Sven swiveled his eyes to look. “An easy task.”

The MI formed a screwdriver head with its manipulators and quickly took out the screws that held the plastic panel in place. There were two pipes and an electric cable passing through the space there behind the panel. Brian pointed.

“We’ll just put your telephone in here. The plastic panel won’t block any signals. If the military call and you don’t answer they are going to have a busy time tracking the signal while it’s moving around Mexico. By the time they sort it out we will be long gone.”

The train pulled out of Tepic at lunchtime and turned inland towards Guadalajara, reaching Mexico City exactly on time. Sven was packed safely away and ready for the porter who came for their luggage. He led the way to the Depósito de Equipajes, where they checked everything in. Brian pointed to the bank next to it.

“The first thing we do is get some pesos. We don’t want a repetition of Mexicali.”

“And then?”

“We find a travel agency.”

Outside of the Buenavista railroad station, Mexico City was cold and wet; the smog hurt their eyes. They ignored the cab rank and walked out through the crowds and along Insurgentes Norte until they came to the first travel agency. It was a large one and a placard in the window said english spoken, a very hopeful sign. They turned in.

“We would like to fly to Ireland,” Brian told the man behind the large desk. “As soon as is possible.”

“I’m afraid that there are no direct flights from here,” the agent said as he turned to his computer and brought up the tables of departing flights. “There is an American flight that connects daily through New York City — and a Delta flight through Atlanta.”

“What about non-American carriers?” Shelly asked, and Brian nodded agreement. Safely out of the States they were in no hurry to return, however briefly. In the end they settled for MexAir to Havana, Cuba, with an Aeroflot Tupelov leaving three hours later for Shannon. The tickets were priced in pesos, but the agent called the bank for the current rate of exchange.

“Let’s hold on to the cash,” Shelly said. “We’re going to need it. Use my credit card instead.”

“They’ll track you down.”

“Like the phone — I’ll be long gone.”

“Cash or credit card, both okay,” the agent said, and pulled over the booking form. “American passports?”

“One. The other is Irish.”

“That will be fine. This will only take a few moments.” The computer link checked the credit card account, booked the seats and printed the tickets. “I hope you enjoy your flight.”

“I hope so too,” Brian said when they were back in the street. The query about their passports was a depressing reminder that they were going to have to pass through customs. The travel books had been quite clear about this and he knew he faced trouble. He hoped he could avoid it by what was called the mordida. He would soon find out.

“I’m cold and wet,” Shelly said. “Do we have time to buy a raincoat — maybe a sweater?”

He looked at his watch. “A good idea. More than enough time before we have to be at the airport. Let’s try that department store.”

He bought two more shirts, underwear, a light jacket as well as the raincoat. Just the basic items that would fit into the carry-on bag. Shelly did far better than that, shopping so well that she had to buy another small suitcase. Back in the train station Brian dug out the stub, retrieved Sven and their bags, then took a cab to the airport.

There were no problems at the check-in counter. They watched Shelly’s bag and the crated MI move slowly away on the belt as the airline clerk tore out sheets from their tickets and stapled them to the boarding cards.

“Might I see your passports, please?”

This first hurdle was easy enough to get over. All she wanted to do was look at the first page to see if the passports were current and had not expired. She smiled and passed them back. Shelly went through security first. He followed, clutching his passport and boarding pass, putting his bag on the belt of the X-ray machine before he stepped through the archway next to it. The machine bleeped and the security guard turned to him with a dark and suspicious look.

He took the coins from his pocket, even undipped and removed his brass belt buckle and put that on the tray as well. Stepped back through the arch, which bleeped again.

Then Brian realized what was happening. The magnetic field detected metal — and electronic circuitry.

“My head,” he said, pointing at his ear. “An accident, an operation.” Not a computer — keep it simple. “I have a metal plate in my skull.”

The guard was most interested in this. He used the magnetic field hand detector, which only bleeped when it was near Brian’s head. No weapon there; he was waved through. Everyone was just doing their job.

Including the customs officer. He was a dark-skinned man with an elegant mustache. When Brian gave him his passport he flipped the pages slowly, went back and repeated the action. Looked up and frowned.

“I do not see the visa entry showing where you entered Mexico.”

“Are you sure? Can I see the passport again?” He pretended to look through it and, with the great fear that he was making a total fool of himself, slipped a hundred-dollar bill between the pages. It is one thing to read about bribes — another to really attempt bribery. He was sure he would be under arrest within moments.

“I didn’t know I needed one. We crossed the border by car. I didn’t know about a visa.”

He pushed the passport back and watched with horror as the officer opened it.

“These things happen,” the officer said. “Mistakes can be made. But you will need two visa stamps. One to enter the country, one to leave. If the lady is with you she will need two stamps as well.”

The man looked bored as he returned the passport unstamped. Brian flipped through its empty pages — empty of money as well as visas — then realized what was happening.

“Of course. Two stamps, not one. I understand.”

They both understood. Three more hundred-dollar bills went the way of the first; there were two thuds and he had the passport back. Shelly’s was treated in the same way. They were through and on their way!

“Did I see what I thought I saw?” Shelly hissed in his ear. “You are a crook, Brian Delaney.”

“I am as surprised as you are. Let’s find our gate and sit down. This kind of thing is not easy on the nerves.”

The plane was only an hour late in leaving; the rest of the trip passed in a blur. They could only manage to doze on the plane and fatigue was beginning to tell. Havana was just a dimly lit transit lounge with hard plastic seats. The Aeroflot flight left two hours late this time. They ate some of the tasteless airline food, drank some Georgian champagne and finally fell asleep.

It was just after dawn in Shannon. The plane dropped down through the cloud-filled sky, came in low over cows grazing in green fields as they approached the runway. Brian pulled on his coat and took down his bag from the overhead rack. They left the plane in silence along with the rest of the weary travelers. Another transatlantic flight had arrived at the same time, so they were a long time shuffling along in the line of unshaven men, bleary-eyed women, whimpering and wailing children. Shelly went through first, had a visa stamped in her passport, turned to wait for him.

“Welcome home, Mr. Byrne,” the wide-awake and sprightly customs man said. “Been away on a holiday?”

Brian had been prepared for this moment and his accent was purest Wicklow without a trace of American. “You might say so — thousands wouldn’t. The food’s a shock and they seem to think that overcharging is a way of life.”

“That’s very interesting.” The man had the rubber stamp in his hand but he was not using it. Instead he raised cold blue eyes to Brian.