Page 28 of Fear No Evil

Marquez sent themondoand two teens across to show the peacekeepers how the contraption worked. By the time it was Maggie and Jake’s turn to squeeze into the hip-high box, Maggie was confident the apparatus would hold them. Esme was not. She clung to Maggie, hiding her face against her shoulder. With no choice but to be brave, Maggie caught Jake’s eye. “Fire with fire, darling,” she said in French.

Jake just shook his head.

Once safely on the opposite side, they waited for the others to join them before slogging on. Only now, the going was slower as they had no mules to ride and no more strength to call upon. To make matters worse, Esme was so weak that Maggie practically had to carry her.

It had to be nearing the dinnertime when the trail spilled the weary troop into a partial clearing of relatively level ground.Oh, thank God!They’d finally reached a rebel camp occupied by several more teens, who stood eyeing their gringo visitors.

Three mismatched buildings stood in a thin mist with a firepit in the center and a field behind. The chickens pecking in the mud suggested this had once been the farm of an indigenouscampesino, appropriated by the FARC and turned into an outpost, the perimeter of which was guarded by a .50-caliber machine gun, presided over by a grubby teen.

Esme tugged on Maggie’s sleeve. “Are the hostages kept here, do you think?”

“I doubt it.” They wouldn’t let the UN team see the hostages unless they had to.

Marquez waved them toward the tree stumps surrounding the firepit. As they collapsed atop them, the two girl rebels worked to start a fire. A generator began throttling behind the only brick-and-mortar building into which Marquez disappeared.

Maggie’s eyes wandered. In the field at the back of the camp, four crude bull’s-eyes had been mounted to tree trunks, suggesting this was probably a training camp. The brick building was probably for the officers, the stand-alone lean-to for the teenage rebels, so was the long, frond-topped bungalow for them?

An older, light-skinned man stepped out of it. Like them, he was dressed in camouflage with no floppy hat.

Charles gave voice to Maggie’s question. “Who’s that?”

The man’s fair complexion set him apart. Nor was he armed with any weapons.

Commander Marquez, emerging from the brick building, waved the man over and introduced him to the group. “This is Señor Arias. He will represent the FARC’s interests in the negotiation process.”

Maggie frowned. Couldn’t the FARC represent themselves?

Boris shook the slender man’s hand. “I’m Boris Mayer, with the United Nations.”

“Mucho gusto.” But the older man didn’t sound enthusiastic.

Marquez gestured toward his dwelling. “You may begin the process now. Go inside.”

Now? They were all exhausted, and they hadn’t eaten since early morning.

Boris responded with confusion. “Just me and Arias, or all of us?”

“Do as you please.” With a shrug, Marquez distanced himself, taking Gallo with him.

Charles stood. “I’d like to be included.”

“Us, too,” said Maggie.

Esme put a hand to her head. “I really don’t feel well enough.”

Boris made a quick decision, requesting Bellini to find somewhere for Esme to rest.

Arias pointed to the bungalow. “You’ll be bunking there where I sleep. There are mats and nets at the door. Help yourself.”

As Bellini led Esme away, the rest of them crowded into the officers’ quarters. Once inside, Maggie searched the cozy interior for clues as to Howitz and Barnes’s location. The bright lightbulb and small refrigerator explained the reason for the generator. Given the bunkbed, only Marquez and Gallo slept here, enjoyingcold drinks and a tin roof while their minions had thatched roofs. Clearly even Marxists recognized rank.

As they squeezed into the small space, the Argentine offered the only chair to Boris, who refused it. Taking it for himself, Arias left the rest of them standing.

Speaking Spanish in a lilting Argentinian dialect, he acknowledged them politely as Boris introduced them, then explained that he was a businessman with pipelines in northern Colombia. “I was kidnapped from my office in Medellín to do a job for the FARC.”

Maggie didn’t understand. “Why kidnap a stranger to represent them? It makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Boris countered. “Mr. Arias is used to working with money, wire transfers and all that. He knows how much the FARC can get away with asking, how to use technology, and he probably speaks English perfectly, yes?”

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