THE SETUP   Outskirts of Rocinha, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil   IN THE STEAMING LUSHNESS OF THE JUNGLE, DRUG smugglers’ airstrips appear like vampires between midnight and dawn, then dissolve in gunfire or the rush of monsoons. This particular criminal enterprise was less like a runway, and more like a shaving scar. It was six hundred feet of flat umber earth, plowed and leveled by sweating cartel slaves after they’d hacked down kapok trees and hauled them aside. It broiled in the morning sun, silent except for the slithers of snakes and the howls of macaws. The only other things there were the carcass of an old Huey helicopter, the abandoned hut of a murdered cocaine boss, and a camouflage net laced with cocoa leaves that looked like mush from the sky. There was previously a fresh bomb crater in the middle of the strip, made by a Brazilian Tucano strike fighter, but it had just been repaired. The CIA had asked the Brazilian air force to please not bomb it again. At least for today. Twelve hard-looking men were standing under the net, sur- rounding three brown Land Rover Defenders parked nose to nose. They were the Package, operators…