Survival Course td-82

by Warren Murphy

  Everywhere there were police. DFS vehicles and Mexican Army soldiers in their forest-green uniforms, all armed, all alert.

  Could the downing of Air Force One have anything to do with this? Officer Mazatl wondered.

  She drove directly for the Zona Rosa, the opulent and overpriced tourist district. It was near the U. S. embassy and therefore exactly the place the gringos would go-if they knew where to go in Mexico.

  She checked at the desks in the Galeria Plaza and the Calinda Geneve hotels. The gringos had not been there.

  Driving down Liverpool, past still-shattered facades of buildings damaged during the 1985 earthquake, she stopped at the Krystal.

  "Senor, por favor." She accosted the desk clerk, quickly describing Remo and Chiun.

  The clerk wordlessly passed her a key. It was stamped Room 67.

  "Gracias," Officer Mazatl said, striding for the elevator.

  She boarded the car with a pair of white-uniformed waiters carrying covered trays. They joked among themselves as the car ascended.

  "si," the first one said, "driving a bread truck. Everyone is talking about it."

  "I did not know that Bimbo Bread paid so well as to entice an American politician to drive one of their trucks," the other laughed.

  "What is this?" Officer Mazatl said suddenly, erasing the smiles from their dark faces with her authoritative tone.

  "Senorita, we only-"

  "Officer," she corrected.

  "Officer, I was merely repeating the stories going around that a man very much resembling the Vice-President of the United States was seen in the city driving a Bimbo Bread truck. It is one of those rumors one hears."

  "Bimbo Bread. You are certain of this?"

  "Si. But it is a joke."

  The elevator dinged, and the doors opened onto the sixth floor.

  "We shall see who ends up laughing," she said, leaving them to exchange glances and uplifted eyebrows.

  At the door to Room 67, Officer Mazatl used the butt of her gun to knock. She struck the panel so hard it shivered. Then she flipped the pistol around until the muzzle was pointed directly at whoever would answer.

  The door flew open. It was Remo. Surprisingly, he was unfazed by the sight of her pistol.

  "Who is it?" the squeaky voice of Chiun called from behind Remo.

  "It's Lupe," Remo called back. "Told you I recognized her knock."

  "Send her away."

  " I have a pistol," Lupe warned.

  "Down here, everyone has a pistol," Remo muttered. "Come in, as long as you're here."

  Lupe shut the door behind her. The TV set was on, tuned to an English broadcast on CNN. The old one called Chiun lay on one bed, looking wan. Remo threw himself onto a chair and focused on the TV.

  "How are you, old one?" Lupe asked Chiun.

  Nodding to the pistol in her hand, Chiun warned, "if you discharge that thing in here, I will kill you."

  Lupe almost laughed, but it was not a time for laughter.

  "Why did you chase that bread truck?" Lupe demanded of Remo.

  "What truck?" Remo asked, filling a water glass with Tehuacan brand mineral water.

  "The Bimbo Bread truck with the Vice-President driving it," she said quickly.

  Remo stopped pouring. He looked up. He looked to the one called Chiun. The old one looked back.

  They shrugged in unison like two puppets attached to the same strings.

  Remo spoke first. "Tell us what you know about the Vice-President," he said.

  "Only that he is supposed to be in Mexico City."

  "How do you know this?" Chiun demanded coldly.

  "Everyone in Mexico City is talking of this."

  "They are!" Remo said.

  "But they think it is a joke. You do not think it is a joke, do you?"

  "Look, can we level with you?" Remo asked.

  "Remo," Chiun warned, "we are in a strange land. We can trust no one."

  "Silencio, papacito!" Lupe hissed. Chiun's face wrinkled as if stung. "Go ahead, Senor Yones."

  "Call me Remo," Remo said. "Look, I'm kinda glad you're here. We've been watching TV, hoping to get some news on the situation."

  "What situation?"

  "You know about Air Force One going down."

  "I saw the wreck, same as you."

  "Well, what you don't know is that the President was carried out of the wreckage alive. Never mind by whom. The important thing is that the Vice-President, or someone who looks exactly like him, rescued him."

  "Are you saying that your President is in this city as well?"

