TS 2 Part VI Chapter 4

Chapter 4

March 25^th, 2010

Bahia Negra

Paraguay

“Fuck, none of you will ever pass as a birdwatcher in a million years. Can you change your executioners' faces?” Fedérico whined the minute the small plane landed after several bumps in the earth made airfield, leaving a large trail of dust behind it.

“It's a good excuse to be in the countryside. Nobody comes here unless he does some ecological tourism,” Ratko growled, still checking at the birds guide.

“That's right, but you all look like the Ladykillers,” Fedérico sighed.

“We are here to watch the Urutau,” Milan carefully voiced the last word. “It's a bird,” he clarified as he looked through the window the only decrepit hangar and the well cut grass growing next to the track.

“Yeah, I know. It sings like a woman howling in pain. Your blood will freeze once you hear it in the middle of the night,” Fedérico explained. “This is a very small place, so please let me do the talking. I'm your official translator.”

Bahia Negra. Paraguay

The men descended from the aircraft near a small dirty hangar with the pilots and walked toward it. Fedérico left the group and spoke with a very old man, sitting and looking unimpressed at the foreigners.

“It's our lucky day. He knows someone who can rent us a pick up truck.”

“I thought there was some adventure tourism here.”

“Yeah, if you're an anthropologist,” Fedérico said. “When it rains, the roads are closed it's over for all of them. The Air Force operates a flight for the civilians but only when they have gathered more than 25 people. Do you want to make fast friends with the locals? Let them use our air taxi to go to Asunción. The pilots won't mind and it's already paid.”

“Will that make them talk?” Goran asked dubiously.

“I can arrange it,” Fedérico said. “Do I have your permission?”

“Do it.”

“Right, wait for me here. I'm going to speak with these man. He has someone sick who needs to see a doctor. You should all wait in the “airport”. It's too hot to be out.” Fedérico pointed at two distant white with read rooftops houses.

* * *

“We have a dinner invitation,” Fedérico announced to the men waiting in the empty and miserably room.

“What?”

“Several Chamacoco tribe members are leaving now for Asunción. The elders chose the people who needed to fly to the city.” Fedérico informed them. “Shit! I must say Isir from now onward. Chamacoco is a demeaning word for them,” Fedérico mused.

“How are they going to return?”

“I promised them that you would pay another air taxi in five days time. They're very happy,” Fedérico said with an innocent air. “Come on! It's just 10.000 dollars! It's not the time to get cheap on me!” He shouted when the Serbs looked at him with a mix of fury and surprise.

“What do we get out of this?” Mirko asked.

“Dinner and cooperation from this people. No GPS will help you through this marshland,” he sneered. “They know the way to everywhere and they're silent like graves.”

“I hope you know what you're doing Argentinean,” Goran growled. “Did you get a car?”

“Sort of,” Fedérico replied, once more looking like the perfect image of innocence. “People are helping us to unload the material you brought.”

“Are you nuts?” Milan asked.

“No, not really, but believe me, it would be highly suspicious you don't want to hire some of them for carrying your things. Let me do things in my way and we will get there in no time and without killing anyone in the process. Okay?

Still feeling the Serbs glares piercing his back, Fedérico walked again to the crystal door and opened it to let the humid heat air wave hit his face with force.

“What the fuck is that?” Mirko asked with his mouth hanging open, unable to believe they were going to drive in the rackety truck parked in front of the entrance while four men piled up their gear inside it without showing much care.

“That baby is a Ford. I learned to drive in one of these when I was twelve years old. I taught Guntram how to drive in one of these. The direction was a bit loose, but it held fine and in a dirt road, who notices?” Fedérico proudly told them.

“That might well explain Guntram's driving skills,” Ratko smirked. “Come on Mirko, jump to the backside. Milan, you too.”

“Why do I have to go?” Milan protested.

“Because I have an ulcer,” Ratko said sternly.

“And you're a married man,” Milan mimicked his voice.

“Precisely.”

