"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 Mazatl 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.