They had to wait for three army trucks racing down from Avenida Lerma before they were able to cross and head back east, making a wide circle around the traffic backed up along the Paseo de la Reforma.
“Where are we going now?” Evita shouted.
“I want to see Baranov’s house,” McGarvey said, turning south along Avenida Bucareli. Traffic was heavy here, too, but in the opposite direction. The entire city, it seemed, was rushing toward the U.S. embassy.
“You’re crazy. Let’s go to the airport. Now. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“First Baranov. And then we’ll return to the hotel and stay there, out of sight.”
“No.”
“Yes, Evita. We’ve come too far to be stopped now. He’s not going to win this time.”
“He already has,” she cried. “It wasn’t the Russian embassy that was blown up. He’s won, can’t you see it? What use will it be if we’re killed?”
McGarvey looked over at her. She had pinned up her long hair, but it was coming loose and hung in wisps around her face. She looked vulnerable. There was an hysterical edge to her voice now, and her eyes were a little wild.
“Do you think it’ll make any difference if we return to New York? If he wants us, he’ll get us no matter where we are.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“Maybe he’ll make a mistake.”
“And then you’ll kill him? Is that it? Is that what you’re doing here?”
“If need be.”
“But it’s not just him you’re after,” she said.
“You want Darby, too, and maybe someone else. Is that it? Is there someone else? Another spy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what are we doing here like this? I’m supposed to telephone someone tomorrow? Who? What am I supposed to tell this person?”
They turned onto the broad Fray Servando Teresa de Mier; traffic was still heavy but moving much faster now, allowing McGarvey to speed up.
“If I’m to help you, I need to know what I’m supposed to do.” She was trying to be reasonable.
“I want to see Baranov’s house. I want to see where he lives.”
She looked out the window. “What if I don’t give you directions?”
“He’s near Ixtayopan,” McGarvey said tiredly. “I’ll ask around.”
“You’re completely crazy.”
“Probably. But I’m not going to stop.”
“You’d never find him.”
“It would take time, but I’d find him,” McGarvey said. “Because he wants to be found. He knew that I was coming to see you, and he knew that you would help me.”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t understand.” “Neither do I,” McGarvey said.
“What?” she asked, opening her eyes.
“Did Baranov tell you why I would be coming to see you?” he asked her. “Did he tell you that I would be coming after your husband and that you were to cooperate with me? Did he make you promise to tell me all about Mexico City in the early days? How your husband was a spy and how he worked for the Russians as well as the Americans?”
“It doesn’t make any sense.” She was avoiding his questions.
“It’s all right if it scares you, Evita, it scares the hell out of me, too.”
“But what is he after? What kind of a plot has he hatched?”
“It has something to do with the Soviet missiles here. And something else. Someone he may be trying to protect.”
“Valentin wants Darby to be found out. He wants you to arrest him.”
“I think so.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know, Evita. But that’s why we’re here. It’s the one thing Baranov did not expect us to do.”
To the southeast the road rose in tiers from the high plateau valley toward snow-capped mountains. Back the way they had come the city spread itself out across half the horizon, wonderfully lit avenues and streets stretching across the valley like long necklaces; tall buildings, radio towers, and even moving traffic along the broader avenues were clear despite the smog that blanketed the valley. They passed through Culhuacan, Tezonco, Zapotitlan, Tlalenco, Tlahuac, and Tulyehualco — cities that had been all but swallowed by the city’s sprawl. Each was a little smaller than the previous one, and each had its own character, but they all seemed in a touristy way to want to return to the days of the Aztecs. Eighteen miles out from the center of the city traffic had finally thinned out so that now, driving southwest out of San Juan Ixtayopan toward the peak of Cerro Tuehtli, they were finally alone on the dark road. Their car was very loud as they crossed the mountains, but then McGarvey wasn’t interested in hiding his presence; he wanted Baranov to know that someone was coming, that his Mexican fortress wasn’t as impregnable as he might suspect it was. So what are you trying, you bastard? Everything points toward Darby Yarnell, your old pal and confidante, even your lover if Evita is to be believed (and he thought she was). Did he quit on you? Did he get too big for his britches, demand too much? Or did he want asylum just when you finally tired of him and wanted to get rid of him? Or had Darby Yarnell simply outlived his usefulness, and now it was time to dump him? What was he missing? McGarvey asked himself. Where was the one twist, the one fact, the one lie that in the light of day would make everything clear?
As they crossed a bridge spanning a deep ravine, they could see a large house alive with lights perched on the edge of the mountain above them. The road entered the trees and curved left before switching back. Suddenly they could see the house again, much closer now, and they could pick out dozens of automobiles parked in a front courtyard. Japanese lanterns hung in the trees, and they could see people dancing on a broad veranda that was cantilevered out over the side of the hill.
McGarvey pulled up a hundred yards below the house, doused his lights, and shut off the engine. In the sudden silence they could hear music and laughter and even bits of conversation, voices raised in celebration. Baranov was Nero: he was throwing a party while Mexico City burned.
He hadn’t expected this. Baranov should have been at his embassy. The country was in crisis. And yet there seemed to be a logic to it. Baranov had envisioned some master plan, and now he was apparently celebrating his victory. The notion made the hair on the back of McGarvey’s neck stand on end.
Evita sat back in her seat, shivering. She was remembering what it had been like for her in the old days.
“He’s an arrogant sonofabitch,” McGarvey said, reading her thoughts. “He does think he’s won.”
The band stopped playing and they could hear applause. McGarvey got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He took out two cigarettes, lit them both, and handed her one through the open window. At first she didn’t move, but then she reached up and accepted the cigarette from him.
“The question is, what has he won?” McGarvey drew deeply on his cigarette. He stepped a few feet down the road so that he could better see the house above. “He must really impress the Kremlin. Do you know that the Russians have apparently constructed missile bases just south of our border? Mexico has come a long way since the sixties.” Someone laughed from above and the music started again; this time the tune was a rumba. “He likes people. Have you any idea what he’s up to?”
“He wants to take over the world,” Evita said from just behind him.