* * *

Goran was doing his best to hide his annoyance. First they had lost a whole day by waiting in a “sorry excuse for an airport” for the Argentinean to get a car. He had not only failed to get a decent car but he had also “lost” the plane to some indigenous people.

'What does he think he's going to achieve here?' he contemplated, as he sat in a large wooden table laid in the communal yard under the stars. 'These people know nothing at all!'

Two young children, a boy and a girl, not older than ten years old approached him and began to study him from a distance between saying a thing and only shyly smiling. Soon another five children joined them and Goran found himself being the centre of attention of many boys and girls. 'I'm the official monkey,' he thought darkly.

His gaze travelled around and he saw Mirko, as usual reading a book, exerting his eyes just to see the letters in the semi-darkness. Ratko and Milan looked bored but at ease, sitting under a tree and already drinking like two natives more that “strange tea” called mate that Guntram was taking every time he was visiting Argentina.

'Repin would have never come here. This is really the end of the world,' he thought looking once more the small settlement by the river a few kilometres away from the city. The small houses were made of clay with thatched roofs. There was an electricity generator but no running water, except the one they were obtaining from the river. 'You have more chances to find an ONG volunteer in Somalia than here,' he thought bitterly. 'Even the hunting is bad nowadays. What do these people live of?'

The children were still observing him and he cracked a smile at them and they laughed, covering their faces and whispering to each other. 'Do children like this still exist?'

A girl split from the group and came closer to Goran. She left in front of him a small white amber looking rock and took several steps backwards, nervously giggling.

Goran took the piece of rock and said only gracias, wondering what it could be. The children laughed and ran away in disarray.

Without any idea of what the item could be, he left it over the table and saw Fedérico coming out from one of the houses.

“Hey! Leave that for dessert,” he said when he noticed the rock.

“Do you know what is this?”

“It's a piece of comb honey and it's already cleaned. From vespers if I'm correct. Very appreciated here and it tastes less sweet than normal honey. Legend says you get slightly high when you chew it.”

“The children gave it to me. Should I eat it?”

“They really like you then. These vespers are very nasty guys and getting one of these is very difficult. We are even getting red meat tonight and that's a lot for these people.”

“Could you find out something?”

“Not much. The elders want to speak with you. Funny, one of them speaks German. A protestant missionary taught him years ago. We will meet them after dinner. They're willing to help.”

“You said that several hours ago,” Goran said very irritated.

“Things go slowly around here. Let me do my job and you'll get results faster than you think,” Fedérico retorted vulgarly, finally losing his patience with Goran's airs of grandeur and distrust. “You can't bribe then with money. They're too proud for that. You have to find what they want to trade with you and then, they'll speak. We are on the right path. Trust me, please, even if I'm not one of you. Guntram is the best friend I ever had.”

* * *

Still mumbling his fury against the old Serb, Fedérico walked toward the main house to get another shot of honey spirit. He saw Mirko still reading, now in the light of the fire where the meat was grilling and sighed.

“Did you just bring a book to a suicide mission?” he whined. “You're worst than a crazy suicide bomber.”

“Every place is good to praise the Lord,” the young Serb answered seriously, carefully placing a bookmark before he closed the thick volume with a loud thud.

“Ratzinger? Are you reading a book written by the Pope?” Fedérico asked dumbfounded once he caught a glimpse of the cover.

“He was a well known theologian before being appointed Pope. I thought you were part of another community.”

“I support the Opus Dei, that's true but that's because of my father. I agree with most of their views but I'm not going to all of their meetings or I will ever become a supernumerary member. Their way is not mine. I need more action than contemplation,” he said, sitting next to the young man.

“We don't support the Opus Dei at all,” Mirko told him. “We dislike their internal regulations and some of their members' behaviour. We follow a more Jesuit line. We are defenders, champions of our Faith and nothing else matters. Not even our soul.”

“That sounds a bit extreme. Did Guntram really accept it?”