  "We think so," Remo admitted. "We hope so. And we're trying to find him. We thought we had him, but the truck got away from us."

  "No wonder. You were on foot. You should have stayed with me in the car."

  "Spilt milk," Remo said.

  "Que?"

  "It's an expression," Remo said.

  "Do not believe him," Chiun interposed. "He sings the same song to me."

  "Why do you not check with your embassy people?" Lupe demanded. "Would your President not seek refuge there?"

  "That's the tricky part," Remo explained. "We're not sure the Vice-President is up to any good. This could all be part of a plot."

  "It is a plot," Chiun intoned feebly from the bed. "The President of Vice's plot."

  Lupe frowned. "These things do not happen in American politics," she suggested.

  "That's what we thought," Remo sighed. He took a sip of water.

  "They happen in all politics," Chiun said firmly.

  "So what do you say?" Remo asked Lupe. "Give us a hand?"

  "You are in my charge. We will work together as long as you understand that Mexican jurisdiction applies." She pronounced it "yurisdiction."

  "Anything you say. Are you ready, Little Father?"

  "He is too ill to accompany us," Lupe said firmly.

  The old Oriental's eyes narrowed to slits at that remark. He pressed his thin-fingered hands with their impossibly long nails into the bedclothes as if testing the mattress strength.

  Without warning, he was suddenly in the air. He executed a smart back flip, landing behind Lupe. She whirled, her gun still in hand.

  By the time she turned all the way around, the old one was no longer there and her gun had left her fingers.

  She was aware only of her suddenly stinging fingers and a simultaneous flash of crimson silk.

  She turned again, and the old Asian was standing there offering her gun back.

  Officer Guadalupe Mazatl accepted the pistol in stunned silence. It felt lighter than it should. She broke open the cylinder and saw the chambers were vacant.

  "Where are my bullets?" Officer Mazatl sputtered.

  "Perhaps you left them in your other gun?" the one called Chiun sniffed.

  "I have them," Remo said as he stood up.

  He showed her his fist, opening it. Six brass bullets lay in his palm.

  "I may need those," she sputtered.

  "We don't like wild shooting when we go to work," Remo said, brushing past her for the door, "and we're going to work right now."

  Officer Guadalupe Mazatl followed them out into the corridor, trying to reholster her pistol. She was so nervous it took her four tries to get the barrel to go in properly.

  Out on the curb, Remo Williams got behind the wheel one step ahead of Lupe Mazatl.

  "This is an official vehicle," she snapped. "My vehicle."

  "Then you can sit up in front with me," Remo said politely. "That okay with you, Chiun?"

  The Master of Sinanju nodded and eased into the back seat. Remo put his hand out the window for the keys.

  Officer Mazatl folded her arms angrily.

  "Trade you for some bullets?" Remo suggested.

  "No."

  Remo peered under the dash. "Maybe I can hotwire it, then."

  "Very well," Officer Mazatl said reluctantly.

  She got in and they made the exchange.

  As Remo started the engine, Officer Ma
zatl looked into her open palm. "You gave me only two bullets," she complained.

  "I don't remember talking numbers," Remo said, smiling as he pulled into traffic.

  "You think you are so smug," Lupe spat.

  "Just doing what comes naturally," Remo retorted. "So where do we go first?"

  "Must drive. I will ask questions. First, did either of you see the license plate of the Bimbo Bread truck?"

  "Not me," Remo admitted. He called over his shoulder, "You, Chiun?"

  "Yes," Chiun said in a tired squeak. "It had some numbers on it. I do not remember what they were."

  "Do you remember the letters under the numbers?" Lupe asked.

  "Possibly."

  "Did they say 'Mex Mex' or 'D. F. Mex'?"

  "They said 'D. F. Mex.' I do not know what that could mean."

  "It means the truck is registered here in the Distrito Federal, not in the state of Mexico, which surrounds Mexico City."

  "That narrows the search area, huh?" Remo suggested.

  Lupe picked up a CB-style dashboard microphone. "It would until you understand that Mexico City is the largest city in the world."

  "Oh, right. Forgot about that," Remo said.

