The Deserter - Nelson DeMille Page 0,188

that to your advantage. Brodie said, “We are not intimate.” But almost.

Mercer nodded. “So your concern for Ms. Taylor is only professional.”

“I would call it human.”

“I would call it chivalry. Ms. Taylor might call it male chauvinism.”

Taylor suggested, “Can we move on?”

He looked at her. “All right.” He eyed her T-shirt. “Georgetown.”

She nodded.

“Raised in an upper-middle-class DC suburb, poli-sci major, daddy’s a diplomat or upper echelon bureaucrat, and you joined the Army to go slumming for awhile, and you went CID because you thought it was safe and would look good on your law school application.”

Taylor replied, “My daddy was an auto mechanic when he was sober enough to work. I went to Georgetown on a scholarship, and the Army is my career path out of poverty.” She added, “Profiling isn’t your strong suit.”

“Maybe not. But I can usually tell who’s lying to me.” He looked at Brodie. “Where’d you go?”

“NYU.”

Mercer nodded. “I hear the East Coast accent.”

“Upstate New York farm boy.”

He looked at Taylor, who said, “Tennessee.”

“I don’t catch that in your accent.”

“You will if I get really pissed.”

Mercer smiled. “I’m from San Diego. But you know all about me from my file. Except what was redacted.”

Brodie had a growing sense that none of this was real. The jungle was real, but no one in it was real. He looked at Kyle Mercer, and they made eye contact. The man was still smiling, but his eyes were… empty.

Kyle Mercer was crazy. Not pleasantly crazy—just crazy. But highly functional. And highly aware that he was off the rails. Or else he enjoyed acting the part. Maybe a combination of both. In any case, if Captain Mercer ever did go home, an Army shrink would take one look at him and one look at that decapitation video, and pronounce him mentally unfit to stand trial. Which was actually a moot point, because Brodie didn’t think anyone on this fishing platform was going home.

But Kyle Mercer seemed to be enjoying the conversation, and maybe he was homesick—if a psycho can be homesick. So Brodie said, “Sorry about your mother.”

Mercer didn’t react to that.

Brodie said, “I’m sure your father misses you.” He told him, “It’s time to come home, soldier.”

“I am home.”

“No you’re not.”

“Then I’d rather be here than in Leavenworth.” He asked, “Wouldn’t you?”

“Well, tell you the truth, Captain, this place sucks.” He added, “No offense.”

Mercer didn’t respond to that, but said, “Do not call me Captain.”

“You are a captain in the United States Army.”

“I won’t make that point again.”

“How should we address you?”

“Señor Kyle.”

“How about Scott, Maggie, and Kyle?”

Mercer looked at Brodie, then at Taylor. “I think you both need more time in the stockade.” He glanced at his watch. “Maybe twenty-four hours on bread and water—without the bread. And maybe we’ll do those strip searches to your satisfaction.” He glanced over his shoulder at Emilio.

Apparently Mercer was no longer enjoying the conversation. Brodie said, “I don’t think any of us has twenty-four hours, Kyle.”

He turned back to Brodie, thought awhile, then asked, “How did you find me?”

“Al Simpson.”

Mercer stared off into space, probably replaying the chance meeting in the Hen House and reprimanding himself for not strangling Simpson with a bondage rope. He looked at Brodie. “That could only get you as far as looking for a random whorehouse in Caracas.”

“We’re good detectives.”

“Are you? Half of Petare was aware of your presence by noon yesterday.” He added, “And you, Mr. Bowman, were expected at the Hen House last night. I assume you thought better of it, or else your bloated body would have washed up on the banks of the Guaire this morning.”

Brodie didn’t respond. As he suspected, the National Guard, and MBR-200, and probably Pepe the pimp, all shared Intel on the two gringos who were asking around about Señor Kyle and underage girls. Word traveled quickly in the slums, but apparently took a little longer to reach the jungle, and Kyle Mercer didn’t know about last night’s excitement at the Hen House.

Mercer sat forward in his chair. “How did you find me? Who did you speak to?”

“We don’t disclose our confidential sources to our suspects.”

Mercer’s cool was heating up. “I hold all the high cards, and whatever low cards you hold I will get now or later. Now is better. For everyone.”

Brodie didn’t want to rat out Carmen, but… she was probably being grilled by SEBIN anyway. Still… He said, “You can come to your own conclusions.”

Mercer looked at Taylor. “I’ll ask you the question. How did you

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