"Part of the uniform," Brognola informed them. "Down here, all the businessmen and all their bodyguards wear them. Besides it gets cold at night."

"Which are we?" Gadgets asked. "Businessmen or..."

Brognola smiled. He handed them briefcases. Each contained an Uzi and several thirty-round magazines. "There's also a plate of Hotspur steel in the briefcases..."

Lyons tapped each of his Uzi mags to seat the cartridges. "A plate of what?"

"Hotspur steel plate. Konzaki called ahead and insisted on it. It'll stop all pistols, all fragmentation, and all standard auto-rifle rounds."

"Like this?" Gadgets held up the briefcase like a shield.

Lyons laughed. "Yeah, if you see a bullet coming, just quick fast block it. Uh-huh."

Brognola laughed, too. "You have something of Striker's sense of humor, Mr. Lyons."

The van lurched to a stop. The driver's voice announced: "Taxi waiting."

"Go, gentlemen. Straight out the back doors. I'll follow in another taxi."

"Where's Blancanales?" Lyons asked as he swung open the doors.

"He's there. Now go! No time for talk."

As they stepped from the van the brilliant afternoon sun blinded them. Blinking for a moment, Lyons looked around. They stood in the gutter of a narrow street. A few steps away, a taxi idled. At the corner of the block, two Indian women squatted against a pastel blue wall. A cast-iron pot boiled on a charcoal fire.

"Those Indians," Lyons marvelled. "They're wearing derby hats!"

Schwarz pulled Lyons to the taxi. "You heard the boss. Got no time to play tourist. Time to join up with the Political Man and get to work."

"But can you believe it? Derbies?"

Avoiding the city's boulevards, the taxi driver wove through the back streets of La Paz, slowing for buses and trucks, accelerating over cobblestones and potholes to race other taxis through the intersections. Soldiers marched on these streets.