rails.
Now he reached for his mug again, and was amazed to discover that it was almost empty. Christ. What kind of abuse must he be heaping upon his stomach? His nervous system?
Dorset stared down at the remainder of his coffee and frowned. Really, he ought to reduce his consumption. Fifty-eight years old, heart palpitations, elevated triglycerides, a grab bag of other chronic health problems — you had to watch out. Get on a treadmill once in a while, take one of those stress-management courses, anything besides brewing pot after pot after pot. On the other hand, there were worse addictions. Italian roast couldn’t be more harmful than cigarettes, booze, or prescription sedatives. He’d even heard some people got hooked on nasal sprays — what kind of habit was that? What the hell, right?
Expelling another breath, he pushed his chair back from his desk and went to pour himself a fresh cup.
TEN
Eduardo Guzman had been just a bit surprised when the Land Rover in which he was driven across the border from Brazil had turned into the dreary village of Quijarro instead of swinging onto the highway heading west toward the Chapare region, but as they had wound through the town’s mud-splashed, tumbledown streets, his driver had explained that he wanted to buy something to drink from one of the vending stalls near the railway station. Had Eduardo known of his intention to stop for a refreshment, he might have suggested doing so before they passed through the customs post in Corumba, where there had been many decent places to eat along the river promenade. Though a long ride and many miles of open country lay ahead, the filthy conditions outside their vehicle had squelched any hunger or thirst he might have worked up in the last few hours.
Still, he needed only to consider what he had left behind in order to cheer himself. There had been his betrayal by that damnable whore who had been working in league with the national police even as she worked his cock, performing brilliantly on both counts, tricking him into selling thirty kilos of cocaine to some “associates” of hers who turned out to be undercover agents. After his arrest, Eduardo had spent three days in lockup with piss- smelling thieves and drunks, sweating out the days and nights trying to remember everything he’d foolishly told the woman of his activities and waiting to see what charges would be pressed against him.
Thank God, someone in the organization — it was unclear to Eduardo whether this had been his uncle Vicente, or Harlan DeVane himself — had reached out to a government functionary and secured his release. Before dawn that morning, only hours before his scheduled arraignment, two plainclothes officers had appeared outside his detention cell, quietly removed him, and accompanied him into an unmarked sedan parked in front of the Sao Paulo jailhouse. They had taken him as far as the Corumba border crossing, exchanged some private words with the customs guards, and transferred him to the Land Rover in which his current driver, a barrel-chested man named Ramon, had been waiting near the checkpoint.
Once Eduardo had climbed into the front passenger seat and they were under way, Ramon had explained that they would be traveling to DeVane’s ranch outside San Borja to meet with him and Vicente. This had caused a knot of apprehension in Eduardo’s stomach, but speaking with the air of fraternal confidentiality common to rank- and-file members of any organization when discussing their superiors, Ramon had told him that a substantial payoff had been needed to compel the authorities to drop their case against him, and that the two bosses merely wanted to be shown proper appreciation for having interceded on his behalf.
After all that he’d endured, Eduardo had replied, he was prepared to demonstrate his gratitude and contrition with relish, even if it meant getting down on his knees to kiss their bare bottoms.
“Everything in life is easier to get into than out of,” the driver had commented with a chuckle.
Now the Rover slowed as he guided it up a side street lined with grimy, leaning hovels that seemed on the verge of collapse, took a series of turns along nearly identical streets, then guided it onto a narrow gravel lane running between a stretch of empty lots. Eduardo, who had been paying little attention to their dismal course through town, suddenly furrowed his brow in puzzlement. A glance through the windshield showed that they were heading toward a dead end, their way blocked up ahead by a sentry gate, beyond which was a low, gray, flat-roofed structure with six or eight tractor-trailer trucks parked on either side of its cinder-block walls — presumably a warehouse of some kind.
The driver smiled and motioned to the right.
Eduardo glanced in that direction, and saw nothing but the wide, muddy lot. Then he heard Ramon’s pushbutton window roll down, jerked his eyes back toward him, and saw him reach out the window to swipe an identification card through a gatepost security scanner.
Eduardo felt a cold spark of alarm as it swung open to admit them and Ramon pulled to a halt several yards in front of the building.
Its movement a blur, Ramon’s hand had shot beneath the dash and come back into sight gripping a pistol that must have been clipped to the dash’s underside.
“Open your door and get out,” he said, brandishing the gun at Eduardo. “Slowly.”
Eduardo swallowed thickly, dumbfounded. One look at the weapon had told him it was a Sig Pro.40 semiautomatic — a standard-issue DEA sidearm. The thought that he’d fallen for another anti-drug squad setup flashed through his mind, and was quickly dismissed. What sense did that make? He had not escaped from confinement, but been willingly freed by his jailers. Nor had he uttered a peep about his business dealings to his driver or the plainclothes men who had escorted him to the border crossing.
He decided that Ramon, if that was his real name, must indeed be with DeVane — but the suddenly aggressive look in the man’s eyes, the deft speed with which he’d produced his concealed weapon, and the particular model of gun he was using were all indications that he was no mere chauffeur. While conducting anti-drug operations in Bolivia and elsewhere in South America, DEA and U.S. Special Forces units had recruited and trained in-country field commandos who knew the territory and were able to speak the language. After completing their mandatory one-year tours of duty these natives — many of whom had blood ties to the coca farmers and distributors — would often put their skills and inside knowledge of narco police tactics up for sale to the cartels they had once sworn to oppose.
Eduardo cursed himself for a fool. His uncle was a respected lieutenant in the DeVane organization, and he had assumed it was Vicente, acting out of familial loyalty, who had brought about his release. But it could have been DeVane who’d engineered it. Must have been. And for reasons that, it seemed, were far from benign.
His face paling, Eduardo did as he had been instructed. Almost before he had exited the vehicle, Ramon was out his own door. He hurried around to Eduardo’s side, grabbed him roughly by the arm with one hand, and shoved him along toward the building’s corrugated metal door, the Sig pistol jammed against the back of his head.
There was an intercom beside the entrance. Ramon leaned toward it, pushed a button under the speaker, and announced himself, his gun held steady. An instant later the door rose clankily on its metal tracks.
Ramon prodded Eduardo through the entrance with the Sig and followed him inside. Then the door rattled down behind them, shutting out the daylight. Eduardo found himself thrown into sudden gloom. The air was stale and warm. Incandescent lightbulbs on the ceiling, covered by simple metal grills, seemed to propagate rather than dispel the interior shadows.
Ramon forced him to keep moving. As his pupils adjusted to the dimness, Eduardo glanced from side to side, and noticed the shipping crates on wooden pallets stacked all around him. Just as he had suspected, a warehouse. He guessed it was a hundred feet deep and twice as wide.
Then he looked straight ahead of him, saw the group of men waiting in the cleared-out space at the end of the aisle, and felt a sharp jab of fear. Only two were seated, the backs of their chairs against the bare unpainted walls. Vicente was one of them. Although Eduardo had never met him in person, he knew the slightly built American in the incongruous white suit seated to his uncle’s right was Harlan DeVane. On either side of them stood a pair of
