Newly ensconced in the comandante’s office at the ancient Inca fortress, Smith looked at his new headquarters. The lacy white curtains on the barred windows did a nice job of softening Bellanova’s stark stone walls.
He had changed out of his bark-stained uniform into a crisp khaki with officer’s insignia and a big red star on the cap. Yaquita had found the clothes in a closet, and she said he looked very dashing in them. To Smith, it felt good to be in a formal uniform again … even if it was the wrong uniform.
He thumped his feet on the desk and poured himself a drink of rum; Yaquita had given him a fresh bottle, and he had grown to find it tolerable after all. In fact, it was far safer to drink the rum than the local water. Pedrito Miraflores must have done some things right. Smith held
