The door opened and they were met by a tall, muscular man wearing khaki fatigues. His blond hair had been recently cut into a flattop as angular as his Teutonic features. Rickard took the man to be of northern European stock even before he invited them inside in a gruff German accent. A mercenary—not unlike Rickard—he’d been drafted as extra muscle for Silva’s campaign to capitalize on the collapse of the AUC. One of many, Rickard assumed, judging by the other pale faces he’d noted out in the woods.

The German led Rickard inside. Of the original group only Guarapo followed. The others went off, pulling out packs of cigarettes and searching for matches.

As he walked, Rickard judged the man walking ahead of him. The German had that straight-backed stance of someone indoctrinated by military training, but he also walked with the free and easy grace of the most dangerous of killers. A man cut from the same ream as Rickard and Joe Hunter. Special Forces undoubtedly; maybe even from GSG 9—Grenzschutzgruppe 9—the famed counterterrorism unit of the German Federal Police, or from KSK—Kommando Spezialkräfte—the army equivalent. With men of the German’s ilk already on Silva’s books, he wondered if the warlord was as eager to engage Rickard’s services as he’d made out when they talked on the phone. Maybe he should kill the German now and insure there was a vacancy open for him.

He let the thought go in the next instant. He was waved into a large room that once had been a family living room. Now it was purely utilitarian, a workspace. A desk was situated centrally, a leather office chair behind it. Other chairs, wooden with straight backs, were arranged around the wall. In each and every one of those chairs sat men who regarded Rickard with mean eyes. They all wore clothing reminiscent of paramilitary groups the world over: green or khaki fatigues, berets pushed into their shoulder epaulettes. Sidearms strapped to their hips. The man sitting in the leather chair was distinguished by his maroon belt and the tassels drooping from his shoulders.

Alvaro Silva stood up. He was a man of medium height and build, a slightly protruding belly pushing at the fabric of his dress shirt. He looked mildly amused as he extended his hand across his desk to welcome Rickard to his war counsel. He looked like a genial old man playing at soldiers; however, Rickard knew that Silva was anything but.

Silva had a good grasp of the English language and spoke with barely a trace of accent. “I am pleased that you could join us, Mr. Rickard. I trust that your journey here went without incident?” His eyes flicked past Rickard and came to rest on Guarapo, who had stationed himself beside the doorway.