Milton retreated to the porch. “What do we do? Wait it out?”

“We cannot,” del Pozo said. “You have an appointment.”

Milton had no problem with trekking into the jungle in the rain—he had attended the Regiment’s jungle warfare school in Borneo, after all, and this was nothing compared to some of the biblical deluges that he had been subjected to there—but John Smith did not share that experience. He knew that they would expect him to react in a certain way, and, as Milton swiped the rain from his eyes, he saw that Eidur was watching him.

“We’ll get soaked,” he protested.

The Scandinavian shook his head derisively.

Geronimo returned with two horses on lead ropes. A younger man followed with another two horses.

“Can you ride?” del Pozo asked him.

“Not really. I’ll manage.”

That, at least, was the truth. Milton had ridden before, but not for several years and, even then, he would not have said he was particularly comfortable in the saddle. Geronimo, del Pozo and Eidur all mounted their horses. The young man led the final horse over to Milton and offered to boost him up into the battered old saddle. Milton nodded his thanks, waited for the man to make a cradle with his hands, and raised his left boot so that the man could help him to clamber up. He swung his right leg up and over the horse’s back and settled on the saddle. He took the reins and slid his feet into the stirrups.

Geronimo led the way and Eidur brought up the rear. There was just enough space on the trail for Milton and del Pozo to ride side by side.

“This part of the jungle,” Milton said, gesturing. “It’s all about coke?”

Del Pozo nodded. “Coca makes life possible for the people who live here. Geronimo is from Putumayo. He has worked with the leaves all his life. He worked for Pablo and, after Pablo was killed, he went south to work in Cali. The gringos dismantled that cartel, too, and Geronimo came north again, and, eventually, he worked for us. It is a difficult life. A hard life. Before all this, he was captured by ELN paramilitaries. He has been held by FARC. He has seen kitchens torched by soldiers guided to them by the American DEA.”

“Maybe he should think about changing jobs.”

Geronimo snorted. Milton had assumed he spoke no English, but now he wondered.

“It pays well,” del Pozo said.

The old man turned in his saddle and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Dinero,” he called back. “Mucho dinero.”