was on the coffee table, and she said, “I emptied the safe. Cash, ID, Glock, mags, Taser, zip ties, and sat phone. I also took the map, and I downloaded a bird-watcher guide onto my tablet.”
He wondered if she’d also made a pair of binoculars out of toilet paper rolls.
He walked to the bar, opened two bottles of orange juice, and handed one to her.
They sipped the OJ in silence; then she said, “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for what? For lying to him about her knowledge of the Flagstaff Program? Or for not giving in to his reasonable carnal desires?
“I’m sorry if I led you on.”
Brodie had that feeling that he’d gotten fucked without getting laid. “Okay. Drop it.”
But she didn’t. “Let’s get this assignment behind us, then… I’ll have you over for a nice dinner at my place.”
He’d never been invited to her apartment, and he hadn’t invited her to his—even when he had friends over for drinks. In fact, they’d kept their distance when off-duty, which was a bit odd considering how much time they spent together in the office and on assignment. Or maybe not so odd. Maybe it was smart.
“Scott?”
“No catfish, no rabbits, no possum, and no grits.”
She smiled. “Promise.” She asked, “Ready?”
“Did you leave anything behind that could be compromising?”
“Just my new bikini.” She said seriously, “I’ve shredded and flushed our photos of Kyle Mercer. We won’t need them where we’re going.”
“Right.” They were not going to be showing Mercer’s photo around Kavak, and they wouldn’t want to have it on them if they were stopped and searched somewhere along their travels. Maggie Taylor thought of everything. He hoped she hadn’t forgotten whatever contraception she used.
Brodie scanned the room for anything else and spotted the briefcase that Worley had given them, sitting on the desk. He opened it.
She assured him, “I checked it. It’s empty.”
“Worley wanted this left at the front desk.”
“I think he expected things to be in it.”
“Right.” Brodie retrieved a foil-wrapped condom from his overnight bag and threw it in the briefcase. “Do you think he’ll understand that means ‘fuck you’?”
“Don’t provoke him, Scott.”
“It’s lubricated.” He closed the briefcase and spun the combination wheels to lock it.
He saw that the TV was on, though it was muted. “Anything interesting on ‘Good Morning Venezuela’?”
“I was flipping through the news shows to see if there was anything about last night.”
He didn’t think that his failure to get laid last night was that newsworthy.
She said, “Nothing about the shooting in Petare.”
“Good.”
“How could that not make the news?”
“The Hen House is under the protection of the regime and the colectivos, and dead customers are bad for business.”
She nodded.
“But you can be sure Kyle Mercer knows about it.”
Again, she nodded. “I hope Carmen keeps her mouth shut about what she told you.”
“Me too.”
“All right… ready?”
Brodie took the briefcase and his overnight bag and Taylor grabbed her bag, then they exited the suite, checking that the No Molestar tags were hanging on all three doors. Brodie checked his watch: 2:25 A.M.
On the ride down, Brodie said, “Keep an eye out for Worley or his minions. Also, don’t forget we may be the subject of a police manhunt.”
She nodded.
“Where’s your Glock?”
She patted the pocket of her cargo pants.
“Follow my lead if we’re stopped by anyone.”
“Does that mean you have no plan?”
“I plan to be on that plane.”
The elevator doors opened and they stepped into the deserted lobby, checked it out, then walked quickly to the front desk.
Brodie put the briefcase on the counter and said to the clerk, “This is for Señor Brendan Worley, who will send someone from the American Embassy to pick it up.”
“Sí, señor.” He gave Brodie a piece of hotel stationery and a pen, and Brodie wrote Worley’s name and his own name and room number, then wrote, Foxtrot Uniform, which in the military phonetic alphabet was FU, which, if carefully decoded, meant “Fuck you.”
Taylor had no comment, but Brodie felt her eyes rolling. The clerk gave Brodie a receipt for the briefcase, and Taylor said to the clerk, “We should be back around seven tonight. Could you ask the concierge to make us a dinner reservation for eight P.M. at a restaurant of his choice?”
Brodie added, “We don’t eat rabbits.”
“Sí, señor… señora.”
Brodie gave him an American five and headed for the door with Taylor. He said to her, “We’re really good at this bullshit, aren’t we?”
“Speak for yourself. I have trouble being duplicitous.”
“Really?”
She didn’t reply.
They exited the hotel. The rain had stopped, but it left an