A taxi slowed, the driver motioning to Lyons. Lyons stepped from the curb and got in the back. A young driver with a prematurely lined face greeted him in perfect English. "Good evening, sir. Where would you like to go?"
Lyons gave him the address, then commented: "Your English is better than mine. You go to school up north?"
"Yes, sir, several years." The young driver spoke in a quiet, forlorn tone. "Have you been in Guatemala long, sir?"
"Only today." Lyons watched the crowded sidewalks and bright shops flash past as the driver eased through traffic.
"Will you be staying long, sir?"
"No, just here on business. Get it done, go home. But I think I'll come back on my own time one of these days. On the flight down, I looked at a lot of pictures of the Indians. Their weaving. Their villages. The mountains. All I've seen so far is the city. But maybe my business will take me into the mountains."
"Yes, sir. The mountains are beautiful."
The driver swept through a smooth right-hand turn. Lyons felt the taxi slow. To the left, he saw a park lit with soft amber streetlamps. Lovers strolled the walkways, children ran through the night-shadows. Families crowded around vendors selling roast corn-on-the-cob, steaks, tacos, candies.
The taxi's curbside door opened and a man took the seat next to him even as Lyons jerked his Python from under his windbreaker and pointed it at the horribly burned, one-eyed young beggar.
His scars twisting with a smile, the beggar held up his left hand, palm open, empty. Like the taxi driver, he also spoke perfect English.
"Tell me, sir. What business do you have with Colonel Morales?"
6
With the muzzle of Carl Lyon's Python against his heart, the disfigured beggar introduced himself.
"I am Dr. Orozco. We..." his one eye looked to the cab driver "...are enemies of Unomundo. Is it true that you three men have come to Guatemala to fight Unomundo?"
"You tried to shoot me at the bus station. Why?" Lyons demanded, knowing the mini-mike in his jacket pocket transmitted his words to his partners. He looked out the back window and saw the Volkswagen tailgating the taxi. Gadgets had the side window down, and his hands were out of sight below the dashboard.
"That was a misunderstanding. I intended to kill Merida. He was one of those who did this to me." The man touched his hideously scarred face with the fingerless lump of his right hand.
Glancing outside to the crowded plaza, the scarred doctor took a soft cap from his pocket. He put it on his head and pulled it down to shadow the right side of his face.
"Please put the pistol away. If you shoot me here There is the National Palace the President's offices, guarded by the elite of our country's commandos. On the other side, the headquarters of the National Police. There are sharpshooters and secret police guarding the president's offices and the police buildings every moment of the day and night. If I die, you will live only a minute longer."
Lyons realized that they had kept to the plaza since Dr. Orozco entered the taxi. The driver made only left turns, stopping for signals, slowing for crowded crosswalks and jaywalking soldiers, but never leaving the rectangle of four wide boulevards.
"Very smooth," Lyons admitted. But he did not holster the revolver. He covered it with his wind-breaker.
The doctor continued. "Though I always instruct my friends to be patient, to live with their anger and hatred, to discipline their emotions, I failed to follow my own preaching. I..." He thought of the correct word in United States English. "I snapped. It was fortunate that you stopped me."
Lyons smiled slightly. "Not too fortunate for your head. Or your balls."
"Pain is relative. The cuts and bruises you inflicted will heal in only a few days. In my rage, I did not even see you. If you had been one of Unomundo's mercenaries, I would again be Merida's prisoner. My previous experience with Merida was very bad. I could only expect worse on the second experience. Please, you avoided my question. Did you come to Guatemala to fight Unomundo?"
The hand-radio that was clipped to Lyons's belt buzzed. He keyed it with his left hand. He asked his partners, "What do you think?"
Blancanales's voice answered. "Ask Dr. Orozco to join us in this car. We'll talk."
The scar-faced man nodded. "Certainly. Luis, we can leave the park now."
The driver turned right, the Volkswagen on his bumper, and proceeded down an avenue until he turned right onto a dark side street. Blancanales parked behind them.
The two passengers left the taxi. Lyons, his Python held ready under his windbreaker, saw headlights swing around the corner and stop. He looked in the other direction and saw a motorbike swerve into the shadows. Its headlight went black, but the rider did not dismount.
"You people are organized," Lyons muttered as he opened the Volskwagen's sliding door. He got in. Dr. Orozco followed him.
Gadgets winced at the doctor's scars, found he had to look away. The doctor ignored the North American's shock and extended his left hand for handshakes.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. And now that I can speak with all of you, let us discuss fighting Unomundo together."
"How do you know what we're here for?" Lyons asked.
"After you abandoned Captain Merida, we questioned him."
"You've followed us all day?" Gadgets asked, amazed.
"We thought your escape from the terminal very dramatic. Very much like American television."
"Who do you represent?" Blancanales asked.
"I represent our group. We have talked together and agreed to help you."
"What are your politics?" Lyons demanded.
Dr. Orozco smiled. "You Yankees are so naive. First, if we were Communists, would I tell you? And if we were, would you now be alive? Do not judge us all by the bumbling of a one-handed, half-blind doctor stupid with the thought of revenge. We have grenades, we have machine guns. We could have killed you a hundred times today."
"You have any foreign connections?" Lyons asked.
"You mean, Russia? Libya? Nicaragua? No. We have families and friends in the United States and Mexico and Europe. Sometimes they send us money. But we do not need it. We work."
Blancanales asked next. "Are you in opposition to the present government?"
"The new president is a gift from God. When he came to office, our group disbanded, only to learn that Unomundo and the other fascists who had escaped justice still threatened our country. Now, with the elections only weeks away, the threat is at its greatest. Unomundo has spies in the government and the army. We do not know what he plans, but it will come soon. To fight Unomundo, you need our help. And though it shames me to ask, we need the help of the United States."
"How long have you known of Unomundo?" Blancanales asked.
"Since this" He touched the scarred right half of his face with what remained of his right hand. "Only a few months out of school. For my church, I volunteered to work in a clinic for Indians. I gave a wounded man first aid and called for an ambulance.
Merida came with a squad of killers. They wanted the names of the others fighting Unomundo. But I knew no names. They beat me, they put my hand in a fire. I knew no names. They put my face to the fire. I knew no names. They threw me in a ditch, shot me, buried me. But I lived. That was when I learned of Unomundo."
The North Americans said nothing. In the silence of the car, they heard the traffic sounds of the boulevards, and a woman singing. Gadgets shook his head, sighed quietly: "Nazis..."
"Will you help us in our fight?" Dr. Orozco asked.
The men of Able Team looked to one another. They nodded.
"Good," beamed the disfigured young man. "We help each other. After you took Merida, the Nazis evacuated those offices. But we followed them to another place. Luis, that man..." Dr. Orozco pointed to the cab driver waiting in the taxi "...he will guide you. When I learned of an American commando team attacking Unomundo, I mobilized all our people. We will stop the fascists. We must. God be with you."