Hurrying back to the van, Blancanales stepped inside and threw off his coat. He buckled on the shoulder holster for his silenced Beretta 93-R. "It's in motion. Watch Akbar, he's at..."

"I see him there." Lyons said, pointing. "What's going on with Powell?"

"As planned. He's renting a car. I'm on my way," the Politician said as he opened the vehicle's door.

Outside, Blancanales surveyed the traffic lanes of the terminal. He noted the pickup and drop-off points, the taxi waiting zones, the lines of rental cars. He walked quickly to a traffic island a hundred meters from the rental cars.

From where he stood, he had a view of Akbar waiting, of Powell and Desmarais sitting in the rental car, and of the parked catering van. Powell saw him standing on the traffic island and flashed his headlights.

Situation covered. But as he waited Blancanales never let his eyes stop, always searching the sidewalks and traffic lanes for sign of a pattern in movement, a pattern that meant ambush or kidnap or surveillance. He watched the crowds behind Akbar. He watched the arriving traffic, looking inside the cars and trucks, watching for any odd detail.

After fifteen minutes, a panel truck stopped in front of Akbar. The driver leaned out his window and spoke to the young Shia. Blancanales saw Powell reach for the ignition of the rental car. As Akbar got into the panel truck, Blancanales felt the hand radio inside his coat click. He answered with three clicks of the transmit key.

The panel truck accelerated past Blancanales. He memorized the make of the truck, the license number and the face of the driver.

Seconds later, Powell braked to a stop at the traffic island. Blancanales got in the rear seat. As they accelerated away, Blancanales looked back and saw the catering van weaving through traffic. He slouched down below the level of the front seat and keyed his hand radio.

"Any conversation?"

"They're jiving in Arabic," Gadgets reported. "I'll put the walkie-talkie up to the receiver. Let Powell listen, maybe he can translate..." Gadgets's voice faded away.

Then came the scratchy, twice-transmitted voices from the panel truck ahead. Blancanales held the hand radio behind Powell.

"He's quizzing him..." Powell began.

"I thought you didn't speak Arabic," Desmarais said.

"Don't really. Just listening for what I recognize. He's... he's asking him what's going on, who he knows. Akbar's saying he doesn't know. The other guy's asking about Iran, what town he comes from. This does not sound good."

Traffic slowed. When the cars stopped, vendors rushed from the curbs to offer candy and newspapers and prepared food. One indigenawoman offered eggs to the commuters. Brilliant against the soot-gray morning in her threadbare blue satin blouse and hand-woven skirt, her throat flashing with the traditional strands of gaudy beads, she went from car to car, almost running, holding three eggs between her fingers like a magician demonstrating a trick. One driver called out, "Quiero una docena!" A whistle and a few sharp words in a language Blancanales did not understand brought two barefoot children from the curb with more handfuls of eggs. The woman and the driver bargained, closed the deal, counted eggs and money in less than thirty seconds, then the traffic moved again.

On one block crowds of workers crossed the boulevard and filed down the stairs of the subway station. Blancanales looked through the rental-car window to see people everywhere, workers hurrying to the subway, vendors selling goods, boys waving newspapers, motorcyclists weaving between vehicles.

A young man stepped out in front of the stopped cars and spit out a spray of flame.

"What is going on!" Powell raved.

"This is Mexico City," Blancanales said, laughing.

The signal changed and traffic moved again. Drivers and passengers threw pesos to the fire breather. Blancanales tossed out a Lebanese five-pound note he'd kept.

The panel truck ahead of them veered to the right, swerving across two lanes of traffic. A diesel truck blocked Powell.

"Straight ahead! We're on them," Gadgets shouted through the hand radio. "Make a right turn at the next street. We'll give you directions. They say anything about spotting you?"

As Blancanales pressed the transit key, he saw the catering truck make a right turn. Powell leaned on the horn and switched lanes, daring a motorcyclist to hit him. He spoke into the hand radio, "If he's Iranian, that's the way they drive. Get closer and stay there."

"We're not in an unmarked vehicle, you know," the Wizard replied.

"Risk it. Otherwise, Akbar's gone." Powell whipped the car through a skidding right-hand turn and raced up the block. A double-parked truck slowed him. Sounding the horn, he swerved to the left, almost crashing head-on into another truck and accelerated again. "Which way? Which way!" he shouted.

"Wizard! Did they turn?" Blancanales asked.

"Straight ahead. Or..."

Powell floored the accelerator. The engine stalled. "God dammit! Move car, move it!" Grinding the starter, he raced the engine, then shifted into drive. The car hurtled across a boulevard full of traffic. Brakes screamed, and the car flashed past the bumper of a cattle truck, then they raced up the next block. Skidding through a right turn, then an illegal left, Powell merged with the boulevard's traffic.

Two cars separated them from the panel truck. Powell slowed. He let a car swerve in front of him. Finally, a light brought traffic to a stop.

As at all the other intersections, the vendors left the curbs en masse, waving their goods. Blancanales saw boys and women around the car.

Metal tapped the windows, and Blancanales looked into the cylinder of a suppressor pointed at his face. He looked to the other window, saw another hand holding another suppressed pistol. The gunmen stood close against the car, their bodies screening the sight of the pistols from the other cars.

"Open the door, Mr. Powell," an accented voice said.

"They've got the pistols," Blancanales said loudly, knowing that the miniature electronics in his pockets would transmit the information to Gadgets. "There's nothing we can do..."

"Very intelligent," the voice commented.

Blancanales opened a back door. A squat gray-haired man in an overcoat slid into the back seat. His pistol touched Blancanales's gut.

"Buenos dias, my American friends. I am Senor Illovich, cultural attache of the Soviet Embassy. It is a pleasure to welcome you to Mexico City."

14

"I'm going to kill that Soviet shit," Lyons muttered as he snapped back the slide of his auto-Colt. With a hollowpoint in the chamber, he set the safety. "Have your man pull up close. First chance I get, Cultural Secretary Illovich of the KGB is dead meat."

Captain Soto shook his head. "You cannot kill a diplomat."

"Why? Political problems? He's got a pistol. Say he shot himself."

"Ease off, Ironman." Gadgets switched from channel to channel on his receiver, monitoring first the Arabic conversation in the panel truck, then the talk in the rented car.

The Soviet's voice droned on, calmly reassuring the Americans. "It is for the best that we join you. This Iranian driver seems to be an excellent operative. I see that you have a gun, American. Allow me to take it, for the sake of safety. We do not want a misunderstanding. Thank you. You do realize, that if you continued in your pursuit, that Iranian driver would have noticed your car..."

"He doesn't know about us," Lyons commented.

"Unless he knows and wants to trick us," Gadgets countered. "Listen..."

"We have several vehicles, Mr. Powell," the Russian continued. "Let the truck go ahead, my men will follow."