
Finally, two members of the security squad, male and unarmored, came and marched him out of the cell without removing the loop, then took him to a small office at the other end of the security station. The camp director sat on one corner of a desk swinging his leg and watched as they cut Carl loose without ceremony. The solvent squirt left a couple of drops on his skin that scorched. It didn’t feel accidental.
“I’m very sorry about this,” the director said, in English and without visible remorse. He was pretty much the type, a tall, midforties white guy in designer casuals that approximated light trekking gear. His name, Carl knew from previous research, was Axel Bailey, but he didn’t offer it, or his hand.
“So am I.”
“Yes, clearly you’ve been detained unnecessarily. But if you had identified yourself before running around my camp playing at detective, we might have avoided a lot of unpleasantness.”
Carl said nothing, just rubbed at his hands and waited for the pain as his hands renewed their acquaintance with blood flow.
Bailey cleared his throat.
“Yes, well, we’ve confirmed that Rodriguez was in fact who you claim he was. Some kind of slipup in vetting there, it looks like. Anyway, your office wants you to contact them with a preliminary statement on the shooting, but since we won’t contest the jurisdiction, of course, there’ll be no need for more than that at this stage. However, I would like your assurance that you will file a full report with COLIN as soon as you get back to London, citing our cooperation. If that’s agreed, you’re free to go, and in fact we can assist you with transport out.”
Carl nodded. The first traceries of pain branched spikily out through the flesh of his fingers. “Got it. You want me gone before the press come looking for the story.”
Bailey’s mouth compressed to a thin line.
“I’m having you helicoptered directly to Arequipa,” he said evenly, “so you can get a connecting flight home. Think of it as a gesture of goodwill. Your gun and your license will be returned to you there.”
