Collins laughed. “Yeah.”
Well, thought Brodie, it was good to know he had an alternative sat phone if he needed it. With luck, his first and last call to Colonel Dombroski would be: “Mission accomplished. Meet us in Bogotá.” And maybe a side call to Worley: “Foxtrot uniform.”
The Cessna flew on into the dark night, a speck of metal and electronics alone in the cold, endless void of time and space.
Collins asked, “Are you with a tour group?”
“No.”
“People usually travel down there with tour groups. In fact, it’s almost mandatory.”
“No one mentioned that.”
“Do you at least have a tour guide?”
“No. But I’m sure we can find one in Kavak.”
“Yeah… you should be able to.” He advised, “You shouldn’t go into the jungle alone.”
“Really?”
“It’s, like, dangerous. People get lost, and there’s no rescue units to find you.”
“I’m pretty good at land navigation.” He added, “Moss grows on the north side of the tree.”
“Yeah, but… the biggest danger is people. Like, drug runners, banditos. Then you have the indigenous people, who are usually okay, but sometimes they’re not.”
“We have Señor Glock to protect us.”
Collins didn’t reply to that, but said, “I wouldn’t take”—he cocked his head toward the rear—“a beautiful woman into that jungle.”
“Would you like to come with us?”
“Hell, no.” He added, “To be honest, I don’t even want to stay in Kavak overnight.”
“We’ll all sleep together.”
Again, Captain Collins had no reply, but he was probably hoping his passenger wasn’t joking, and also wondering who Mr. and Mrs. Bowman actually were. In fact, he asked, “How long have you been bird-watching?”
“Not too long.”
“I don’t get the thrill of that.”
“Me neither. I do it for my wife.”
Collins nodded. “Yeah. The things we do.”
“Tell me about it.”
Brodie wanted to feel Collins out about doing something good for hiscountry—like flying from Kavak to Bogotá with a hog-tied criminal in the cabin—but they needed to bond more. So after they refueled in Ciudad Bolívar and were close to landing in Kavak, Brodie would make his pitch. Recruiting the locals was a matter of money; recruiting American expats, as he’d discovered, was usually a matter of flag-waving.
Ironically, no one was more patriotic than an expat. But the timing had to be right. Or the caliber of the gun you pulled had to be big. Money helped too.
The important thing was that Captain Collins—who by now was thinking that he didn’t have bird-watchers aboard—knew that Mr. and Mrs. Bowman were not engaged in criminal activity. Brodie asked, “You ex-military?”
“No. Thought about it, though.”
“My wife and I served. Iraq and Afghanistan.”
