The Teeth of the Tiger - Tom Clancy [67]
"They're all being worked on, Pete. Two weeks," he emphasized.
"Roger that. Until then, I have all the suppressed pistols I need. They're both doing nicely with the tracking and tailing drills. Helps that they're so ordinary-looking."
"So, bottom line, things are going well?" Granger asked.
"Except for the conscience thing, yeah."
"Okay, keep me posted."
"Will do."
"Seeya."
Alexander set the receiver back down. Goddamned consciences, he thought. It would be nice to have robots, but somebody might notice Robby striding down the street. And they couldn't have that. Or maybe the Invisible Man, but in the H. G. Wells story, the drug that made him transparent also made him mad, and this gig was already crazy enough, wasn't it? He tossed off the last of his sherry, and then on reflection, went off to refill his glass.
CHAPTER 8-CONVICTION
Mustafa and Abdullah arose at dawn, said their morning prayers, and ate, and then hooked up their computers and checked their e-mail. Sure enough, Mustafa had an e-mail from Mohammed, forwarding a message from someone else, supposedly named Diego, with instructions for a meeting at 10:30 A.M. local time. He sorted through the rest of his electronic mail, most of it something the Americans called "spam." He'd learned that this was a canned pig product, which seemed entirely appropriate. Both of them walked outside-but separately-just after 9:00, mainly to get the blood moving and examine the neighborhood. They checked carefully but furtively for tails and found none. They got to the planned rendezvous point at 10:25.
Diego was already there, reading a paper, wearing a white shirt with blue stripes.
"Diego?" Mustafa asked pleasantly.
"You must be Miguel," the contact replied with a smile, rising to shake hands. "Please be seated." Pablo scanned around. Yes, there was "Miguel's" backup, sitting alone and ordering coffee, doing overwatch like a professional. "So, how do you like Mexico City?"
"I did not know it was so large and bustling." Mustafa waved around.
The sidewalks were crowded with people heading in all directions. "And the air is so foul."
"That is a problem here. The mountains hold in the pollution. It takes strong winds to clear the air. So, coffee?"
Mustafa nodded. Pablo waved to the waiter and held up the coffeepot. The sidewalk cafe was European in character, but not overly crowded. The tables were about half occupied, in knots of people meeting for business or socially, doing their talking and minding their own business. The new coffeepot arrived. Mustafa poured and waited for the other to speak.
"So, what can I do for you?"
"All of us are here as requested. How soon can we go?"
"How soon do you wish?" Pablo asked.
"This afternoon would be fine, but that might be a little soon for your arrangements."
"Yes. But what about tomorrow, say about thirteen hundred hours?"
"That would be excellent," Mustafa responded in pleasant surprise. "How will the crossing be arranged?"
"I will not be directly involved, you understand, but you will be driven to the border and handed over to someone who specializes in getting people and certain goods into America. You will be required to walk about six kilometers. It will be warm, but not greatly so. Once in America, you will be driven to a safe house outside Santa Fe, New Mexico. There you can either fly to your final destinations or rent cars."
"Weapons?"
"What exactly will you require?"
"Ideally, we would like AK-47s."
Pablo shook his head at once. "Those we cannot supply, but we can get you Uzi and Ingram sub-machine guns. Nine-millimeter Parabellum caliber, with, say, six thirty-round magazines each, fully loaded for your purposes."
"More ammunition," Mustafa said at once. "Twelve magazines, plus three additional boxes of ammunition for each weapon."
Pablo nodded. "That is easily done." The increased