A golf cart came whisking silently up, and they climbed into the back. The driver was every bit as chatty as a potted plant. As soon as they were seated, he set off along the road. They made sure to look around at everything, partly to collect intel for themselves and partly to make sure the tiny body cams they wore picked up useful data for Bug.

As they drove, Scott Wilson began speaking quietly in their ears, his voice as clear as if he were in the cart with them rather than on an island six thousand miles away.

“This is rather exciting,” said Wilson. “We had no idea this camp even existed. None of the Fixers we, ah, interviewed ever mentioned or even hinted about it. Be aware, lads, that it will take a bit of time to arrange for drone flyovers, so try not to get into trouble.”

Top casually tapped the lowest button on his shirt, signaling the affirmative.

“Jackpot and Mother Mercy are inbound and will be on station within three hours. Jackpot has his whole bag of tricks with him, including bird drones appropriate to that region.”

Another tap.

“And if you’re asked to change clothes,” continued Wilson, “we can attune the drones to your RFID chips. We won’t lose you chaps.” Leaning a little on that, another of the thousand subtle ways each of them was reminded of Joe Ledger.

Top gave another tap.

The path through the woods was not long but was made up of deliberate switchbacks so that screens of old-growth trees foiled any chance of visual surveillance from the ground. The dense canopy of pine needles hid the road from the air. Smart and effective. A camp like this couldn’t be found by accident or even through normal flyover surveillance. You had to know it was there.

Their silent driver passed through another checkpoint with an even sturdier gate and then entered a compound made up of many small one-story buildings draped with camouflage netting. Even the outside areas used for drills were under a canopy. No smoke from cooking fires or heaters, which meant they probably used electric or propane. And, as they got out of the cart, they saw a row of industrial generators chugging away.

“Nice place,” Bunny said to the driver, but got no response. “You’re a regular Chatty Cathy.”

The man stared into the middle distance, still behind the wheel. When they stepped away from the cart, he drove off. That left the two of them standing a dozen yards inside the gate. They dropped their bags and waited for the next play.

CHAPTER 57

HAMLET OF ARBATAX

TORTOLÌ, PROVINCE OF NUORO

SARDINIA, ITALY