that he had to account for his actions. “Venezuelan air defense systems are good along the coast—gotta fly below eighty feet, lower even—but they can’t cover these valleys that well. We’re fifty miles inland now. We’re fine.”
“Okay,” Court said, but he had no way of knowing if this guy was right or wrong.
The pilot clarified now. “We’re fine, unless we hit that mountain.”
The man was a smartass, Court could see, but he respected that. The flight finally leveled off, they dove down for a minute, and then they leveled again and continued on in silence.
* * *
• • •
It was not yet eleven p.m. when the Cessna 206 Amphibian banked gently to the left, and the pilot pulled back on the power and set the flaps. They flew slower and slower, and Court could tell from the instruments that they were descending, but only when they were less than fifty feet from landing did he see the glassy shine of a large body of water below him.
This was the Agua Fria reservoir, deep in Macarao National Park, just southwest of the city of Caracas. It was secluded, especially at this time of night, but shortly before the plane’s pontoons made contact with the surface, Court saw a light flash on, dead ahead, perhaps a quarter mile distant.
“Is that for us?” Court asked the pilot.
“Why you always gotta talk when I’m concentrating?”
The man didn’t seem worried in the least by the light, so Court dropped it.
The touchdown was smoother than Court expected, especially after the weaving, bumpy flight, and they taxied to a dock with a single light on a pole. The pilot cut the engines and the airplane floated closer, and soon Court saw a lone man appear on the dock out of the darkness. The pilot opened his door, stepped out on the pontoon below his seat, and pulled a rope from a hatch there. He tossed one end of the line to the stranger, and the man just held it in his hands; he didn’t tie it off.
Court hefted his pack over his right shoulder; it was nearly forty pounds of gear but felt much, much heavier due to his sickness. He climbed out of the aircraft and onto the dock, nodded once to the pilot.
“I’ll contact you for extraction.”
There was no reply, and then the man on the dock tossed the line back to the pilot, and the seaplane began floating slowly away from the dock while the pilot stood on the pontoon, pulling one of several gas cans from the rear of the cabin to begin refueling.
Court didn’t wait around. Together he and the other man began walking towards a small Honda four-door.
“Habla Español, amigo?”
“Poco,” Court responded. In fact, he spoke Spanish well enough, but he wasn’t looking for conversation.
“My name is Diego,” the young man said. “I am from Barquisimeto, but I know Caracas well. It will take us forty minutes to get to your destination. It’s not too far.”
“Good,” Court said, and he followed the young man to the lone car parked near the dock.
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
Shit, Court thought. The last guy wouldn’t talk, and this dude won’t shut up.
“Call me Carlos.”
“Carlos?” the Venezuelan said, perplexed. “You are Latino?”
Court didn’t answer, he just kept walking.
“You look like you could be Latino. But you don’t talk like a—”
“I’m not looking to make friends tonight.” Court opened the back door, threw his pack inside, and climbed into the front passenger seat.
The young man didn’t seem hurt by the exchange, but he said nothing else as they began driving through the night.
SEVEN
San Antonio de Los Altos is a hilly, green residential suburb of Caracas, lying just south of the sprawling metropolis and full of upper-class properties laid out among the thick trees and brush, connected with narrow and steeply winding roads.
At two a.m. Court squatted in the thick foliage halfway up one of the hills, smelled the oranges in the trees around him, sweetening the pungent scent emanating from the rotting flora of the rainy season. He wore a uniform of tiger camouflage and a backpack along with black combat boots, and high-tech ear buds that both muffled loud noises and enhanced soft noises. He held binoculars to his eyes as he looked up at a whitewashed Colonial mansion high above him on the sheer hillside.
The large house appeared simultaneously regal and dilapidated, the white walls covered in mold and thick vines, but Court evaluated the building as structurally sound. He had just completed