man come out of another hut about fifty yards away. They stopped and watched him approach.
The man was short and dark-skinned, maybe a Pemón, with a mop of black hair.
He appeared to be in his mid-forties, but it was hard to tell. He wore cargo shorts, sandals, and a white T-shirt. More importantly, he didn’t seem to be armed, except for a clipboard. He waved to them.
Brodie said, “Beware of men carrying clipboards.”
“Better than you-know-what.”
Brodie walked toward the man and Taylor followed.
The man stopped under the shade of a flowering jacaranda tree, and motioned them to join him.
Brodie and Taylor stopped a few feet from the man, who was now partly obscured by shade. He smiled and said, “Bienvenidos.”
“Same to you,” said Brodie.
The man replied in English, “Welcome. I am César.”
“Then I’m Mark Antony,” said Brodie. “And this is Cleo.”
“I am pleased to meet you. I am Pemón chief tour guide.” He added, unnecessarily, “I see you plane land.”
“Right.” Brodie now noticed that César’s T-shirt sported the word “Leones”—lions—in faded blue script. Probably the local blowgun team.
César glanced at his clipboard, maybe looking for Mark Antony and Cleopatra. He asked, “You have reservation?”
This encounter had a surreal feel. “Reservation?” He said to Taylor, “I thought only Indians had reservations.”
“Scott—”
“Clark. No… Mark.”
Taylor said to César, “We are Sarah and Clark Bowman. We have no reservations. My husband and I just decided to come here.” She added, “We are bird-watchers.”
Brodie raised the binoculars hanging from his neck to reinforce that. “You got room at the inn?”
César looked at his unexpected visitors. “How long stay?”
“One night. Maybe two.”
“Tour group, German people, they come tomorrow.” He tapped his clipboard, and Brodie noticed that the sheet of paper had the heading Canaima Adventures.
“They come, you go.”
“Okay. We also need a room for our pilot.”
“Pilot stay here?”
Brodie glanced at the sky. “I hope so.”
“Yes, okay. Two room. Fifty dollar.”
“Each?”
“Sí.”
“I can get a Motel Six for that price.”
“Clark—”
“Call Trivago.”
Taylor said something to César in Spanish, and he seemed happy to speak to the lady in a more familiar language.
They chatted; then Taylor said to Brodie, “Meals are included.”
“Who’s for dinner?”
She continued, “There is a five-dollar entrance fee for the park.”
“What park?”
“This is a national park.”
“Right. Okay—”
“And he wants to see our travel permit.”
Brodie looked at César. “Travel permits are in our aircraft.”
“Yes? Okay. Pilot bring.”
“Right. Okay, let’s see our rooms.”
“Okay. You follow.”
The check-in completed under the tree, they carried their own bags and followed César, who led them toward an oval hut.
Taylor and Brodie exchanged glances. She said, “Seems okay.”
“Ask him if they have express checkout.”
“No more stupid jokes, please.”
“I told you, I get nervous in dangerous situations and say stupid things.”
“The stupid things you say make me nervous.” She mimicked him: “Who’s for dinner?” She added, “A-hole.”
“Sorry.”
As they walked, Brodie wondered how Kyle Mercer had wound up here. At first glance, Kavak was an odd choice of a way station if you were setting up a clandestine camp in the jungle. True, it was off the beaten path, but it was also accessible by air, and it was a tourist stop. But maybe Kavak checked off some boxes: Foreigners and strangers coming and going didn’t attract too much attention, the natives seemed to be friendly and probably looking to make a buck, and Mercer’s camp could be resupplied by air—including fresh supplies of hookers—then by boat from the nearby river. Also, Mercer could commute to Ciudad Bolívar or Caracas—or disappear into the jungle if things got hot. So maybe Captain Mercer had chosen well. He might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was experienced and well-trained. And so were Brodie and Taylor.
As for César, he was either straight out of central casting or he was a major player making a cameo appearance. The clipboard was a good prop, but it could also be legitimate. Was it possible that the Pemón who worked in Kavak as cast members, but lived elsewhere, didn’t know about Mercer’s camp? Not according to what Carmen said. So they were complicit. But to what extent? Money buys anything, including silence.
Brodie said to Taylor, “Don’t relax.”
“Goes without saying.”
César stopped at the oval hut and opened the door, which as Brodie had noted was of modern construction, including a doorknob and a keyhole. The large open windows were also factory-made and they had screens. A real, but not too real, Pemón experience for the tourists.
César entered first, and Brodie followed. Taylor brought up the rear and closed the door behind them.