“Scott—”
“I do not want him telling me—us—what to do. Or what not to do.” He explained, “I would never disobey a direct order, and I don’t have time to argue with him. So this is the way to avoid all that.” He confessed, “I do this all the time. You should too.”
“Thanks for sharing, but—”
“Here’s another piece of advice: You can be half as obedient as the next guy if you’re twice as competent.”
“Not to mention arrogant.”
“And I deliver what I’m asked to deliver. Also, don’t forget that Worley has gotten Dombroski’s ear, and Worley is looking for our signal. Make the call—or give me the phone.”
She hesitated, then dialed the message line number and entered the four-digit code for Colonel Dombroski’s private mailbox.
Brodie reduced the throttle and listened as Taylor had a one-way conversation with the mailbox. She began by identifying herself; then, as per training, she gave their present location—in a boat, on an unnamed river, heading southeast from the village of Kavak. She remembered that place names needed to be spelled phonetically—Kilo, Alpha, Victor, Alpha, Kilo, which was correct even if she spelled it backward. She also read off their lat long from the satellite phone. She then backtracked to Francisco de Miranda Airport in Caracas, Apex, Captain John F. Collins, Ciudad Bolívar and Tomás de Heres Airport, and the aerial recon over Kavak.
Military reports were notorious for burying the lede, which in this case was the possible nearby location of Captain Mercer’s jungle camp, and Taylor finally got to that, citing the testimony of Mercer’s girlfriend, the cocktail waitress in the whorehouse, who, Taylor reported, had not actually accompanied them to Kavak.
Brodie was impressed with his partner’s reporting skills, but she’d been on the phone about three minutes, and he pictured the commo wonks at the embassy trying to pinpoint the signal.
Taylor relayed their intention to recon by boat, gather actionable Intel, then fly to Bogotá with Captain Collins—ETA, late afternoon or early evening.
Brodie would also like to have Captain Mercer onboard, but the odds of that happening were slim to none. The odds of Captain Mercer apprehending them, however, were better, which was why Dombroski had to know all this for his missing agents report.
Brodie said to Taylor, “Tell him to text our cells with the name and cell number of our embassy contact in Bogotá, and we’ll retrieve the text when we get there.”
Taylor relayed Brodie’s message, then advised, “We are shutting off the sat phone to save battery, but we will—”
“Ask him not to share any of these details with Worley.”
Taylor also relayed that to the voice mailbox, then concluded, “We will call you by sat phone from the plane when we’re in the air—in about three or four hours.” She ended the call and shut off the phone.
Brodie glanced at his watch. About five minutes. Enough time forWorley to fix their latitude and longitude if the embassy commo people were actively searching for their loaned—now stolen—satellite phone. Well, if he had called Dombroski directly, they’d still be talking—or it would have been a very short conversation, ending with Dombroski ordering him to turn around and get out of there. He said to Taylor, “That was very good.”
She didn’t reply, and he recalled that she took compliments as patronizing. He’d have to remember that if they ever made it to bed.
She said, “I forgot to tell him this boat trip was your idea.”
She’d also forgotten to tell him that his agents almost had sex last night. Dombroski would want to know. He said, “What you forgot was our personal threat assessment—Kyle Mercer’s connection to Kavak, and possible SEBIN interest in us via the Hen House incident. Maybe even Worley’s meddling in this CID case.”
“He already knows that. Also, threat assessments can sound… like you feel threatened.”
“Don’t you?”
“I’m not stupid. But there’s nothing Dombroski can do for us at this time.” She reminded him, “This was your idea. Not his.”
“Correct.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve been on the river fifteen minutes and I haven’t seen a shrunken head yet.”
“I’m looking at one.”
“That’s just the swelling going down. Okay, let’s do a reality check in fifteen minutes.”
“You’re calling the tune, Mr. Brodie. I’m just humming along.”
He smiled at her. Well, he’d played chicken with lots of guys in Iraq, and a few men in CID, but never with a woman. She had cojones. Plus she was probably a little pissed at him, which was good motivation. If things went south, she’d enjoy saying “I told you so.” They all do. More importantly, they both needed to focus on the mission. The problem was, the mission had become as murky as the river.
He watched her as she shot a few pictures of the riverbanks, then one of him piloting the boat, which he hoped showed his steely-eyed determination. They could use that photo in the debrief in Bogotá. Also in General Hackett’s office.
She said, “We should call Collins to tell him where we are.”
