for toilet paper, but that was implied. Brodie doubted that many of the El Dorado’s well-heeled guests actually followed the hotel’s request, but his years as a soldier had taught him the virtues of austerity and he made his shower brief.
As he was getting dressed, his cell phone rang. The screen read: Unlisted. He answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Bowman?” asked a male voice in heavily accented English.
“It is.”
“My name is Raúl. I am given this number by our mutual friend. Will you like to meet?”
“Maybe.”
“Museum Plaza. Off Avenida Libertador. Nine in the morning tomorrow. I will be wearing a yellow shirt with collar, white baseball cap, and white shoes.”
“We need to meet today,” said Brodie.
“This is not possible, Mr. Bowman.”
“Make it possible, Raúl. And I’ll make it worth the trouble.”
A long pause. Raúl sounded like the kind of guy who was used to calling the shots.
“Okay, seven o’clock,” said Raúl. He added, “You will not approach me. You will follow me.”
“To where?”
“The Finance Center. A short walk. This way I see you, you see me, no funny stuff. I go on foot, you follow.”
“All right,” said Brodie. “Museum Plaza, seven o’clock.”
“Okay, señor. I see you later.”
Brodie hung up. A finance center seemed like an odd place to discuss brothels, but maybe he was missing something.
He called his office voice mail at Quantico in case Al Simpson had decided to remember something else or had gotten in touch with his Venezuelan oil contacts, but there were no messages from him. No surprise. Brodie was pretty sure that witness had said all he had to say. From now on their clues would come from the streets.
He finished getting dressed and headed downstairs.
CHAPTER 15
Brodie came down to the lobby wearing clean jeans, a collared shirt, and a sports jacket to conceal his holstered piece. He also had on running shoes, in the event they got into more trouble than his fifteen-round Glock could handle.
Taylor, who would never pass up an opportunity to be first at something, was downstairs waiting for him. She looked good in jeans, a T-shirt, and a blue blazer to conceal her holster. She’d removed her makeup, maybe to make herself look plainer, though it didn’t work. The pretty, pert blonde was already turning heads among hotel staff and guests. Ms. Taylor had a face—and a body—that once seen was not soon forgotten. This was a problem.
They checked out the ground floor of the hotel, which is always a good tactical move, then got a bite to eat at the hotel’s restaurant, called Alto, a pretentious place that served vaguely continental cuisine in small geometric piles. The dishes were portioned appropriately for a country going through a food shortage but priced like a Parisian restaurant. The menu was in Spanish and English and the prices were in bolívars, but the menu came with a daily exchange rate printout for the nose-diving currency. The waiter, an older man with swept-back silver hair whose name tag said “Eduardo,” suggested the roasted chicken, promising that it was available, and hinting that it was fresh, which was the clincher. Taylor and Brodie ordered it.
“Excellent,” Eduardo assured them, and glided off.
Brodie told Taylor about the phone call with Raúl. “We’re following him to the Finance Center. Sounds like a safe enough public place.”
Taylor pulled out the guide book, flipped to the map of Caracas, and found Museum Plaza. She cross-referenced the map with a list of points of interest and said, “Maybe not.”
“What?”
“It’s an unfinished skyscraper, nicknamed the Tower of David after the building’s main investor, David Brillembourg. It’s not a finance center, and it never was. Construction halted in the Nineties after the Venezuelan banking crisis, and squatters took it over. It was the biggest vertical slum in the world until a few years ago when the government relocated the residents.” She closed the book and added, “The guide book says it’s a hangout for criminals, and advises that tourists keep their distance.”
“We’re not tourists. We have guns.”
“Brains would be good too.”
“I’ll go alone.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Their meals came. The chicken was decent, though Brodie suspected, based on experience, that they’d find tastier food for a hundredth of the price at any local street cart.
They discussed the case as they ate, and kept mulling over the same question: Why would Kyle Mercer come here?
Taylor asked, “What do Afghanistan and Venezuela have in common?”
“Tourism boards with big challenges.”
“Drugs.”
“Right… but this is the land of cocaine, Afghanistan is heroin. And they both export to wealthy consumer