Too late, a handful of rice and lamb spiced with green chili seared Lyons's mouth. He grabbed a bottle of orange pop from the table with his sticky right hand. The bottle shot from his hand, but he grabbed it in midfall with his left and he gulped pop. "Hot! Hot... hot..." he said breathlessly.

"When I was in L.A.," Akbar said to the Americans, "everyone thought they could burn me out with Mexican food. Not me, man. I ate it all."

Lyons sucked down breath after breath, then drank more orange pop. "Not you. I understand. They grow super-jalapefios in Lebanon?"

"Looks like we'll be going to Mexico," Powell told them.

"Is that the final destination?" Blancanales asked. "Or one more stop in the zigzag?"

"That's where all the tickets go. And this..." Powell pointed to a series of tickets. "There's a sequence of arrivals. There's no sequence in Amsterdam or Paris. The Iranians were to get off in Mexico City and call this contact. One man at a time. If Mexico was only a stop, they'd get off the plane, then go to the bus station, zip on to the next place."

"Makes sense," Lyons admitted. "But so what? Maybe it's a zigzag, maybe it isn't. But that's where their contact is. We take him, he takes us to the next stop."

"There goes the Ironman," Gadgets added. "Cutting through all the machinations and mystery. Don't talk about zigzags to him. All he sees is straight lines."

"You want to spend three weeks analyzing this data?" Lyons demanded. "Maybe wait for a Congressional Resolution? We're leaving for Mexico, immediately."

"And how does our dear Mademoiselle Desmarais figure in your plans?" Powell asked.

"She doesn't. She wants a story. Chances are she didn't hear anything. She just wants to stay in the game."

"Like you say, maybe and maybe not," Powell responded. "I know she's got information. Now that I'm a good guy, maybe she'll tell. I'll have hours and hours on the plane to talk."

"If she can travel," Blancanales cautioned. "She could be hurt in ways she doesn't even realize. I hope she has the intelligence to listen to the doctor if he wants to hospitalize her."

"I know her type," Powell said, laughing. "She won't listen to anyone. Akbar, look at this one. Think you could pass?" Powell flipped a passport to his Shia friend.

Akbar wiped off his hands and studied the passport's photograph. "Am I that ugly?"

"It's that joker's beard. You'll have to say you shaved, but the forehead and eyes match."

"You're sending him to Mexico City?" Blancanales asked. "If the contact's gotten word of the killings..."

Lyons nodded. "Yeah, they'll try to hit him. Either way, you make the connection."

"I don't like that idea!" Akbar protested.

"We'll be there," Lyons told him. "We'll back you up."

Akbar's elderly manservant ushered in Anne Desmarais. She had put on makeup to cover her bruises. Though she walked stiffly, painfully, she carried a suitcase. "When do we leave?"

Powell looked to the others. "Any minute now, if..."

"We'll make our own plans," Lyons interrupted. He looked to his partners.

They nodded their agreement.

Via satellite-relayed long-distance telephone, Blancanales talked with Captain Soto of the army of Mexico. In the months since Able Team — aided by then-Lieutenant Soto — attacked the forces of the Fascist International, politics had played a central role in the life of Soto. The officer mentioned arrest and imprisonment followed by reinstatement and promotion to captain. But he held no bitterness for the North Americans. He laughed at the difficulties caused by Able Team's previous visit to Mexico.

"I am now famous. A hero," Soto declared. "I will tell you many stories when you visit."

"And we will tell you a story. Perhaps you will have a role to play."

"Oh? You come on business?"

"Important business. Can you meet us at the airport?"

"Certainly! Of course. It will be my pleasure to..."

"Can you meet us beforewe go through Customs?"

"Oh, I understand... I will think of something. Leave the plane last. Do not follow the crowd into the terminal."

"We will see you. If there is a delay or if we must change flights, we'll call again."

"Good. I look forward to your visit."

After breaking the connection, Blancanales paid the desk clerk in dollars. He received his change in Greek currency. He did not bother to count the change. Able Team would be on Cyprus only another hour.

Gadgets and Lyons waited outside the tourist hotel in a limousine. Blancanales hurried through the freezing rain and joined his partners in the warmth of the idling Mercedes.

"You talked to him?" Lyons asked.

"He said he can help us..."

"Great." Lyons signaled the driver to continue to the airport.

"But you know," Blancanales continued. "He's had serious problems since we were there."

"He still in the service?" Gadgets asked.

"He was in prison. Now he's back in the service. With a promotion to captain."

Lyons laughed. "After this, maybe he'll hit major."

Knives flashed in the firelight. Choking on their own blood, the Syrian soldiers kicked and struggled in the grip of the Iranians. Rouhani watched the Syrians die, then motioned his Revolutionary Guards on to the next sentry position. Two of his men stayed in the sheet-metal shack to dispose of the bodies and stand watch.

The others ran through the gray pall of falling snow. The mercury-arc floodlights spaced along the perimeter guided the Iranians to the next entry shack. They approached slowly, listening to the Syrians inside talking around the fire. Rouhani signaled two of his Guards to go inside. He and the others waited outside, like shadows in the swirling snow, their knives ready.

Greeting the Syrians like friends, the two Revolutionary Guards stepped up to the fire and warmed their hands. One Guard took American cigarettes from his coat. He offered the cigarettes to the Syrians and the soldiers each took one. As the two sentries leaned down to the fire to light the cigarettes, the other Iranians rushed in with their knives.

Again, the Syrians died quickly.

Rouhani left his Guards at the post. Alone with his thoughts, he walked into the gray swirl of blowing snow to the village. His heart hammered with exultation. Tonight he finally took command of the strike against the satanic Americans. No longer would the Syrians control the rockets.

He had never believed the Syrians would actually kill the American President. They hid behind diplomacy and foreign relations and negotiations. Cowards! How can a believernegotiate with Satan?

Had not the Syrians waited at their nation's frontiers for years, facing the Jews but never attacking? Did not the Syrians tolerate for years the Americans in Lebanon? Did not the Syrians possess the Soviet missile systems, only for the missiles to stand unused, never launched against the Jew enemy or the Americans or the other enemies of the Faith?

Now the Syrians made rockets to attack America. But would they ever launch the rockets?

Rouhani would not wait for the answer. Tonight, under the cover of this storm sent by Allah, while the Syrian officers and technicians holidayed in Damascus, he took the weapons of doom from the Syrians.

On the streets of the village, his Guards saluted him from doorways. His men held the offices and workshops. Rouhani did not know what holiday took the Syrians back to their capital. He did not care. He honored only the holidays ordained by the Prophet or declared by the Ayatollah. Let the Syrians celebrate their orgies of alcohol and sensuality — the thought sickened him. The video machines of pornography, the American and European films in the theaters, the imported luxuries, the Syrian women in tight pants and shimmering fashions, their bodies scented with exotic perfumes, their faces painted, their lips red and pouting, like a promise of paradise...