be like their Bay of Pigs, their Vietnam, their Iraq and Afghanistan.”
Brodie said to Taylor, “You should rejoin the Ninety-Sixth Civil Affairs Battalion. I see a career opportunity here.”
Taylor said something to Gustavo in Spanish, then told Brodie, “I told him I’m tired and want to sleep.”
Well, that was a nice way of shutting him up. Brodie had considered pulling his Glock. But Taylor took a softer approach. Good cop, bad cop. They made a great team.
He looked at Taylor, who was already feigning sleep, then gazed out the window as they drove along the coastal road, then cut south through the mountains. The sun sat low, casting long shadows over the dense trees carpeting the mountainside, and in the distance Brodie could see the shimmering glass and steel towers of the Caracas skyline.
Venezuela sucked. But it hadn’t always sucked. Not so long ago this had been a functioning democracy, a church- and family-oriented society. He thought of Luis, and of the pleasant staff in the hotel, and he remembered Miss Venezuela, of course, and the citizens on the streets who looked normal, though frightened. He also recalled the dumpster divers, the queue at the supermarket, and the downtrodden denizens of Petare who were one meal away from starvation. He also thought of the Chavistas in Plaza Bolívar, the predatory police, the thug at airport customs, the National Guardsmen, and the sick people at the health clinic controlled by MBR-200.
It seemed to him that Venezuela was a place where the worst elements of humanity had defeated civilization. He’d seen this in other countries, and it was as depressing as it was frightening. And what was even more depressing were the useful idiots like Gustavo and Ramón, who were not evil—they were true believers, deaf, dumb, and blind to the evil around them. Or maybe they were cowed.
Fear. This was a country that was gripped by fear.
If Kyle Mercer, who spoke some Spanish, was looking for a Spanish-speaking country to settle in, Brodie could think of a dozen other not quite so fucked-up places in South and Central America to make money and disappear. Therefore… Mercer had come here for another reason. Criminals on the run usually go where they know someone who can help them—a friend or relative. Or they go someplace to settle a score. But once the score is settled, they leave.
The car descended into the Caracas Valley. A haze hung over the city, making the surrounding hillside slums seem spectral in the fading light.
As the taxi approached the El Dorado, Gustavo said, “If I go through the security, the guards want a tip from me.” He added, “What you call a shakedown.”
Taylor sat up and said, “Pull over. We’ll get out here.”
Gustavo pulled over. Brodie paid the fare in bolívars, sin tip, and said to Gustavo, “You need to tell the guards to go fuck themselves.”
“Señor?”
“This whole country needs to stop putting up with this shit.”
Gustavo had no response.
Taylor took Brodie’s arm and led him toward the gate, saying, “Sometimes you surprise me when you get angry at social injustice.”
“I surprise myself.” He added, “My parents were hippies. Peace, love, and justice. Must have rubbed off.”
“I won’t tell.”
* * *
Back in their suite, they sat in the living room across from each other, eating junk from the minibar and drinking the local high-octane cola, which might have been made with the real thing.
Brodie asked, “Okay, what’s your take on Colonel Worley?”
Taylor thought a moment. “He’s a drunk. But we need him, and I believe in the end he’ll come through, despite his posturing.”
Brodie nodded. Cases involving Intel or Special Operations tended to get complicated because in those worlds there were lots of valid reasons to keep secrets. So when Brodie ran into deceptions and obstruction—which would normally hint at criminal wrongdoing—he knew these lies and refusals to provide answers were just a part of doing business. As Brendan Worley made clear. Brodie said to Taylor, “He advised us to go home.”
“He’s the one who should go home. He’s burned-out.”
“I think he’s concerned about what we could discover if we had Captain Mercer in our custody. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Colonel Worley’s military Intel people were also looking for Mercer now that they know he’s here.”
Taylor thought about that but didn’t reply.
It often happened that the spooks and the cops were looking for the same suspect, but for different reasons—and to deliver different methods of justice. Intel guys generally didn’t have the power to arrest,