“It’s also shot to shit,” Taylor reminded him.
“It looks like every other car in Caracas.”
Luis thoughtthatwas funny and added, “The hotel doorman will not even notice.”
“Good one,” said Brodie. He said to Taylor, “Are you rolling your eyes?”
“You know I am.”
They cruised slowly through the darkened streets of Altamira, looking for a place to dump the Mitsubishi. Luis suggested, “There is a no longer used petrol station… if you turn here.”
Taylor turned onto a side street, and ahead was an abandoned gas station. She pulled in and drove behind the deserted service building, shutoff the engine and the lights, and pulled out the key. Then she leaned over and took the rental papers and the satellite phone out of the glove compartment.
They all exited the car and Brodie examined the damage, which included holes in the windshield and rear window, and maybe six or seven holes in the car’s skin. He said to Taylor, “In Iraq we used to circle the bullet holes in the shot-up vehicles and choppers with yellow chalk, then connect the dots to spell out something, like ‘Holy Shit.’?” He asked, “You do that in Afghanistan?”
Taylor looked at him, but said nothing.
“Time to get serious.” Brodie said to Taylor, “Put the key back in the ignition. Someone will steal this car before the sun rises, they’ll take it to a body shop, and it’ll be on the road with a new paint job before lunch.”
Taylor hesitated, but Luis said, “This is true, señora.”
She nodded and put the key back in the ignition.
“And last but not least,” said Brodie, “we need to get the plates off.” He opened the trunk and took out the lug wrench, which he used to pry off the front and rear plates. He took the rental papers from Taylor and said, “Wait here.” He went around to the front of the building, found a storm drain in the road, and dropped the plates into the drain, then shredded the rental papers and did the same. In CID training they didn’t teach you how to cover your tracks, but after ten years of seeing how criminals did it—or tried to do it—he’d learned most of the tricks.
As he walked back toward the service building, he passed beneath a tall, darkened pylon sign featuring the PDVSA logo, indicating that this had once been a state-run fueling station. The gas pumps were gone, and the service building and attached convenience store looked like they’d been stripped of anything worth stealing.
Taylor had told Brodie on the flight over that Maduro had recently turned over control of PDVSA to military officials in order to cement their loyalty. But according to Luis, Venezuela couldn’t even pump and refine enough crude to meet domestic demand, so maybe having a piece of PDVSA wasn’t worth as much as it used to be—and maybe the generals were getting restless. This place was so bankrupt and fucked-up that even the corruption wasn’t working.
He thought about General Gomez, who was hanging out in a brothel in the slums run by a colectivo gang with strong ties to the regime, and about Gomez meeting with an American Army deserter who had renounced his loyalty to his country. What was that all about? Was Gomez looking for help in staging a coup? Or help in trying to prevent one? Or something else? And how did this relate to Kyle Mercer’s motive for being in this country? That was one of the questions Brodie had been told to avoid but was determined to answer.
He returned to the car behind the service building, and they set off on the four-block walk to the El Dorado, just three people with guns strolling the dead streets on a hot summer night.
They kept their eyes open and their ears tuned to potential dangers as they walked. It would look pretty dumb, Brodie thought, to get mugged in Altamira after surviving a firefight in Petare. They passed an empty city park with a playground, and then what looked like an expensive restaurant protected by a guard with a pump-action shotgun. Brodie had been in a lot of dangerous cities around the world, but Caracas scared him. He actually looked forward to a trip to the jungle.
They reached the El Dorado, and the security guards both became alert as the three figures approached on foot.
As they got closer, Taylor said, “Buenas noches.” The guards must have recognized them, because one of them punched a code into the keypad and the security gate swung open. The guards looked at them quizzically, especially at Luis and his bruised face, but gave polite nods as the three of them walked through the gates.
They walked up the roundabout to the front entrance where Tito was still working the door. He smiled at them, probably surprised to see them alive. “Good evening, señora, señores.”
“Good evening,” replied Taylor. She said to Brodie, “I’ll run up to the room and get something for Luis.” She went into the hotel.
Brodie turned to Tito. “We need a taxi to take our driver home.”
Tito looked at Luis, probably wondering what had happened to the man’s crappy car, not to mention his face. “Certainly… and how was your evening?”
“Exciting,” said Brodie. “We were carjacked.”
Tito did his best to look shocked. “I am so very sorry, señor. May I have the hotel contact the police?”
“The police are the ones who carjacked us.”
Tito didn’t know if the American was joking or just reporting, so he didn’t reply. He blew his whistle and waved over a cab.
As the cab pulled up Brodie and Luis walked out of earshot of the English-speaking doorman. Brodie said to Luis, “You did well tonight, amigo.”
“Gracias.”
