possible actions of others. No officer—let alone one in Delta Force—who was a fugitive from military justice would sit at that bar with an entire room full of people at his back.
Brodie’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked it and saw a text from Dombroski: Meet me at the O Club in 15. Alone.
The Officers’ Club at Quantico was Colonel Dombroski’s preferred venue for conducting business. It was also his favorite place to drink. These two activities often occurred at the same time.
Brodie got up from his desk. “I need to take care of some personal business; then we’ll pay Mr. Simpson another visit. Get us the last flight out of Newark tonight, and adjoining rooms at the Marriott.”
Taylor clicked on something, furrowed her brow. “Looks like gunmen shot up the Marriott lobby two days ago. How about the El Dorado?”
“When’s the scheduled shoot-out there?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“Do the best you can.”
Brodie left the office.
CHAPTER 6
The Officers’ Club at Quantico was a nice enough place. Large windows admitted the morning sun, and it had an elegant bar with high-backed stools and a couple dozen tables with comfortable chairs. Mounted above the bar were plaques for military units stationed at Quantico as well as an old wooden propeller that maybe came off the plane of the guy who shot down the Red Baron.
Brodie and Dombroski sat at the mostly empty bar. Since it was just past ten, they showed restraint and ordered pilsners.
Dombroski looked around. “This place looks like a goddamn Applebee’s.”
Brodie had heard this complaint before from his superior, and he hoped it wasn’t a warm-up to another lengthy diatribe about the changing culture of the military. The O Clubs where Dombroski had caroused and drunk to excess in his misspent youth had been housed in grand buildings containing ballrooms and dining rooms staffed by uniformed stewards. The reason for the decline in these magnificent old facilities was partly economic and partly social. The Army was trying to “deglamorize” alcohol, and didn’t want the liability of an officer leaving a club and plowing into a family in a station wagon. But Brodie had seen Dombroski drive, and a couple of beers could only improve his performance.
Dombroski raised his glass to Brodie. “I stopped believing in luck or God, so I’ll just say watch your ass and come home safe. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
They drank.
Dombroski said, “I’m in touch with a Defense Intelligence guy who’s posted at our embassy in Caracas, Colonel Brendan Worley. He’ll be your logistical support on the ground. He’s an Army attaché, been in country a few years so he knows the place well. He’s aware of the broad details of your mission, that you’re there to track down and apprehend Captain Mercer. You can share additional details with him as necessary, on a need-to-know basis. He’ll meet you in your hotel lobby when you check in, and he’ll give you your kit.”
Brodie nodded. He was glad to hear they’d have some support on the ground. And some tools of the trade they’d never be able to get past Caracas airport security.
Dombroski added, “He’ll also supply you with paper currency. It’s hard to bring in cash without getting a shakedown at the airport, and your plastic will be no good there. He’s sending a car and driver to meet you and take you to your hotel.”
“We’ll take a taxi. Less conspicuous.”
Dombroski shrugged. “That’s what I thought too. He said you’ll stick out just by virtue of being Americans these days. His driver knows the ropes, he’ll be armed and make sure you don’t get robbed or kidnapped on the way to the hotel.”
“I feel safer already,” said Brodie. “What about getting Mercer out?”
“Colonel Worley will be able to help with those arrangements too.”
Taylor was booking them round-trip tickets for the sake of appearances, but once Mercer was in custody their flight home would be via private charter. Brodie wasn’t too worried about this part of the mission. Over the decades, America’s intelligence agencies had gained a lot of relevant experience in how to sneak people in and out of Latin America.
Dombroski pulled an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Brodie. “Your tourist travel visas. They’re legit, with your real names and to be used to travel under your regular civilian passports, so if they are entered into a central database at Caracas passport control you’ll be fine. Normally takes months to get these and you have to send in your passport book, but it looks