a river, and all have a view of the tepui.” She added, “There’s no way we can know which, if any, of these villages your witness landed in.”
Maybe he should have gotten Carmen’s cell phone number.
“Unless,” said Taylor, “you thought to get a description of the village.”
She was obviously reminding him that he had not asked Simpson for a description of the barrio houses around the brothel. Well, Scott Brodie never made the same mistake twice, and he told her, “Actually, I did ask.”
“And?”
“Let’s take a look.” Brodie ran a search on the tablet for shots of Canaima, and saw that it was a substantial town of stone and white stucco buildings with a church, which was not what Carmen had described. He then pulled up shots of Uruyén and Kavak, which looked similar to each other—thatched huts in open grassland with the massive tepui in the background. The two villages were only a few miles apart, but there was a difference in the color of the huts—those in Uruyén appeared to be painted a deep umber, and the huts in Kavak were a mustard yellow. Carmen had said yellow.
“Brodie?”
“Well… I’ll bet Carmen could tell us.”
“I thought you asked her.”
“I did… You know, standard operating procedure is to take the witness to the scene—”
“Are you serious?”
No. Horny.
“What did she say to you?”
“Yellow. Yellow huts.”
Taylor looked at the photos on the tablet. “That’s Kavak.” She asked, “Are you sure?”
“She was sure.”
“All right… So Kavak fits all the parameters. Airstrip, view of the tepui, yellow huts, and on a small river. She took a boat upriver. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Did Luis hear all this?”
“He did.”
“Should we call him?”
“I’m sure he wasn’t paying attention.”
“Were you?”
“I resent the implications of that question.” He added, “Let me remind you that you’re addressing a superior officer.”
She started to reply, then said, “I apologize.”
“Accepted.” Brodie took a swig of his drink. “Kavak. Doesn’t sound Spanish. Sounds Polish.”
“It’s an indigenous name.”
“Carmen said there were Indians down there.”
“We say ‘indigenous people.’ ”
“Right.” Brodie thought about his hippie mother, who’d populated a whole room of their farmhouse with questionable “indigenous art” she picked up from local thrift shops. She’d probably owned more Native American buckskin dresses than any other white lady in the tristate area, back when Native Americans were still Indians and no one had yet coined the term “cultural appropriation.”
“I need a drink.” He stood and went to the bar.
As he was pouring another rum, Taylor asked, “Did you check your room messages?”
“I did not.”
“Well, I checked mine. Brendan Worley wants you to call him.”
“Can I freshen your drink?”
“No. And I also have a voice mail and text message from him.”
“Persistent little shit, isn’t he?”
“I’m sure he also called your cell.”
“It’s off.”
“You want me to call him?”
“I told him I’d call him after I speak to Dombroski. Brendan doesn’t listen well.”
“He may come to the hotel.”
“We are not accepting visitors.” Brodie picked up the phone on the bar, dialed the front desk, and told them that he and Ms. Taylor were not in for visitors or phone calls. He added, “We’re indisposed,” hinting that they were in the sack.
When he hung up, Taylor reminded Brodie, “We may need Worley later.”
“At this point, the only thing he will help us with is leaving the country.”
“He has to offer assistance if we ask.”
“We’re not asking. And you can be sure he’s been on the phone with Dombroski or someone higher up, making the case that you and I have become a danger to ourselves and others, and that we need to exit quickly for our own safety and for the good of the mission, and so forth.”
Taylor thought about that and asked, “Do you think we’ll get pulled?”
Brodie brought his drink back to the couch, sat, and stared at the map.
“Scott?”
“It’s a possibility.”
She nodded. “Maybe Worley is right. Maybe after what you… what just happened, we have become a liability.”
“Maybe. And that’s why we need to become an invaluable asset. We have information no one else has, and we need to leverage that.”
“All right. But you need to assure me that if we go down to this jungle”—she tapped the map—“we’re only doing it to verify your witness’ story. We’re not looking to apprehend Kyle Mercer. We are gathering information and evidence about this camp, and we will turn our findings over to Colonel Dombroski, who will take appropriate action.”
“Right.”
“Can I have a more affirmative response?”
“Right you are.” He took a swig of rum. “Okay, so Carmen spent the night in this village that