“You make the mistake of making an assumption. How do you know I didn’t call him ten times?”
“Scott, cut the shit.”
“All right. When I was briefed by him in Quantico, he passed on to me privileged information. Need-to-know stuff. And you don’t have a need to know, so he and I need to speak in private.”
“What do you need to know that I don’t need to know?”
“If I told you, then I’d be disobeying orders.”
“I am your partner.”
“This is standard procedure.” He put down his drink and asked, “Are you in contact with anyone I don’t know about?”
“No.”
“Do you know something I don’t know? Other than how to speak Spanish?”
“I don’t like this conversation.”
“Then let it go.”
She stood and took off her wrap, revealing a white bikini that looked like it was made from dental floss. In fact, she was nearly naked. Did she know what she was doing to him? Of course she did.
“I’m going for a swim.”
“Don’t get dragged down by your bathing suit.”
She walked to the edge of the pool and dived in.
Brodie watched her as she swam the length of the pool. She seemed to be a strong swimmer, which might come in handy if they wound up swimming to Aruba, which reminded him to call Worley about transportation.
He took out the sat phone and dialed Worley, who answered and said, “Mr. Brodie. Enjoying Caracas?”
“Not even slightly.”
“It grows on you.”
“So does toe fungus.”
Worley chuckled, then asked, “Was Raúl helpful?”
“What did he tell you?”
“We haven’t spoken.”
Brodie didn’t reply.
“So what can I do for you?”
“There’s a chance that we will have our suspect in custody tonight.”
“Excellent.”
“If we do, I need to know where I’m taking him.”
“That’s not a phone conversation.”
“I thought this line was secure.”
“It is. Until it isn’t.”
“Okay, then we need to meet. Are you at the embassy?”
“Actually, I’m at the Marina Grande Yacht Club. You can meet me here. I’ll give the Bowmans’ names to security.”
Brodie was happy to discover that Brendan Worley was working hard on behalf of the American taxpayer at a yacht club. Although, given the breakdown in relations between the two countries, the new directive from Washington might have been: Put your feet up, have a drink, and watch Caracas burn.
Worley asked, “Where are you now?”
“We’re at the El Dorado rooftop pool.”
“Good for you. And is Ms. Taylor with you now?”
“No. She’s signed up for tango lessons.”
Again, Worley chuckled, then said, “I understand that Luis was moonlighting for you today.”
“Correct. And you need to inform your consulate people that he and his family need tourist visas.”
“We can discuss.”
“Nothing to discuss.”
“All right… See if you can be here in an hour.” He added, “I have another meeting at five.”
Probably with Señor Martini. “See you later.” Brodie hung up, stood, and watched Taylor as she did a backstroke down the length of the pool, aided by her God-given flotation devices.
He signaled the waiter and ordered another beer, then looked at the city. Tall palms swayed in the breeze, and from up here Caracas looked good. He could see how Venezuela used to be a major international tourist destination in decades past, competing with the Caribbean islands, and calling itself “The Country in the Caribbean.” Those days were over and he didn’t think they would return in his lifetime—which actually might be shorter than that shown in a life-expectancy chart.
Taylor climbed out of the pool and ran her hand through her slicked-back blonde hair. The sun was behind her and cast her in a gold-hued glow. Brodie suddenly felt that he was in a James Bond movie and that Maggie Taylor, like all of Bond’s femmes fatales, was going to be his downfall. But first, he had to sleep with her.
A pool boy handed her a towel and she dried herself as she walked toward the cabana. She stood in the sunlight, soaking up the rays on her perfect body. Brodie, remembering a Bond film, said to her, “Something big has come up.”
She toweled her hair. “What?”
“I called Dick Worley—”
“Brendan Worley.”
“Right. We have a meeting with him. To discuss our transportation out of here.”
“Okay. Good. Where and when?”
“He’s at a yacht club. We need to cut short our R&R.”
“So I don’t get to see you in your Speedo?”
Brodie smiled.
The waiter returned with Brodie’s beer and Taylor sat at the edge of her lounge chair and finished her Mojito. “Can I have yours?”
“Sure.” He drank his beer out of the bottle. They sat in silence, enjoying the moment. A big blue heron landed on the