"How many zones? Nineteen?" Lyons groaned with frustration. "We're going to spend the night driving in circles."

A taxi passed the parked Volkswagen. Blancanales turned to his partners. "Carl, you're going to be a lost tourist. Give the address to a cab driver. We'll have a microphone on you. We'll follow the cab. The driver will know what zones have this kind of address. You just keep saying, 'No, that's not the place.' We'll go back later and check out the most likely places."

"All right, makes sense. And just in case they find us first..." Lyons grabbed the fiberboard case concealing his Atchisson as he stepped into the cool evening air.

Gadgets called out: "Remember, be discreet."

Lyons stood at the curb in his black windbreaker and filth-spotted slacks, holding the guitar case. Farther down from the intersection, the nightlife of the Guatemalan capital already sparkled. Neon flashed, music blared from cars, teenagers walked arm in arm. As he walked, Lyons came across what looked like a shop-front casino; inside, young men crowded around a video game. They cheered their friend when he won, the machine paying off like a slot machine, tokens spilling onto the floor. As Lyons stared around him, Guatemalans stared at him, smiled when he met their eyes. He looked at himself in a shop window and laughed. I look just like an ex-cop on a rock-n-roll tour of Guatemala.

A taxi slowed, the driver motioning to Lyons. Lyons stepped from the curb and got in the back. A young driver with a prematurely lined face greeted him in perfect English. "Good evening, sir. Where would you like to go?"

Lyons gave him the address, then commented: "Your English is better than mine. You go to school up north?"

"Yes, sir, several years." The young driver spoke in a quiet, forlorn tone. "Have you been in Guatemala long, sir?"

"Only today." Lyons watched the crowded sidewalks and bright shops flash past as the driver eased through traffic.