They followed the narrow road up into the mountains. They passed through tiny villages and then, as the landscape opened up, they saw large plantations with casas that must have been worth decent money. The road split two grassy hills and, when they emerged on the other side, they arrived at a long gate that blocked the way. There was a guardhouse next to it and a man emerged. He was dressed in a T-shirt and slacks; the MP5 he wore on a sling was prominent and meant to be visible. He nodded at the driver and stepped back into the guardhouse, and the black iron gate slid to the right.

Milton looked out of the window as the car wound its way into the property. The acreage was impressive; it took them fifteen minutes to drive from the gates to the first buildings. It soon became evident that whoever lived on the finca was fond of horses. They approached a large barn on a flat stretch of land that was being used for pasture, then passed beyond a sand arena and a hay barn. They drove by a tennis court and pavilion and then another barn; a young woman led a powerful horse out of its stall, both rider and animal looking up as the car rumbled by.

They reached the compound. The main residence could have been in Santa Barbara rather than Antioquia. It was accessed through a graceful arch, and, beyond, the understated elegance of the home was framed by mature trees, a veranda that was draped with lush bougainvillea, and verdant displays of flowers, shrubs and other plantings.

The car pulled up. Francisco got out and indicated that Milton should follow him. He did. The driveway was bisected down the middle by a long concrete trough that was filled with water. Two horses—both big and powerful and with neatly clipped coats—had their heads ducked down as they drank. The gravel on either side was immaculate, raked neatly, and the trees that bordered it had been planted with perfect order and trimmed so that they were of almost identical height. The casa at the end of the drive looked pristine, with whitewashed walls and tinted glass to mitigate the worst of the sun’s glare.

“This way,” Francisco said, leading him to the end of the drive and the veranda that offered access to the house.

Milton climbed the steps up to the wooden platform as the door opened and a man Milton had never seen before came out.

“Señor Smith,” he said, “thank you for coming. My name is Hector del Pozo. I am pleased to meet you.”

47