“The Consort followed another line within the Church but we have learned to live with the differences. His commitment to his duties was total.”

“How old are you?” Fedérico asked and Mirko gaped at him.

“I'm thirty-two years old, why?”

“You look much younger. I thought you were younger than I.”

Mirko fixed his black eyes on Fedérico's and softly said: “Why?”

“In a way you remind me to Guntram. I know what you do and I can imagine what you were doing in your last trip to Colombia, but there's a... I don't know how to call it, really. Perhaps... innocence is the right word. It's not naïveté. Yes, innocence is the word I'm looking for.”

“I'm not innocent at all. I know exactly what I'm doing. Perhaps I'm slow to understand most of your double meaning phrases, but that's the language barrier. I don't speak much English.”

“That's the difference. You're not naïve. It's as if you would think the best of people and be disappointed when they show their true faces.”

“Were we not made in the image of our Lord? If he's perfect we all should be like this. At least in theory.”

“That's something that Guntram would have said,” Fedérico answered with a sad smile. “But never forget we almost wiped out all the apples from that tree. I think you try to look for the best in people and forgive the rest.”

“I wanted to apologise for my stupid comment in that place. I was furious we were going there and I exploded at you,” Mirko said after a long poignant pause. “I'm a idiot.”

“Never forget that last part,” Fedérico told him with a smile and a light punch on the Serb's shoulder. “It's a joke!” he clarified when Mirko fulminated him with his eyes. “Just relax now and then!”

“Fine,” Mirko growled.

“I have already forgotten it,” Fedérico shrugged and both men fell into an amiable silence, watching the fire consume the logs.

“Do you have a girlfriend or a fiancée?” Fedérico asked nonchalantly but carefully watching how Mirko almost jumped out of his seat and his face paled.

“No, no, not yet,” he stuttered. “I'm not very good at courtships with girls,” he added very embarrassed and violently blushed. “I don't know how to talk to them.”

“Ah,” Fedérico shrugged feigning to be indifferent to the answer. He leaned his back against the chair and stretched his arms over his head, releasing the tension of the day before he carelessly brushed the palm of his hand against Mirko's thigh.

'He's not cutting me into pieces, good sign,'

* * *

After dinner, Goran and Fedérico met with the elders of the tribe in the communal room, a large house de whitewashed walls and dirt floor. Several rustic wooden tables, placed in an “U” shape were the only decoration in the modest room. Under the tilting light of a soon to die tube light, the facets of the elderly leaders' faces were more noticeable.

“You have been generous to us but you still haven't told us what is that you want,” one of the oldest men said to Goran, using German, much to his surprise.

“We want nothing from your people or from your land,” he answered evenly. “We are looking for a foreigner hiding in your lands.”

“There are many foreigners coming here. You are one of them and you are not a man of peace.”

“This man took my brother away. I'm only looking for him.”

“I've heard of several foreigners living over the past three years in the lands over the marshes. They bought acres and acres of land but they never destroyed the jungle to plant crops or sullied our river. No one speaks with them,” the man said lighting his cigarette up.

“The men we are looking for are Russians. Their leader is not a man of peace either. If he has not attacked you, it's because you have not caused him any problems.”

“If you say that he's such an evil man, we can't afford to be his enemies.”

“You will not be his allies either. He will wipe you out the minute he believes you are an inconvenience to his business.”

“We know whom you're speaking about and we know the risks involved in dealing with these men, but he prefers to ignore us. In fact, he helped us with several construction projects we had. His workers and engineers rebuilt the school and installed solar panels for us. He respects our traditions and the mother earth.”

“You don't know him as we do,” Goran insisted. “Just tell us where he is.”

“You could go, but you wouldn't last more than a few days in the marshes,” the old man replied. “You have no experience.”

“We are willing to take the risks.”

“They built a road over their lands to the street. We can take you there but we will not enter in his lands. His people told us not to hunt there as there are traps. They left some lands untouched in the farthest area from the big house they built. We can hunt there.”

