“So who is paying for the beans, bandages, and bullets?”
Maybe General Gomez. Were Gomez and Mercer involved in a coup against the regime? Or had Gomez hired Mercer to hunt down anti-regime insurgents? Brodie hadn’t briefed Taylor on Carmen’s mention of General Gomez, so he replied, “In my experience with paramilitary and insurgent groups in Iraq, I learned that many of these groups are self-funded. They deal drugs, rob banks, raid military armories, steal oil, and even impose taxes. Sort of like politicians. So, given what we know about Kyle Mercer, I have no doubt that he takes what he needs.” He added, “And/or, he’s being backed by General Gomez.”
“Who is General Gomez?”
“Well, according to my witness, he’s a Venezuelan general who visited Kyle Mercer in the Hen House.”
“All right… let’s see what we get on him.” Taylor began typing on her tablet while Brodie went to the bar.
Taylor called out to him, “You’re on duty, Mr. Brodie.”
“You’reon duty. I’m celebrating.”
“You need to call Dombroski.”
“Right. I’ll make it a double.” He poured one mini bottle of rum into his glass, added the local high-test cola, and took a seat on the couch opposite Taylor.
She glanced up from her tablet. “I found a General Ricardo Gomez. Did you get his first name?”
“No.”
“Well… how many General Gomezes can there be in the Venezuelan Army?”
“Probably twenty, and they’re all related. What does it say?”
“Not much—just his CV. Born in Caracas, fifty-six years old…”
“Photo? For Carmen to ID?”
“No. And you’ll never see Carmen again, Brodie.”
“Right. Okay, political affiliation? Chavista?”
“Doesn’t say… but here’s something: He took a junior officer leadership course at Fort Benning… back in 1986… looks like we trained this guy.”
“Interesting.” The American Army trained a lot of foreign officers at Benning, Carlisle Barracks, and other installations, at U.S. taxpayer expense. The concept was sound: to instill in these officers—most of whom were from underdeveloped allied countries—U.S. Army discipline, values, and leadership skills, which they could take home and hopefully remember. Also hopefully, these officers would be grateful and think kindly of America and the U.S. Army, and they’d somehow show their gratitude if and when America needed the help of their pisspot military for something. And maybe one of these guys would become El Presidente. It sort of worked, now and then. But often it didn’t—especially when the country whose officers were being trained went from ally to enemy, as Venezuela had. Then the U.S. Army had created little Frankenstein monsters that could be a problem in a future conflict. Unless, of course, these American-trained officers still harbored a secret affection for the United States.
So, who and what was General Gomez? A gringo-loving, anti-regime plotter? Or just another Venezuelan general whose loyalty was bought and paid for by the regime? And what did this general have to do with Kyle Mercer? That was the question. He asked Taylor, “Anything else?”
“Not much. You can read it yourself.” She handed the tablet to him.
Brodie glanced at the short bio. As with most public figures in troubled countries, there wasn’t much info online—no home address where he could be found and assassinated, no mention of a wife or children who could be kidnapped. Brodie said, “No mention of the Hen House.” He handed the tablet back to Taylor.
“I’m sure military Intel has good info on him.” She suggested, “We’ll ask Dombroski to run a search on him.”
Brodie didn’t reply.
She looked at him. “Is this something else you’re going to keep from our superior officer?”
“Maybe.”
“Scott—”
“When you ask questions, you alert people that you know something. And maybe this is something we are not supposed to know.”
“Scott… look at me.”
“That’s easy.”
