questions. But now there have been some new developments in Caracas which you, as a trained CIA officer—”
“I am a freelance journalist, and I wanted to do a story on you—”
“All right. That’s a good legend. And your story at Tomás de Heres Airport that you were trying to find me to tell me my father was dying is also good. People respond to that. And I might have even believed you were a journalist, except that you were carrying my Army photograph. Which you could only have gotten from the Department of Defense.”
“That photograph is available—”
“And it was altered to erase the uniform. Why?”
Haggerty did not reply.
“The real question is, how did you know I was in Venezuela?”
Haggerty took a deep breath and replied, “I told you… I was already here doing a story on the food shortages and riots in Caracas, had some contacts in the National Guard, and there were rumors going around about an American soldier—”
“So you said. But your story doesn’t explain how you knew that I flew in and out of Tomás de Heres.”
“I acted on a hunch.”
“You’re a hell of a journalist, Ted. Or the CIA has paid informants in SEBIN, or in the Venezuelan military.”
“I got a lead on your whereabouts from a private pilot at Francisco de Miranda Airport…”
“And SEBIN got a lead on you because you asked too many questions about me to the wrong person at Tomás de Heres. And SEBIN IDed you as possible CIA. Are they lying to me? Or are you lying to me?”
“They are incompetent, paranoid, and stupid. I am a journalist—”
“That’s your story and you’re trained to stick to it. Okay. Let’s try a different approach. I’m not fond of torture, but I have a dozen men here who are. One guy, Mercado, likes to cut people’s tendons with a razor until they can’t move a muscle. Emilio out there has a pair of pliers he uses to extract teeth and fingernails. But the best one I’ve ever seen is locking a guy in a bamboo cage filled with monkeys. Sounds funny, but you can’t imagine what those hungry monkeys could do to you in an hour.” Mercer looked at Ted Haggerty, who, he guessed, was trying not to imagine any of those things. Mercer said, “Do you want to talk to me? Or should I call Emilio in?”
Haggerty did not reply, but Mercer sensed he was ready.
“Okay, let’s begin. If your answers are truthful, I promise you no torture. If your answers are useful, I promise you your freedom.”
Haggerty looked at Mercer.
Mercer assured him, “Someone has to die, Ted. But it doesn’t have to be you.” He added, “You know who has to die.”
Haggerty had no response.
“Okay. Are you a journalist?”
Haggerty shook his head.
“Good. CIA?”
Haggerty nodded.
“How did the CIA know I was in Venezuela?”
“You know.”
Mercer nodded. It didn’t take much Intel training to figure out that it was Captain Mercer who had tortured and killed Robert Crenshaw in Peshawar, and that what Captain Mercer wanted from Crenshaw was the location of Brendan Worley. And it didn’t take too much psychological profiling to figure out that Kyle Mercer would follow Brendan Worley to the ends of the earth to exact revenge. Mercer asked, “How did you know I flew out of Tomás de Heres?”
“I… started with the assumption that you were traveling with a false passport…”
“Good assumption, Ted, since the only thing I carried out of that Taliban prison was the rotting clothes on my back.” He snapped, “Continue.”
Haggerty continued, “I also assumed you wouldn’t try to fly into Venezuela by way of Simón Bolívar… so that led me to assume you somehow chartered a private plane and arrived in Venezuela via Francisco de Miranda Airport.”
“Correct. Which is not an official port of entry, and where no questions are asked on arrival or departure.” He looked at Haggerty. “Good work. Not inspired, but good. So as you were poking around Francisco de Miranda Airport, flashing my photograph and some cash, asking if anyone remembered this yanqui arriving there from overseas, you also discovered that this gringo had actually been flying in and out of Francisco on private charters to and from Tomás de Heres.”
Haggerty nodded.
“You got lucky.”
Haggerty actually seemed to take offense at this and replied, “Not luck. I knew who to ask… the military people at Francisco de Miranda. They sold you out for twenty bucks.”
Mercer nodded. His unholy alliance with the military was necessary, but it was also a security risk. American