general who visited Kyle Mercer in the Hen House.”
“All right… let’s see what we get on him.” Taylor began typing on her tablet while Brodie went to the bar.
Taylor called out to him, “You’re on duty, Mr. Brodie.”
“You’re on duty. I’m celebrating.”
“You need to call Dombroski.”
“Right. I’ll make it a double.” He poured one mini bottle of rum into his glass, added the local high-test cola, and took a seat on the couch opposite Taylor.
She glanced up from her tablet. “I found a General Ricardo Gomez. Did you get his first name?”
“No.”
“Well… how many General Gomezes can there be in the Venezuelan Army?”
“Probably twenty, and they’re all related. What does it say?”
“Not much—just his CV. Born in Caracas, fifty-six years old…”
“Photo? For Carmen to ID?”
“No. And you’ll never see Carmen again, Brodie.”
“Right. Okay, political affiliation? Chavista?”
“Doesn’t say… but here’s something: He took a junior officer leadership course at Fort Benning… back in 1986… looks like we trained this guy.”
“Interesting.” The American Army trained a lot of foreign officers at Benning, Carlisle Barracks, and other installations, at U.S. taxpayer expense. The concept was sound: to instill in these officers—most of whom were from underdeveloped allied countries—U.S. Army discipline, values, and leadership skills, which they could take home and hopefully remember. Also hopefully, these officers would be grateful and think kindly of America and the U.S. Army, and they’d somehow show their gratitude if and when America needed the help of their pisspot military for something. And maybe one of these guys would become El Presidente. It sort of worked, now and then. But often it didn’t—especially when the country whose officers were being trained went from ally to enemy, as Venezuela had. Then the U.S. Army had created little Frankenstein monsters that could be a problem in a future conflict. Unless, of course, these American-trained officers still harbored a secret affection for the United States.
So, who and what was General Gomez? A gringo-loving, anti-regime plotter? Or just another Venezuelan general whose loyalty was bought and paid for by the regime? And what did this general have to do with Kyle Mercer? That was the question. He asked Taylor, “Anything else?”
“Not much. You can read it yourself.” She handed the tablet to him.
Brodie glanced at the short bio. As with most public figures in troubled countries, there wasn’t much info online—no home address where he could be found and assassinated, no mention of a wife or children who could be kidnapped. Brodie said, “No mention of the Hen House.” He handed the tablet back to Taylor.
“I’m sure military Intel has good info on him.” She suggested, “We’ll ask Dombroski to run a search on him.”
Brodie didn’t reply.
She looked at him. “Is this something else you’re going to keep from our superior officer?”
“Maybe.”
“Scott—”
“When you ask questions, you alert people that you know something. And maybe this is something we are not supposed to know.”
“Scott… look at me.”
“That’s easy.”
“You’re becoming increasingly paranoid. You know that. Right?”
“You never told me your name was Magnolia.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“But it shows that you keep secrets from your superior officer.”
“Call Dombroski. On speakerphone.”
“Okay…” He pulled out his cell phone and turned it on. As he waited for service, he said to her, “We’ll see if Dombroski and Worley have spoken, and if Worley has convinced our boss to call us home.”
She didn’t reply.
“The thing about information is that you have to guard it carefully when you’re in the field, because if you share it with people and it somehow falls into the wrong hands, it can get you killed.”
Taylor nodded, but Brodie wasn’t sure if she was agreeing with him or just humoring the paranoid schizophrenic she’d found herself working with.
He added, “You can appreciate that after your tour of duty in Afghanistan.”
Again she nodded, then said, “I understand.” She suggested, “Sit next to me so we can both talk to Dombroski.”
Brodie stood, sat next to her on the couch, accessed Signal, and dialed, except for the last digit. He said, “You have my permission to say what you want. But protect your sources. And protect yourself. Assume everyone talks too much. Also, we don’t know what Dombroski tells Worley, or vice versa. I will tell Dombroski about Mercer’s possible whereabouts, but we will not mention the name of Kavak. That’s our secret. Know what you need to redact, and what you need to report. Okay?”
She nodded.
He hit the last number, and the phone rang as he put it on the coffee table and turned it on speaker. He said