A few blocks away, Gadgets and Blancanales waited in the rented van, the Nazi colonel tied and gagged on the floor. Within sight of the North Americans, three other cars waited. Squads of men and women from Dr. Orozco's anti-fascist group watched for a signal from Blancanales. They all had good weapons now, snatched from the dead Nazis after the ambush on the bomb factory.

As the taxi slowed beside the van, Blancanales extended his arm from the window and said to Lyons: "If there's trouble, we're thirty seconds away. Good luck."

"Won't be any trouble." Lyons took the plastic bottle. As the taxi returned to the avenue of the wealthy, Lyons splashed the alcohol on his shirt and jacket. Then he scribbled an illegible series of numbers and names on a scrap of paper.

"Let me out at the corner," he said.

Luis turned to Lyons and spoke with sneering hatred. "Kill them. They would not hesitate to kill you."

"That makes it exciting," Lyons laughed.

Stumbling from the taxi, he fell. He wobbled to his feet. He almost fell again as he slammed the door closed. Luis accelerated away, leaving Lyons alone on the avenue.

Glancing at the scrap of paper, Lyons staggered down the center of the avenue. He stopped from time to time to look for address numbers. Finally, he walked to the soldiers.

The teenagers watched the drunken North American. Laughing, they motioned him away. Lyons held up the paper.

"This is where my friends are." He pointed at the paper, then pointed at the house.

"Lo siento, gringo. No hablo ingles. Vayase, por favor."

"Really, guys. They invited me to a party. Here's the address."

The teenage soldiers smelled the alcohol as Lyons approached. Still laughing, one of the soldiers took the paper. While he tried to read the scrawl, Lyons staggered to the gate. Gripping the bars, weaving on his feet, he scanned the grounds. No other soldiers guarded the estate.