of course, the pimp is not keeping quiet because he’s reporting to you.”
Worley stared at Brodie, unblinking. “You’re looking for the CIA. Different acronym.”
“With the same bag of dirty tricks,” said Brodie.
Worley didn’t react to that. This guy was a cool customer. A bit creepy, actually. He downed the rest of his rum. “I might have a guy. If he can help you, he’ll call you. You don’t want to just start banging on doors in Petare. That will get you killed.”
“Right.” Brodie gave Worley his cell number. He didn’t love handing out his personal number to whatever sketchy underworld character Brendan Worley would pass it on to, but the satellite phone wouldn’t work in the hotel room. Taylor also gave Worley her number as backup. Brodie said, “Also, when we find our fugitive, we’ll need some help getting him out of the country.”
Worley nodded. “I’ve been apprised of that.” He added, unnecessarily, “You can’t go through normal diplomatic channels to get him extradited. But there are other ways.”
“We assumed there were,” said Brodie. “Or we wouldn’t be here.”
Worley thought a moment, then said, “The less you know, the better. But we usually use a private aircraft which I will arrange to be standing by at a local airport. If and when the time comes, you’ll let me know and I will direct you to an abandoned airstrip near Caracas. The aircraft lands, you are there with your prisoner, and off you go.”
Brodie nodded. Sounded simple. Except for the details. Such as, this private aircraft would have to be small enough to land at an abandoned airstrip, so it probably didn’t have the fuel to get to the U.S.—meaning they’d fly to Guantánamo, or maybe a U.S. military installation in Panama. He asked Worley about that, and Worley replied, “I don’t have to know where you’re flying to, and neither do you.”
“Right. The less we all know, the better.”
“You’ll know when you get there.” He added, “I’ll fill you in on the rendezvous details when—if—the time comes.”
Taylor asked Worley, “If there’s a lag time—like bad weather or something—can the embassy hold our prisoner while we’re waiting for the aircraft?”
“No. You’ll have to hold your prisoner somewhere else.” He added, “The embassy does not get involved with kidnappings.”
“Only transportation,” said Brodie. He added, for the record, “This is not a kidnapping.”
Worley did not respond to that. He stood. “I’m late for a meeting.”
Brodie wanted to say, “Those AA meetings never start on time.” But he said instead, “It’ll look good on your résumé when we bring this bastard to justice.”
Worley gave him a long look, and said, “If you need me, my number is programmed on the sat phone.”
Taylor said, “Thank you for your help.”
Worley looked around the lobby. “There’s a great rooftop pool here. Fantastic views. If you face north you won’t even see the slums. Enjoy Venezuela.”
“It is our destiny to discover her,” said Brodie.
“It is,” said Worley. “But she can be a real bitch.”
CHAPTER 14
Their American taxpayer–funded suite was on the fifth floor and it looked clean and comfortable, with all the modern amenities. A sizable living room separated the bedrooms, and all three rooms had balconies that faced north, where a well-manicured outdoor courtyard and restaurant lay beneath them, and the lush green mountains of the coastal range spread out across the horizon. It was a great view, and Brodie had to lean out over his bedroom balcony to catch a glimpse of the congested hills of Petare, a few miles to the east and a world away.
Brodie and Taylor met in the living room. Brodie set the briefcase from Worley on a coffee table and opened it. Inside were two 9mm Glocks with pancake holsters and four loaded magazines, a Taser, and plastic zip ties.
“Everything we need for a kidnapping,” said Taylor.
Or, thought Brodie as he picked up one of the Glocks and slapped in a mag, a simpler solution to this case.
There was also the aforementioned satellite phone, stacks of ten- and twenty-dollar bills totaling ten thousand dollars, and two U.S. passports that bore the same photoshopped pictures from their visas but with different names and ID numbers. Brodie had been renamed “Clark Bowman” and Taylor was “Sarah Bowman.” Stuck in the passports were new monthlong visas that bore their new names. He couldn’t tell if they were legit visas or forgeries, but they’d certainly pass muster with any overzealous cop or soldier trying to shake them down on the street. The passport pages were