“Gayle James, Global Gospel Missions,” she said with a worried smile. Jed wondered if the eyeglasses she wore were part of her NOC or had a real prescription. “Sorry I couldn’t meet you guys at the airport, but I was concerned it might . . . Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I couldn’t meet you. Sorry about the bus.” She was dressed casually in blue jeans and a gray fleece top with the letters GGM and a Roman cross embroidered on the left chest in bright-red needlework. She held a compact umbrella in her left hand, carried no purse, and he noted a mobile phone–shaped bulge in her right front pocket. Her mousy-brown hair was styled in an asymmetrical pixie cut with bangs that swept from left to right. To Jed, she looked like a woman who valued functionality over flair.

“It’s fine,” Jed said, shaking her hand and towering over her. He towered over most people, but he had at least a foot on Gayle, maybe more. “Jedidiah Johnson with Trinity. Nice to meet you.”

“I know it’s a long trip from CONUS. I figured we’d meet here to give you a chance to unpack and freshen up before asking you to take a miserable helo ride up the mountain,” she said and then greeted each of the other members in turn. “I’ll be driving you to the private hangar where the helicopter is waiting.”

“We appreciate that,” Jed said. “Give us fifteen and we’ll meet you out front.”

“Excellent, I’ll be waiting for you over there.” She pointed to a white van parked in the hotel circle drive.

True to his word, fifteen minutes later Jed and the team piled into the van. He took the front passenger seat and, after clicking his seat belt, looked over at their chaperone in the driver’s seat. Gayle James certainly didn’t look CIA, as he’d been briefed by the Trinity head shed. During his time as a SEAL, he had worked with plenty of spooks. Over the years, he’d noticed a trend—the CIA was getting better and better at recruiting officers and agents that didn’t look or act like spies. Gayle James was yet another data point reinforcing that evolution.

“I just want to let you guys know,” Gayle said, checking her rearview mirror, “that a Señor Alejandro Campos will probably be joining us for the, um . . . tour. On paper, Campos is the Peruvian representative of the state’s Agencia Peruana de Cooperación Internacional—the government organization tasked with supervising and regulating NGOs like GGM. APCI closely monitors the activity of the NGOs to prevent them being utilized by criminals or foreign enterprises. But in reality, Campos is a counterintelligence officer for Dirección Nacional de Inteligencia, which is like Peru’s version of Homeland Security.”

Jed nodded, not surprised that the Peruvian government would be watching them.

“Do you know Campos well?” Nisha asked.