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He nailed that Chilean inquisition, but for the entire 48 hours was like a kid on a ghost train: sitting on the edge of his seat waiting for the next ghost to lurch out of the shadows. Unlike Marco, he didn't have insouciant confidence, though he was good at masking his terror with a macho nonchalance.

Simple things, that on a non-drug run flight would mean nothing, turned into heart-palpitating moments. Like discovering his bag was checked only as far as Kuala Lumpur, where he'd have to collect and re-check it. If he got busted there, his fate would be mandatory hanging. A voice in his head was now screaming, 'Abort, abort, abort.' By the time his plane hit the tarmac in Argentina, transiting in Buenos Aires, he'd calmed down, and despite possibly creating suspicion, he requested his bag be re-ticketed all the way to Bali. 'No problem, sir,' the girl breezily replied, but a ghost sprang out of the shadows when she radioed to have his bag brought up. She placed it on the counter, right in front of him. 'Is this your bag, sir?'

He took a breath. 'Yeah, that's my luggage.'

I was looking pretty calm, but inside I was shaking. She ripped the sticker off and put a new tag on it to send it all the way to Denpasar. I was like, 'Oh, wow' ... relief.

But not for long. While standing in line to re-board, his name suddenly blasted out of loudspeakers across the airport; they were calling him to the airline desk. He froze, every muscle rigid, his chest squeezing tight. They'd found the blow. He had to run, but where? He was thinking fast. He frantically looked around for an escape. Maybe the toilet window? No, he was on the second floor, and even if he made the jump, he'd never escape the airport fences. He was stuck, plunged into a nightmare where he was being chased but couldn't run.

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