But the Iranians had not taken the rockets and launchers stacked at the far end of the underground factory. They had only taken the ninety-six rockets fitted with dummyguidance units. The Syrian technicians had marked those rockets as finished, and the Iranians had taken the rockets away... most likely to America.

Glancing back to the entry ramp, Dastgerdi saw the chauffeur waiting in the warmth of the limousine. Only then did Colonel Dastgerdi allow himself a laugh.

He had played a game of intrigue with fanatics and lunatics, and he had won.

13

A sea of lights appeared on the horizon. As the stewardesses hurried through the jetliner's aisles checking safety belts, Powell woke Anne Desmarais. She had slept through all the flights, taking pills at the airports and sleeping, only waking for meals and drinks and more pills. Powell attempted to make conversation, but she told him nothing.

Yawning and stretching, wincing at the pain of her two-day-old bruises, she ran her hands through her hair and blinked at the view of Mexico City. She stared at the horizon-to-horizon lights, not comprehending what she saw.

"We're there," Powell told her. "How do you feel?"

"Sleepy."

"You mean, doped."

"Where is your friend?"

"Up there in the middle of the plane. Don't look for him. We could have some of the bad guys on the plane. Not too late to back out of this. You could give me the information and take a plane back to Canada. You wouldn't even need to leave the airport."

Desmarais shook her head. "This story is very important to me. It will be a major step in my career. I can't stop now."

"Hey, there won't be no story. Not if things go straight."

"Oh, yes. There is a story, of that, I am sure. Because I know the story!"

"Like those two ragheads who were in the photo? The Iranian and the Syrian army officer? What's the story on those two?"

"You will learn."

Waiting until all the other passengers left their seats, the three North Americans finally joined the line of travelers leaving the jumbo jet. Service workers in yellow uniforms slipped through the line of passengers and moved among the rows of seats, picking up papers and plastic cups, emptying ashtrays. One worker made eye contact with Lyons.

"This way," he said.

Lyons turned to his partners. They also recognized the sharp Nahuatl features of Captain Soto. The North Americans followed a step behind Soto to the passenger bridge. But instead of continuing to the terminal gate, Soto opened a door. They stepped into the dawn chill and hurried down an aluminum stairway to the asphalt. The ground personnel very deliberately ignored the three North Americans.

"There!" Soto shouted over the roar of jet engines, pointing to the open doors of a catering van. "What does your luggage look like?"

Blancanales answered. "Three sheet-metal shipping trunks. All green with brass trim. Identical."

"What names?"

"Guerimo Soto. All the same."

Soto closed the van's doors. The driver gunned the engine and sped around the parked jetliners. The noise of the jet engines was cut off when the truck swerved into a hangar. The driver turned to them.

"We will wait here for the captain. You must not move or talk."

Sitting in the back of the van, Able Team listened to the activity around them. Workers shouted to one another, metal containers crashed along conveyor belts, horns beeped. Finally, tires squealed to a stop behind the van.

Grunting with the weight, Soto pushed the three green shipping trunks into the back of the van. He got in and pulled the doors closed. Then the truck sped out of the food service hangar.

"Now what, my friends?"

"We need to meet an American," Lyons glanced at his watch. "He's arriving approximately right now on another plane. He's with a Shia militiaman who's on our side and a Canadian woman reporter who isn't."

Soto instructed the driver. As the van circled to the passenger entrance of the international terminal, Able Team briefed Soto on the Iranian-Libyan plot against the President of the United States. Gadgets did not join in the discussion. He opened his trunk and assembled electronic gear.

"And they have come to Mexico? You are positive?"

Blancanales nodded. "We have the tickets and passports. We assume they plan to enter the United States from Mexico."

"Then we can mobilize all the security forces necessary to defeat the terrorists. When you called, I thought this was perhaps another... ah, political problem, as it was in the other action."

"Murder is murder," Lyons interrupted. "We only chase murderers. I don't care what their politics are. Fascists, commies, scumbag dopers, they get wasted."

"As you said when we fought the International. However, the politicians have other opinions, as I learned. But I will tell you of my education later — here is the terminal. Who makes the contact?"

"I will," Blancanales offered. "I speak the language, I don't look like a tourist..."

"Here, in your pockets." Gadgets passed Blancanales a hand radio. "And here's a DF so we can follow you. A minimike. Anything else you can think of?"

"Extras for others."

"You got it."

"Do not take a pistol into the airport," Captain Soto warned.

Blancanales nodded. As he pushed open the van's door, he gave his partners a quick salute. "Stay close."

Then he hurried through the lines of taxis and cars. Weaving through the crowds of travelers, he scanned the terminal for Powell, Desmarais and Akbar. And he searched for surveillance, watching for eyes watching him.

But the thousands of faces in the crowds defeated his efforts. Anyone could be surveillance: the elderly Castillian man, the North American hippies in hurachesand huipiles, the dark-featured Mexicanatraveling with her children, the security guard armed with the .45 auto-Colt. Blancanales had only his anonymity as a mask.

The crowds surging through the entry prevented him from taking full strides. Unconsciously he continued searching as he flowed with the terminal's masses, his eyes always scanning, looking for the unusual or the unlikely. Yet he realized professional surveillance agents would avoid any distinguishing appearance. He eased along with the other people, his head turning from side to side.

He checked the flight arrival and departure notices. The plane carrying Powell, Desmarais and Akbar had arrived on schedule. He went to where incoming passengers exited customs and took a seat.

After five minutes, Akbar appeared. He wore sunglasses and three days' growth of beard. Blancanales rushed through the arriving passengers, rudely shouldering some, pushing past others. He bumped into Akbar and slipped the coin-sized units of a directional transmitter and a miniature microphone into his coat. Then Blancanales stood at the exit and watched as the other passengers cleared customs.

Powell and Desmarais emerged two minutes later. Powell saw Blancanales and continued past without a word, Desmarais at his side. Blancanales waited a few seconds, then followed them through the terminal.

Akbar went to the pay phones, Powell and Desmarais to the car-rental booths. Blancanales casually joined them at the rental counter. He waited until the clerk turned away, then dropped the miniature directional-finder transmitter and the minimicro-phone into the pocket of the Canadian woman's coat. The Canadian did not notice.

"We came in without a problem." Blancanales made a pretense of reading a brochure as he spoke. "They're outside, ready to go."

"Akbar will give us a signal when he knows what goes," Powell told him. "So you watch us. Stay away until we leave."

"Then I'll jump in." Blancanales folded and pocketed the brochure, then went to the foreign-currency exchange. After converting the American dollars and Lebanese pounds in his pockets to pesos, he turned to see Akbar walking to the exit. Akbar went outside to the curb and waited, ignoring the taxis and hotel limos.