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necktie, la corbata. If you didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, or he thought you were lying, he’d slit your throat from bottom to top, right up under the chin. Then he’d insert his fist in the open wound and drag your tongue out through the gap, so it looked like you were wearing a tie. But he wouldn’t kill you. He’d just watch you to die.”
     
    ***
     
    It wasn’t till the following afternoon that Ortega had time to spend on the Moroccan project, there were other more pressing matters demanding his attention. But his investment in Willowby was too great to abandon lightly. The American had been recruited years earlier when Frank was a rooky agent working his way up the DEA ladder in Miami. Ortega had fed him a series of minor coups, two or three thousand dollars’ worth of coke at a time. Willowby’s ascent was swift. Now, at the age of only forty-seven, he was the DEA’s top man in Europe. The intelligence he was able to provide was beyond price.
    Ortega had Willowby brought to his office and invited O’Brien to join them. He took the Irishman quickly through Willowby’s story, pausing briefly here and there to check a fact or confirm an assumption with Willowby.
    “So somewhere up in the High Atlas Mountains,” Ortega concluded, “this guy was growing coca. Sounds like a really good idea to me. I might want to try it myself. We lose a lot of merchandise crossing the Atlantic. But first I need to eliminate anybody who knows it can be done. The only lead we have right now is a DEA agent named Ambrose. Willowby here will give you his details before you leave. Fortunately we know where to find him. We also know Ambrose was working with a Brit called Alex Bowman. Ex-cop with an interesting background. Effective sonofabitch. There was a girl who also got involved. She could be dangerous. She’s a reporter. There’s been nothing in the press so far and I want to keep it that way. This thing leaks out there’ll be FBI all over the goddamn place. Point is, we can’t just blow Ambrose away. We need him alive so we can take care of Bowman and the girl.”
    O’Brien flexed his fingers.
    “I won’t be able to move for a couple of weeks or more. I have to go south from here, up into the Cordilleras, hook up with three other Paddies. We’re negotiating with a team of people from the FARC. They want to buy some of our expertise.”
    Ortega frowned. He didn’t like splitting resources with the FARC. The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia had a whole different agenda, more akin to Al Qaeda’s than his own. Getting too close to the Marxist guerrillas could be bad for Ortega’s business. He had enough trouble with the CIA and the FBI. He didn’t need to attract the attention of the Pentagon as well.
    “Would it speed things up if I helped with transportation?” said Pablo. “This is a big country, as big as France and Spain combined. You can borrow one of the jets if you like.”
    “Thanks,” the Irishman smiled, “but there’s no way Tirofijo would let your pilot anywhere near the safe-haven, and besides, they don’t have a landing strip long enough to take a jet. The command centre is constantly on the move and they’d never have the time to build one. You could fly me into Bogotá if you like, but I’ll have to disappear from there. I’ll touch base with you on my way back to Miami.”
     
    ***
     
    Declan O’Brien flew into Bogotá’s El Dorado International airport on one of Ortega’s executive jets. The Learjet taxied to the General Aviation terminal reserved for private flights. O’Brien paused at the top of the aircraft’s steps like a sporting hero responding to applause, raising an arm and acknowledging the crowd.
    On the observation deck overlooking the runway two men stood apart from the crowd. One was short and stocky with olive skin and tightly curled black hair, dressed in a tailored business suit. This was Captain Raül Abono of the Departamento Administrativo de