The Deserter (Scott Brodie & Maggie Taylor #1) - Nelson DeMille Page 0,11

but it looks like Hackett’s people have a guy at the Venezuelan Embassy in their pocket and he expedited them yesterday. On paper, you’ve been vaccinated for yellow fever, though you’ll want to do that for real if you end up needing to head to the interior of the country. Also, although you have different last names, you’re married to each other—good luck with that—and you both work as life insurance agents in Alexandria.”

“Do we share a room?”

“That’s up to you and Ms. Taylor. But you’ll book two rooms.”

“Right. And why are we visiting Venezuela?”

“Because you’re stupid.”

Brodie opened the envelope and looked at their visas. They used the same photos that Brodie and Taylor had on their military IDs, but with a combination of cropping and photoshopping to obscure their uniforms. He closed the envelope and slipped it into the pocket of his faux Armani sports coat.

On that subject, Dombroski said, “You’re supposed to be in uniform when reporting to a general in his office.”

Maybe, Brodie thought, he should have worn his uniform to remind General Hackett—and Dombroski—that he’d been an infantryman before this gig, and that he’d been awarded the Bronze Star for valor, the Purple Heart for too much valor, and the Combat Infantry Badge for being there. Even generals showed you a bit more respect when they saw the CIB on your uniform—which neither Hackett nor Dombroski was authorized to wear.

“Brodie?”

“This is my uniform.”

“You make me look bad.”

“If I come back with Mercer in cuffs, you’ll look fine, Colonel.”

Dombroski changed the subject. “You and Taylor worked well together in Kentucky.”

Brodie couldn’t tell if this was a statement or a question. “We did.”

“Except for shooting the mule. But I think we can all agree that was entirely your fault.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know Taylor was CA in Afghanistan.”

CA meant Civil Affairs, specifically the 95th Civil Affairs Brigade out of Fort Bragg. Civil Affairs was the Army’s soft power on the ground, interfacing with the local populace, overseeing public works projects, and, in the case of Afghanistan, navigating the delicate and often messy business of tribal politics. It was tough, dangerous work, and confirmed the old adage that it is harder to build than to destroy.

Brodie, of course, knew Taylor’s history. He wished his superior would get to the point.

“Sometimes,” said Dombroski, “these Stability Ops people get recruited by the Company.”

That was the point. The CIA. That perennial bogeyman of the military and civilian worlds alike. The CIA was everything the Army was not—nebulous and nimble, with a loose command structure and a murky code of ethics. Not to mention a purposely confusing mission statement. This engendered a natural distrust and, in Brodie’s opinion, a lot of unhelpful scapegoating.

Brodie asked, “Are you questioning her loyalty?”

“Of course not. But there were rumors going around about her down at Bragg. About certain entanglements.”

“Like?”

“Like she was screwing a spook.”

Well, thought Brodie, a young unmarried woman ought to be able to screw whoever she wants. But the truth was, while the various military branches and intelligence services were all working toward a common purpose, each of them operated in its own insular world with its own culture, traditions, and prejudices—and when you engaged in extracurricular activities with a member of another tribe, people always noticed, and often judged.

Still, this innuendo was a bit disturbing.

“Colonel, I’m about to fly to a country that might not be a country when I land. I need someone I can count on. You want to assign me a new partner?”

Dombroski shook his head. “She’s fluent in Spanish and she’ll never sleep with you. We better keep her.”

Brodie downed the rest of his beer. “I should be hitting the road. It’s a long drive.”

“It’s less than an hour to Dulles.”

“We’re going to New Jersey to interview Al Simpson.”

“Someone already did that.”

“Not very well,” said Brodie.

Dombroski gave him a long look. Brodie didn’t exactly have a reputation for double-checking his parachute before he jumped.

“This one’s going to be a bitch,” said Dombroski.

“You picked the right man, Colonel.”

“Everybody else turned it down.”

“Anything further, Colonel?”

“Stay in touch with me.”

“I always do.”

“You never do.” He reminded Brodie, “Encrypted communication only. And keep in mind this case is a hot potato.”

“Right.”

“Captain Mercer is a U.S. citizen with constitutional rights, including the right to remain silent and to be represented by legal counsel.”

“I’ll inform him of that before I kick him in the nuts.”

Dombroski smiled, then continued, “Could be that he’s left the country after Simpson spotted him. Or he was just passing through.”

“Could be.”

“Or maybe he