who had a telephone, a fax, and dial-up Internet. I was able to fax Jay Barnes’s request for payment to his insurance company.”
The kiss Gus placed on Lucy’s temple briefly distracted her. Another memory, filed away for later.
“The money will be wired to a bank in Bogotá,” Fournier added, his gray eyes alight with optimism, “where one of my associates will pick it up. In addition, the ten FARC prisoners will be released and delivered, under guard, to my associate. Both the officers and the money will be boarded on a Red Cross helicopter and delivered tomorrow afternoon to the airfield at the foot of the mountain, where Commander Marquez will be waiting to relinquish Jay Barnes and the body of Mike Howitz.”
“Tomorrow!” S¸ukruye exclaimed, her eyes glimmering with tears of relief. “Oh, you have done well, Pierre!” she praised him.
It seemed a little premature to dole out accolades, thought Lucy, resisting a glance up at Gus. What about the red tape Fournier had mentioned the other day? A whole host of things could go wrong, delaying the helicopter’s arrival.
“Not I. All of us,” Fournier insisted.
“Then you must celebrate,” Buitre spoke up abruptly, interrupting. Pushing off the door, he swaggered closer, extending the jug in his hand. He thrust it at Fournier. “A gift from Front Commander Rojas,” he announced.
“Thank you,” said Fournier uncertainly. “What is it?”
“Chicha,” said Buitre with an enigmatic smile.
“Fermented cassava,” translated Carlos with a guarded expression.
What was the deputy up to? Lucy wondered.
“Try it,” he insisted. “It is better than panela.”
Never one to offend a host, Fournier removed the cork and took an obliging sip. He swallowed, wheezed, and cleared his throat. “Not bad,” he decreed. “A bit like English cider. Thank you, Deputy Buitre.”
Buitre inclined his head. “Everyone must try it,” he insisted with a steely smile.
Lucy considered the offer. Was this a friendly gesture on the rebel’s part, or a hostile one? The FARC had nothing to gain from harming them, not when they’d yet to receive their ransom payment. On the other hand, she could not forget Buitre’s suspicions, nor his hostility when he confronted her about the map.
To her incredulity, she watched Gus take a hearty swig. Was he that certain the drink hadn’t been laced with poison?
He thrust the jug at her, wafting potent-smelling fumes in her direction. She took a wary sip. Liquor seared her throat and left a sour-sweet taste on her tongue. Chicha wasn’t bad at all. She hoped it would ease the ache in her hip.
The others followed suit, all but S¸ukruye, who declined. “I don’t touch liquor,” she explained.
“Drink,” Buitre cajoled, but the woman refused, withdrawing quietly to her hammock.
“You must toast Señor Álvarez,” Buitre suggested, his voice, his mannerisms friendly. Then again, even serial killers had their charming moments.
As the floor seemed to shift beneath her feet, Lucy reached for Gus, who looked down at her sharply.
“To Señor Álvarez,” said Fournier. His eyes seemed brighter than usual as he passed the jug to Gus.
The jug made another round. Lucy was pleased to feel the ache in her hip subsiding.
Bellini spilled some and giggled.
Gus suddenly staggered, lost his footing, and made a grab for Lucy. Together they crashed onto the dirt-packed floor.
Buitre roared with laughter. “You like that, eh?” he asked, bending over them with a grin. The room’s shadows turned his face into a grotesque mask.
“Sorry,” Gus muttered, his speech slightly slurred. Amazingly, he’d managed to keep his weight from crushing her.
“I’m okay,” said Lucy, rolling away and helping him to his feet. “That’s enough for us,” she announced, guiding Gus to his hammock. He fell into it, lifted his feet, and rolled right off the other side, landing on the floor again.
Buitre roared with appreciation. Lucy set her teeth.
“Gustavo has no tolerance,” she explained, even as it occurred to her that Gus was intentionally putting on an act. He didn’t trust Buitre’s intentions any more than she did. And one way to satisfy the deputy was to feign inebriation.
“We should all retire,” Carlos suggested, taking the jug from Bellini, who tried to sneak another swig. “The sun is almost down,” he added, tossing water onto the embers to quench the fire.
“We hung a hammock for you, Pierre,” chimed in S¸ukruye, beckoning him to the other corner.
As the team members backed away, Buitre threw a final smirk over his shoulder and left, bearing the jug with him. With a curt word to the rebels outside, the deputy departed. Minutes later, darkness descended with breathtaking speed.