“We dated for almost a year, then I was deployed to Afghanistan. When I came back, he tried to get things going again, but… I was all grown up and not so easily impressed.”
Right. A student-teacher relationship that went cold after the student went out and saw more of the world. And saw dead people, and heard gunfire, and got hit. Nothing remarkable there. Young Maggie Taylor, a few years out of Georgetown, could be forgiven for falling for an older spy guy who regaled her with tales of combat in the wilds of Afghanistan. Conclusion: Just because Maggie Taylor got in bed with a guy in the CIA didn’t mean she was in bed with the CIA.
She said, “I seem to be paying a high price for a shitty relationship.”
“This is the Army, Ms. Taylor. Shit follows you from duty station to duty station.”
“It’s the part I don’t like about the Army. The gossip and the petty and provincial attitudes.”
“The CIA is more sophisticated. I’m sure Trent’s career took off after he dated you.”
She smiled, then said, “Well, I won’t make that mistake again. My next boyfriend will be a moonshiner from Appalachia.”
Brodie couldn’t picture that. On the other hand, it was possible. People return to their roots. He said to her, “I will advise Colonel Dombroski that we had this conversation and that I am confident that your past relationship was personal and not professional.” He added, for fun, “The opposite of ours.”
She smiled again. “Thank you.”
They both stood, and while Brodie was trying to determine whether this conversation increased or decreased his chances of having sex with Maggie Taylor, she said, “I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to do tonight.”
“You’re driving the getaway car. You’ll have your Glock, all the extra mags, and the Taser and ties in case we can take Mercer on the street.”
“How long do I wait for you and Luis to come out of the Hen House?”
“Luis should be out after he gets me in and asks to use the baño.” He added, “I may take a bit longer. Let’s say an hour.”
“And then what? Our cell phones are no good up there.”
“You should use the sat phone to call Worley.”
“What can he do?”
“Nothing. But he’d enjoy telling you that on the phone.”
“Scott, I can’t just wait outside, worrying—”
“You can’t come in.”
She looked at him. “I remember one of the first things I learned in the Army—a soldier is a person who runs toward gunfire, not away from it.”
“Let’s not keep Luis waiting. Lobby, ten minutes.”
They went through the doors of their separate rooms.
Well, thought Brodie, what had started in General Hackett’s office could end tonight. He’d had a bad feeling about this case in Quantico, and a couple days in Caracas hadn’t made him feel any better. But now he’d come to the conclusion that Captain Mercer’s bizarre desertion was just the proverbial tip of a big iceberg that stretched across the chain of command. An interesting case had become more interesting.
As for Maggie Taylor, he was glad he’d cleared the air on that. And yet… there were still a few things that seemed off—including her deductive reasoning, based on nothing. Except maybe a guilty conscience. Could be she’d worked for the CIA in Afghanistan, as some Civil Affairs people did. But why the involved story about Trent? As Brodie had learned on this job, only people who lie go into unnecessary detail.
Colonel Dombroski didn’t spread rumors; he gave reliable information. Then it was up to his agents to analyze and come to conclusions. To come to the truth.
CHAPTER 28
Brodie and Taylor waited at the front entrance to their hotel. It was 7:10 P.M. and there was no sign of Luis in the rental car.
Taylor said, “Maybe he’s stuck in traffic.”
Brodie pointed out, “There is no traffic in Caracas after dark.”
“Maybe he got robbed by the police.”
“That’s more likely.” Or, Brodie thought, Luis had reconsidered tonight’s job. But he’d have called or texted. Sorry, Señor Brodie, you’re crazy and I’m not.
Brodie rolled back his shirt cuffs. He had been on dozens of undercover assignments and he could usually match his attire to the part he was playing. But he hadn’t known he was going to be a scumbag sex tourist when he packed, so he’d had to improvise from his limited travel wardrobe, and he wore black slacks, loafers, and an untucked baby blue dress shirt, half-buttoned to show his chest hair. His Glock, which he would give to