Hollowing the caverns from the mountain near the plantation had been a harrowing experience in the terrible heat and humidity. And keeping the operation undercover meant they had to get rid of the rock without alerting air or satellite surveillance. The CIA had agreed to allow them a modest drug operation— not one that necessitated the hollowing of a mountain. The CIA had no clue what they were really up to.

They’d moved 200,000 tons of rock. They had done it by drilling a three-foot tunnel right through the mountain and depositing the dirt in the Orinoco River far below in the adjacent valley.

Using the same tunnels to deliver the logs to the river had been Jamal’s idea as well. Everything, always, Jamal’s. It wasn’t the plan itself that bore into Abdullah’s skull; it was the way Jamal held him by the neck. The way he toyed with him, demanding this and questioning that. One day Abdullah would have to kill the pig. Of course, he would have to find him first, and finding him might be harder than killing him.

A knock sounded on the door.

Abdullah answered without moving. “Come in.”

A Hispanic man with an eye patch entered and closed the door. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Yes?”

“The shipment is under way successfully. Three logs bound for Miami.”

Abdullah turned his head slowly and looked at the man. He’d put the man’s eye out for insubordination—questioning his orders about how long the men should work harvesting down in the fields. Jamal had called earlier that morning—it had been a bad day.

Abdullah turned back to the window without responding.

“We will ship again in two days,” Ramón said.

“Keep an eye out, Ramón,” Abdullah said.

The man hesitated. “Sir?”

Abdullah faced him quickly. “I said keep an eye out, Ramón. The spiders may try to eat us soon.”

From the corner of his eyes Abdullah saw Ramón glance at the wall. After a moment of silence the man spoke again. “Jamal made contact?”

Was it so obvious? “We will send them soon. Many people will die. Let us pray that Jamal is among them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Abdullah resumed his stare out the window. For several long minutes they remained silent, looking down at the idle cocaine plant. It was like that out here in the cursed jungle, Abdullah thought. The world was an empty place. Damp and hot and crawling with spiders, but as empty as a deep hole. Like this prison of his.

At times he even forgot about Yuri’s little toys far beneath their feet. “You may go, Ramón.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man left, and Abdullah sat still.

FIVE HOURS later and one hundred miles to the east, a cool wind whipped around the bow of a seven-thousand-ton lumber carrier pushing through choppy waters with powerful twin Doxford diesels. As far as the eye could see, whitecaps covered the sea.