“I represent La Frontera, as you know. We are responsible for moving the product. It comes to us in Mexico and we prepare it for its onward journey. We have developed transit routes to take it around the world—to America, to Europe, to your country. But, as I explained yesterday, we are in a relationship with the cartel responsible for the production of the product.”

“El Centro.”

“Yes,” del Pozo said. “El Centro. Our relationship is collaborative. We might be satisfied with you—but now they must be, too. For a market as important as yours, the Colombians will want to assure themselves that you are who you say you are, and that you can deliver on your promises. They do not leave the jungle, so you must go to them.”

“Where?”

“Not very far from here.”

“And if I don’t want to go?”

“Then there will be no deal,” del Pozo said. “And we would have to question your seriousness. You have told us how keen you are to work with us. If the prospect of a further trip is a reason for you to change your mind…” He paused and shrugged. “It would not be taken kindly. The woman whom you will meet is not a person whom you would want to offend. Snubbing her invitation would be unwise.”

Milton leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. “Fine. When?”

“This morning,” del Pozo said. “I see no reason to wait. We will leave after breakfast. This will all be sorted by the end of the day.”

Milton nodded.

Del Pozo stared at him for a long moment. “One other thing,” he said. “We know that whatever happened to Mr. Jackson was the result of something that you orchestrated. You can continue to deny it, of course, but you would be wasting your breath. I do not believe in coincidence. You would be unwise to think that you’re fooling us.”

“I’m not trying to fool anyone about anything.”

Del Pozo smiled beatifically. “I admire your ruthlessness,” he said. “Your resourcefulness, too. But—and although I do not want to spoil the atmosphere—if you ever do something like that again, we will cut your legs off, three inches at a time.”

* * *

It had just gone eight when there was a knock at the door of Milton’s room. He opened it and found that the big Scandinavian was waiting.

“Morning,” Milton said, as if last night had never happened.

If Milton’s sangfroid perturbed him, the big man did not show it. “The helicopter is waiting.”

He stood there with his foot blocking the door from closing; they were evidently leaving immediately.