asked, “Anything further?”
“Yes… Look, we know that Mercer was in a brothel, probably this one called El Gallinero—the Hen House—so I’m assuming he’s known in this barrio called Petare, in the neighborhood called July Twenty-Fourth—”
“You’re losing me.”
“So if I don’t find him tonight, Taylor and I will do a standard canvass of the neighborhood, using Mercer’s photo—”
“This gang will kill you. Or Mercer will find you.”
“I’m hoping for the latter.”
Dombroski didn’t reply.
“Anyway, that’s Plan B.”
“Does Ms. Taylor know about Plan B?”
“She suggested it.”
Again, Dombroski didn’t reply; then he informed Brodie, “The two most common elements in the universe are hydrogen and stupidity.”
“Really?”
Brodie could hear Dombroski take a deep breath. Then his boss said, “Do what has to be done.”
“Right.”
“Six days.”
“Copy.”
“Don’t get your partner killed.” Dombroski paused. “You’re responsible for yourself.”
“As always.” He added, “I’m going to bring this son of a bitch back, dead or alive.”
Dombroski didn’t reply, leading Brodie to conclude that “dead” was okay.
Brodie said, “General Hackett will put another letter of commendation in your file.” He wanted to add, “And maybe you’ll make general,” but that was a touchy subject for Colonel Dombroski.
Dombroski said, “I always give credit where credit is due, Scott.”
“You do.”
“And criticism when it’s appropriate.”
And advice when it’s not asked for, but Brodie said, “I appreciate your input.”
“Good. Here’s some more. Think about asking Colonel Worley if there’s any way he can provide you some backup tonight—some margin of safety.”
“All I want from Worley is transportation out of here for me, Taylor, and my prisoner.”
“All right… but—”
“Hold on. Civilian in the vicinity.” Brodie picked up his beer glass and chugged it. What’s better than a cold beer on a hot day?
“Brodie? You there?”
Brodie suppressed a belch and replied, “All clear.”
“Are we done?”
“One more question. Does Flagstaff mean anything to you?”
“Flagstaff? Like, Arizona?”
“Just the word. Like the name of an operation? A program? A weapons system? Maybe a code name for a military base? Something like that.”
Dombroski stayed silent, then said, “Never heard the word in that context. Why?”
“Someone just sat next to me. Insecure.”
“Next time call me from your room.”
“Right. FYI, I’m calling Señor Whiskey later about my plane transportation.” He added, “With luck, we might see you tomorrow.”
“Let’s hope… Okay, good luck tonight, Scott, and pass on the same to Ms. Taylor.”
“Will do.”
“Sit-rep ASAP.”
“Of course.”
“Negative further.”
Brodie hung up and stared out toward the hills of Petare. Somewhere in that vast slum was his quarry—or his fate.
He looked toward the rooftop café and saw Taylor speaking to his waiter—who knew a hot blonde when he saw one—and the waiter was pointing toward him.
Taylor headed toward his cabana, and Brodie saw that she was wearing a diaphanous wrap that she’d probably bought in the gift shop.
Brodie stood, as an officer and gentleman should, and met her halfway. She checked out his slippers and bathrobe and said, “You look like a patient in a mental ward.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She smiled, then looked out at the view of the green mountains and the encircling slums. “It’s too nice up here. I feel guilty after what we saw today.”
“Guilt helps no one.”
“You’re all heart, Scott.”
“Drink?”
“I ordered for both of us.”
He led her back to the open-sided cabana and she sat upright in a chaise longue as he sat in his wicker chair and finished his beer.
They watched the sunbathers and swimmers for awhile, and Brodie wondered how many more days, weeks, or months this idyllic scene would play out before Caracas and Venezuela descended into chaos. Someday, maybe soon, those poor bastards in the slums would all decide to head downhill into the city and take what they didn’t have. It would be interesting to see that, but a revolution would put an abrupt end to his mission. In any case, the regime, through the colectivos, seemed to have the slums under control.
Taylor said, “Let’s call the boss.”
“I did.”
She looked at him. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“I was overcome with a desire to hear Dombroski’s voice.” He added, “You can make the next call. Tonight.”
She nodded.
The waiter appeared with two drinks that he set on the table between them; Brodie signed, and the waiter moved off. Brodie eyed the drinks, which had mint sprigs in them. “This is not beer.”
“They’re Mojitos.” She swiveled her legs off the chaise, faced him, picked up her glass, and said, “To a successful operation tonight.”
They touched glasses and he said, “Amen.” He sipped the drink. Awful.
She looked at him. “That’s the second time you called Colonel Dombroski without me