Campos stuffed the business card in his pocket without looking at it, communicating exactly what he thought of the validity of the information it held. “Yes, yes, I completely understand,” he said. “How many missionaries are we bringing back? This helo is rated to carry eight and we’ll be flying very close to the service ceiling. There are six of us standing here right now.”

“Just one, Dagan Meier,” Gayle said.

“Very good, let’s go,” Campos said. Then, turning to Jed, he added, “I am no expert in such matters, so I’m very much looking forward to hearing what the professionals think caused this despicable tragedy in my country.”

With great effort, Jed resisted taking the bait and simply replied, “As are we .”

CHAPTER
THREE

DYNCORP UH-1H SUPER HUEY HELICOPTER

15,000 FEET IN THE ANDES MOUNTAINS

1237 HOURS LOCAL

Gayle James clutched the cold aluminum rail of the canvas bench seat beneath her legs and closed her eyes. She had never been a big fan of flying, but during her final exam at the Farm in Virginia—a full-week live-fire exercise before graduating from the CIA’s basic training for officers in the clandestine services—they’d included a simulated helicopter crash so realistic it had scared the crap out of her. Flying in fixed-wing aircraft was stressful enough, but flying in a helicopter, especially one whining in protest as it pushed up against its service ceiling, was simply terrifying.

She had much more important things to worry about—like this strange team of contractors her boss had told her to babysit and Alejandro Campos watching her every move—but in this moment she didn’t care. All she cared about was not dying. With great effort, she forced herself to run through two cycles of four-count tactical breathing—just like they’d taught her at the Farm—and felt her pulse slow, the pounding in her temple quieting, but her death grip on the cold aluminum remained.

“Are you okay, Gayle?” Campos asked, his distinct voice instantly recognizable in her David Clark headphones.

Unlike her, Campos seemed unfazed by the bobbling helicopter. He looked completely relaxed, his legs crossed at the knee, white teeth gleaming against his bronze skin.

“I’m fine,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face.

“You certainly have chosen a peculiar line of work, for having such a fear, querida.” His dark eyes stared through her, as they always did when he said things meant to probe her relationship with the United States intelligence community.

“Well, I’m not a field-worker, Alex. I’m the program administrator,” she said, refusing to play his games. “This was not in the job description when I agreed to this post. Right now, I should be at a desk in Lima and off work by four to sun myself on the Playa Makaha—not riding in this death trap.”