"I'd he careful about that. Here are the numbers you can call." Nomuri handed over a sheet. "That's one's mine. That one's a guy named Clark. That one's another officer named Chavez—"

"Ding's over here?" First Sergeant Vega asked.

"You know 'em?"

"We did a job in Africa last fall," Checa replied. "We get a lot of 'special' work. You sure you can tell us their names, man?"

"They have covers. You're probably better off speaking in Spanish. Not as many people here speak that language. I don't need to tell you to keep your transmissions short," Nomuri added. He didn't. Checa nodded and asked the most important question.

"And getting out?"

Nomuri turned to point, but the terrain feature in question was covered in clouds. "There's a pass there. Head for it, then downhill to a town called Hirose. I pick you up there, put you on a train to Nagoya, and you fly off to either Taiwan or Korea."

"Just like that." The comment wasn't posed as a question, but the dubious nature of the response was clear anyway.

"There are a couple of hundred thousand foreign businesspeople here. You're eleven guys from Spain trying to sell wine, remember?"

"I could use some sangria right now, too." Checa was relieved to see that his CIA contact had been briefed in on the same mission. It didn't always work out that way. "Now what?"

"You wait for the rest of the mission force to arrive. If something goes wrong, you call me and head out. If I drop out of the net, you call the others. If everything goes to hell, you find another way out. You should have passports, clothes, and—"

"We do."

"Good." Nomuri took his camera out of his backpack and started shooting photos of the cloud-shrouded mountains.