Presbyterian church in his hometown two years ago, and it was the last time Brodie had set foot in a house of worship. It was a small and modest service, and he saw people from Andy’s life that he only knew from stories—his mom and dad, his younger sister, his high school sweetheart he’d once been engaged to. All of them there, all of them diminished by time and grief.
Brodie had bowed his head in prayer then too, eyes closed, listening to a solemn hymn, angry at how things had turned out for Andy Rucker. Angry at a world that had no place for things that were precious and too easily broken.
“Scott?”
He opened his eyes. Taylor was looking at him.
“You okay?”
He looked at his hands gripping the railing, white-knuckled, trembling. He let go and stepped away. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER 17
They sat in Luis’ parked car about a block away from Museum Plaza, which was obscured by a dense ring of trees. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows. It was ten minutes before their rendezvous with Raúl, and Brodie had broken it to Luis that they were not here to take in Caracas’ fine museum culture.
Luis said, “Torre David is very dangerous. It is a place for thugs.”
“Good,” said Brodie. “We’re meeting a thug.”
“I will come with you.”
“That’s above your pay grade, amigo.”
Luis couldn’t seem to let this go. “Then you must take my pistol.”
Brodie looked at Luis, who had genuine fear in his eyes. “We’re both armed,” said Brodie.
Luis seemed surprised by that, but he did not look reassured. He must have been starting to wonder who these American VIPs were. He peered out the windshield, then shifted his focus to the bejeweled cross hanging from his rearview mirror. Maybe he was going to ask the Big Guy to look out for these dumb gringos. Couldn’t hurt.
The sun dipped lower in the evening sky, and above the downtown skyline a fiery orange band sat atop the green hills to the north and west. The imposing Parque Central complex was nearby, dwarfing everything in its vicinity, its towering glass façade reflecting the brilliant sky. A warm wind blew past Brodie’s arm hanging out the open window. Luis had urged him to keep the tinted window closed, but riding shotgun literally meant you needed to see and hear things clearly—and have a clean shot.
Evening settled in and the street life began to thin out. Storefronts rolled down their metal gates, street vendors wheeled away their carts, and the modest amount of traffic that there was began flowing out of downtown and toward the surrounding neighborhoods. A stream of pedestrians descended into the underground Metro station next to where Luis had parked, and very few people were emerging from it. It was a noticeably early hour for the center of a capital city to begin shutting down, though the reason was clear: Cops and criminals owned the night.
Brodie checked his watch. It was five to seven. He turned to Luis. “Okay, we’re walking to the plaza. Find a spot near the Tower of David and wait for us there.”
“And how long should I wait before I am to be concerned?”
“Maybe an hour. But we’ll call you if there’s a problem. If you call us after eight and we don’t answer, then you can choose to be concerned.”
“Contact the embassy,” added Taylor.
As Brodie and Taylor got out of the car, Luis warned them, “The police in this area are the worst in the city. Avoid them.”
“Copy that,” said Brodie. He turned to Taylor. “Ready for an evening stroll?”
“Locked and loaded,” said Taylor.
* * *
Museum Plaza was accessible from a narrow walking path that cut through a thick line of trees. They entered the path and then veered off into the trees, making their way around the perimeter of the circular plaza, which was bounded by two museums housed in dilapidated neoclassical buildings, as well as the entrance to a heavily wooded city park.
They approached the side of one of the museum buildings and stopped behind a row of palm trees.
They waited. People flowed out of the museums and the park, heading for the walking path that led to the street and the Metro. A vendor hawking miniature busts of Bolívar, Che Guevara T-shirts, and other revolutionary kitsch was packing up his wares and breaking down a vinyl overhang.
Brodie said, “You’d look good in a Che Guevara T-shirt.”
She didn’t reply to that and kept scanning the plaza. “Look.