I thought back to Vern’s words when I first met him: I hired a tracker I’ve worked with before . . . he knows the Pando jungle as well as anyone.

I said, “Diego.”

Vern nodded.

“How much did you pay him?”

“Five thousand dollars, plus a percentage of whatever I sold it for.”

“How much did you sell it for?”

“Zero.”

“What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t there.”

“It was gone?”

“Diego came back empty-handed. He took a picture of a shallow hole where the statue had been dug up.”

“What are the chances of that happening? That this statue goes undiscovered for five hundred years, and then conveniently, a few months after Roth gets sent this picture, someone finds it?”

“Very unlikely.”

“Yeah.”

“Could Diego have lied to you? Found it and sold it himself?”

“Possible but doubtful.”

In the week I’d known Diego, I would have to agree. He seemed as loyal as they come.

Vern said, “Goytia couldn’t have taken the statue, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t take your girl.” He paused. “So what are you going to do?”

I wasn’t sure. But whatever it was, it would have to wait until tomorrow.

“Come on,” I said, offering him my hand. I helped him to his feet. “Let’s go get you some booze.”

≈

The Bolivians declined to join us at command central. With stomachs full of several pouches of freeze-dried food, they were well on their way to falling asleep. Everyone else was there, except Roth’s production assistant, who was sitting in a chair under one of the white canopy tents working on her computer. I had a feeling Libby was the unsung hero behind Roth’s films.

Alejándro Cala was walking around with a bottle of Bolivian brandy. With an effervescent smile, the rotund Bolivian handed Vern and me two small cups and poured us each a finger of the Singani Rujero.

I took a sip and remembered why I hadn’t touched brandy since I stole a bottle of Christian Brothers from my parents’ liquor cabinet in high school. I felt my face involuntarily wince, which amused Cala immensely.

“You don’t like?” he said with a hearty laugh.

I slugged back the remainder and said, “Hit me again.”

He did.

The second time wasn’t as bad, and I almost kept my eyes open.

“Another?” Cala asked.

I shook my head. “No, that’s plenty.”

Cala headed off to refill others’ cups and Vern, who had Cala fill his cup nearly halfway before departing, said his knee was killing him, and he hobbled toward an empty chair.

I turned and glanced over my shoulder. On the opposite side of the tent was a group of three: Andy and the two cameramen.

I could feel the brandy making its way into my legs as I strolled over to the group. “Gentlemen, what are we discussing?”

“Video games,” Darnell said. “You a gamer?”