  Lupe began speaking rapid words in Spanish, asking questions and getting answers as Remo tooled his way through the colorful Zona Rosa.

  "Take the Paseo de la Reforma," she said suddenly.

  "Glad to," Remo shot back. "What is it and where is it?"

  She replaced the mike. "Two streets more, then right."

  Remo went up a street called Hamburgo and found himself on the same broad avenue where he had earlier lost the bread truck.

  "We are passing the American embassy," Lupe said suddenly.

  "Is that so?" Remo said, glancing at the flag-draped building.

  "Did you not tell me that you worked for the American embassy?" Lupe said harshly.

  Remo's face assumed a guileless expression. "We do. Sort of. We're cultural attaches."

  "That means CIA."

  "No flies on you," Remo said.

  "Que?"

  "Another expression. The rough translation is, yes, I do work for the CIA. I even have sortie ID on me. Satisfied?"

  "No."

  "So where to now?" Remo asked casually.

  "Follow Reforma," Lupe said. "I am told a Bimbo Bread truck has been found parked near the Zona Hotelera. It has been abandoned."

  "Damn," Remo said softly. He pressed the accelerator to the floor. "That's our only lead."

  They skirted Chapultepec Park on one side and the Museum of Anthropology with its battered stone idol on the other, and whizzed past several more humanistic statues Remo didn't recognize.

  "The truck will be found on the left, past this next crossroad," Lupe said, pointing.

  "We call them intersections," Remo said, slowing down.

  Beyond Chapultepec Park, in the shadow of the Hotel Nikko, was a shopping center. They found the truck there, guarded by two stone-faced local policemen toting shotguns.

  Officer Mazatl led Remo and Chiun up to the truck, saying, "These norteamericanos are with me."

  The cops withdrew under Lupe's hard stare and superior credentials. She threw open the back doors.

  Loaves of bread tumbled out, several of them torn open and spilling half-eaten slices of thin-sliced bread.

  Remo grabbed one bag as it tumbled out. It was crushed, as if stepped or sat upon.

  "Looks like someone was in back, in the dark, having himself a pretty plain meal," Remo suggested.

  "The true President," Chiun hissed.

  Lupe went around to the driver's seat and threw open the door. She looked under the cushions, felt the floorboards, and came back, her face unhappy.

  "There are no traces of anyone," she said, sullenvoiced.

  "Assuming this is the right truck," Remo asked her intently, "where could they have gone?"

  Lupe looked around. "Into any of these places," she said, gesturing toward the cluster of boutiques, theaters, and nightclubs around them. "Or"-her other arm indicated the other side of the Paseo de la Reforma, which hummed with cars and buses and mini-vans--"perhaps into the hotel district. The best hotels in the city are to be found there."

  "I don't suppose you could organize a building-to-building search?" Remo wondered, daunted by the task.

  "I do not think so," Lupe added unhappily. "I cannot get the local comandante to help us. With these burros we must plow."

  "What's that?"

  "A-how you say?-expression."

  Remo winced. "How about these guys?" he suggested, pointing to the police officers standing out of hearing.

  "I will speak with them."

  Lupe engaged the two officers in earnest conversation and returned to Remo and Chiun.

  "They say they are under orders to guard this truck, and not to interfere," she reported.

  "Interfere with what?" Remo demanded.

  "They refused to say."

  "Is something going on?" Remo wondered.

  "Something is always going on in Mexico City. It is a cesspool of intrigues. That is why I work in Tampico. There is less money to be had in Tampico, but also less intrigue. I do not understand what is going on."

  "Well, nothing to do but to fan out and look around," Remo said morosely. "It's all we have." He turned to Chiun. "Are you up to this, Little Father?"

  "No. But anything to get us out of this land of unbreathable air and unfeminine women."

  "What did he say?" Lupe demanded.

  "Don't sweat it," Remo returned. "He says that about all women-unless they're Korean."

  "He is Korean, then?"

  "Can't you tell?" Remo asked, without humor.

  They split up and went through the various establishments, finally rendezvousing beside the bread truck an hour later, empty-handed and unhappy.

  "Well," Remo said, looking around. "Do we do this in quadrants, zones, or what?"

