Troops watched from olive drab 6x6 trucks. Soldiers with autorifles went into buses and waved flashlights over the passengers. Other soldiers looked into cars, told drivers to open their trunks. As Luis raced to the roadblock, the soldiers in the trucks raised their rifles.

As he slowed, Luis extended Lieutenant Garcia's identification. A soldier put a flashlight on the wallet, then on Lyons and Senora Garcia. An officer came running to their car.

Lyons's right hand reached toward the Atchisson's pistolgrip.

The officer glanced at the stolen identification and saluted Luis. Then he looked into the car. He saw the fair-skinned Lyons. The officer saluted again. "Viva Unomundo."

Luis spoke to the officer in Spanish. The officer looked at the two North Americans in the Volkswagen behind. Then he waved both cars past.

As they accelerated away, Luis passed the wallet to Lyons. One plastic divider held Lieutenant Garcia's army identification. A second held an embossed business card. The engraved lettering said only:

"UNO,'s.a."

"That means," Luis told him. "UNO, Incorporated."

"This is bad news. His people are everywhere."

Luis nodded. "Everywhere."

8

Following the Pan American Highway, they drove into the high central plateau of Guatemala. A starlit landscape of shadowy mountains and black stands of forest extended into the distance. Few vehicles traveled the highway. Opening his window, Lyons put his face into the windrush. The night smelled of pines and dust and wood fires. He thought of the High Sierras of California.

They passed villages bright with lights, electric incandescence creating islands of whitewashed houses, tiled roofs, and dusty rock-paved streets. Other times, as they rounded curves, their headlights revealed fields of tangled dry cornstalks and fire-blackened adobe walls.

"What happened at these farms?" Lyons asked Luis.