Mercer either was pressed for time, or he actually thought the Bowmans were dumb tourists—or more likely he was just going to tell them to talk quickly or die slowly.
Emilio directed them to a spot near two plastic chairs about ten feet—five is correct protocol—in front of Señor Kyle, who was again looking through his binoculars—which Brodie recognized as Captain Collins’.
Brodie didn’t expect Mercer to stand, or to offer them a chair, but he had expected Mercer to show a bit more interest in the meeting. Hello? Captain Mercer, I presume?
Brodie now noticed that on the green table were two American passports. Also their sat phone and two cell phones. Emilio was now standing behind his boss, and the five other men were positioned on the riverbank, their AK-47s ready to rock and roll if he or Taylor made a sudden move. Brodie glanced over the side of the platform just to see the boat and imagine himself and Taylor in it, heading downriver, chatting on the sat phone with Collins, then Dombroski. He tried to imagine Kyle Mercer coming along voluntarily, but that was too far a stretch for his imagination. But you never know.
Brodie focused on Kyle Mercer, his face still partially hidden by the binoculars.
His blonde hair was buzz-cut, military style, and he was clean-shaven. He looked muscular and healthy, though his skin had that tropical jungle pallor that comes from excessive humidity, bug spray, and too little sun. Still, this was a far cry from the gaunt specter in the hostage video or the decapitation video they had seen in Hackett’s office.
Mercer lowered the binoculars and stared off across the river.
Brodie now saw his watery blue eyes, and he noticed the crow’s feet edging his eyes and age lines in parentheses around his mouth. The two years in Taliban captivity had caught up with him, and the jungle wasn’t helping his boyish good looks.
Mercer glanced at Brodie and Taylor as though he had just become aware of their presence. He motioned for Brodie to come forward, and as he did, Mercer handed him the binoculars and said, in a conversational tone, “Here. Take a look at that white bird on the riverbank over there.”
Brodie hesitated, then focused the binoculars on the opposite bank, where he saw a big white bird with long legs and a long beak.
“See it?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“Uh… a pigeon?”
“No, Mr. Bowman. Not a pigeon.”
“Right.” Brodie lowered the binoculars. “Could be a heron.”
“Could be. And you could be a dead duck.”
Brodie put the binoculars on the table. “We need to talk, Captain.”
Mercer looked at him, then at Taylor. “Maybe.”
“Will you invite the lady to sit?”
Mercer looked at Brodie, then back at Taylor, and motioned to the plastic chairs. Emilio stood a respectable distance behind his boss, his hand on Brodie’s Glock, which was still in his waistband.
Taylor and Brodie sat, and Mercer flipped through their passports, glancing at the photos, then at them as though he were an immigration officer. “Emilio tells me you are bird-watchers.”
Brodie replied, “Obviously we’re not.”
Mercer nodded. “So?”
Brodie said, “I’m Chief Warrant Officer Scott Brodie, CID, and this is Warrant Officer Maggie Taylor, also CID, based at Quantico.”
Mercer didn’t seem to react to that. “CID.”
“Correct.”
“Not CIA?”
“CID.”
“Maybe military Intel. Or FBI.”
“Still CID.”
“What brings you here?”
“You.”
Brodie thought he saw a trace of a smile on Mercer’s face, but not a nice smile. Mercer said, “I assume you’re here to place me under arrest.”
“Correct. The charge is desertion.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“We have written orders. Back in Quantico. Couldn’t get that past customs.”
“But you got two Glocks past customs.”
“They were given to us here.”
Mercer nodded and asked, “So have you seen my old friend Brendan Worley?”
“We have.” Brodie added, “How do you know him?”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t need to know.” Mercer asked, “How is he doing?”
“Enjoying Caracas.”
“He should enjoy it while he can.”
“Right. So—”
“Does he know where you are right now?”
“Of course.”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“This is a criminal investigation.”
Mercer nodded as though trying to recall Army protocols and areas of responsibility. “So you’re here to arrest me.”
“That’s the plan.”
“But you have no warrant, no identification, and actually no authority to make an arrest on foreign soil.”
“You’ll have to take our word that we’re CID investigators. Not sure about our authority here, but I can show you our written orders when we get back to Quantico.”
“All right. So should I just come along peacefully?”
“That would be good.”
Mercer pretended to think that over, clearly enjoying himself. It probably wasn’t that often he