oppressive humidity behind. The deserted roundabout was under a foot of water and the air smelled as though the sewers had overflowed. More importantly, the police and SEBIN might be closing in on them. Or Worley’s people might be lying in wait. “I won’t miss this place.”
“You will when we’re in the jungle.”
“Thanks.”
The doorman noticed them and hurried over. “Taxi?”
“I think we need a boat.”
The doorman smiled. “Sí. Big pour-down.”
“Right. We’ve ordered a taxi.”
“Sí, señor. He waits your coming.” The doorman blew his whistle and signaled to a black Honda SUV, which moved slowly toward them, leaving a wake of water behind.
The doorman looked at them curiously and asked, “Do you go where?”
Taylor replied, “The Marina Grande Yacht Club.” She added, “Fishing.”
“Ah, good fishing.”
Brodie said to her, “It’s always good to create a few witnesses to your bullshit.”
She had no reply.
The SUV, a Teletaxi, stopped at the curb, and Brodie gave the doorman a dollar as Taylor climbed in and slid over so he wouldn’t have to walk through the water.
The doorman called out to the driver, “Los Marina Grande.” He said to his guests, “Have a good fish,” and closed the door.
Brodie said, “That guy should come with subtitles.”
“Relax.”
They exchanged greetings with the driver, who introduced himself as Gabriel, and who seemed to speak better English than the doorman.
As they passed through the security gates and onto the street, Gabriel asked, “Why you go Marina Grande?”
Why is everyone so fucking nosy? “Fishing,” said Brodie. “But first we have to pick someone up at Francisco de Miranda Airport.”
Gabriel nodded.
Taylor said to Brodie, “You’re the expert at impromptu bullshit.”
“I’ve had a lot of experience.”
They drove through the dark, flooded streets, and Brodie glanced out the back window a few times.
Gabriel noticed and said, “We okay. Nobody bother Gabriel.” He raised his right hand, which held what looked to Brodie like an old U.S. Army Colt .45.
Brodie said to him, “If this was Uber, I’d give you five stars.”
“Señor?”
Taylor said, “My husband will give you a big tip.”
“Gracias.”
They got onto the Francisco Fajardo Highway and Gabriel gassed it.
Brodie tried to imagine living in a city where you were equally likely to get robbed by the police or by the criminals, or even by your pistol-packing taxi driver. On the other hand, if everyone had a gun—including the potential victims—it could get funny: a Venezuelan standoff with everyone waving pistols at one another, demanding money. He said to Taylor, “The jungle is probably safer.”
“Get back to me on that tonight.”
Brodie took the satellite phone out of the CVS bag, and Taylor said, “Scott, you can’t call… the boss here.” She nodded toward the driver. “And it won’t work inside the taxi.”
“Right.”
“He wants us to call him from the airport.”
“Right.” Brodie removed the battery from the back of the phone, then took out the SIM card that was underneath it.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m making sure the wild Worley bird can’t track us.”
She didn’t reply, but nodded.
Brodie put the battery and SIM card in his pocket, and the sat phone back in the overnight bag. He then took out his smartphone and used the toothpick from his Swiss Army knife to pop out his own SIM. If Worley was motivated enough, he had both the authority and the capability to use their cell phone numbers to track them.
Taylor seemed to get this and reached out for the toothpick, then did the same with her phone.
At some point, deep in the jungle, they might need the satellite phone—to call Dombroski, or even Worley if they needed to arrange an extraction. But in the meantime, they had gone electronically silent—off the grid and under the radar, location unknown. Worley would have a shit fit when the commo people at the embassy reported the lost signal. Two shit fits, actually, when the briefcase was delivered to him. Well, Worley deserved it for trying to get Dombroski to pull them off the case. The man was up to something, and it might be just the usual—a turf war, coupled with diplomatic worries about the Hen House incident. But there was growing evidence that Brendan Worley had his own agenda. Brodie hoped that Dombroski had a good colonel-to-colonel talk with Worley. Meanwhile neither of them needed to know where he and Taylor were.
They drove in silence, and Brodie saw the lit-up airport on their right, reminding him of their ride to Petare. If the news did report the whorehouse shoot-out and the body count, they’d toe the party line and