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.