Into the Maze

11

A suite of rooms overlooking the Paseo de la Reforma served as the communications office for the International.

The International, through a Canadian transnational corporation, owned the ultramodern Trans Americas S.A. tower. The data center and administrative offices occupied the top floors of the high rise. Banks, brokers and other international corporations leased hundreds of offices on the lower floors. The operations of those companies also required computers and telecommunications. The offices of the International seemed to be only one more data-processing center for a financial institution.

Microwave antennae provided satellite links with other International forces in the cities of Mexico and the hemisphere. Rows of electronic consoles processed incoming data and messages, automatically decoding and printing fold-sheets for the attention of a commander's staff. Technicians monitored the operation of the machines and maintained the flow of printouts to the offices on the penthouse floor of the tower.

In a high-security cubicle, a lieutenant took notes on a voice message from Washington, D.C. The voice of the North American radioing from an NSA office a continent away came from the decoding circuits like a machine speaking, metallic and disembodied.

"We did not tape all the transmitted information. But what we recorded, we will relay to your commander. A translation will follow."

"Excellent!" The lieutenant underlined a notation. "We have units in motion."

The metallic voice laughed. "You get them. We're tired of those hotshots running around making trouble. Get them."

Lyons whipped through the turns, the bumper of his compact sedan only a few steps behind the Mitsubishi van that Blancanales drove. Vato led in the first compact. On the long blocks between turns, Ixto watched the traffic behind them.

"El camidn estd alu," Ixto told him.

In the rearview mirror Lyons saw the gunmen following in a Ford pickup truck.

They came to a traffic circle. Lyons accelerated to close the gap behind the van. Cars and trucks sped around the monument at the center, weaving through the city buses. Someone ahead braked. Blancanales braked, Lyons smashed the bumpers together, then Blancanales veered to the right. Lyons hit the bumper again. The van sped away.

Swerving across the wide boulevard, Vato made a right turn, accelerated, then skidded through a left turn. Blancanales followed only seconds later. Ixto gripped the panic handle on the dashboard as Lyons skidded through a turn. The gunmen in the pickup tried to follow but sideswiped a bus. Another bus rear-ended the truck.

Pedestrians stared at the wild driving of the blond North American. A traffic cop put up a hand to stop the crazed tourist, but Lyons skidded around the officer — the cop's sky-blue uniform shirt flashing past the passenger window — and accelerated for another block. A hard right turn took them into the shaded streets around a park.

Lyons watched the traffic in his rearview mirror. He saw no truck.

Vato and Blancanales slowed. Lyons flashed his headlights to signal them. They did not risk using their hand-radios. If the International could detect the electronic signature of the decoding components, the transmissions would lead the surveillance units to them. Lyons pulled up parallel to Blancanales's van.

"Where do we go to get rid of that wreck?" Lyons asked, shouting across Ixto to Blancanales.

Squares of white adhesive tape matching the van's white paint covered the patterns of 9mm bullet holes. But the improvised patches and the smashed-out windows would not pass the inspection of police or investigators.

"The tourist section," Blancanales answered. "The Zona Rosa. Rent one there. Stay close."

"If I get any closer, I'll be parked in your back seat."

"Figure of speech..."

An hour later, they had another passenger van. They stopped on a side street and transferred the heavy trunks and suitcases of weapons to the new rental. They left the bullet-pocked rental there. Then they crossed the district to a restaurant and ate a leisurely lunch while Blancanales called landlords and commercial real-estate agencies throughout the metropolitan area.

Blancanales described himself as a Puerto Rican entrepreneur who needed warehouse space immediately. Agencies referred him to one office after another. Finally he made an appointment with a rental manager. Blancanales and Vato went together to examine the warehouses.

The others waited at one of the neighborhood parks. Lyons watched old women walk babies in prams as Davis and the Yaquis tutored him in basic Spanish. As the hours passed, the nursemaids and small children left the park. Groups of shouting boys, in the white-shirt-and-black-pants uniform of a school, ran through the park, kicking a ball made of wadded paper in a plastic bag. Teenagers from another school walked through minutes later, boys with boys, girls in other groups, sweethearts two by two.

Finally, Blancanales and Vato returned. "We got a problem."

"Perms," Vato explained.

"Dogs in the warehouse?" Lyons asked.

Vato shook his head. He explained. "Perros calle-jeros. Street boys. They have nowhere to go. The manager said we must go get police to evict them.''

Lyons shook his head. "No police. Pay the punks to leave if..."

"The problem's solved," Blancanales interrupted. "We told the boys we represented a government agency shipping cargo for the army. If they aren't gone when we get back, soldiers will throw them out."

"And it just so happens we got four Mexican army soldiers, right?"

"It just so happens..."

"They wore the uniforms of soldiers, but they were not soldiers."

Miguel Coral and Pedro Ramirez listened to Rico describe his eviction. Homeless for years, Rico survived on the streets by shining shoes. He slept where he could, in doorways, in alleys, or in abandoned buildings. He wore sandals and torn pants and a stained sweat shirt. Street filth crusted his skin. Shoe blacking stained his hands.

