Center, was actually a complex of buildings, though there was a main tower that loomed above the rest, about forty or fifty stories high. It was an angular structure with a steel and concrete frame, intermittently faced with glass. Whole sections were unfinished, showing exposed floors and ceilings. It resembled a construction site except that the concrete looked old and stained, and much of the glass was shattered. It would not have looked out of place in an urban war zone. Or a zombie movie.
The sun was slipping farther beneath the horizon, casting the tower as a great looming thing against the blue-purple sky. Brodie and Taylor walked slowly toward it.
A concrete wall surrounded the entire complex, and ahead of them was a metal gate. Three figures were in front of the gate, though it was difficult to discern whether they were security, loiterers, or banditos.
As they got closer, they saw that the three men wore dark blue uniforms. One was leaning against a motorbike smoking a cigarette. The other two were standing next to the gate with submachine guns strapped across their chests.
The smoker spotted them across the street and waved them over. “Aquí, aquí.”
“Para quién?” asked Taylor.
“Raúl,” replied the man with some impatience. “Aquí.”
Brodie said to Taylor, “If it comes to it, we hit the two guys with the subs first. I take the right, you the left.”
“Copy.”
They crossed the empty street, and as they drew closer to the men, they saw that the guy smoking the cigarette was older than the other two, probably mid-forties. He had a pencil-thin mustache, a long gaunt face, and a thick scar that stretched down one of his sunken cheeks. He wore a pistol in a holster at his waist. As they approached he flicked his cigarette toward the curb. The two younger guys, maybe late twenties, stared at them.
Scarface asked something in Spanish, and Taylor responded. They had a brief exchange in which all the men kept shifting their gazes to Brodie, probably wondering what kind of man would let a woman speak for him. He wanted to tell them that he had failed freshman year Spanish before studying French, but that would have required some Spanish.
One of the young guys unlocked the metal gate and pushed it open. Scarface gestured for them to enter.
“After you,” said Brodie, gesturing at the gate.
Scarface just stared at him, dead-eyed. “After you,” he said back in heavily accented English.
Brodie and Taylor went through the gate, followed by the two submachine-gun-toting guys, while Scarface closed the gate behind them and followed.
They walked abreast of the three men through an area of overgrown grass and slabs of cracked pavement, then passed between two thick columns to enter an open-air circular atrium with multi-tiered wraparound balconies. The place stunk like mold and garbage, and every surface within reach was covered in stratified layers of graffiti, some profane, some artistic. Much of it political. In the gloom, Brodie could make out a large message scrawled across the far wall in big, bold yellow letters: CHÁVEZ VIVE. Chávez lives.
Well, Chávez was dead. As was any hope of Venezuela achieving the lofty financial status imagined by the original designers of this grand ruin.
Evidence of the tower’s former squatters was everywhere—jerry-rigged power lines extended across the atrium, brightly painted railings lined the edges of the open balconies, and high walls of stacked brick and cinder block formed makeshift rooms in the upper levels.
“Levanta los brazos,” said Scarface.
“Where is Raúl?” asked Brodie.
“Levanta los brazos,” the man repeated, mimicking the motion of raising his arms.
“I’ll save you the trouble,” said Brodie. “We’re both armed with pistols, and you’re not getting them.”
Taylor translated and, judging by the guy’s reaction, she did so faithfully. Scarface glared at Brodie and said something.
Taylor translated, “Surrender your weapons or you see no one.”
“Then we’re leaving,” said Brodie. He said to Taylor, “We back out.” He stepped back toward the gate. One of the young goons walked quickly toward the gate to outflank him and block his way. Brodie turned to face him. The man had not adjusted his submachine gun, which was still strapped low across his chest, and Brodie was pretty sure he could crack the guy’s jaw and own his submachine gun before he could get it into a firing position. These guys were not professionals—more like mall cops with high-caliber toys. The problem was, there were three of them.
“Get out of my way,” said Brodie. The guard didn’t move, but as Brodie leaned into