Fire should have burst out two minutes before. But Lyons saw no flames, heard no alarms.

"Bander!" a voice called out.

Lyons pressed back into the thick branches of the hedge. He prayed he could not be seen.

A sentry walked past him, calling out: "Bander! Report to the shack!"

Waiting until he saw no sentries, Lyons stepped out of the shadows and walked leisurely across the grounds. He left the lights of the house, driveways, garage far behind him. When only ten yards of open lawn separated him from the iron fence, Lyons dropped flat beside a row of flowers and waited again.

Everywhere on the estate, he heard voices calling for "Bander!"

Lyons set down his rifle and flashlight and crawled toward the fence. He felt ahead of him, searching by touch for dips or irregularities in the lawn's turf that would indicate pressure-sensors. His hands found nothing unusual. But when he neared the fence, his ears told him that climbing the iron fence meant death.

The fence hummed with AC current. By moonlight, he examined the ironwork for wires. He found a second line of security — bundles of tiny plastic tubes that lined the upper surfaces of the horizontal cross-members of the fence.

Shouts broke the quiet. On the driveway, a sentry snatched a hand-radio from his belt, listened, then ran in the direction of the garage. More shouts came from the garage.

Lyons needed a way out of the estate, quick.

* * *

A buzzer interrupted the last part of the meeting in the trophy room. Monroe clutched the phone with a shaky hand: "What?" The old man listened for a moment, then passed the phone to Furst. "Commander Furst here."

"Commander, someone killed Bander, one of the sentries. We found his body in the garage."

The tall, handsome mercenary resisted his first impulse: set the alarms screaming, then call for a hundred men to search the estate and hills beyond the fence. He stroked his styled hair, glanced to Lopez.

"Commander! Do you understand?"

"Yes, I heard. There can be no disturbance now." He turned away from Lopez and hissed: "We have a guest here. Keep it low key, please, for five minutes."

Hanging up, Furst turned back to Lopez. "Your plane is refueled and ready. If we have finally come to an agreement..."

"Yes, I must return. It is possible to schedule the demonstration? There are no problems?"

Both Furst and Pardee looked to Monroe. The old man dismissed the request with a wave of a bony claw. "Whenever it is convenient for my soldiers."

"Very good." Lopez gathered his notes and placed them in his leather-and-gold attache case. Standing, he smoothed the wrinkles from his London-tailored suit. Then he leaned down to the wheelchair to shake Monroe's hand: "Until then, senor."

Monroe ignored the offered hand. Furst lunged forward to cover the insult, shaking Lopez's hand, putting his other hand on the shoulder of the Mexican.

"Let's get you on that plane, Jorge. Every minute we waste puts your life and our cause in danger."

Lopez glanced at the eighty-year-old man who had insulted him. "Certainly."

In the hallway, Furst walked with his arm over Lopez's shoulders. As in the trophy room, photos of Monroe dominated the walls. Also here were photos of Availa Monroe in her childhood and teenage years.

"Forget the old man," Furst consoled Lopez. "We've gotten what we need from him. And your victory will be all that he wants."

Lopez paused. "That photo. Her brother has it also. He keeps it on his desk."

It was a snapshot of Availa and her brother as teenagers, arm-in-arm. In the background, other teenage couples frolicked and embraced around a huge swimming pool. Most of the teenagers wore fashionable bathing suits. Others were naked.

"Looks like they were having a good time," Furst commented.

"../como novios. Excuse me, like sweethearts. They love each other so much. El Rojo will enjoy seeing her again when he comes for the presentation."

"Commander!" Availa Monroe's voice rang out in the hallway.

"Mrs. Monroe," Lopez said, bowing.

Furst only nodded as they passed. Availa moved swiftly in pursuit of them. She clutched her satin houserobe closed, following them to the entry of the mansion.

"I need to talk to you," she whispered to Furst.

"Of course, Mrs. Monroe. Allow me to take Senor Lopez to his plane. I'll return immediately."

"No! You hear me now!"

Furst opened the front door for Lopez. "Pardon me, senor.Mrs. Monroe must have something urgent to tell me."

"Of course. Good evening, Senora." Lopez pulled the front door closed behind him.

Availa opened her houserobe, threw her arms around Furst to enfold him in satin. She writhed her naked body against his uniform.

Furst shoved her away. "We're in the middle of an emergency."

"Then come back later. And bring other men."

"I'll send some men. But I won't be with them."

Without dropping her smile, she took her arms from him and closed her robe. "Bueno!"

Rushing outside, Furst saw Lopez waiting in the Mercedes. A sentry paced the driveway, rifle in hands. Furst took the soldier's hand-radio: "This is Commander Furst. Captain Pardee is inside the house. As soon as my car clears the gate, switch on all the lights. Mobilize all the men at the base who did not participate in the Mexico raid. I want the mountain encircled while the security men search the house and grounds with dogs. Captain Pardee will direct the search until I return. Over."

Furst forced himself to walk calmly to the car. He grinned to Lopez as he entered the Mercedes and keyed the ignition. Furst idled the vehicle down the driveway to the gate. "It seems the guards are keeping Mrs. Monroe awake," he said. "They forget this is the home of their — how would you say it in Spanish? Their patron?"

The guards at the gate saluted as their commander passed. Furst steered through the first curve of the descending road, then glanced in the rearview mirror.

For an instant, he thought it was the rising sun.

Sheets of flame lit the sky.

His ear to the smoking uniform of the soldier, Dr. Nathan heard the sucking and wheezing of fire-seared lungs. He peered at the man's face. Gasping, coughing, the man struggled to breathe, his mouth wide. The fire had charred his skin. It had blistered his eyes closed.

"Two syrettes of morphine," Dr. Nathan told the soldier who helped him with the burned man.

"No chance of an overdose?" the soldier asked as he opened the foil packets that contained the narcotic with disposable syringe.

"Doesn't matter."

Dr. Nathan crossed the asphalt to the other writhing soldier. Two sentries struggled with a fire hose, one man directing the stream of water into the garage, his helper straightening the kinks. Other sentries axed open the garage's electric doors, aimed another stream of water at the fire.

The second burned soldier thrashed and screamed under the hands of the bullnecked Captain Pardee, who held down the man's shoulders while another sentry held his feet. Dr. Nathan knelt down and pressed his ear to the man's chest. His lungs sounded good.

"How's that man over there?" Pardee asked Dr. Nathan.

"I don't think he'll make it to the hospital. His lungs are gone."

"What about this one?"

Examining the soldier, Dr. Nathan saw second-degree burns. The doctor slipped out his folding knife and cut away the man's shirt. He saw only red splotches.

"He'll live. Give him a shot of morphine, get him to a hospital with a burn ward."

"Thanks, doctor. Now why don't you go check on Mr. Monroe? All this excitement can't be good for him."

"How did this happen? What exploded?"

"Looks like someone was playing with gasoline."