instilling a sense in these groups’ adherents that the fabled battles of old were being refought over and over.
Brodie had told Luis this country needed another Bolívar. But in reality, this place—like the entire world of Islam—needed to move on and find new heroes. Or maybe stop putting men on pedestals altogether.
He finished his rum, stood and pulled his Glock from its holster and placed it on the bedside table, set his alarm, then threw off his clothes and crashed on the bed. It had been a good first day in country. They’d met Worley, hired Luis, reconned the city, and met a pimp, and he had just learned that maybe the fugitive he was hunting had tortured and murdered an undercover CIA officer. And, by the way, his own partner might be a CIA asset as well.
Before he’d left for college, Brodie’s father had tried to entice him to stay by pitching a plan to take out a bank loan, buy the vacant acreage next to their house, and make a go at a real family farm. If he’d taken the old man’s offer, he’d now be harvesting corn, lettuce, maybe some rhubarb.
Instead he’d gone to college, and then he went to war. Then he joined CID, and that’s when life got really complicated. He wasn’t sure what he would find tomorrow in Petare, whether it was Kyle Mercer himself or just another breadcrumb along the trail that led to his fugitive. What Brodie did sense was that the scope of this case was widening, the picture slowly growing sharper—and he was sure that when the picture was finally clear, he was not going to like what he saw.
Outside, he heard the wail of a police siren, and what sounded like the distant crack of gunfire. He was suddenly back in Baghdad. He knew he needed to get out of this place before it erupted into civil war.
He turned off the bedside lamp and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
CHAPTER 21
Brodie came downstairs to meet Taylor for breakfast at eight o’clock. She was, as he expected, already at a table with a cup of coffee, reading a Spanish-language newspaper, which she folded as he sat down.
“Buenos días,” said Brodie.
“Morning. Did you sleep well?”
“The sound of gunfire always lulls me to sleep.”
“I heard that.”
Brodie poured himself coffee from a carafe and gestured at the paper. “What’s new?”
“Same old. Everything is the United States’ fault. They have the New York Times if you want something in English.”
“I think I’d get the same story.”
“I assume you spoke to Dombroski last night.”
“Good assumption. He wanted us to go to Petare last night. I’m sure General Hackett is up his ass.” Brodie thought about sharing the info about Robert Crenshaw’s murder, but decided against it. He told himself this was not because he didn’t trust his partner, but because it was not relevant at the moment.
Their waiter, a young man named Mateo, came by and Brodie asked, “What’s a traditional Venezuelan breakfast?”
Mateo smiled. “My wife usually makes arepas with eggs, but my wife is not here, so the hotel offers huevos pericos. This is like scrambled eggs, but more… exciting.”
They both ordered the exciting scrambled eggs, and Mateo bowed and walked off to the kitchen.
Taylor said, “ ‘Perico’ means parakeet.”
“I was wondering why I didn’t hear the birds this morning.”
Taylor smiled. Brodie noticed that she had dressed down for their stroll through the slums and had traded her blazer for a windbreaker. Brodie was wearing a monochrome T-shirt and a light cotton bush jacket. It was hot enough that they should not be wearing jackets at all, but when walking around places like Petare, you didn’t want people to know you had a gun until they were looking down the barrel.
Taylor informed him, “I didn’t want to carry around the drugstore bag but I stuffed a few snacks and medical supplies in my jacket.”
“I’m not sure gangbangers around here take bribes in the form of Snickers bars, but it can’t hurt.”
Taylor replied, “I also brought the Taser and zip ties.”
“Good.” But if Kyle Mercer was coming at him, it wasn’t the Taser he would reach for. In fact, today he’d made sure to pull his extra loaded mag from the room safe, and he had noticed that Taylor had already taken the other one. She, like Brodie, knew that the only thing worse than finding yourself in a gangland shoot-out was being the first one to run out of bullets.