"To paraphrase an old English preacher," Konzaki told them. " 'No nation is an island.' Even those surrounded by water. Not anymore. What happened is this..."

Konzaki read from a notebook of photocopied documents and top-secret memos. "Throughout the past several months, in fact the last few years, the FBI has been working on several gangs running weapons into Central America. They've traced the serial numbers of weapons captured in El Salvador back to Miami and Los Angeles..."

"Commies are killing people with American weapons?" Lyons broke in.

"Everybody's killing people with American weapons," Konzaki told him. "Castro took Cuba with M-1s, Thompsons and Brownings. The Sandinistas took Nicaragua with rifles bought in Miami gun-shops."

"First good reason I've ever heard for gun control." Lyons took off a pale blue sports coat, then unbuttoned his bright red shirt. His pager had beeped from the bedside of a young woman in Georgetown; he had taken a taxi to the airport to wait for the others to arrive by helicopter from the Great Smoky Mountains.

Konzaki continued. "The FBI have a special task force of officers following the flow of weapons from the United States to the death squads in El Salvador. We're trying to stop those crazies before they murder everyone down there.

"What the FBI have found are huge shipments of ammunition and weapons going south. Not just pistols and rifles. Machine guns, grenades, rockets. Tons of ammunition..."

"Sounds like someone's going into politics," Lyons joked.

The interruptions irritated Konzaki. He stared at Lyons for a moment, then looked to the others. "How do we shut him up? I've got a briefing to deliver, and you've only got five hours before you hit the ground."

Blancanales considered the question. "Shoot him. Back when one of those bikers on Catalina got lucky and hit him with a slug from an M-60, I didn't see Lyons moving or talking for at least two minutes. It was all he could do to breathe..."