“That already is a big help,” Goran said tiredly.

* * *

“Ever been in a mud pond?” Fedérico sneered when Mirko almost skidded in the slippery wet earth. The Argentinean saved him from the fall by catching him by the elbow.

“Is it always like this?”

“It's funnier when you're running after some crazy Hezbollah terrorists. It's not so funny when you're against people with real knowledge of the area. Watch how those Indians walk over the mud. They don't even leave footsteps. The secret is that you step with all of your foot in one go. Like a duck.”

“Thank you,” Mirko whispered, truly grateful that he had found a way to stop skidding under the gear he was carrying. “This is not our usual kind of battlefield.”

“I can imagine,” Fedérico snorted. “Once the Indians are out, we have to continue on our own, without anything. Probably they have interceptors to check if we use GPS or something.”

“I know. I'm not a newbie in this. I was in the war, you know? Carrying supplies, infiltrating, smuggling weapons and fighting sometimes,” he growled.

“Don't get so worked up,” Fedérico protested. “That is dry and cold. Here is wet and hot. Different battlegrounds. That's all what I'm saying. Were you already fighting in 1992?”

“I was fourteen years old and well trained. It was an honour that Goran let me fight along with my cousin Ratko.”

“Jesus, you're all crazy,” Fedérico mumbled.

“Don't swear. It's bad,” Mirko admonished him.

“Do you come from a monastery or what?” Fedérico retorted with a snug face.

“I left it after the war. I couldn't find the required inner peace to be inside its walls again. I wanted to be a priest and I thought my call had been that, but God showed me otherwise,” he explained with a soft smile under the astonished look of Fedérico .

“Right,” he mumbled again before he resumed his walk, brisker than before. 'Hot looking like the devil, and crazier than Guntram regarding religion,' he thought. 'And with a fancy for gutting people alive when they're against God. What more can you ask from a date?'

* * *

Once the Aborigines left the group at the joint of the road that led to the house they were looking for. The Serbs sat and removed their equipment and weapons.

“Take only the necessary things with you, Argentinean,” Goran ordered as he only took a large knife and an automatic weapon.

“Is that all?” Fedérico asked dumbfounded.

“Machete is a good idea too,” Milan said with a broad smile. “And something against mosquitoes. All of them are tasting the Serbian Cuisine today. We don't need many tools for working.”

“Why on earth did you bring all this stuff and why the fuck did you make me risk my neck to buy it?” Fedérico furiously whispered pointing at the abandoned M-16.

“To keep you busy and happy, sunshine,” Ratko replied with an ample smile. “Is that the proper attitude now?”

“Are you just planning to go there, ring the bell and say “Hi, Mr. Repin. We believe you have something that may belong to us?” You're simply nuts!”

“Courtesy always helps,” Milan said. “You can stay here, Argentinean. This is a business for the Order only.”

“Forget it. I want to see how all of you are slowly cooked,” Fedérico huffed.

“We never carry weapons,” Goran explained with a soft voice. “We are like these Indians; only one bullet for the animal they plan to kill. We don't know what we are going to find or if it makes any sense to attack now. We are recognising the terrain.”

“There's no going back now,” Fedérico hissed. “Someone will tell the Russians we are here.”

“Then, we will do it at night. It's only three days walking. We will follow the path from fifty metres. Take the food and water we need only.”

* * *

March 30^th, 2010

The dim lights of dawn confirmed the men worst fears. The elegant cubic house was abandoned.

“Do you think they lied to us?” Mirko whispered in Fedérico 's ear.

“Could be but I doubt it.”

“The babies, pst!” Ratko growled. “Do we go in, Goran?” he asked in Serb, much to Fedérico 's annoyance as the Serbs had once more completely forgotten him.

“Not yet. We need more light,” he answered quietly.

* * *

The footsteps resounded in the empty living room. The house had been abandoned for some time although the furniture, carpets and some ornaments remained. There was nothing else.

