cluster of men in suits holding handwritten signs with the names of arriving passengers.
Before they could get close enough to read the signs, a short male cop in a crisp blue uniform stepped in front of them.
“Excuse me, señor, señora. Passport, por favor.”
Is this shit ever going to end? thought Brodie.
He and Taylor produced their passports, and the cop gave them a cursory glance, closed them, but did not hand them back. He asked, “Where are you staying?”
“The El Dorado,” said Taylor.
The cop rocked back and forth on the thick heels of his black boots, and unsubtly tapped his holstered Beretta. “Very nice. Very nice. But Caracas is very dangerous. You will need a security escort. With this I can help you.”
“We’ve got it covered,” said Brodie.
“Yes? And how is this?”
Brodie wasn’t sure if he needed to grease this guy to get their passports back, though what he really wanted to do was punch his nuts.
A tall, thick man in a black suit approached, waving a white placard that read BRODIE.
“Señor Brodie? Señora Taylor?”
“Our driver,” said Taylor to the cop.
The cop turned and exchanged a few words with the driver. The driver said something to the cop that sounded less than friendly, and the cop spat something back before shoving the passports into Brodie’s hand and stomping off.
The driver, a man in his mid-forties with large, friendly features and black slicked-back hair, looked between Brodie and Taylor. “Señor Brodie, Señora Taylor. I am Luis.” He extended his hand to Brodie. “I am to take you to your hotel.”
He and Brodie shook. “Good timing, Luis.”
Luis looked around the terminal warily, as if to indicate they were not out of the woods yet. “The cockroaches no longer scatter in the daylight, Señor Brodie. This way, please.” He added, “Quickly.”
CHAPTER 12
Brodie and Taylor stepped out of the terminal into a sweltering tropical heat, oppressive even in the shade of the overhang above the terminal’s curbside pickup area.
The airport had the illusion of being busy—black cabs waited in a line by a taxi stand operated by a uniformed official, a flow of beat-up old cars and motorbikes slowly chugged through the terminal’s roundabout, and a handful of young men stood around, perhaps on the lookout for gullible tourists.
But there were very few actual passengers leaving the terminal, so Brodie felt all eyes on them as they followed Luis toward a crosswalk. A young guy in a white polo shirt and jeans, who couldn’t have been older than sixteen, fell into step alongside them, making another pitch to sell them bolívars. While this practice was technically illegal and could land you in jail, the kid didn’t even lower his voice as they passed a cop.
Brodie waved the boy off, but he kept trailing them, and Luis shouted something at him. The kid fell back but kept following. Luis looked embarrassed, as if to say, “What has happened to my country?”
Some countries, thought Brodie, were born poor and desperate, and that’s all anyone there knew. Venezuela, though, had once been rich, with a large middle class, so this fall into poverty and desperation must be a shock.
They approached a large parking lot that was almost empty. Luis led them to a black Cadillac Escalade SUV, popped open the back, and loaded their bags, while keeping an eye on their surroundings.
As Luis leaned over to pick up a bag, Brodie noticed the pistol grip of a Glock stuck in a holster beneath his jacket.
Brodie asked, “Do you work for the embassy?”
Luis loaded the last bag and looked at Brodie. “Not directly, señor. They call me when they need me.”
“What did they tell you when they called?”
Luis looked between Brodie and Taylor. “They told me I was to pick up two American VIPs. They gave me your names and a description of your appearance.”
“Who did you speak to?” asked Taylor.
“A man I know as Señor Smith.”
“Whose car is this?” asked Brodie.
“The embassy’s,” replied Luis.
“It doesn’t have diplomatic plates.”
“It is better that way, señor.”
“Did your amigo tell you our destination?”
“No, señor. They do not say. For security reasons.”
Brodie and Taylor shared a look. They hadn’t gotten their driver’s name before arriving.
Luis picked up on what was going on, and said, “I have this to show you.”
He reached slowly into his jacket and pulled out his smartphone. He pulled up a photo and handed the phone to Brodie.
“This is me with your Mr. McDermott.”
The phone’s screen was cracked and the high sun cast a harsh glare, but Brodie could make