"The cards come from the police so the reporters can get past police lines at fires and things," said Brother Che. He was a scrawny man, with a bearded face that looked as though it had once been bathed in crankcase oil and would never be fully clean again.

"I don't trust no pig," said Brother George.

"Let's off him," said Sister Alexa. Remo could see her nipples harden under her light white peasant blouse. She was getting her sexual jollies from this.

He smiled at her, and her eyes lowered to her gun. Her pale, pottery-white skin flushed red in the cheeks. Her knuckles were white around the gun, as if she were afraid it would do its own bidding if not held tightly.

Brother Che got the card from Brother George.

"All right," said Brother Che. "Do you have the money?"

"I have the money if you have the goods," said Remo.

"How do we know we'll get the money if we show you what we've got?"

"You have me. You have the guns."

"I don't trust him," said Brother George.

"He's all right," said Brother Che.

"Let's off him now. Now," said Sister Alexa.

"No, no," said Brother Che, stuffing the Smith and Wesson into his beltless gray pants.

"We can get it all printed ourselves. Every bit of it the way we want," said Sister Alexa. "Let's stick it to him."

"And two hundred people who already think like us will read it," said Brother Che. "No. The Times will make it international knowledge."

"Who cares what someone in Mexico City thinks?" said Sister Alexa.

"I don't trust him," said Brother George.

"A little revolutionary discipline, please," said Brother Che. He nodded for George to stand by the door and for Alexa to go to the closed bathroom door. The curtains were drawn over the window. It was twelve stories down from the window, Remo knew. Brother Che nodded for Remo to sit at a small glass-and-chrome coffee table.