Furious like he had not been in a very long time, Goran smashed his fist against one of the crystal-steel tables, breaking it into thousand of sparkling pieces. The Serbs looked at him and left the room to leave him alone with his fury.

“Let's gather evidence. He's gone, but we can find out what happened. The outside walls have more holes than a Gruyère cheese,” Milan said once they reached the corridor.

“Will he be fine?” Fedérico asked, indicating the living room's direction with his head.

“I suppose. We have to be certain that Guntram was here and is still alive,” Ratko answered. “Leave Goran alone. The place looks fine but there are no artworks.”

“Do you bring a Miró to the middle of the jungle?”Fedérico asked in disbelief.

“Repin would do it. He left in a hurry, but it wasn't such a hurry. He had an escape plan already prepared and certainly a new hideout ready somewhere,” Milan told Fedérico. “You and Mirko, check the rooms on the other side for any signs that Guntram was here. Be careful. We are going to the basement.”

Milan and Ratko watched how both young men walked across the corridor sun bathed by the light filtering through the abandoned inside garden.

“Good you sent the babies away,” Ratko said.

“Do you think Repin still keeps a dungeon in his cellar?”

“He's a man of traditions, Milan. Like our Duke. If we find something nasty or related to Guntram, I don't want them or Goran to see it.”

“You're right, brother,” Milan said quietly as he unsheathed his weapon for the first time since they had entered.

* * *

“Guntram was certainly here,” Fedérico sighed when he took one of the discarded sketchpads from the floor and he fidgeted with the pages. “This looks very much like his.”

The large sunny room was in complete disarray, with books, some oil painting tubes, brushes and pencils scattered all over the floor but there were no canvases over the two or three lectern still standing. Mirko walked toward Fedérico and took the folder from his hands to also inspect the pencil made drawings of birds and plants.

“Is there any date written in these things?” he asked himself.

“No, I think he also didn't know where he was. We should take this to authenticate, but I'd bet this is his.” “Let's take a look at the main bedrooms.”

* * *

Milan and Ratko contemplated dispassionately the crumpled and partly mummified body in what seemed to be a small cell. It had a clean shot in the head.

“Ten to one that's Soren Larsen,” Milan commented, examining the deformed head because of putrefaction.

“Most probably. That's the proper end for traitors.”

“When do you think he was killed?”

“Hard to tell. Let's make some photos and maybe Strauss people can tell us,” Ratko suggested. “Why is it not more rotten? We should be kicking worms.”

“I don't know, maybe it's the air conditioning. For some reason it's still on.”

“That makes no sense at all. The power should be off.”

“Sun power cells, dimwit,” Milan said with a smirk. “I saw them from the distance.”

“So, that means that the house is still operational.”

“And?”

“We have to get our asses out of here as fast as we can. Repin always was leaving surprises behind him. Do you remember when he left a grenade under a body?”

“Shit! You're right!”

* * *

Goran met his two men coming up from the cellar at a very fast pace. “Where are you going?”

“Out. This is not safe. The power is on. I'd bet that if we touch something we will be blown up to pieces. If the road was filled with land-mines, the house also,” Ratko said.

“Get the boys out,” Goran ordered. “I'm staying.”

“This is nonsense,” Milan protested.

“We need the information. You two, get out,” Goran once more ordered and he passed through both men with the firm intention of checking the basement by himself, but Ratko caught him by the arm.

“Don't be an idiot, brother. Dead you're useless,” he said. “Let's look from the outside. There are windows and those are easier to inspect if there's a trap.”

Goran looked at him with a mix of rage and frustration, knowing that his friend was right. “Did you see anything from Guntram downstairs?”

“Nothing. Only a prisoner's body. Maybe Larsen's,” Milan told him. “Guntram was never there. We also found something like a small infirmary with cardiac equipment inside. Repin must have had a doctor or a nurse around.” He added with an even voice, gently pulling from Goran's arm.

“I'll get the pups out before they break something,” Ratko said.

