Milton found a pair of swimming shorts in the closet; he changed into them and went outside. There was a small pool surrounded by pale marble tiles that shone in the sun. Two mahogany sun loungers sheltered beneath a wide parasol, and an outdoor refrigerator contained bottles of drink and a plate of cut fruit. Milton lowered himself into the water and drifted out into the middle, enjoying the coolness against his hot and clammy skin. He breathed in and stretched out his arms, floating on his back and staring up into the powder-blue sky.

* * *

Milton was reading on the bed when there came a knock on the door to his room. He looked at the clock on the wall: it was just before seven. He folded the corner of the page he had been reading, set the book down on the bedside table and crossed the room as the knock was repeated.

“I’m coming,” Milton said.

He opened the door. Francisco was standing there. “Señor del Pozo is waiting for you,” he said. “Follow me.”

Milton paid attention again as they made their way through the house. He wanted to get a sense of the layout, the best ways to get outside, perhaps even the rooms where he might be able to equip himself—there had to be an armoury somewhere, for example—in the event that things took a turn for the worse. Francisco was silent, leading the way through the opulent corridors until they emerged onto a veranda that furnished views of the spectacular landscape that enveloped the finca.

Hector del Pozo was sitting on a low chair with a newspaper spread out on his lap. He heard the sound of their footsteps on the wooden slats of the terrace and stood.

“Señor Smith,” he said, “how is your room?”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

“Good.” He dismissed Francisco with a wave of the hand and then indicated that Milton should sit. “I think we should get down to our business—yes?”

The chairs were arranged so that they were facing out onto the paddock. It was a beautiful vista, but the orientation meant that Milton would not have been able to see if anyone approached him from the casa. He guessed that the arrangement was deliberate. Del Pozo, for all his warmth, wanted him to be as uncomfortable as possible.

“As you probably know, the cocaine that you would like to buy is produced and distributed by the cartels in Colombia and Mexico. It is produced here, in the jungle, by El Centro. Distribution is taken care of north of the border. I am Mexican. I represent La Frontera.”

“But you work closely with El Centro?”

“Very closely,” he said. “And, for your purposes, the two are one and the same.”

Milton nodded his understanding.