"Your ability to keep the Indians loyal is extraordinary, Harlan," he said. "I'd never ever have expected it."

DeVane studied his face.

"How so?" he said. "They've traded with Americans before."

Rojas tried to make his shrug look casual. "Yes, but not on the terms you have set. It is a singularly unusual arrangement. Buying from the Peruvians, employing the local cocaderos only for refining and distribution ..."

He let the sentence fade.

DeVane kept his eyes on him.

"Go on," he said. "Please."

Rojas hesitated, then said, "The laborers are poor and the Chapare crop is their main resource. A hundred kilos might bring three million dollars in greenbacks if they handled production from beginning to end. Instead, they must either find other buyers for their plants or have them rot in the field."

Devane smiled, his small, even white teeth showing suddenly and briefly. "Give your people too little and they resent you. Too much and they no longer need you. The secret of holding onto their loyalty is to let them have just enough, Francisco."

"I would still think that your dealing with outside growers would cause resentment," Rojas said, his curiosity momentarily overbalancing his caution. "And that the Sendero Luminoso would have its own reasons to balk. They have long had their own processing system in place, and are adamant about protecting their interests."

"No more so than I am, and they know it," DeVane said. "I have my reasons for keeping the leftist rebels part of the operation. And they have their unprecedented earnings to make them happy."

Rojas decided to back off, feeling vaguely as if he'd been maneuvered.

"As I say, you have my admiration," he said. "It is a dance of devils that I could never manage."

DeVane didn't seem inclined to end the conversation. "The devil can be the best of partners once you know his steps," he said. "You are aware, I'm sure, that the nickname he has been given by the tin miners in the southern mountains is El Tio. The Uncle. On Sunday mornings they attend church with their families, make their genuflections, and sing the praises of Jesus and his saints. But before going down into the mine shafts, they pause at their entrances to leave offerings before statues of El Tio--alcohol, cigarettes, and coca leaves."

Rojas's discomfort was escalating again.

"Appropriate gifts for the Lord of Hell," he commented.

"Precisely." DeVane flashed his quick, icy grin again. "Their reasoning is wonderfully pragmatic. If you're going to work where it's dark and hot, you must learn how to get by. And appease the gods whose bounty you seek."