The Coordinates
The coordinates pointed to a location in the Sierra Nevada that did not appear on any civilian map — a blank space in the cartography, surrounded by contour lines that suggested a valley but showed no features, no roads, no structures. Marco had seen blank spaces on maps before. In his experience, blank spaces meant one of two things: the area had never been surveyed, which was unlikely this close to a military installation, or the area had been surveyed and the results had been removed. The distinction mattered. One was an oversight. The other was a decision.
He drove north from Cartagena at dawn, taking the coastal highway and then the mountain roads that wound up into the Sierra like a snake climbing a tree. The transmitter in his car was tuned to 7.345 megahertz, and the signal grew stronger as he climbed — not gradually, as distance would predict, but in steps, as though the broadcast were being relayed through a series of repeaters hidden in the mountains. Rivas's voice filled the car, steady and mechanical, reading the same coordinates on a loop. The countdown had reached sixty-one hours.
He found the access road at the point where the civilian maps went blank. It was unpaved, overgrown, blocked by a gate that had rusted open years ago. The road led through dense forest for six kilometres before it opened into a clearing, and in the clearing was Estacion Aguila — not