Weaver conducted a careful dry-cleaning run to ensure that he was not being tailed, driving out to the Parque Zoológico in Santa Fe, leaving his car and walking north until he came to the train station at Industriales. He took a train back south and disembarked at Aguacatala. He walked the rest of the way and, in an abundance of caution, he went by the entrance to the warehouse on Calle 89 before going around the block. Then, when he was finally confident that he was black, he knocked on the plain wooden door.

He heard the sound of approaching footsteps and saw a darkening of the peephole as whoever was inside the warehouse looked out. He heard the sound of the locks being turned and the door opened.

Björn Thorsson stood there, his huge frame blocking the way ahead.

“Can I come in?”

“You’re clean?”

“Please, Number One,” he said. “I’ve been doing this a while. Out of the way.”

Thorsson stood aside so that Weaver could make his way into the building. He hadn’t been here before, and, as he looked around, he saw that it was not much more than a couple of medium-sized rooms with a kitchen and a bathroom. There was no furniture inside, and the floors were dusty wooden planks without carpeting or any other covering. There was no natural light; the two small windows were covered with newspaper that had been stuck to the glass.

Jessie Hester and Craig Connor were seated on the floor. Number Eight was in the process of disassembling his sidearm so that it could be cleaned, his equipment laid out on a sheet of newspaper that was spread out in front of him. Number Six was leaning back against the wall, smoking a cigarette. She was wearing a vest top that exposed the tattoos that ran up and down her arms. Her face was bruised, with a nasty contusion around her right eye.

“What happened?” Weaver said, pointing at her face.

“I was hoping you could tell me that, sir,” she said.

“We were all hoping you could,” Connor said.

“Are you okay?”

She waved his concern away with a flick of her hand. “It’s just a black eye. I got into a scuffle on my way out of the camp. Took an elbow to the face.”

Number One locked the door and turned to face the room. “So?”

“It was the Americans,” Weaver said.

“Why didn’t we know about it?”

“Apparently, our CIA friends were sidelined. This was State, the DEA and the FBI. The soldiers who attacked the camp were SEALs. I know—it’s frustrating.”

“Frustrating?” Eight said. “You want to know what frustrating is? It’s getting shot at and then trekking through the rainforest for hours until you’re able to get clear.”