in Taliban captivity could do to fuck up your head and your allegiances?
Carmen was looking at him. “So you’re an Army guy too?”
“Yes.”
“You with Señor Kyle in the war?”
“Different war. Same shit.”
Carmen gave him a look. She finished her cigarette, stubbed it in an ashtray on the table, and lit up another.
Brodie asked, “Did you ever overhear a conversation between Señor Kyle and any of these colectivo or regime people?”
“No… but one night, he’s with me and we do what we do, and after, he tells me he needs the room and I need to leave. I say okay. This is not something we are supposed to do with clients, but Señor Kyle is different and I understand this. I get dressed, leave to go to the lounge. And on my way down the hall, I pass this old guy I been seeing around lately. Dark-skinned guy. Last few weeks I notice him, sits at the bar alone sometimes, doesn’t say much, never had him as a customer but a couple of the other girls did. So I pass him in the hall and he just glare at me and then I turn and I see him go into my room. I go to the lounge, I ask Carlo, who the fuck is that guy anyway? Carlo tells me to shut the fuck up and mind my own business. But I am curious, so I sit at the bar and ask Amando, the bartender, and he says this guy is an officer in the army, a general. Amando recognizes him from the TV and newspapers. General Gomez.”
That sort of surprised Brodie. A general. But as Brodie had suspected, Mercer was a regular here and used this place as a kind of hideout and hangout. Rick’s Café with hookers. But more than that, it was a base of operations of some kind for Captain Mercer, and he had apparently insinuated himself with the local power. What the hell was he up to?
Brodie asked, “Did you ask Señor Kyle about his visitor?”
She shook her head. “He wouldn’t tell me if I did.”
More footsteps in the hallway. Carmen stared at the door to the room, then at Brodie’s AK leaning against the wall. She asked, “Where you get that?”
“Dick’s Sporting Goods.”
Carmen seemed confused by that. She was now looking at Luis’ battered face as he started pacing nervously between the door and the far wall, and she was putting together the fact that these two guys had already raided the Hen House before coming into this room.
She said, “If Carlo find out I’m talking to a yanqui about Señor Kyle, he’s gonna kill me.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.” His witness was getting jumpy. Time to cut to the chase. “Do you know where Señor Kyle is now?”
She nodded. “Sí. I went with him.”
Brodie leaned forward in his chair. Jackpot. Witnesses often bury the lede. “Where did you go with him?”
“The jungle.”
“What jungle?”
Carmen shrugged, took another drag. “I don’t know, the fucking jungle.”
“When was this?”
“Same night as General Gomez, who leave thirty minutes after he comes. Then Señor Kyle comes out and tells me he paid Carlo to take me on a trip for a week. Sometimes I have clients, you know, like, rich guys, who pay extra to take me to a hotel or wherever overnight. But he says a week, we’re leaving Caracas. Won’t tell me where.”
“And what did you say?”
“It’s not for me to say. Guy wants to pay for seven days, twenty-four hours, and you say no? Then I’d be fucked. Also, you know, I liked him.”
She said that last part as if her opinion of Señor Kyle had since changed. Brodie asked, “So you went to the jungle?”
“Sí. We fly. I collect my things, we get in a car with a driver and go to La Carlota Airport.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s, like, in Caracas. Not far, small airport. The official name is Francisco de Miranda.”
Brodie nodded. That was at least one hunch confirmed.
She continued, “We got to the airport. I’m excited, I never leave Caracas before. We get on a little plane with a pilot and he takes off. I don’t know where the fuck we’re going and Señor Kyle is very quiet.”
Señor Kyle was sounding like the strong, silent type. “What kind of plane was it?”