  Officer Lupe Mazatl's answer froze in her mouth.

  An olive military helicopter suddenly passed overhead, flying slowly and sweeping around. In the distance came the caterwauling of sirens.

  The helicopter descended on a strip of grass near the Hotel Nikko.

  "That resembles Comandante Odio's helicopter," Lupe said slowly.

  "Just what I was thinking," Remo said. "Let's check it out."

  Traffic on the Reforma was so heavy in both directions-it seemed to consist of three mini-vans for every single passenger automobile-that the only safe way to cross was a footbridge constructed of loose planks laid on a framework of orange-painted pipes.

  It turned out to be only slightly safer than crossing on a strand of spider silk. The framework hummed and rattled in sympathy with the traffic below. The planking was as loose as the teeth in a centuries-old skull.

  Eventually they made it over to the other side.

  They rounded a corner past a seemingly unfinished statue of a scowling Winston Churchill and into the back entrance of the Nikko, only five paces behind Comandante Oscar Odio's swaggering figure.

  Remo caught Lupe's eye and put his finger in front of his lips. She frowned but went along.

  They hung back while Comandante Odio strode up to the reception desk and said loudly in Spanish, "This lobby is under DFS control. No one must be allowed to enter or leave."

  "Si, Comandante," a clerk said meekly.

  "Which one of you is Emilio?"

  A man in a powder-blue coat lifted a hand. His eyes were frightened.

  "In what room does your unauthorized guest reside?" Odio's voice was a silken hiss.

  "Sixteen-forty-four, senor.''

  "Sounds good to me," Remo muttered to Chiun, after the Master of Sinanju translated the exchange. To Lupe he said, "Just follow us."

  Remo and Chiun flitted through the lobby, going from sofa to plant, unseen by Comandante Odio. Lupe moved between them, feeling very exposed. She was astonished when they reached the elevators unseen.

  Remo stabbed
the up button. The doors opened instantly, taking them all by surprise. They rode the elevator to the sixteenth floor in silence.

  When the doors separated, Remo stepped out into the corridor.

  "The coast looks clear," he said, waving them on.

  "What coast?" Lupe hissed. "This is a hotel."

  "Expression," Remo said wearily.

  They crept to the door of 1644. Remo noticed Lupe extracting her pistol from its holster.

  "Put that thing away before I break it over your head," he said harshly. " I don't want any wild shooting if the President's around."

  "But it is the only weapon we have among us," Lupe snapped back.

  At that, the Master of Sinanju lifted a single gleaming fingernail to Lupe's nose. It hovered there an instant, so close to her face that Lupe's eyes crossed. Then it sliced down with guillotine swiftness.

  The leading half-inch of Lupe Mazatl's pistol snapped off, along with the gun sight. Chiun caught it. He presented her with the snapped-off section of the gun barrel in silence.

  Officer Mazatl spent a disbelieving second putting the two sections together. They fitted perfectly, but did not adhere.

  Swallowing several times, she returned her pistol to its holster.

  "Comprendo?" Remo asked.

  "The proper word," Lupe said hoarsely, "is comprende."

  "All my Spanish comes from Cisco Kid reruns," Remo said. "Now, get set. We're going in."

  Chiun set himself on one side of the door. At a gesture from Remo, Lupe stationed herself on the other.

  "You will go in last, old one," she told Chiun.

  The Master of Sinanju snorted derisively. "Each monkey to his rope," he said. Lupe frowned at the familiar saying.

  Remo pressed the heel of his hand to the electronic-lock assembly. He drew his elbow back and then rammed forward.

  The sound that the fracturing assembly made was not loud. But the door itself shot off its hinges like a cannon ball.

  Lupe plunged in instantly. To her astonishment, she was still several paces behind Remo and the old Korean. They stopped suddenly, blocking her view.

  "Hold it right there!" Remo shouted.

  "Make no rash moves, traitor!" Chiun cried.

  "What is happening?" Lupe demanded, unable to see past their backs in the narrow foyer.

  The bed creaked. Then there was a whisk of a sound, like a sword coming out of its scabbard. Lupe reflexively reached for her pistol again.