“It must have been. He comes to camp and then the camp gets hit—he’s the only thing that changed.”

“But how? You took his phone?”

“Of course I did.”

“So how could they have followed him?”

“It could be the Americans,” Björn said. “Maybe they have a drone.”

The rope ran through a thicket of bamboo, and Björn powered through it.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Smith. There were too many red flags: Anthony Jackson’s sudden and convenient legal plight, and now this. One could be chalked up as a coincidence.

Two, though?

It was starting to look like a pattern.

He would get his charge to safety and then he would send a flare to Weaver. He was still waiting for the results on the biometrics he’d sent to be analysed. He didn’t know who Smith was, but maybe that would help.

He wanted better intelligence in time for their next meeting.

Björn was sure—there would be a next meeting—and he was already looking forward to it.

67

The terrain descended at a shallow angle and the undergrowth thinned out a little. Milton suspected that he was approaching a watercourse and, as he stepped over a litter of rocks and through a loose patch of scree, he saw that he was right. The trees gave way to cacao and orchids, and beyond them was a narrow stream. The water glittered with the reflection of the moon overhead. There was a tinkle and splash as the stream negotiated a short descent through a band of rock that had been eroded into a channel.

Milton saw that there was a rope following the line of the stream. It was too random for it to have been left there, and, as he wondered what it might be, he saw it jerk up so that it was suspended a few inches above the ground. His guess that it was a guideline that had been left to assist the narcos in the event that they needed to flee the camp was confirmed when he heard the sound of voices.

He heard movement and ducked down so that he was hidden by the vegetation. The voices were also coming from his left. He couldn’t see much further than a few feet, with everything beyond that cloaked in darkness. He strained his ears so that he could place the location of the noise more precisely.

They were coming toward him, no doubt following the guideline.

A man and a woman.

He recognised them: Eidur and La Bruja.

There was a thick branch on the ground next to Milton’s feet. It ended in a knuckle of wood and would make a useful club. He clenched his hand around the end of the branch and picked it up.

Perhaps he would be able to meet his objectives after all.