markets like America and Europe, not to each other. I see some similarities, but I don’t see a connection.”
Taylor nodded. “Okay, if you’re Mercer, how do you get all the way from the tribal territories to Venezuela?”
“If I’m Delta Force, I figure I’d swim.”
Taylor gave him a look like she was questioning this partnership, or maybe her entire career choice.
Brodie said, “He charters a private plane with someone who doesn’t ask questions. And if he doesn’t have the money, he steals it. Or he just steals the plane. The guy’s resourceful.”
“He’s also crazy. He chopped off those guys’ heads.”
“In the Army, we call that ‘misconduct stress behavior.’ ”
“In Caracas,” said Taylor, “we call it loco.”
Eduardo came back to the table. “May I interest you in dessert?”
“We’ll take the check,” said Brodie. “This will be a room charge.”
“Regretfully, we are only accepting cash in the restaurant at this time.”
“Give me a good exchange rate,” said Brodie.
Eduardo bowed his head and walked off.
* * *
Luis’ car was, as advertised, not so nice.
He crawled up the El Dorado’s driveway in a 1980 Dodge Dart, a long, low-riding American boat with a rusted beige exterior and dented chrome bumpers. The side windows and rear windshield had been subjected to a bad homemade tint job.
Luis stopped at the curb, the old V-8 engine chugging away, and smiled at Brodie and Taylor through the rolled-down passenger-side window. He had changed into a pair of plaid cargo shorts, sneakers, and an oversize white polo. Some Joropo music was playing out of fuzzy speakers.
Brodie asked Taylor, “Shotgun?”
“No, sir. That’s how I got blown up in Afghanistan. In Tennessee, a lady sits in the rear.”
“This is Caracas.”
“Then maybe I’ll stay here.”
Brodie swung open the front passenger door, which emitted a welcoming squeal, and got in. He sank into the sagging seat. Taylor got in the back.
Brodie looked around the car, which smelled like old laundry. On the center console, barely concealed by a rolled-up newspaper, was Luis’ Glock. A large bejeweled cross hung from the rearview mirror, just in case the Glock jammed.
“Is okay?” asked Luis.
“It’s perfect,” said Brodie as he cranked up the Joropo, and they pulled out of the drive.
“Where do you wish to go?”
“Paris,” replied Brodie.
Luis laughed. “Me too.”
Brodie had asked Luis to pick them up an hour before their meeting with Raúl so that he and Taylor could do a recon of the area—what the Army called “terrain appreciation,” and what the CID called “urban immersion.” Brodie called it “know your neighborhood beat.”
“Señor?”
“Let’s see your neighborhood,” said Brodie. “We need to be in Museum Plaza in one hour.”
“Sí, señor.” Luis added, “The museums are wonderful.”
“I’m sure they are. So is Paris.”
CHAPTER 16
Luis headed south out of the neighborhood of Altamira, and back onto the highway. He commented that the more affluent neighborhoods of Caracas were in the east of the city, and that it grew poorer the farther west you traveled.
This transition was evident as they got onto another highway and took an exit into a decidedly grittier neighborhood. Rows of dilapidated and graffitied concrete buildings lined narrow streets. Rivers of dirty water ran curbside under mountains of trash that no one had come to collect, most of it spilling out into the street, already worked over by scavengers. They passed a covered bus stop that a few people were using for shade from the oppressive sun. They were clearly not waiting for the city bus, which sat with them, empty and idle, its windows broken and its tires long gone.
Luis explained that public transportation had become almost nonexistent, because there was a recent fuel shortage and because it was almost impossible to find spare parts to repair old buses.
Brodie remarked, “I thought this place was swimming in oil.”
Luis shook his head. “The refineries don’t work, so the crude oil is shipped out and the government has to import most of the gasoline and diesel.” He added, “PDVSA is full of morons and thieves.”
Brodie thought back to the PDVSA propaganda he’d seen on the drive into the city. It seemed that “the weapon of the revolution against capitalism” was running on empty.
As they drove down the street, Luis pointed out a five-story concrete apartment building. “My apartment is here.” He felt the need to add, “It is nicer on the inside.”
The building’s façade looked pockmarked and grimy, and metal bars covered every window, even on the upper floors. The place was surrounded by a cinder-block wall with a corrugated metal door. All along the top of