It was impressive: the cartel had people airside who could be deployed to watch new arrivals. Milton was in their territory now. They were changing things up, trying to ensure that he didn’t make the people they had deployed to watch him. He finished the tortillas, leaving a slick of red sauce and egg smeared on the plate, and set off for the gate for the final leg of the journey.

The woman finished her eggs and left money on the table. The man, as Milton passed his chair, reached down to pay the shoeshine boy and followed behind the woman. Milton made no attempt to shake them. They followed him all the way to the gate, where, to Milton’s complete lack of surprise, the man in the leather jacket was sitting. They kept going, handing the surveillance over. Milton sat down and finished his book.

* * *

The Avianca A321 landed after a short one-hour up-and-down flight, and Milton joined the short queue of business-class travellers who were disembarking first. He wheeled his carry-on through the terminal. He switched on his phone, waited for it to connect to the local network, and saw that Hicks had left him a message telling him that he had arrived. There was a second email from Ziggy with the details of the hotel that he had booked for him.

The man in the leather jacket followed him into the arrivals hall, but then dropped back. Milton quickly made his replacement: a younger man in a Hawaiian shirt and electric blue shorts who was reading a copy of the local newspaper.

It was eleven in the evening when Milton made it outside to the taxi stand. The air was hot and humid, despite the hour, and short-tempered cabbies shouted and leant on their horns as they jostled into place to pick up their fares. Milton climbed into the first cab on the row.

“The InterContinental, please,” Milton said.

He looked out of the window as the taxi pulled away. The man in the blue shorts walked quickly across the sidewalk to a waiting Nissan, and, as the cab nestled into a queue of slow-moving traffic, the Nissan did the same.

The driver made no attempt to engage in conversation, and Milton enjoyed the flamenco music that was playing on the car’s stereo. He looked out of the window. Medellín was a beautiful city, described as the City of Eternal Spring on account of the consistently temperate weather. It was hot and stuffy today.

Milton took out his phone and texted Hicks, telling him that he had arrived and suggesting that they meet. The reply was swift; Hicks said that they had taken a second room on the fifth floor of the same hotel and that he should come up when he arrived.