At half past twelve, smoke drifted up from a small chimney pipe she’d previously observed at the rear of the facility. She couldn’t see it now, lying in this shallow, overgrown depression by the side of the road, but she knew there was only one such stovepipe, protruding from the roof of a small annexe at the administrative end of the building, well away from the cells. It carried scents of wood smoke and meat. Caitlin had last had a hot meal nearly twenty-four hours ago and her mouth watered now at the rich smells. She spat quietly into the brush mulch on which she lay.

She had just resolved to give the guards another hour when the portico’s heavy wooden door creaked open and two of them emerged, smoking and laughing. She recognised both characters from earlier on: the latte sippers. The pair walked around to the motor pool and took one of the muddy pick-ups parked there before driving away to the south. They certainly didn’t look like men with an important mission hanging over them. More like errand boys sent out to fetch tobacco and cerveza.

The front door remained open. Caitlin withdrew into the forest, fading back into the gloom until she was sure she could move without being seen. She then shifted position round to the south before creeping forward again. With a better view through the open door, she could make out more details.

The reception area did indeed appear to give onto an open-plan office, leading back to the annexe where she had noted the chimney, a kitchen of sorts. With the two men just gone, she was able to mark three other militia: two of the guards and what looked like an older, fatter man in an officer’s uniform, but he was not nearly as well turned out as his deputy. For Caitlin was sure now that the more impressive-looking funcionario was actually Facility 183’s second-in-command. Only a boss hog could get away with such a slovenly ’tude around a martinet like that.

After a few minutes she withdrew into the brush again, the germ of a plan having formed as she observed them. She would need luck. If the coffee-and-cigarillo twins had driven away at the end of their shift or gone off to fetch more personnel, this wouldn’t work. Not if they returned in a number of vehicles. If, however, they’d simply fucked off to the small village about twelve miles down the road for more supplies, as the Echelon agent suspected, she had a good chance.