bend of the spine, he felt the neatly torn edge.
“¡Puta!” he whispered. Whore. She had stolen a page out of the log! But which page? What information was she privy to?
He backed up a page or two, reading laboriously, trying to picture the pages, the sequence of events. Hadn’t there been a map among these pages, telling the location, in code, of the four main camps on the mountain?
His heart seemed to stop beating when he realized it was gone.
Marquez had entrusted him with the camp’s security. It was his duty to update and secure the log. But he’d been sloppy. Not only had he left the camp to cavort with the Venezuelans—warriors who inspired him with their expertise—but he’d left the officers’ quarters unlocked. There was nothing of value to steal, he’d reasoned. None of the soldiers but David even knew how to read. He’d never conceived that the members of the negotiating team might be a threat.
But why not? Spies had been trying for decades to infiltrate the FARC.
He dared not tell Marquez about the missing map, especially when its absence could be blamed on his negligence. He would have to rouse his commander’s suspicions with news that the couple had been caught speaking English.
Perhaps Marquez would let him torture them for information. He would enjoy humiliating the bitch who’d shamed him before his men. That was when she’d called him chamo.
The Venezuelan slang word gave him pause. It made him wonder whether she knew about the FARC’s alliance with the Venezuelans.
His radio crackled suddenly and he snatched it off his hip, answering Marquez’s salutation.
“The Argentine and I are on our way,” the commander huffed. “You may expect us by noon.”
“Sir,” Buitre interrupted, “I have reason to believe two of the UN team members are American spies. I have overheard them speaking English,” he added, giving himself credit for vigilance.
Marquez did not reply.
“Did you hear me, comandante? The younger woman and her husband may be spies. I would like permission to question them.”
“No,” Marquez growled, bringing a scowl to Buitre’s face. “You are hasty in your suppositions. That couple works at the United Nations in New York City. Of course they speak English.”
“But comandante,” he protested, devastated not to be able to lay his hands on them at once.
“The Europeans are our guests, Buitre. You presume too much to know whether they are spies or not.”
“Then let me question them. I will know within hours if they speak the truth!”
“No,” Marquez repeated implacably. “We are only steps away from coming to an agreement.”
Agreement? Stunned, Buitre held his tongue for a moment. “Then Commander Gitano will be returned to us,” he guessed with an abrupt lifting of his spirits, only to have them dashed by Marquez’s next words.
“No. Commander Rojas has decided to accept the Frenchman’s offer. We will surrender the surviving hostage and the dead one in return for ten of our captured compañeros.”
Buitre choked on his denial. “No!” he growled in protest. “Why would we settle for such a small ransom? We need more than men. We need leadership!”
“The Elite Guard will lead us. What we need now is for these strangers to leave the mountain before they learn too much. Enough,” Marquez bit out. “I have explained the situation. You will follow my orders and treat the UN team with every bit of respect. This is not their war.”
Shuddering with outrage, Buitre hurled the radio to the bed. He lurched to his feet to pace the creaking floor.
Weak! Commander Rojas was too weak to breathe life into the floundering rebel ranks. Only Gitano could have grown the FARC’s numbers back into the tens of thousands, returning it to the fearsome entity it was before the bombings, the conversions, the slaughter of its leaders.
With a roar, Buitre pounded his fist into his palm. Still, he would obey his commander’s dictates. The key to a strong army was discipline among the ranks. So for now, he would heed Marquez’s wishes, regardless of how weak and foolish they seemed.
THE FARC HAD ACCEPTED Fournier’s proposal with an added stipulation, a sum of fifty million pesos delivered in cold hard cash via helicopter to an airfield near the base of the mountain.
Lucy shared a quick, stunned look with Gus.
“Can we come up with that?” Bellini asked, a bead of sweat gliding from his dark hairline.
In the wake of the rain last night, the weather was muggy and hot. Cloistered in the officers’ cramped quarters, the team members eyed Fournier with varying