* * *

The large master bedroom still had a painting hanging from its walls when Mirko and Fedérico entered the modernly decorated room. “So here lived the fucker,” sneered Fedérico as he walked toward the empty closets. “Nothing in here.”

“This door connects with another bedroom,” Mirko observed. “Look, there's a laptop under the desk!” he shouted and ran toward it without thinking.

Fedérico ran after him and jumped over Mirko, pushing him with so much force that Mirko lost his balance and fell to the ground, Fedérico landed on top of him to pin him down with his own weight.

“Are you nuts?” Mirko yelled fighting to get free of the man's body.

“Are you stupid? That thing is a booby-trap! Touch it and boom!” he shouted back. “Look very carefully and you'll see the fishing line thread that comes from under the laptop and goes right to that cabinet.”

Mirko looked at him in disbelief but his eyes found in the dim light the thin thread, glistening under the rays of sun. He followed it to the mentioned cabinet and closed his eyes, knowing he had escaped by little to a certain death.

“Probably filled with nails,” he whispered, turning around, now that Fedérico had removed his body from his.

“I saved your ass,” Fedérico said, breathing very slowly as his eyes were glued to the dark eyes who had been taunting him for a long time. “Now I own your life.”

“Then I will have to save your life too, so both our lives will belong to each other,” Mirko answered very seriously. “It's a very good start,” he added quietly.

“The best,” Fedérico replied with a raspy voice, leaning himself over Mirko's head to finally kiss him.

“You two, stop what you're doing and follow me,” Ratko's voice came from the end of the corridor and both men quickly separated and jumped to their feet. “This place is loaded with explosives,” Ratko said when he entered in the big bedroom.

“You tell me,” Mirko said, feeling very uncomfortable under his cousin's piercing gaze. “I almost triggered one,” he confessed violently blushing without knowing the reason. “Fedérico saved my life.”

“I'm kicking your ass tonight for being such an idiot,” Ratko growled in Serb. “Well, you're officially one of us now, Argentinean. I hope you know where you're getting in.”

The three men left the bedroom and walked on their tiptoes through the shining corridor. “Don't touch anything and walk behind me,” Ratko warned them with a stern voice. “This place must be more dangerous than an Egyptian tomb.”

The sigh of relief was clearly audible once they passed through the front door and joined Goran and Milan, standing some twenty metres away from the house.

“What do we do now?”

“We check the basement windows. Maybe there's something,” a defeated Goran decided.

“Guntram was here,” Fedérico said. “We have one of his sketch pads.” He got out of his shirt the medium size folder and gave it to Goran. “This must be his. Maybe someone could establish a date from the things he draw. He was always very accurate and with an obsession for details. There are flowers and birds. Perhaps a zoologist could help.”

“That's really thin, Fedérico,” Ratko said tiredly. “You two stay here as we inspect the house surroundings.”

* * *

The search of the area showed nothing unusual except for the large amounts of used caps and scorched patches in the jungle. Milan called his comrades when he found a strange looking brown structure made or solid concrete with a metal door controlled with an electronic keyboard. The small “hut” was almost hidden in the dense forest, partially covered with plants and it had no windows, like a tools shed.

The men gathered around Milan and looked at the puzzling cube. “It's too small and tall to be a bunker's entrance,” considered Ratko after taking a critical look at it. “But no one would keep the weapons so far away from the house.”

“Do we open this?” Milan asked. “It looks safe,” he said after a careful examination of the door.

“Never through the door. That's tempting fate,” Goran answered. “Get the camera and make a hole in the tin.”

Ratko got a small video camera out of his backpack and with his knife made a small puncture in one of the sides wide enough only to pass the small lens.

“It's completely dark inside. I can't get any clear images,” he said. “I'll try with the night vision.”

The small screen showed green images of several protective suits, knee high rubber boots, masks and helmets placed around a hatch built in the middle of the room. “What the hell is that?” Fedérico asked.

“I don't know, but it doesn't look good,” Milan answered.

