“The embassy’s,” replied Luis.
“It doesn’t have diplomatic plates.”
“It is better that way, señor.”
“Did your amigo tell you our destination?”
“No, señor. They do not say. For security reasons.”
Brodie and Taylor shared a look. They hadn’t gotten their driver’s name before arriving.
Luis picked up on what was going on, and said, “I have this to show you.”
He reached slowly into his jacket and pulled out his smartphone. He pulled up a photo and handed the phone to Brodie.
“This is me with your Mr. McDermott.”
The phone’s screen was cracked and the high sun cast a harsh glare, but Brodie could make out a photo of Luis with his arm around a tall, dark-haired man. They stood in what looked like a bar or lounge, and they both held tall drinks topped with cocktail umbrellas.
Brian McDermott had been the U.S. Embassy’s Chargé d’Affaires until a few months prior, when Maduro expelled him along with his deputy on charges that they were “conspirators against the government.” Until then McDermott had been the top diplomat in the country, as the United States and Venezuela had not had ambassadors in each other’s capitals for almost a decade. Brodie had no idea what Brian McDermott looked like, but Luis got a few points for getting the name right.
Luis also told them, “I know your Mr. Worley.”
Brodie handed the phone back, looked at Taylor. She nodded.
“All right. Let’s go.”
Luis rounded the car and opened the rear passenger-side door, and Taylor climbed in. Brodie thought it best to sit next to the two-hundred-fifty-pound guy with the gun, so he got into the front passenger seat. He said to Luis, “Hotel El Dorado.”
Luis nodded. “A good choice.” He added, “Safe.”
On their way out of the lot they stopped at a booth and Luis paid a parking attendant with a couple of bolívar notes that had probably depreciated in the time he’d been parked there. They pulled out, took an airport road for a few minutes, then took the ramp onto the highway toward Caracas. The A/C kicked in, and Brodie felt the sweat cooling on his forehead.
The four-lane highway cut through the western edge of the coastal mountain range, which Luis explained was a national park called El Ávila, and within minutes the vibrant green foothills surrounded them on all sides.
Brodie turned on the radio and flipped through the stations, which was one of his rituals when arriving in a new place. He scanned past some terrible pop and electronic music and a few aggressive-sounding talk stations, and landed on what sounded like traditional folk music. A man sang to a lilting, stamping rhythm of harp strums and maracas.
Luis smiled. “Joropo. Very traditional, Mr. Brodie.”
“I am a man of traditional tastes, Luis.”
The music seemed to fit the landscape. The sloping, verdant hills. Seabirds circling the brilliant blue sky above. Brodie could almost trick himself into thinking he was on vacation.
He noticed Luis eyeing the rearview mirror with a worried look.
“What do you see?”
“Those cars have followed us since the airport.”
Brodie turned and looked through the rear window. Taylor did the same. The highway consisted of two lanes going in each direction, with a concrete divider separating them. Their Escalade was in the left lane, and about two hundred feet behind them, two beat-up old compacts were driving next to each other, rapidly closing the distance.
Taylor asked, “What makes you think they’re following us?”
Luis explained, “They were parked on the shoulder when we got on the highway, and then pulled out as we passed.”
The car in their lane, a white Toyota, sped up until it was right behind them, close enough for them to see the driver, a twenty-something guy who was staring dead ahead, both hands gripping the wheel.
Brodie glanced out the front windshield. They were approaching the concrete mouth of a tunnel that cut through the hills.
