Mercer didn’t respond to that, but said, “Do not call me Captain.”
“You are a captain in the United States Army.”
“I won’t make that point again.”
“How should we address you?”
“Señor Kyle.”
“How about Scott, Maggie, and Kyle?”
Mercer looked at Brodie, then at Taylor. “I think you both need more time in the stockade.” He glanced at his watch. “Maybe twenty-four hours on bread and water—without the bread. And maybe we’ll do those strip searches to your satisfaction.” He glanced over his shoulder at Emilio.
Apparently Mercer was no longer enjoying the conversation. Brodie said, “I don’t think any of us has twenty-four hours, Kyle.”
He turned back to Brodie, thought awhile, then asked, “How did you find me?”
“Al Simpson.”
Mercer stared off into space, probably replaying the chance meeting in the Hen House and reprimanding himself for not strangling Simpson with a bondage rope. He looked at Brodie. “That could only get you as far as looking for a random whorehouse in Caracas.”
“We’re good detectives.”
“Are you? Half of Petare was aware of your presence by noon yesterday.” He added, “And you, Mr. Bowman, were expected at the Hen House last night. I assume you thought better of it, or else your bloated body would have washed up on the banks of the Guaire this morning.”
Brodie didn’t respond. As he suspected, the National Guard, and MBR-200, and probably Pepe the pimp, all shared Intel on the two gringos who were asking around about Señor Kyle and underage girls. Wordtraveled quickly in the slums, but apparently took a little longer to reach the jungle, and Kyle Mercer didn’t know about last night’s excitement at the Hen House.
Mercer sat forward in his chair. “How did you find me? Who did you speak to?”
“We don’t disclose our confidential sources to our suspects.”
Mercer’s cool was heating up. “I hold all the high cards, and whatever low cards you hold I will get now or later. Now is better. For everyone.”
Brodie didn’t want to rat out Carmen, but… she was probably being grilled by SEBIN anyway. Still… He said, “You can come to your own conclusions.”
Mercer looked at Taylor. “I’ll ask you the question. How did you get from the Hen House to here?”
She didn’t reply.
“You can make this easy on yourself… Maggie… or you can entertain the troops tonight.”
Taylor glanced at Brodie, then looked at Mercer and nodded. “All right… Your friend… General Gomez. He works for American Intel.” She looked at Brodie. “Sorry, Scott…”
The Master Bullshitter Award goes to… Warrant Officer Maggie Taylor. Congratulations.
Brodie gave his partner a look that he hoped conveyed to Mercer that he was disappointed in her—though, of course, he understood that ratting out Gomez as an American agent was preferable to a night with the troops.
Mercer stayed silent, then said, “I don’t believe that.” Of course he did. This was Venezuela.
Mercer looked at Taylor, but he apparently decided not to pursue that line of questioning. He did say, however, “If I find out you’re lying to me about anything, Ms. Taylor, you’ll wish you’d spent the night pleasuring my men—which would be less painful than me dangling you over the side of this platform in a fishnet so the piranha can eat you alive. Do you understand?”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“I’ll find out if you are.”
“You’ll also find out that Gomez was trained by the U.S. Army.”
Mercer probably already knew that, and he might already have some suspicions about General Gomez, who might wind up as fish food. And he probably deserved it.
