“Just tell your driver to take Route Nine off Francisco Fajardo, south until it becomes Route One. Then you will call me. I will give you the rest of the directions to the airstrip and the pilot’s sat phone number at that time.”
Brodie said, to him, “We need this info now, Colonel. Just in case you don’t hear your phone ring in a noisy nightclub.”
“I will be waiting for your call tonight in a quiet place, where I will have phone service, and you will tell me if you have Captain Mercer in custody. If I don’t hear from you, I will assume you are both in someone else’s custody, or dead.” He added, “The location of this airstrip and the pilot’s number are both need-to-know, and you don’t need to know until you have Mercer.”
Brodie understood that, but he was concerned that the operation could hit a wall at the goal line. He pictured himself and Taylor in Luis’ car with Mercer tied up in the trunk, speeding out of Petare, maybe with the National Guard or MBR-200 on their tail, trying to find Route 9 in the dark while listening to Worley’s phone message: The party you have reached is screwing a señorita and can’t take your call now.
Brodie thought about calling Dombroski to have him contact the embassy attaché office, but when it came to the subject of covert airfields and flying Otters, Brendan Worley might be the top authority.
Brodie looked at Worley. “Okay. But with all due respect, Colonel, if you screw this up tonight, I will see that you are held responsible. In fact, I will personally deliver to you some non-judicial punishment.”
Worley lifted his aviators and stared at Brodie for a long time, then said, “This is all moot. You know why? Because you have close to zero chance of arresting Mercer tonight, and a much better chance of getting yourself and Ms. Taylor killed.” He added, “I would advise you to file a report with your superior congratulating yourselves on finding the brothel, but also stating that Captain Mercer has apparently fled to an unknown location. Then go home.” He looked at both of them. “I give you this advice because I like you. Also, if you get killed, the embassy will have a ton of paperwork to fill out.”
Brodie replied, “We will call you tonight for the information you are withholding.”
Worley did not reply.
The waitress returned with their Venezuela Libres. Worley took his and said, “It’s a Cuba Libre, plus gin and bitters.” He continued, “The Cuba Libre was first mixed during the Spanish-American War to commemorate Cuban independence. Cuba is no longer free, but it will be again, and so will Venezuela.” He raised his glass. “To a free Cuba and a free Venezuela.”
Brodie was happy he could agree with Worley on something. He took a sip. Not bad. But it might be better if he arrived at the Hen House sober, so he put the drink down on a side table, as did Taylor.
Worley gestured toward the ocean, where the late afternoon sun was glinting over the placid waters of the Caribbean. “I came here to see a Venezuelan friend off on his journey. He’s in one of those yachts out there. He’s a top petroleum engineer, worked all over the world but came back to his mother country to help modernize the oil refineries. A couple of days ago, someone shot through his daughter’s bedroom window, and that was the last straw. He’s taking the family to Argentina.” He took a long drink, watched the water. “People focus on the runaway inflation, the crime and corruption. A country can bounce back from those things. But losing its best people, that outflow of human capital, can take generations to recover from. You’ve got thousands of Venezuelans fleeing across the Colombian and Brazilian borders every day. This is not just a brain drain. It’s a diaspora.”
Well, that was bleak. Brodie thought of their cabdriver, Ramón, who totally bought the regime’s bullshit. Or maybe he just found it easier to hate the rich and the Americans than to hate the assholes he’d voted for who had taken away his freedom and his dignity.
Brodie glanced at his watch: 4:50 P.M. Time to get back to the hotel and get ready for Luis at 7 P.M. He glanced at Taylor, who seemed in no hurry to leave. In fact, she said to Worley, “What was the worst posting you’ve ever had?”