So, yet another moment of decision.
He had a vision of himself and Taylor, back in General Hackett’s office, trying to explain why he went into the Hen House against Colonel Dombroski’s advice, and then the subsequent shoot-out that not only left dead bodies behind, but also probably alerted their fugitive that people werelooking for him. Even harder to explain was Brodie cutting off Worley, their embassy contact, without providing convincing evidence to General Hackett that Worley was part of the problem. Hardest to explain would be his withholding of some key information from Colonel Dombroski, who would be there in the general’s office. So far, Brodie had taken a lot of big risks with not enough rewards to ensure his continued employment.
“Scott?”
“Well… I say push on.”
Taylor went back to her cell phone and pulled up a few more photos. “Okay, I see a place… a few hundred meters farther, where the trees recede from the riverbank… sort of a mudflat.”
“Good. Let’s check it out.”
“All right… Before we get to the mudflat, I see that thatched roof that Collins said was a Pemón fishing platform.”
“Okay. That’s a good landmark for the drones.” He added, “We’ll get the coordinates of the mudflat from the sat phone. Mission accomplished.”
She looked at him. “You’ve lowered your mission goals.”
“Close enough for government work. Now that I’m actually here, I see there is no way we can snatch our fugitive and get him on the plane.”
“I’m not even sure we can get ourselves on that plane.”
“Collins is still there. But I’m not sure who else is in Kavak with him. Maybe waiting for us.”
She thought about that, then said, “There’s always Worley.”
“That may be our next and last play. Meanwhile, call our pilot.”
Taylor called again, but again there was no answer. That would be a long shower, but maybe not a long nap. Or Collins had gone out to take a crap and a cougar ate him. Brodie said, “Most likely he’s sitting someplace—or sleeping—where he doesn’t have clear sky. That’s what happens when you hire an amateur.”
She nodded. “The cute ones are always stupid.”
Brodie smiled. He said, “When shit happens, you turn it into fertilizer for your tree of knowledge.”
“I’ll pass that on to my next partner.”
“Tell him where it came from.”
Brodie raised his binoculars and looked up the river. A gray and whitebird plunged into the water and took off with a large silver fish in its beak. A snatch job should be that easy.
His mind returned to Uncle Reggie in the Mekong Delta. The Vietnam War had been an abstraction to Brodie—a tropical Hollywood tableau of jungle and napalm. To his parents, it was a cautionary tale about American militarism and hubris, and Reginald Brodie himself was reduced to nothing more than a check mark on the ledger of wasted lives.
Brodie had often wondered what his death in Iraq would do to his parents. When a platoon-mate took Brodie’s picture with his cell phone, he’d sometimes wondered if it was the image his parents would look at to remember him, to frame on the wall, maybe send to the local paper with his obit. Or maybe they would try to forget, the way his father had with his brother Reggie, whose memories were stuffed away in a shoebox in the basement.
Scott Brodie had survived the war and come home. But there were no war stories, and no questions asked around the farmhouse table. Which was just as well.
His parents, however, were elated when he transferred to the CID. Good old-fashioned detective work. No more killing, no more danger.
Taylor broke into his reverie. “It’s one hour.” She looked at her cell phone. “That thatched structure should be around the next bend, then the mudflat.”
“Good. Take a few pictures. We’ll end our debrief with those shots. Then you’ll say, ‘We believe, based on the testimony of a reliable hooker, that Captain Mercer’s camp is a fifteen-minute walk into that jungle.’?”
She forced a smile. “I’ll let you have the last word.”
“You take the first question.”
He followed the curving bend in the river, staying close to the shore. He said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“All right…”
