He said to his passengers, “And away we go,” and began racing down the concrete runway.
The Cessna lifted off into the black night.
Brodie looked out the window as the aircraft gained altitude, watching the dark city slowly shrink beneath them, a dense slash of human habitation in a narrow valley, its tendrils climbing into the surrounding hills. He hoped he never saw this city again—not even on the nightly news.
Taylor was looking out her window and Brodie asked her, “Can you see Curaçao?”
“I can see Simón Bolívar Airport. I hope Luis and his family are on a flight out of there.”
“Me too.” Maggie Taylor sometimes showed too much empathy. Not a bad trait, but sometimes it got in the way of the mission. Which always came first. Except, of course, when he, Scott Brodie, wanted to get laid. He wished she’d shown such concern for the happiness of others back in the hotel.
“What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking about Luis and his family in an American supermarket.”
“That’s nice.”
The Cessna banked right, heading south. In the moonlight Brodie could see the endless expanse of hills, fields, and forests below, blanketing the countryside. Venezuela—to know her is your destiny.
Taylor tilted her seat back, yawned, and closed her eyes.
They reached cruising altitude and Collins’ voice came over the PA: “You can unbuckle if you want, but I suggest you stay strapped in. There’s water, cola, and juice in a cooler behind your seats.” He added, “Should be a smooth flight, but there are barf bags in your side seat pockets. We’re bucking some headwinds, so we should be landing at Tomás de Heres in about an hour and fifteen, hour thirty.”
Brodie asked Taylor, “You want something to drink?”
“Only if there’s a baño onboard.”
Collins overheard and said, “I have pee-pee tubes under your seats. Male and female.” He added, “I won’t look.”
“An officer and a gentleman,” said Brodie. He asked, “Mind if I come into the cockpit?”
“Not at all.”
Brodie unbuckled and squeezed between the front seats and into the cockpit.
Collins’ flight bag was on the co-pilot seat, and he said, “You can stow that behind you.”
Brodie picked up the flight bag, which was open, and saw flight charts, a pair of boxer shorts, and what looked like a .357 Magnum revolver.
Collins glanced over and noticed. “Never leave home without it.”
“Right.” Especially if your home is in Caracas. As Brodie placed the bag behind the seat, he also noticed a pair of binoculars that Captain Collins was going to loan him, though Collins didn’t know that yet. As for the .357 Magnum, that would have to be dealt with when Brodie gave Collins a choice of incentives for an unscheduled flight to Bogotá—Glock or dollars.
Brodie sat in the co-pilot seat and buckled in. Collins said, “I’m told you folks are bird-watchers.”
Brodie thought Collins said that as though he didn’t believe it for some reason. The man, despite his flip-flops, was not stupid. “Correct.”
“Most people I fly to the jungle area are hikers. Like, naturalists and adventure travelers. Big-time into photography. I never flew bird-watchers before.”
“Lots of people don’t like to admit they’re bird-watchers.”
“Really?”
“People think we’re weird.”
“I don’t think that.”
“Good.”
Collins stayed quiet, then asked, “Are those bulges in your and your wife’s pockets cameras?”
Collins nodded. “Good that you have them. Bad country where you’re going.”
“Caracas was no treat either.”
“It’s got its charms, Mr. Bowman. You just have to give it a chance.”
Every shithole in the world had its defenders, Brodie thought. Usually white guys with enough money and privilege to avoid the unpleasantness endured by the locals. “You live in Caracas?”
“I was based in Rio, but I met a Venezuelan woman and moved here to be with her.”
“Must be some woman.”
Collins laughed. “She is.” He lowered his voice and said, man-to-man, “You’re doing okay yourself.”
“Thanks.”
“She okay? I got tranquilizers if you need them.”
“She’s fine.” Brodie asked, “Do you have an external satellite phone antenna?”
Collins glanced at him. “I do.” He pointed to a receptacle with a coiled cord on the instrument panel. “You need to make a call?”
“Maybe later. I assume you have a sat phone.”
“I do.” He added, “Sometimes better than the radio to keep in touch with the Company.”
“Right. And to keep in touch with your girlfriend.”
Collins laughed. “Yeah.”
Well, thought Brodie, it was good to know he had an alternative sat phone if he needed it. With luck, his first and last call to Colonel Dombroski would be: “Mission accomplished. Meet us in Bogotá.” And maybe a side call