"We now face a problem that, though not of our making, if it comes to pass, will surely confront the world with unprecedented displays of American militaristic aggression. We are confident we could counter the American actions, but of course it would be much better if the crisis did not occur at all..."

"Illovich! Okay! What the hell are you talking about?" Powell demanded.

"Why... the Iranians, of course. They came to kill your President. We can't allow that. I am offering all the assistance of the Soviet Union to prevent that terrible occurrence from threatening the peace of the world!"

In a truck parked a few blocks from the walled mansion, Gadgets Schwarz monitored the three audio sources transmitting from inside the estate. He heard the sounds of clothing rustling, of footsteps, of voices speaking Russian and English and Spanish. Once he heard Powell and Akbar speak quickly in Arabic.

He mentally traced the locations of the minimikes as he listened.

The transmitters that Blancanales had placed on the Canadian woman did not move. Apparently, she had taken off her coat. He heard the sounds of a bed squeaking, then water running. Minutes later, he heard a door close. No more sound came from that microphone as the sound-activated circuits shut off.

Akbar seemed to be pacing in a room. Gadgets heard coins clinking against the disk of the transmitter as the Lebanese walked. Once when Akbar had spoken to Powell, Powell hissed him quiet. Powell knew the Soviets would be monitoring all the conversations of their guests.

Blancanales knew Gadgets listened. Blancanales could not risk a one-way conversation using the mini-mike in his pocket because of the Soviet microphones in the house, but he made a point of speaking to Illovich and Powell, commenting on the decor of the house, the rooms, the views from the windows, the angle of the sunlight in the garden.

Every comment helped Gadgets visualize the interior. He took notes, sketching the house and grounds. The sketches became diagrams. If Gadgets, Lyons and Mexicans had to break into the compound to rescue Blancanales and the others, they now had a map.

Then he heard the sounds of doors slamming, of people running through the rooms. A Russian-accented voice shouted," We go now!"

"You got the information from the Iranians?" Powell asked.

"Yes. We have. We go now."

"Finally..."

"Where are they all running to?" Blancanales asked. "Why are they bringing out the cars? Five cars? Do they think they're going to a battle?"

Gadgets signaled the Mexican lounging across the front seats. Because the Soviets had taken Blancanales's hand radio, Gadgets and Lyons could not risk using their radios. Instead, they used the radios of Captain Soto's antiterrorist unit. The Mexican spoke into his handset, relaying the information in words Gadgets recognized as Nahuatl — the pre-Castillian language of Mexico — and street jive.

"They are ready," the Mexican reported to Gadgets.

Sounds came from the minimike in the Canadian's room. Gadgets turned down the other frequencies and heard the door open, then the woman's quick footsteps. Slow, heavy footsteps accompanied her.

Bus noises from the street forced Gadgets to turn the monitor up louder. Listening, he heard the deep voice of Illovich, speaking French.

Gadgets flipped the switch of his cassette recorder. As Illovich and the Canadian spoke, the cassette machine recording their French dialogue, Gadgets checked his other equipment. He switched on the directional-impulse receiver and listened to the steady beeps on three frequencies.

Illovich and Desmarais continued talking.

What do they have to talk about, Gadgets wondered. He watched the cassette turn inside the recorder. Don't know now, but we'll know later...

Finally their conversation ended. Gadgets heard the slap of heavy footsteps receding, followed by the sound of Desmarais gathering her camera and tape recorder, then a rustling sound as she slipped on her coat. He faded down her frequency and turned up the minimikes on Blancanales and Akbar.

He heard car doors slamming. Engines gunning. Illovich issued instructions in Russian.

Gadgets turned to his driver. "This is it!"

Powell and Akbar rode in a new Dodge with Illovich. Their driver followed the line of cars through the traffic of a viaducto, one of the expressways cutting through the seemingly endless sprawl of the world's largest city.

Ahead, in a Mitsubishi passenger van, Blancanales rode with Desmarais and several Soviet gunmen. They saw the young woman turn around to snap a photo of the Dodge. A gunman blocked the lens.

"Why you letting that reporter come along?" Powell asked.

"I could ask the same question of you, American. You brought her to Mexico."

"Freedom of the press, you know. Told me she'd cut me in on the money."

"Behind the sacred principle, a profit. You Americans are not so difficult to understand."

"Hey, Ruskie, what about you?" Powell replied. "I doubt if the President knows that you of the evil empire is his friend. But you're helping him. Fact is, you're probably helping both sides. Tricky Ruskies. You all make snakes look like higher-life forms."

Illovich smiled. "I know it is difficult to understand. To think that my country would protect a government that hates us. Incomprehensible. Personally, I find you Americans incomprehensible. Your people, your government, your leaders — impossible!

"Your senators and congressmen, your President, and your President's advisors, they believe they are blessed. They walk about as if all the world loved them. Only your President has the minimum of protection. And even he, a malcontent with a twenty-two-caliber pistol shot him!

"Why must they endanger themselves? Do they realize their insatiable urge to touch the citizens, to pose and strut before the crowd threatens world peace? Are a few votes so important? Is voting so important? I think it is ironic that the Soviet Union must defend democracy from its malcontents. Oh, well," Illovich said, shrugging, "anything for peace."

"They ain't our malcontents. They're Iranian Revolutionary Guards," Powell responded.

"True. My apology. They are not Americans. But they are a product of the United States of America. The occupation and subjugation of Iran by the CIA and their puppet the Shah produced the Revolutionary Guards. Now they come to take revenge for the..."

"Yeah? What about Afghanistan? Maybe the Big Red in the Kremlin's next for a hit squad."

"Afghanistan is another example. Fortunately we Soviets and the progressive Afghan masses united in brotherly opposition to the forces of..."

Powell cut off the Soviet. "Those police cars with us? Or is the show over?"

"They are with us. This may become very sticky, you understand."

"Oh, yeah," Powell agreed. "I know about Iranians. Wish I didn't."

Staying low in the back of the panel truck, Gadgets took the Mexican walkie-talkie and buzzed Lyons. "Those police are with the commies."

"Organized operation."

"No doubt about it."

"Any word where?"

"They're not saying anything. Powell's rapping with the El Numbero Uno Ruskie, talking jive politics. Don't mean a thing. Picking up Russian from the other car. Soto know Russian? Or French? I taped Quebecky talking with El Rusko."

"I'll ask."

After a moment, Captain Soto spoke from the walkie-talkie. "I studied French in the university."

"But can you understand it?" Gadgets asked.

"I worked in a tourist shop as part of an investigation. I will attempt a translation of the tape."

Gadgets put the cassette recorder to the walkie-talkie and played back the conversation between Illovich and Desmarais.