Walter had been busy in the day or so since Luke Rickard escaped us. The telephone number supplied to me by Ken Wetherby had turned up trumps, leading back to a similar broker of mercenaries in Bogota. Men sent by Walter had eased the name of the broker’s client out of him. When I say eased, that’s as much of a euphemism as Walter would hint at: I was guessing that the broker had done a sudden and inexplicable disappearing act after their visit. Then it was a matter for my CIA friend to set us up with contacts here in Colombia and arrange our secret arrival in the country.

Across our chests we had Heckler and Koch MP5A5 sub-machine guns and before we saw to our canopies we saw to our weapons. The flare had been lit to guide us in, but it didn’t mean that it had been set by the people we expected. We took up a defensive position while two Jungla troopers came forward and identified themselves.

The two men were young and fit, typically military in their bearing. One of them was much darker of skin than the other, and I wondered if the paler of the two was actually Colombian. They’d forgone the black jumpsuit and helmet they’d wear while on active duty, dressing in civilian clothes instead. I noted the bulges under their jackets where they concealed firearms. We shook hands, both sides showing a wary respect. Both men spoke with American accents, which didn’t surprise me. The Jungla are an elite police force whose task it is to curtail the production and supply of cocaine. Ninety-nine per cent of those involved are good, righteous men, but where there are drugs and huge amounts of money at stake you can never guarantee the complete eradication of corruption. The two men who met us were CIA plants, there to insure that the inevitable 1 percent did not flourish. So Walter said.

Once our parachutes and jumpsuits were stowed, we clambered into a Grand Cherokee Jeep that was sufficiently scuffed on the outside that it didn’t look like a government vehicle. Under the hood, it was a different story. The tinted windows were also bulletproof. We were, I understood, in the heart of bandit territory. We kept our machine guns ready, and I had my SIG to hand.