them days or weeks from now, making this journey in reverse. Hopefully on a private jet under cover of darkness, with Captain Kyle Mercer handcuffed to his seat.
It’s good to visualize success. Failure is not an option, as they say in the Army. The joke in Iraq was, “You’ll be coming home with a CMH,” which didn’t mean a Congressional Medal of Honor; it meant a coffin with metal handles. Bad joke.
PART III
CARACAS, VENEZUELA
AUGUST 2018
CHAPTER 11
Brodie looked out the window as they made their approach into Simón Bolívar International Airport.
The Caribbean coast stretched out before them, the cresting waves sparkling orange in the morning light, and the airport’s gray asphalt runways cut inland from the shore. Surrounding the airport, the small port city of Maiquetía clung to the coastline and ran up the foothills of the lush green Venezuelan Coastal Range that ascended into the clouds and hid Caracas from view.
As the plane banked to the left and the wheels lowered, they got a closer view of the shore to the west of the airport, which was lined with beachfront homes and a few marinas where rows of glimmering white yachts sat at anchor. Brodie noticed what appeared to be a beach resort with lounge chairs, umbrellas, and thatched huts. Despite the deprivation wracking the country, there seemed to be plenty of sunbathers out on this beautiful morning. He wondered if Kyle Mercer was one of them.
The landing was smooth, and after they deplaned they headed for passport control. A few airport security guards in black fatigues and carrying assault rifles watched them as they passed. One of them made a sound of approval toward the gringo lady, and the others laughed.
Brodie said, “Ask those guys if they’ll pose for a picture with you. We can text it to Dombroski.”
“No stupid jokes, please. We’re operational now. In hostile territory. Stay alert.”
“I have eyes in the back of my head.”
“But your head is up your ass.”
They passed a large photo mural highlighting Venezuela’s natural wonders, including a towering waterfall and mountainous plateaus surrounded by rain forest. Beneath the photos it said, VENEZUELA—CONOCERLA ES TU DESTINO.
Taylor translated: “Venezuela. To know her is your destiny.”
“I thought it said you have reached your destination.”
“Let me do the translating.”
The line for nonresidents at passport control was short, and Brodie looked around to see who else was crazy or stupid enough to come here. There was a smattering of euro tourists, a few East Asian and South Asian travelers, and a number of Hispanic-looking men and women, presumably from other Latin American countries.
When it was their turn, Brodie and Taylor approached the booth together. The agent who took their passports wore a scowl along with a uniform a couple of sizes too big for his small frame. He scanned their visas, which didn’t seem to raise any alarms, then took his time flipping through their passport pages, paying particular attention to Brodie’s. Brodie was used to getting extra attention at passport controls the world over—the various entry stamps and visas from places like Karachi, Amman, and Kabul tended to arouse suspicion. If he’d had a little more notice about this assignment, he would have gotten a clean passport.
The agent asked Brodie something, in Spanish, and Brodie stared back at the guy with a look of honest ignorance. The man repeated it, jabbing a finger on the page of his passport where he had affixed his tourist visa.
Taylor kept her fluent Spanish to herself, and asked, “Habla inglés?”
The agent scowled harder, and said to Brodie, “Why Caracas?”
“Tourists.”
“Job?”
“Waste management,” said Brodie.
The agent just stared at them, his eyes darting between Brodie and Taylor. Brodie wondered if this was the time for a bribe. He could see at least two security cameras pointed at the passport booths. Though maybe that didn’t matter in a country that had been corrupted to the core, and they just needed to pay the gringo admission fee to get moved along. Brodie fingered a few twenty-dollar bills in his pocket, trying to read the situation.
Before he had to make the call, the man slammed his entry stamp on both of their passports, then slid them back to them. He said, without a hint of sincerity, “Welcome to Venezuela.”
* * *
They got their luggage at the baggage carousel, and then approached customs, which consisted of four uniformed agents standing beside long tables in front of a wall of Plexiglas. This was, he hoped, the last wall of security before they found their driver and got