Taylor asked, “What is that?”
“Parque Central,” replied Luis. “They were once the tallest buildings in all of Latin America. There are offices, apartments, and some shopping.” He added, “But it is dangerous for visitors. Best seen from a distance.”
Brodie looked up at the looming towers as they drove past, and recalled the brief history of the city he had read in the guide book on the flight over. Caracas had been a postcolonial backwater for much of the nineteenth century and part of the twentieth. When the first wells started pumping oil in the 1920s, the country was forever changed, and the vast wealth it brought reshaped the landscape of the city through a construction boom that modernized the capital.
Luis informed them that the highway they were on had been shut down by thousands of protestors during the spring and summer of 2017, when Maduro was putting together a Constituent Assembly to rewrite the nation’s constitution and subvert the authority of the opposition-controlled legislature. Protests across the country, and the subsequent government crackdown, left more than one hundred fifty dead and thousands injured.
“The people were not afraid,” said Luis, “but they lost their heart. Their spirit. They were in the streets to make a change. And the change didn’t come. And now people need to worry about where the next meal comes from, about their family’s safety.” He added, “My nephew was among the dead.”
Taylor said, “I’m sorry.”
They drove through what appeared to be a museum district that included a large landscaped park and botanical gardens, and after a few minutes they exited the highway into a quiet and affluent tree-lined neighborhood. Brodie noticed a multitude of trendy-looking restaurants, hotels, and upscale clothing stores. There was not much pedestrian activity on the streets, though there were shoppers in the stores, and a number of conspicuously armed private security guards outside the luxury boutiques.
They stopped at a red light in front of the entrance to an upscale shopping mall. A large glass entranceway opened to a wide corridor of polished white marble floors and rows of storefronts. On the curb in the front of the mall, a group of middle-aged men and women wearing T-shirts, jeans, and thick rubber gloves sifted through piles of trash bags. Brodie and Taylor watched them as Luis waited for the light to change.
“What are they doing?” asked Taylor.
Luis replied, “Looking for food.”
One of the women found a bag of dinner rolls. She shoved one ofthem into her mouth, then began stuffing the rest into a plastic bag on her shoulder.
The light changed, and they continued down a winding, leafy street. Brodie knew that their hotel was near the American Embassy, and he said to Luis, “Drive past the embassy.”
“Sí, señor.” He drove a few more blocks, made a left onto a curving road, and after a few minutes they were driving slowly past the American Embassy compound, which was surrounded by a tall black fence. Inside the compound he could see small concrete structures at the base of the main building, which was a large complex of polished red stone with narrow windows. An American flag rippled above a line of palm trees.
At the main entrance there was a concrete wall where pairs of sneakers were hanging by their shoelaces over the embassy sign.
“What’s that about?” asked Brodie.
“A sign of disrespect by the stupid Chavistas,” said Luis. “It started when that Iraqi journalist threw his shoe at your Mr. Bush when he visited Baghdad.”
Brodie looked at the sneakers dangling from the sign as they drove past it, recalling how on his visits to places like Islamabad and Damascus, the American Embassy had been elevated into a symbol of all that was unjust and malicious about the West, a helpful scapegoat for the host government to divert its people’s attention from their real problems, which emanated from their own Presidential Palace.
Luis slowed as they approached two identical twenty-story towers with beige stone cladding and large windows. A ten-foot-high concrete wall, painted a cheery canary yellow and topped with coils of razor wire, separated the towers from the street. Standing in front of the wall, at either end of a sliding metal security gate, were two burly guards in dark blue uniforms who held pump-action shotguns at their waists.
“Hotel El Dorado,” said Luis. He felt the need to add, “Very safe.”
Brodie said to Taylor, “Reminds me of the post stockade.”
She replied, “You wanted a place with good security.”
Luis turned toward the gate and slowed as one of the guards held up a hand and approached the driver’s-side window, which Luis lowered.
“Tiene reservación?” asked the guard, peering into the car.
“Sí,” said Luis. He turned to Brodie and Taylor. “Your IDs?”
They pulled out their passports and passed them to the guard. He looked at them, then spoke into a small walkie clipped to his lapel that was attached to an earpiece. He read off their names, waited a moment as their reservation was confirmed, then handed the passports back and walked to a keypad next to the gate. He punched in a number and gestured them forward as the gate slowly opened.
They entered a circular drive, in the middle of which was a fountain ringed by tropical plants and flowers. Palm trees lined small patches of green lawn on either side of the drive, which led to a high-awning entrance. A smiling bellhop in his mid-fifties wearing a crisp maroon uniform approached the car as Luis pulled up. The bellhop opened the door for Taylor and she climbed out.
“Buenos días, señora. Welcome to El Dorado.”
“Gracias.”
Brodie and Luis got out, and the bellhop unloaded the bags onto a rolling luggage cart. Brodie checked his watch. Dombroski had given Colonel Worley their flight info, and they had landed on time. They’d lost a little time due to the shakedown at customs, but more than made up for it with the high-speed chase afterward. Worley should be waiting for them in the lobby.
Taylor thanked Luis, then exchanged a look with Brodie, who said, “Go ahead, I’ll be right behind you.”
