their gate. They showed their passports and business-class tickets to a young female receptionist at the front desk, signed in, and entered the club.
It was a nice space, especially considering it existed inside what is generally ranked as the nation’s worst airport after LaGuardia. It featured a well-stocked bar, a buffet table, and deep, comfortable chairs to fall asleep in and miss your flight.
“What are you drinking?” asked Brodie.
“Orange juice,” said Taylor as she settled into a chair and pulled out her tablet.
Brodie went to the bar and ordered her an OJ, and a scotch and soda for himself.
When he returned with the drinks, Taylor was reading something on her tablet. She said, “I downloaded some State Department info. The bolívar has become almost worthless in the time since Maduro took power in 2013. They’ve tried to artificially control the exchange rates, but since they import almost everything it doesn’t have much effect. You can spend a month’s wages on half a pound of chicken, that kind of thing.”
“We’ll skip the chicken. Meanwhile, what’s the security situation?”
“Precarious, but not chaotic. The opposition is in disarray and there’s not much in the way of civil unrest anymore.”
Well, that was good to hear. But given the state of affairs, that could change in an instant. Brodie had been to enough screwed-up places to understand the toxic brew of desperation, anger, and fear that runs through unstable societies. If no one’s out in the streets protesting, it just means that people woke up that morning more exhausted than angry, or more afraid than brave. But tomorrow might be different. A full civil war might make his and Taylor’s job a little tougher.
“Also,” said Taylor, “there’s a State Department travel warning. But that’s no surprise.”
The U.S. State Department issues two types of advisories for trouble spots: alerts and warnings. Alerts are short-term in nature, to apprise travelers of natural disasters, disease outbreaks, or upcoming political elections that might bring strikes and protests. Warnings, on the other hand, are for places that the U.S. government considers fucked-up on a more long-term basis. Venezuela fell into the latter category. A State Department warning was not good for tourism.
Brodie took a long drink and thought about their destination. Venezuela wasn’t yet a police state like Cuba, or a chaotic failed state like Somalia. But it was a country on the edge, economically desperate, with weak and corrupt institutions and a government openly hostile to American interests. It was a place where you could probably bend a lot of rules, especially with enough dough, but the guys trying to fuck up your day could bend them too.
He reached into his carry-on and pulled out a Venezuela guide book that Taylor had procured from the Quantico travel office. He flipped to the Caracas portion of the book, and to his favorite section: Dangers and Annoyances. These types of books usually tried to be a little PC and pull some punches when discussing the questionable locales their readers had chosen to travel to. Mogadishu has a rich and vibrant cultural heritage, but do your best to never leave your hotel. But the author did not mince words when it came to Caracas. Many neighborhoods were to be avoided entirely. The “safe” ones were only okay while the sun was shining, and even then, only inside of a vehicle. Murders and kidnappings were rampant, and the cops were no help. In fact, they were often more dangerous than the criminals. Every security apparatus in the country, including customs and passport control at the airport, ought to be considered criminally corrupt, and government officials were often looking to harass and extort foreign travelers. They especially didn’t like Americans.
On that subject, Brodie pulled out his laptop, started it up, and changed the settings so it would boot straight into a clean partition on his drive. That would probably be sufficient to protect any of his CID or other Army-related documents and e-mails from a cursory search at the Caracas airport. He advised Taylor to do the same and was not surprised to learn that she already had, and was also planning to wipe clean her tablet before they landed in Venezuela.
“Also,” said Brodie, “we’re supposed to be married as part of our cover. Send me a picture of you in a bikini so I can make it my desktop wallpaper.”
“Is that what married people do?”
“Well, we’re newlyweds. We don’t know how to be married yet.”
“Right,” said Taylor, smiling. “This is our honeymoon.”
“How do