We flew to Tenochtitlán, rather than taking the bus or train. The bus would have been a twelve-hour grind in the company of unwashed farmers and their chickens, while the train was an old-fashioned steel-tracks affair that stopped at every little dirt-water town, making for lots of checks by local policía with too much time on their hands. José had assured me that our fake ID would stand up to intense scrutiny by Aztechnology Corporate Security (ACS was under contract to provide policing throughout the country), but I figured that the fewer times we put it to the test, the better. And so we paid for an early-morning commuter flight in peso normas—currency that couldn’t leave the country and so we might as well spend it—and joined the crowd of suits at the check-in counter on Monday morning.