"That is the good news I have for you, Padrino. I have been reliably informed that the Vice-President has been located in one of our best hotels."
Odio could hear El Padrino sit up.
"And el presidente, el jefe, himself?"
"I do not have that information as yet, but I am working on this."
"Who else knows of this, Odio?"
"By this time," Oscar Odio said truthfully, "probably half the Mexican security appartus."
"I have other assets in the area," EI Padrino said smoothly. "But it will take time to move them into position. What can you do to further my interests?"
"The Vice-President is occupying a room illegally," Odio explained. "He can be detained on these grounds."
"Do this, and I promise you, Comandante, you will never stoop to accepting fat envelopes again. You will be passing them out."
"As you say, Padrino. "
Comandante Oscar Odio hung up the phone, his wide smile threatening to pierce his earlobes. He put on his mirrored sunglasses and wrapped a silk scarf around his neck.
Outside, the helicopter was waiting. He anticipated trading it in for a newer model by month's end. Perhaps one with rocket pods. Yes, he would enjoy waving rocket pods.
Chapter 18
Federal Judicial Police Officer Guadalupe Mazatl was forced to give up her search for the loco American diplomats. They had disappeared in the controlled confusion of Mexico City traffic more quickly than she would have believed possible. Even the sick Asian one, who looked as if he could barely walk, never mind run.
Officer Mazatl had given up the foot chase and returned to the taxi. After thirty or forty minutes of aimless circling of the Zona Rosa and questioning numerous local police, she decided they were unfindable. There had been no sign of the Bimbo Bread truck, which had compelled them, for some strange reason, to leap into traffic, risking their very lives.
Something strange was happening, Officer Mazatl considered as the taxi drove her to Mexico City FJP headquarters, a white colonial building with the words "POLICIA JUDICIAL FEDERAL DE ESTADO" in gold lettering over the entrance.
The Mexico City primer comandante was only too happy to assist Officer Mazatl in her plight.
"You have lost your charge, eh, chica?" he said, coming around from his desk. He shut the door. His arm went around Officer Mazatl's shoulders. Officer Mazatl undid the flap of her belt holster. It made a loud snap. The arm withdrew with alacrity.
"You misjudge me, chica. You are out of your district. I only wish to assist you."
"They are an Anglo and an old Asian man," Officer Mazatl clipped out. "The Anglo dresses in a black T-shirt. The Oriental wears a fine red silk robe."
"Ah," said the comandante. "Yes. I have heard of them."
"They are supposed to be attached to the U. S. embassy."
"If that is so, why have they taken up residence in a hotel?"
"Which hotel?"
"Ah, but if I tell you that, what will you do for me?" His voice was like cream.
"We are companeros of the FJP," Officer Mazatl said tightly. "We should be working together."
The comandante smiled generously. "I am, like you, poorly paid, and forced to seek opportunities in order to make my poor way in the world."
"You do not expect me to bribe a fellow officer into sharing police intelligence!" Officer Mazatl flared.
"No, I do not expect it, but . . ." His hands spread like separating birds, lazily taking wing.
"Never mind! I will do my duty without you."
As Officer Mazatl stormed out, the comandante's voice called coolly after her, "When you change your mind, chica, I will be here, thinking of your strong womanly body."
It cost Officer Mazatl only ninety pesos and a look at her credentials to commandeer an FJP car from the motor pool. The comandante had been too eager to have his way with her. He had admitted the americano and his friend were registered in a hotel. There were many, many hotels in Mexico City, it was true. But it would be infinitely easier to check with every one of them than to have to bed that criadero de sapos of a comandante.
As she pulled into traffic, Officer Guadalupe Mazatl noticed the heavy police patrols. On one corner, three officers stood around talking to one another, two holding machine guns at the ready, the third casually swinging a doublebarreled shotgun. They looked tense, even for Mexico City police.
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.