The game came to a halt. Even the soldiers at the smaller second table crowded around to watch. Each had a rifle, Janson saw as the men stood, and at least one side arm. The equipment looked worn but well maintained.

The young man flipped down cards, one after another, in a string of flawless sequences. It was like the moment in a pool match when a master pockets ball after ball, appearing to play a private game. And when the young man had finished, he had no cards left. He tossed back his head and grinned. A thirteen-card set: evidently his comrades had never seen such a thing, because they burst into applause—anger at having been defeated giving way to admiration at the deftness with which the defeat had been managed.

A simple game. A Kagama guerrilla leader who was also a champion proter player. Would he be as agile with the machine gun by his chair?

Through the fiber-optic spyglass, Janson took in the intent look on the young man’s face as another round of cards was dealt. He could tell who would win if the set was ever finished.

He could also tell that these were not simple farmers, but seasoned veterans. It was evident even from the way their weaponry hung on their combat garb. They knew what they were doing. If they found themselves under siege and had only seconds to regroup, any one of them would take out the prisoner. From intercepts he had seen, it was likely to be their standing instructions.

He zoomed in on the acned young man, then swiveled again. Here were seventeen seasoned warriors, at least one of whom had almost supernal powers of observation and retention.

“We’re fucked”: Katsaris on the lip mike, expressionless and to the point.

“I’ll be right over,” Janson said, retracting the camera by a few inches into the recesses of the chute. His gut clenched into a small, hard ball.