They transferred the pistols, the rifle and the ammunition into a canvas bag that they had brought with them and then slid the case back into its hiding spot. They dragged the flagstone back into place and started for the car. Ziggy thought about the people who might have been here before them, and found that the nerves in his stomach—already bad enough—had just got much worse.

44

Milton found it difficult to sleep. His thoughts raced with what the morning might bring, and he eventually resorted to reading his Márquez for thirty minutes in an attempt to quiet his mind. He fell asleep with the book splayed open on the pillow next to him, and when he awoke five hours later, he felt groggy. He got up and stood under a cold shower for five minutes, not getting out of the cubicle until his skin was tingling. He dried himself off, dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and pulled on his boots, thinking of the tracker hidden in the sole.

Milton went to the window and looked down onto Medellín. Suspicion and paranoia had been inculcated in the cartels as a result of their decades-long battle with the state and with each other, and, as far as Milton was concerned, they knew nothing about him. That was the purpose of this visit: they would try to provide themselves with the confidence that he was someone with whom they could do business. If they didn’t think that he was, they would put a bullet in his head and dump him by the side of the road. There would be no question about that and no hesitation. There would be very little that Milton could do about it, either.

His only hope was that Ziggy had done his work properly. The legend that he had spent so much time putting together—its resistance to investigation and Milton’s ability to play the part—would be the difference between life and death. Milton had to persuade them that he was John Smith. It was the only way that he would walk out of today’s meeting in one piece.

He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and finding a point of balance. He would have no control over what came next, and that—helplessness—was one of the triggers of his alcoholism. There was a minibar beneath the bureau, but Milton had resisted the temptation to open it up until now, and he found—to his relief—that the urge to go and take a drink was not strong. He needed his wits about him.

He grabbed his phone from the bedside table, dropped it into the pocket of his jacket and made his way to the elevators. He summoned one and rode it down to the lobby.

* * *

The lobby was quiet, with just a single guest checking out. Milton looked at his watch.

Five minutes past eight.