Gadgets finally came on the phone. "This is Hardman Three. How's it going?"
"Slow. I had a conference with the executives of the Corporation. That is one company I wouldn't want to work for. What's happening there?"
"Nothing electronic. Two or three words on hand-radios since I got plugged in. They've got an iron fix on it in there. They also got a body count going."
"Don't tell me the details over this line. Wait until..."
"This line is secure. I checked it out. National Security Agency equipment. Unless someone has one of the three phone units, all they can tap in on is static."
"Go on then."
"I hear we got two bodies in the lobby. A man and a woman. It happened before we arrived."
Lyons felt his gut twist. Two working people dead. Dead because they cared enough for their company and their duties to put in a sixth day this week. Not that their company cared about them. Dead because of political problems thousands of miles away. Dead because a group of psychopaths wanted to dictate the future of millions of Puerto Ricans.
And how many more innocent people would die?
"You there?" queried Gadgets.
"I'm here. Those psychopaths make any demands yet?"
"No communications whatsoever. We got a negotiation team waiting."
"Buzz me if anything else happens. I'm going to join up with Hardman Two. Off."
Lyons adjusted his shoulder holster, checked his pockets for speedloaders. Only four. Six rounds in his .357, twenty-four rounds in the speedloaders. He called forward to Smith:
"Got any .357 Magnums? Or .38 rounds?"
"9mm only, sir."
"Call the taxi. Find out where Hardman Two is, tell him I'm on my way. Then trade in this tank for something less conspicuous. Pick up a box of .357 ammunition."
It took Smith thirty seconds to get Blancanales' location. Lyons noted the address and cross street.
"Drop me off at the corner, I'll take a real taxi. Get back with the other car within half an hour."
"And that's fifty rounds you wanted, sir? .357 Magnum? Sounds like you're worried about some serious trouble."
"I'm not worried about anything. I'm going to makesome trouble."
In the glass of a shop door, a shirtsleeved Blancanales spotted the two young men following him. He glanced into traffic, saw his driver park the phony cab on the other side of the street. The two young Puerto Ricans stayed a hundred yards back. They walked from block to block with him, stopping from time to time at a shop or market, blending with the pedestrians and young layabouts on the street.
Blancanales came to the tenement where Bernardo Commacho's mother lived. This was his third stop in Spanish Harlem. He knew Commacho would not be there. Though Blancanales had a list of names and updated addresses of known FALN couriers and soldiers, he expected to find none of them. He expected them to find him. And they had.
Children playing in the tenement's rooms covered the sound of his steps. He went up the stairs slowly, checking the stairwell for the most likely ambush site. Perhaps they would try to take him on the way down.
When he knocked, the apartment's door opened only a few inches. The door chain allowed it to open four inches.
"Buenas tardes, Senora Commacho. Puedo hablar con su hijo, Bernardo?"
"All my children are gone, moved away, long time ago."
Beyond Mrs. Commacho's gray hair, he saw a shelf crowded with photos of her sons and daughters. One photo, framed in black, shared an alcove with the Madonna and Child. Candles burned for that dead son. Blancanales had read about the boy in his information packet; only sixteen, he died when he assaulted a police squad car with a .22-caliber rifle modified to fire full automatic. He wounded one officer, then the rifle jammed. Both officers had emptied their service revolvers into him.
"I'm not with the police, senora."
"Then why do you ask about Bernardo? Only the police care where he is."
"I talked to his friends, only a few minutes ago. They told me your son visited you last week. If he's still in New York, I want to talk with him. It's very important."
"Who is it important to?"
"To Puerto Rico."
"My son was born in this country. He knows nothing of Puerto Rico."
"Perhaps you could call him. Then we could talk."
"He never calls. He never visits...It is very difficult for an old woman when her children are so far away."
"Well, maybe I will see you again, Mrs. Commacho."
After the door's bolt locked, he waited. No voices. He heard her steps across the floor. A chair squeaked when she sat down. No other footsteps.
On his way back to the stairwell, he took a newspaper from a doorway, rolled it tight. He started down the stairs.
He smelled the cologne of the young men. He maintained his pace down the stairs, making his steps loud in the stairwell. There were no shadows, no places for concealment there. When he came to the second-floor landing, he passed the hallway fire door, took three more loud steps, then spun around.
Even as the Puerto Rican kid jerked open the fire door and rushed onto the landing, Blancanales brought the rolled newspaper down on the boy's revolver. The pistol hit the floor. The kid gasped as Blancanales rammed his knee into his crotch. Then stepping behind the boy, the hardman locked an arm around his throat, lifting him from his feet.
An instant later, a second boy tried to sprint up the stairs. Blancanales flung the first boy at him. They both tumbled down the stairs. Before they hit the next landing, Blancanales followed them, kicking one, then the other as they rolled. He jumped on them, slipped plastic handcuffs on them.
Stunned, the first boy lay still. The second attempted to twist from the plastic around his wrists. He couldn't. But his legs thrashed out at Blancanales as he tried to stand. Blancanales kicked the boy in the nose, breaking it. Blood poured from his face.
Someone moved behind Blancanales. Spinning, he dropped to the stairs as he pulled his Browning double-action and aimed.
Hands in his slacks' pockets, Lyons leaned against the wall, grinning. "An excellent demonstration! How to capture two suspects without getting your hands dirty... However, you died while you were playing football with that punk's head. The third man came up behind you and shot you all full of holes."
"There isn't any third man," Blancanales told Lyons as he stood up, returned his Browning to his shoulder holster. He dusted off his sports coat. "And these two aren't suspects. I don't suspect them of anything. I knowthey are FALN. Give me a hand, we've got to drag them down to the cab."
Blancanales jerked the belt from the pants of one of the youths, cinched the boy's feet to the banister. Then he and Lyons pulled the other kid to his feet, walked him down the stairs.
"Not the cab," Lyons told him. "They've got a Cadillac parked at the curb. Back door's unlocked. We'll stack them up in the back seat."
At the tenement's entry, a third youth lay on his face, unconscious. His hands were tied with his shirt. Blancanales saw the boy, started, then grinned almost foolishly at Lyons.
"Ignore that punk," Lyons said with a straight face. "You said he doesn't exist."
They followed the yellow cab to a street near the docks. The agent in the cabbie's uniform parked, then started back to the Cadillac. Lyons motioned him away, left the Cadillac. Blancanales stayed with the three FALN soldiers.