Brodie scanned the room for anything else and spotted the briefcase that Worley had given them, sitting on the desk. He opened it.
She assured him, “I checked it. It’s empty.”
“Worley wanted this left at the front desk.”
“I think he expected things to be in it.”
“Right.” Brodie retrieved a foil-wrapped condom from his overnight bag and threw it in the briefcase. “Do you think he’ll understand that means ‘fuck you’?”
“Don’t provoke him, Scott.”
“It’s lubricated.” He closed the briefcase and spun the combination wheels to lock it.
He saw that the TV was on, though it was muted. “Anything interesting on ‘Good Morning Venezuela’?”
“I was flipping through the news shows to see if there was anything about last night.”
He didn’t think that his failure to get laid last night was that newsworthy.
She said, “Nothing about the shooting in Petare.”
“Good.”
“How could that not make the news?”
“The Hen House is under the protection of the regime and the colectivos, and dead customers are bad for business.”
She nodded.
“But you can be sure Kyle Mercer knows about it.”
Again, she nodded. “I hope Carmen keeps her mouth shut about what she told you.”
“Me too.”
“All right… ready?”
Brodie took the briefcase and his overnight bag and Taylor grabbed her bag, then they exited the suite, checking that theNo Molestartags were hanging on all three doors. Brodie checked his watch: 2:25A.M.
On the ride down, Brodie said, “Keep an eye out for Worley or his minions. Also, don’t forget we may be the subject of a police manhunt.”
She nodded.
“Where’s your Glock?”
She patted the pocket of her cargo pants.
“Follow my lead if we’re stopped by anyone.”
“Does that mean you have no plan?”
“I plan to be on that plane.”
The elevator doors opened and they stepped into the deserted lobby, checked it out, then walked quickly to the front desk.
Brodie put the briefcase on the counter and said to the clerk, “This is for Señor Brendan Worley, who will send someone from the American Embassy to pick it up.”
“Sí, señor.” He gave Brodie a piece of hotel stationery and a pen, and Brodie wrote Worley’s name and his own name and room number, then wrote,Foxtrot Uniform, which in the military phonetic alphabet wasFU, which, if carefully decoded, meant “Fuck you.”
