Fede’s word had been good. He did know the stadium as well as he’d claimed. He led us briskly along the concourse to a locked door beside one of the washrooms, then punched a combination on its keypad. We passed through a janitorial storage area and into a corridor whose ceiling echoed with the thumping feet of spectators in the seats overhead. We descended a flight of ferrocrete steps at a run, passed through another locked door to which Fede also had the combination, and entered a carpeted corridor whose walls were lined with faded holos of ollamaliztli players.