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point of submachine guns the rest of us were taken off the train for interrogation. A gringo escorted by a suspicious-looking little band, well equipped for mountain survival, claiming to be looking for a friend lost years ago in Bolivia! They weren't buying that. But I guess the calls they made to the contacts I gave them convinced them of my story, since they let us go and even provided a letter of introduction to the mayor of Azángaro, near our destination.

We reached Azángaro and found the station all but deserted. Once a prosperous city, Azángaro had been largely abandoned. Suspicion clouded the faces of those who remained. We couldn't help but laugh at the derelict municipal palace, where we went to present our letter and seek the mayor's assistance. No guards, no staff, an empty antechamber leading to a short, echoing hallway. We knocked and opened the door of the mayor's office, and the man lost not a second jumping out the window at the sight of us. The night before, three officials had been murdered in Asilio, less than fifty miles away. So much for assistance.

We couldn't find a driver who would carry us to our destination but caught a bus that still made the run partway. José didn't know the region, but he knew mountains. The second day we reached the point marked on our map. Its pastoral tranquillity belied the terror of the Azángaro locals. Marcus could have lived there, but he never had. No one recognised the man in the photo that