and sacks by hand, sweat flowing from their bodies. At other docks, skiploaders shuttled between trucks and the stacks of crates in the warehouses. The smells of rot and diesel fuel and food cooking flooded through the windows of the van.
"What's this area?" Blancanales asked Desmarais.
She did not meet his eyes. "I have no idea."
The Soviet gunman next to Blancanales jabbed him with the muzzle of a pistol. "Why you talk?"
Blancanales spotted a street sign and said the name. "You recognize that street? Where are we?"
"Why don't you ask the driver?"
"And I thought you were familiar with Latin America."
The Canadian only shrugged. The gunman jabbed Blancanales again and the American went quiet. He turned in the seat and looked behind them.
Blancanales saw cars and panel trucks leaving the line, taking side streets and alleys off the boulevard. He resumed his pretense of talking to the Canadian.
"We're close. They're splitting up. Must be intending to approach from different directions. But us and Illovich and the others are staying together."