chairs, cradling submachine guns. On the side of the truck were the words GUARDIA NACIONAL. Brodie said, “Shit.”
One of the guardsmen spotted them and stood. It was too late to turn around, so Luis kept going. As he approached the mobile checkpoint, the man did a quick scan of their car. He barely gave Brodie or Luis a second look, and Brodie thought they were getting a pass, but the man’s eyes must have landed on the knockout blonde in the back and he held up his hand.
Luis muttered something in Spanish as he slowed to a stop and rolled down his window. He gave the guardsman a wide grin as the man approached. “Buenos días, señor.”
The guy leaned over and peered between Brodie and Taylor. He could not have been older than twenty-five and looked to be attempting facial hair. The name badge on his fatigues read “Cordero.” He said something in Spanish, then motioned for Luis to get out.
Luis appeared to be making an appeal to reason, gesturing to his two gringo customers and speaking with forced nonchalance.
Whatever he said, Cordero didn’t like it. He yelled something at Luis, who turned to Brodie and Taylor. “We must get out for the inspection.”
They all climbed out as another of the guardsmen—a short, wiry guy whose badge read “Rojas”—approached the car. He was holding a long pole with an upturned mirror on the end—the kind of tool familiar to Brodie from the many checkpoints set up around Baghdad to look for car bombs. In this context it was ridiculous, and probably just part of the opening theatrics before the shakedown.
Brodie noticed that Cordero was eyeing Taylor. The guardsman asked Luis something in Spanish, and Luis shook his head as he responded. Luis then turned to Taylor. “He asks what a beautiful woman like you is doing here.”
“Yeah,” said Brodie, “what’s a woman like you doing in a nice place like this?”
Taylor smiled at the man. “Tourist.” She mimed taking a photograph. “Fotografía.”
Cordero said something to Rojas, and Brodie figured it was something lewd since they both looked at Taylor and laughed. Taylor, who understood exactly what they’d said, kept smiling, but Brodie saw she was now tense. He asked her, “What did he say?”
She didn’t reply.
Brodie asked Luis, “What did he say?”
Luis hesitated, then replied, “He said to his comrade that maybe they should take the lady into the back of the truck for a search.” Luis added, “But… I think they are not serious… perhaps some money…”
Brodie looked at Cordero, then the three other guardsmen. Rojas was still busy pretending to check the underside of their car, his rifle slung over his shoulder, and the other two were leaning against the truck with their rifles at their sides, smoking cigarettes. They had the laziness and overconfidence of unchallenged and corrupt security forces he had seen in too many third world countries.
Brodie said, “Tell him that if he lays a hand on my wife, I’ll take his submachine gun and put a bullet up his ass before I blow the balls off his hombres.”
Luis said something to Cordero, though Brodie was pretty sure it wasn’t that. Luis said to Brodie, “He wants to see your passports.”
Taylor took out her forged passport provided by Worley. Brodie did the same.
Cordero looked closely at both passports, then glanced at Mr. and Mrs. Bowman.
It seemed to Brodie that Cordero was trying to decide whether this was a moneymaking moment or an opportunity to see if Mrs. Bowman’s blonde hair was her natural color. For sure he wasn’t thinking about doing his duty, whatever that was.
Cordero said something to Luis, who translated, “He wants to know why you are in Petare.”
Brodie knew that if Cordero did a simple pat-down and pocket search of him and Taylor, he’d find two photographs of Kyle Mercer. So maybe this was the time for a direct and honest answer. He pulled the file photo of Mercer from his jacket and held it up. “We’re looking for our friend. Have you seen him?”
Taylor shot him a look. Luis looked confused, but translated to Cordero.
Cordero looked at the picture of Kyle Mercer in uniform, then at Brodie. He had an odd look on his face. “Tu amigo?”
Brodie nodded. “Mi amigo. He has a beard now.” He rubbed his hand over his chin.
“Él tiene una barba,” translated Luis.
Cordero kept staring at Brodie. “You soldier?”
“No.”
“Amigo soldier.”
“Sí.” And a deserter. Cordero didn’t know that, but he apparently knew Kyle Mercer, and Brodie was happy