She’d also forgotten to tell him that his agents almost had sex last night. Dombroski would want to know. He said, “What you forgot was our personal threat assessment—Kyle Mercer’s connection to Kavak, and possible SEBIN interest in us via the Hen House incident. Maybe even Worley’s meddling in this CID case.”
“He already knows that. Also, threat assessments can sound… like you feel threatened.”
“Don’t you?”
“I’m not stupid. But there’s nothing Dombroski can do for us at this time.” She reminded him, “This was your idea. Not his.”
“Correct.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve been on the river fifteen minutes and I haven’t seen a shrunken head yet.”
“I’m looking at one.”
“That’s just the swelling going down. Okay, let’s do a reality check in fifteen minutes.”
“You’re calling the tune, Mr. Brodie. I’m just humming along.”
He smiled at her. Well, he’d played chicken with lots of guys in Iraq, and a few men in CID, but never with a woman. She had cojones. Plus she was probably a little pissed at him, which was good motivation. If things went south, she’d enjoy saying “I told you so.” They all do. More importantly, they both needed to focus on the mission. The problem was, the mission had become as murky as the river.
He watched her as she shot a few pictures of the riverbanks, then one of him piloting the boat, which he hoped showed his steely-eyed determination. They could use that photo in the debrief in Bogotá. Also in General Hackett’s office.
She said, “We should call Collins to tell him where we are.”
“More importantly, where is he?”
“Let’s do a commo check and find out.”
“He’s probably figured out that we stole a boat. So ask him if César has realized that.” He reminded her, “Quick call.”
She dialed Collins’ sat phone number from memory.
“Ask him to find out how much the boat-stealing fine is and pay César from our stash.”
Taylor held the phone to her ear and listened to the ring, then ended the call and turned off the sat phone. “No answer.”
Which could mean anything your imagination wanted it to mean—sleeping, showering, flying off with all the money, or dead.
Taylor said, “I’ll try again later.”
“Okay.” Brodie looked at the landscape passing by. There was still open grassland on the left bank, which gave him a clear view of the terrain. But on the right bank, the savanna was giving way to thick jungle which he, as a half-evolved Homo sapiens, instinctively equated with danger.
He looked back toward Kavak and stared at the massive tepui that dominated the terrain for miles around. The towering gray escarpment looked like a wall built by giants, and the flat peak was still shrouded in white, rolling clouds in an otherwise cloudless sky. This place, he thought, was primeval—Jurassic Park on steroids. Pemón World. Kyle Land.
He thought back to that travel poster at the airport. It was prescient. This is my destiny.
He looked at Taylor, who was playing with her cell phone. “If you have service, I want the name of your carrier.”
She glanced up from her phone. “I’m looking at the aerial photos I took. I think I see where we are, and where we’re going.”
“That’s always good to know.”
“I took a basic course in aerial recon. How about you?”
“I was just a lowly infantryman. All I needed to know was what I could see, hear, touch, and smell at ground level.”
“I… when I was in Afghanistan, I was called into Bagram a few times… to look at aerial photographs of towns and villages that I was working in… to try to ID residences of suspected Taliban collaborators and sympathizers.”
Brodie had no comment, but apparently Operation Flagstaff was still weighing on her mind—and her conscience.
She said, “They told me these people would be turned over to the Afghan security forces for interrogation.”
Also known as torture. Followed by the usual bullet in the back of the head.
Maggie Taylor must have known this on some level. He asked, “Who was asking this favor of you?”
“Army Intel… and other people who were… not identified.”
“Friends of Trent.”
“Probably.”
They continued upriver. Walls of tropical trees towered on both sides now, and the riverbank was choked with vegetation. Brodie kept the canoe in the center of the river, away from both banks. Every few minutes he cut the throttle and listened to the sounds of the jungle—lots of squawking birds, and now and then a crazy shriek that he guessed was a howler monkey. It was getting hotter, and