Brodie dropped his bag on the tile floor and looked around the small oval room lit only by sunlight. The walls were whitewashed, and at either end of the oval was a bunk bed. On the wall opposite the door hung two stowed hammocks, which could be opened and stretched across the room and fastened to the opposite wall.
César explained, “Hammock is how Pemón sleep. Maybe you sleep in hammock, maybe you sleep in bed.”
Maybe they wouldn’t sleep at all. Brodie asked, “Baño?”
“Outside. Nice.”
“Right. Shower?”
“Outside. I show you later.”
“Snakes?”
“Outside.” He pointed at the ceiling. “For walk in night.”
Brodie looked up at the thatched roof and saw four battery-operated lanterns hanging from the ceiling rafters on pulleys, which might be safer than an open flame close to the thatched roof. He pictured himself trying to find the outhouse at three in the morning, carrying a lantern and a Glock.
Well, thought Brodie, if a Caracas hooker could stay here for a night without complaint, then surely a former infantryman could do the same. He wondered if this was the Carmen suite. In any case, this hut could hold six European tourists with low expectations, and in fact César suggested, “You pilot sleep with you here. You save money.”
Brodie and Taylor exchanged glances. Three guns were better than two, so the smart, tactical thing to do would be to stay together through the night. On the other hand, there was no bedroom door in this hut for Ms. Taylor to shut on Collins. So… safety in numbers? Or three’s a crowd? This was not a call he wanted his dick to make, so he said to Taylor, “Your call.”
She said to César, “The pilot will want his own room.”
“Sí, señora.”
“Good call,” said Brodie.
Taylor looked at him. “I might want my own room too.”
“It’s not in the budget.”
César gestured around. “Okay?”
Taylor assured him, “Perfecto.”
César smiled. “Good. You leave bag, you come with me. Breakfast for you.”
Brodie replied, “We’ll unpack and meet you outside.”
“You come.”
Taylor said something to him in Spanish, and César left.
Taylor said to Brodie, “He understands English, so please watch what you say.”
“He probably learned his English from Kyle Mercer.”
She nodded. “Will César report our presence here?”
“I’m sure that’s part of his standing orders.”
“All right… so…?”
“We’re bird-watchers.”
“That might not fly, pardon the pun.”
“I think we’re okay for now.”
“I told you we shouldn’t stay overnight.”
“But we should give the appearance we’re staying overnight.”
She nodded.
“We’ll take a boat upriver, and if we’re satisfied with our Intel, we can fly out of here before nightfall.”
“Good.”
He looked at her. “If we do stay overnight, I thought you’d want another gun in the room.”
“I do. But César doesn’t have to know that.”
“Okay… smart.”
“I’m thinking with my brain.”
“I resent the implication.”
“Scott—”
“Clark. We’re married.”
“César is waiting for us.”
“Right. We’ll take our bags to breakfast.”
She picked up her overnight bag. “Should we call John?”
“Oh, so it’s John now, is it?”
“Scott—please—should we call our pilot and give him the all clear?”
“He’s probably halfway to Caracas by now.”
“No he’s not.”
“The best place for him right now is in the Cessna. We’ll call him when we know it’s all clear.”
“All right. But we should call Dombroski. Maybe Worley.”
“We’ll call Dombroski as soon as we’re alone with open sky.”
She nodded but said, “I hope the sat phone works here.”
“Me too. Let’s have breakfast.”
They left the hut, and César glanced at the overnight bags in their hands. Taylor said something to him in Spanish, and he nodded and led the way.
Brodie did an eye-recon as he walked, and he noticed that Taylor was doing the same as she chatted in Spanish to César.
About fifty yards from their guesthouse, César motioned them into a large open-sided pavilion, draped in mosquito netting. Inside the pavilion were long wooden tables with benches, and César invited them to sit.
Brodie and Taylor sat across from each other, and César sat next to Brodie, apparently staying for breakfast.
Brodie asked him, “Do you recommend we order off the menu, or do the buffet?”
“My wife bring good breakfast.”
“Wonderful.”
César asked to see their passports, so this was a working breakfast.
Brodie and Taylor handed him their passports, and he looked through them, glancing at his guests to be sure their photos matched their faces. He then took a pen and very carefully wrote their names and passport numbers on his clipboard roster, under the names of people named Rolf, Fritz, Magda, and Gerda.
The Europeans, Brodie knew, were more adventurous travelers than Americans, which didn’t mean they were braver—they just had a higher tolerance for