“Should we open it?” Mirko inquired.

Goran took his time before he answered, slowly evaluating his chances. “I'll do it. All of you go away.”

“No.” Milan pushed him away from the door's locks. “You're our leader and we need you more than I. You know the rules, Goran.”

“Milan...” he scolded the man but he had already gotten his picklock and was working on the bolt with practised ease. “Fine,” he growled but the look dangling from his friend's eyes forced him to take several steps backwards.

The door opened and the men looked incredulously at the line of yellow protective suits hanging from one side of the shed and the crystal shelf containing the gory masks and several boxes of gloves of different bulk. Carefully organised, there were a set of portable oxygen bottles, as the centre of the room was occupied by a hatch protected with a thick plastic dome cover.

“Do we remove it?” Ratko asked with real concern lacing his voice. “Repin was a chemist after all and chemical or biological weapons scare me like shit.”

“There's a reason for having all these things here,” Fedérico considered. “What the hell means HF? He asked when he saw a small orange sticker bearing a skull and the word “warning” glued next to what seemed to be a procedure list written in Russian.

“Hydroflouric Acid, I guess,” Milan answered with a wrinkled nose after he read the description. “People don't want to work any longer.”

“What?” the young one asked very disoriented.

“Dump a body in and there's nothing left in less than twelve hours. It corrodes glass. Be very careful, it can burn your lungs if you smell it. It's very difficult to obtain unless you work in the petrochemical industry where it's used as a catalyst. There was a rumour that Repin used it when he wanted to get rid of the evidence,” Goran explained Mirko quietly. “Obviously, there was a battle considering the large amount of used ammunition we found, but we will never know who was the winner or the loser.”

“We know who won; Repin,” Fedérico smirked. “The attackers had no way to know this was here. It's very well hidden, but Mexican Cartels also use this method to dispose bodies.”

“No, Mexican gangsters have no way to get this substance and much less know how to store or manipulate it. It's very volatile and if you look carefully, the lid is made of teflon and lead and the thing is well protected from sunlight, away from the house and there's protective clothing to manipulate it,” Goran said. “Repin really studied hard at the University. Let's get the hell out of here. It's not good to stay for long here. We don't know if this is still properly isolated without maintenance.”

* * *

Once the men walked to another clear in the jungle and checked that it was a safe place to be, they sat forming a circle, as they left their gears on the side.

“What do we do now?” Fedérico asked, feeling utterly defeated.

“Return to the town, I guess,” Ratko answered him.

“After that.”

“I have no idea,” Goran admitted slowly. “We will search the house once more, but I doubt we will ever find something useful. Once more Repin is laughing at our face. We are exactly as the first day, with more information but clueless as always.”

“Not clueless,” Fedérico retorted heatedly. “We know the name of the last buyer of these lands!”

“It must be fake most probably.”

“No, it wasn't. I checked this Estévez Prieto and his family had links to the Medellín people back in the eighties. We should look there.”

“That information is ten years old!” Milan whined. “Good for writing a book but for nothing else. Everything changed in the meantime. Medellín people are out since long time ago. You should know it.”

“What if this guy is someone related to the old gangster? What if the son wants to rebuild his power and got money out of Repin? We should try it and your friends could help,” Fedérico insisted, slightly rising his tone.

“It's a very long shot, Fedérico,” Ratko refused with a tired voice.

“It's the best we have so far,” he replied heatedly, standing to face the older Serb. “Do you want to give up now?” he challenged with bravado and the man immediately stood up to face him as Mirko sided with Fedérico and Milan with Ratko.

“Enough!” Goran bellowed. “This is just stupid! You're worst than children!” All the men looked at him surprised that he had lost his nerves for the second time in the day. They watched how Goran made a titanic effort to control himself once more before he spoke again. “We go back to Asunción now and from there we gather intelligence on this Estévez Prieto. If what we find is good enough, then we go after him or his people. These mad runs are over. Is that clear?”