As a shoeshine boy, he listened as he worked. Often he heard important information. Men talked while boys shined their shoes, thinking the boys did not understand. But Rico understood the value of information. He had learned to listen and watch and remember. Today, he had heard of the reward for information on the North Americans who traveled with soldiers. He had talked with all his friends, all the people he knew from the streets. And then the North Americans had come, had actually appeared at the place where he and many other boys stayed.

"They wanted to rent the warehouse. Many of us are there and the Mexican says he will call the police. Then one of the other ones, he tells us..."

"This was the Puerto Rican?"

"Yes, the old one. The other one was young. He came back dressed like a soldier, the young one. The other one acted like a boss, telling the soldiers to move us out. All of them shout and say they will shoot us, so we went. That is when I saw the gringos outside. A blond one. And two others, North Americans.''

"Here..." Coral slid a sheet of paper and a pen to the boy "...draw the place."

Across the table from the older men, Rico sat on his shoeshine kit and carefully sketched the outlines of and entries to the warehouse.

A television blared in the next room. Below the windows of the apartment, traffic rushed through the narrow street, horns sounding, brakes squealing. Ramirez, middle-aged like Coral, wore bifocal glasses to study the map Rico drew.

"How much will you pay me?"

Coral took a thousand-peso note from his pocket. He put it in front of the boy. Rico shook his head.

"One thousand is nothing for this. This is very important. I know. They said they were soldiers and they had machine guns and they were with North Americans. Maybe they are drug smugglers. Maybe they are terrorists. I want a thousand dollars."

"You what?" Ramirez sputtered, astounded by the shoeshine boy's demand.

"If they are there," Coral told him, "we will pay another thousand. Pesos."

"They are there!" Rico protested. "One hour ago, they were there. I come here. They are still there."

"You say. When we see, we will be sure." Coral took out another five hundred pesos. "Here. Fifteen hundred. That is good pay. Now get their names."

"I want dollars!"

Coral shook his head. "Boy, for dollars, you must bring me the men."

"I will get their names!" Rico grabbed the money. He folded the bills and put them in a secret money pocket he wore. "I will go back and listen at the windows."

"Good," Ramirez told him. "Go, watch them. We will send men soon to watch. Tell them what you see, what the North Americans and soldiers do. My men will pay you a few dollars.''

Rico ran down the stairs to the crowded sidewalk. Pushing through the crowds, he ran to the corner and jumped on a bus. But he did not return to the warehouse.

Why waste his time for pesos? The two old men of the Ochoas had paid him only fifteen hundred pesos. Rico knew others who would buy information about criminals pretending to be soldiers of the Mexican army.

Rico would sell the information again.

This time, he would demand dollars or stay silent.

"A thousand dollars?" the sergeant asked, not believing the ragged boy who stood at the door to his apartment.

"I know something very important. About some gringos and Mexican soldiers. They have money and machine guns."

"Soldiers? Machine guns?"

"Maybe they are the ones from the Viaducto. If you pay me, I will take you to them."

"I don't have that money." The sergeant considered the problem. He motioned the boy to step in. "But I will call my unit..."

"Tell them I want dollars."

"Don't we all?"

Walls of office lights towered above the street. As the gray evening became night, workers from the buildings crowded the sidewalks. Junior executives talked with young women in color-coordinated corporate uniforms. Buses stopped, the workers surging in through the doors. Others strolled toward the subway station two blocks away, talking to one another, buying newspapers and magazines from the newsstands lining the boulevard.

Across the street, in the circular driveway of a flashy hotel, taxis vied for tourist fares. Lyons watched as a blond, sunburned European argued with a taxi driver. The tourist pointed to the black hood covering the meter. The driver shook his head. He whistled to a traffic cop. The city policeman, then a hotel doorman joined the argument.

Lyons stood in a doorway a few steps from the entry to a long-distance telephone office. As he had that morning, he held newspapers and a tourist map under his left armpit to cover the unmistakable shape of his shoulder-holstered Colt. Vato and Jacom circled in the rented cars. Police standing on the corners did not allow any parking.

Inside the telephone office, Gadgets and Blancanales called Stony Man. Lyons could not see them from where he stood. But he had an unobstructed view of the entry and the street in front. In a few minutes, after Gadgets recorded the coded reply from Stony Man, Able Team would have the translation and evaluation of Gunther's ravings.

They needed an address, the name of a building. Somewhere in the recordings of the fascist colonel's drug delirium, there had to be a key.

Vato passed in one of the rented cars. He did not look at Lyons, but Lyons knew that Vato had scanned the telephone office and the street as he passed.

Headlights flashed across the sidewalk and a heavy Chevrolet pulled to the curb. Lyons stepped back into the doorway, taking his hand-radio from his coat pocket. He counted four wide-shouldered men inside. They looked through the windows of the telephone office. Lyons watched the Chevrolet, his thumb on the radio's transmit key. He would not risk betraying their location until he knew...

One man pointed. Then three men threw open the doors of the Chevy and rushed toward the telephone office. One man stood at the entry, watching the sidewalk. As the other two went inside, their right hands going to shoulder-holstered pistols, Lyons hissed into the radio.

