“Should we call him?”
“I’m sure he wasn’t paying attention.”
“Were you?”
“I resent the implications of that question.” He added, “Let me remind you that you’re addressing a superior officer.”
She started to reply, then said, “I apologize.”
“Accepted.” Brodie took a swig of his drink. “Kavak. Doesn’t sound Spanish. Sounds Polish.”
“It’s an indigenous name.”
“Carmen said there were Indians down there.”
“We say ‘indigenous people.’?”
“Right.” Brodie thought about his hippie mother, who’d populated a whole room of their farmhouse with questionable “indigenous art” she picked up from local thrift shops. She’d probably owned more Native American buckskin dresses than any other white lady in the tristate area, back when Native Americans were still Indians and no one had yet coined the term “cultural appropriation.”
“I need a drink.” He stood and went to the bar.
As he was pouring another rum, Taylor asked, “Did you check your room messages?”
“I did not.”
“Well, I checked mine. Brendan Worley wants you to call him.”
“Can I freshen your drink?”
“No. And I also have a voice mail and text message from him.”
“Persistent little shit, isn’t he?”
“I’m sure he also called your cell.”
“It’s off.”
“You want me to call him?”
“I told him I’d call him after I speak to Dombroski. Brendan doesn’t listen well.”
“He may come to the hotel.”
“We are not accepting visitors.” Brodie picked up the phone on the bar, dialed the front desk, and told them that he and Ms. Taylor were not in for visitors or phone calls. He added, “We’re indisposed,” hinting that they were in the sack.
When he hung up, Taylor reminded Brodie, “We may need Worley later.”
“At this point, the only thing he will help us with is leaving the country.”
“He has to offer assistance if we ask.”
“We’re not asking. And you can be sure he’s been on the phone with Dombroski or someone higher up, making the case that you and I have become a danger to ourselves and others, and that we need to exit quickly for our own safety and for the good of the mission, and so forth.”
Taylor thought about that and asked, “Do you think we’ll get pulled?”
Brodie brought his drink back to the couch, sat, and stared at the map.
“Scott?”
