blame it on the Americans—and in this case, they’d be right.
Brodie asked the driver, “You been to this airport before?”
“Sí. Sometimes I drive important people. Sometimes turistas. They fly on the private planes.”
“Where do they fly to?”
Gabriel shrugged. “Not my business.” He added, however, “Turistas to the south. Beautiful country.” He also revealed, “The rich, they go someplace, never return.”
“Long vacation.”
Gabriel laughed. “Sí, very long.”
Taylor asked, “Have you driven any Americans to this airport?”
“No.” He asked, “Who you meet here?”
Brodie replied, “Another fisherman.”
Gabriel did not respond.
Gabriel took the first exit and doubled back along a service road to the airport’s entrance, which was marked by an illuminated sign that identified it as a military airport, though Brodie understood it was used by anyone who could help pay for the upkeep.
And in keeping with the banana republic theme, there was a dilapidated shed at the entrance where an armed guard sat half-asleep in a plastic chair. The guard stood and ambled over to the taxi.
Gabriel and the young man exchanged a few words, and Gabriel lowered the rear passenger window so the guard could get a look at his passengers. The guard said something, and Gabriel translated: “He requires a parking fee. Five million bolívars, or one dollar.” He added, “I tell him we don’t park, so then he say it is an entrance fee.” Gabriel laughed. “Gringo tax. You pay him, por favor.”
Brodie thought a dollar sounded reasonable, considering the guard didn’t ask for their IDs or inquire about Gabriel’s pistol on the passenger seat. He would actually have given him two if he’d just admitted it was a shakedown. Brodie gave him a dollar and rolled up his window, and Gabriel drove off.
Brodie inquired, “How much to get out of here?”
“Three dollar.” Gabriel laughed again.
Well, at least they could laugh about it. What else could you do?
They continued along a flooded and potholed airport road and Brodie said, “Hangar One,” wondering if there was a Hangar Two.
“Sí.”
A military vehicle passed them going the opposite direction, and up ahead on the grass Brodie could see two military helicopters that looked to be Russian-made. Farther away, on the tarmac, he saw two jet fighters that looked like Russian MiGs. This seemed to be the extent of the Venezuelan Air Force here, and he suspected that the choppers and the MiGs were grounded for parts, service, or fuel. This military airport had become a no-questions-asked port of embarkation for the rich and nervous, and probably for drug runners and others who would prefer no record of their air travel. Like Kyle Mercer.
Gabriel turned toward a row of three hangars and headed to the one on the left, marked number one by a badly lit sign above the open doors. As they got closer, the taxi’s headlights picked out a tall man standing beside a single-engine high-wing aircraft, smoking a cigarette or cigar which, in the States, was not allowed on the flight line. If this was their pilot, he was a rule-breaker, maybe a risk-taker.
Gabriel slowed as they approached the aircraft, and the man motioned them forward, then held up his hand, and Gabriel stopped. “This is your amigo?”
“Looks like him.” He said to Taylor, “Wait here. I’ll check this out.”
He got out of the SUV, and as he walked toward the tall man he saw by the taxi headlights that he was a broad-shouldered guy of about forty with a ruddy complexion and close-cropped brown hair. He wore an open-collared white short-sleeved shirt with striped epaulettes, and black slacks. To offset the Apex-required uniform, he wore flip-flops, which Brodie always associated with jerk-offs.
The man stomped out his cigarette and extended his hand, and Brodie took it, receiving a firm handshake. “Captain John F. Collins.”
“Clark T. Bowman.”
Captain Collins glanced at the idling taxi. “Your wife coming?”
“She’s petrified of flying in small planes.”
“Me too.”
Brodie smiled. He liked Captain Collins. “I’ll let her know.” He said to Collins, “If I asked you to take us to someplace else, like Curaçao or Aruba, for instance, is that a problem?”
Collins replied without much thought, “Not really. Apex has your credit card, and if you have your passports, I can file another flight plan.” He added, “This is not an official port of entry or exit—no customs or immigration—and the jokers here don’t care where you go if you give them a few bucks.”
“Okay…” Well, he felt he should give Taylor that option. He walked back to the taxi and motioned Taylor to get out, which she