"Nazis! They're..."

A woman screamed. Noises. People on the sidewalk stopped. The gunman stationed at the door turned and looked inside. Gadgets''s voice called from Lyons's radio.

"Hold them! We haven't got it all yet. Can you?"

"They're already in there."

"The two that ran in here? They are past tense."

"How much longer?"

A full-powered Detroit engine roared as another Chevrolet slipped around the corner. The driver skidded the car to a stop in front of the telephone office. Three more gunmen ran for the entry, Uzis in their hands. The people on the sidewalks scattered.

Bursts of autofire shattered the evening. A plate-glass window fell onto the sidewalk.

Going to one knee, Lyons gripped his Colt Government Model in both hands. He lined up the sights on the driver of the first Chevrolet, checked the sidewalk for bystanders, then squeezed off a silenced shot.

Blood splashed the inside of the windshield. The driver slumped over the steering wheel, the engine screaming with frenzied rpm as the dead man's foot pressed down the accelerator. Then the driver fell sideways onto the transmission lever.

Tires smoking, the Chevy raced backward, shearing off two doors of a parked taxi. The out-of-control sedan continued backward into the wide boulevard, scraped off a car's taillights and smashed into the side of a bus. Hundreds of cars skidded to a stop.

Sprinting from the doorway, Lyons ran for the other car. He saw the driver turning in the front seat, his hand coming up with an automatic. Lyons sidestepped to the left and the driver fired, the back windshield of the Chevrolet suddenly fracture-white, the 9mm slug passing high over Lyons's head.

A silent 3-shot burst of .45-caliber slugs from Lyons punched holes in the crystals of broken glass, the impacts of the hollowpoints like hammers slamming the dashboard. He continued around the Chevrolet and fired again, point-blank through the driver's window. Three more hollowpoints tore into the wounded man. Lyons reached inside and took the keys from the ignition.

An Uzi fired a last burst. Lyons ran toward the telephone office and looked inside. Dead men sprawled everywhere. A woman ran from the front doors, screaming, tottering on her high heels. Gadgets and Blancanales followed her out. Blancanales held his Beretta 93-R autopistol in a two-hand grip. Gadgets had his bag of gear in one hand, an Uzi in the other. Another Uzi hung on his shoulder.

A shotgun boomed. A block away, Lyons saw a muzzle flash twice, the cracks coming an instant later. Headlights wavered. A second pair of headlights accelerated from behind the first, and the shotgun fired again. Lyons heard a crash.

"Where are the cars?" Gadgets shouted.

"We'll take that one." Lyons ran toward the windshield-shattered Chevrolet and jerked open the door. He pulled the dead man out.

Another weapon fired somewhere on the next block. Lyons dropped to a crouch. But no bullets came. Listening for a moment, he heard no more shots, only blaring horns.

Vato's rental arrived, sliding sideways as it stopped. Vato held out Lyons's Atchisson with one hand, the forestock braced on the window trim. "There are many of them!'' he shouted.

"Where's Jacom?"

"Back there, coming. Get in!"

"Take them." Lyons pointed to his partners. "I'll wait for Jacom."

Lyons pulled his Atchisson out of Vato's car window. Vato passed him another 7-round box-mag of 12-gauge shells as Blancanales and Gadgets got out of the Chevrolet and into the small car. Gadgets leaned across the back seat and pushed the door open.

"Get in! What're you waiting for?"

"Jacom! Where is he?" Lyons crouchwalked into the open, the muzzle of the Atchisson straight up as he scanned the street for the Yaqui teenager. "I'm not leaving him here..."

"He's coming!" Vato told him. "Look back there."

The headlights of a compact flashed to high beam twice. Jacom waved from the window. Only then did Lyons get in the car with his partners.

"Move it!" Lyons pointed the Atchisson out the window, watching for any other gunmen of the International.

Vato stood on the accelerator, swerving past a bus, whipping the compact through a skidding right turn. Lyons looked back, saw Jacom following them.

"We made it... What did Stony Man tell you?"

Gadgets shook his head with disbelief. "This is all too weird. Gunther isn't a Nazi, he's..."

Veering across three lanes of traffic, a pickup closed on them. A gunman stood up in the back and raised an Uzi.

A blast from the Atchisson flipped him backward from the truck. Lyons turned in the seat and sighted on the driver.

The truck swerved, headlights glaring through the back window of their rental car, then accelerated, the driver reaching out the window to point a revolver.

Firing point-blank, Gadgets killed the driver with a captured Uzi, the long burst throwing the driver sideways into another man, his hand pulling the wheel hard to the right. Gadgets fired until the bolt slammed down on the empty chamber. The truck went over the curb and into a sidewalk vending booth. Newspapers and magazines exploded into the air.

Gadgets dropped the empty Uzi to the pavement, the weapon clattering end-over-end on the asphalt.

"Gunther's what?" Lyons asked.

"He made all that noise we thought was German?"

"Yeah, yeah. What was it?"

"German. And Russian. He's an East German. KGB."

Headlights wove through the traffic. Muzzles flashed with autofire.