"It would be a waste of your potential to actually leave your unit and join us," Gunther told him. "You have proven yourself to them. You are trusted. You could contribute invaluable information to the International. And perhaps without compromising your missions."

"What do you mean?"

"Your superiors do not limit your unit's missions to only actions against the International, correct?"

"Right. We go up against problems as they come along. Sometimes Communist terrorists, sometimes criminals, right-wing groups, whoever."

"You could keep us informed, but we would only communicate with you when your missions threatened our operations. Then we would issue instructions to you."

"Like what?"

"To overlook an individual. To lead the mission to a false conclusion. These things could be arranged so that your unit appears to always succeed. Yet the International's operations would continue untouched. We have similar arrangements with others."

"Who? The FBI, the CIA?"

Gunther nodded. "And the other services. Some work with us directly, others work as you will, others work in complete ignorance of who actually receives the assistance they furnish. It is an excellent system. The divisions and departments maintain security and greatly expand our areas of operation."

"How do I know you won't just have us wiped out sometime? It would be easy. I tell you we have an op coming up, you put out a unit to off us. Or you let the Libyans or the Soviets know and they do it."

"That would not be in our interest."

"But how would I protect myself against that?"

"You have information to use against me," Gunther reminded the American.

"Maybe. All I know is what you told me about your operations in the United States. Nothing to act on. Like you say, you're departmentalized. If it's true."

"What I told you is true. That information bought me time. I had to prove my value to you. I had no other hope of survival.''

"And how do I prove myself to your organization?"

"My freedom. And immediate information."

"What information?"

"Why are you going south? You could have flown north to the American border."

"We wouldn't have made it to the border. The Mexicans and the U.S. have downward-looking radar covering the approach to the border. No matter how low we flew, the radar or the satellites would have tracked us. The DEA already arranged to have us shot down once. We can't push our luck."

"But why Mexico City?"

"Coral has friends from the Ochoa gang there."

Hearing that information, Gunther nodded.

"They can arrange for a charter flight north," Lyons continued. "We figured that was the only way to get a prisoner north."

"But once we arrive in Mexico City, that problem is over, correct?"

"If you escape, do you have people who can help you get out of Mexico?"

Gunther nodded.

Lyons looked around, then spoke. "Then that's when I start earning my gold," he said.

Later in the night, Coral returned. He discussed the questioning of Gunther with Lyons and Blancanales, then he went to question the prisoner himself. But he did not question him about the International.

"What has the blond one said?" Coral asked.

"He said he wants the gold."

"He'll turn against the others?"

"Perhaps it is the truth. But I think he is lying. He will not join the Reich. Not for the victory. Not for the gold. Americans have their ideals."

Forested mountainsides stood like a wall against the clouded sky. Davis took the helicopter higher and higher, the turbine whine becoming a shriek, the rotor blades slashing thinner atmosphere with every meter of elevation. The helicopter entered the clouds, mist swirling through the interior, the forest suddenly gone. For a moment, enveloped in the clouds, the noise of the turbine overwhelming their thoughts and senses, they floated in a cold, gray void.

Flashes of daylight came, then the helicopter broke from the clouds. A brilliant blue sky domed the Valley of Mexico. Vato shouted over the turbine noise and pointed to the southeast.

"There." He pointed to the two snow-topped volcanoes. "Popocatepetl. Iztaccihuatl. We are near la ciudad."

But a gray pall denied any sight of the world's largest city. In the center of the valley, a point of light flashed as sunlight blazed from the polished metal of an airliner descending into the pollution generated by millions of autos and trucks and factories in the distant Mexican capital.

Lyons spoke into the intercom. "How much farther?"

"We're there," Davis replied.

"But it looks like we're still thirty or forty miles away."

"We are, specialist. But I know Mexico City. Take my word for it, this is as close as we'll get with the Huey. As soon as I spot a road, I'm putting this thing down."

"Make it somewhere isolated," Lyons told him. "We might have to leave it parked for days."

Blancanales spoke through the intercom. "This is it for the helicopter. Miguel and I will go into the city and rent cars."

"We can't abandon this helicopter," Lyons argued. "It could be our ticket out if we fall into a bad situation down there..."

Davis interrupted. "Then you fly it. This thing's done fifteen hundred miles without servicing. Flying it one more minute than we need to is chancing a very sudden descent. I want to park it and walk away."

"This is a million-dollar machine!" Lyons protested.

"Yeah?" Davis retaliated. "Isn't that what I said when you burned the Lear jet? Listen to me. This million-dollar machine is trashed. The joyride is over. Let the Mexicans repossess it. There's our road — no villages, no farms, just canyons and trees. Looks good."

Below them, trees covered steep hillsides. A gravel road followed the curves and folds of a mountainside. They saw a trail along a ridge line. On another ridge line, tire ruts led from the gravel road to a wide clearing. The mature trees had been harvested, then the cleared ground replanted with seedlings among the stumps.

"Miguel!" Gadgets called out. He plugged a second set of headphones into the NSA secure-frequency radio captured from the International Group. Coral slipped on the headphones. He listened as Gadgets plugged in a cassette tape recorder.

"What's going on?" Lyons asked him.

Gadgets motioned for him to wait.

The helicopter banked. Gaining altitude, they flew over the ridge crest. The road disappeared in the trees. They saw flat stone slabs and low brush on a hilltop.

"What do you think of that place, the rocks down there?" Davis asked through the intercom.

"You're driving," Lyons told him.

"One last look," Davis said.

Davis took the helicopter in a quick orbit of the hilltop. Lyons and the Yaquis sat in the door. In the valley beyond, more than three kilometers from the hilltop, they saw the geometry of farms: rectangular fields, the lines of cornstalks, the circles of ponds. Smoke drifted from trees concealing houses. But they saw no fields or trails near the flat hilltop itself.

Seconds later, the skids scraped rock. Dust and leaves swirled around the helicopter. Davis shut down the turbine. Only the rush of the slowing rotors broke the silence. Then the rotors stopped.

Wind carried away the odor of burned kerosene. The Yaquis straightened their uniforms and stepped from the gaping doors. Glancing at Gadgets, Miguel and Blancanales listening to the NSA radio, Lyons followed the Yaquis out.

Birds and insects broke the silence with their sounds. FN FAL paratroop rifles slung over their backs, the Yaquis walked into the forest. Jacom and Kino searched downhill, Ixto uphill. Lyons followed Vato. Staying two steps behind the slight young man, Lyons watched him move silently through the brush, listening for every sound, his head pivoting to scan the trees and lush foliage for any sign of observers.