“Luis was good,” said Brodie. “Calm under pressure. We’ve taken the liberty of hiring him to be our driver for the duration of our assignment.” He asked, “Is he reliable?”
Worley nodded. “He’s loyal and discreet. And he hates the Maduro government.”
Taylor said, “He told us his nephew was killed in a demonstration.”
Worley looked at her, took a long drag on his cigarette. “That’s true.”
The waiter approached. “Buenas tardes, señor, señora. What may I get you?”
Brodie gestured to Worley’s glass. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Excellent, señor.”
“Water,” said Taylor.
The waiter left.
Worley raised his glass, a tumbler of rich amber liquid. “Santa Teresa rum. The second best liquid to come out of this country, after oil. People here have been shunning their own great rum in favor of imported whiskey for years, but now that everyone’s broke they’re rediscovering their heritage. Smooth enough to sip straight.” He took more than a sip, then used his foot to slide a leather briefcase toward them. “Courtesy of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Everything in there will get you arrested.”
Brodie said, “I assume we don’t have to sign for it.”
Worley laughed, then said seriously, “You will not reveal, even under torture, where this briefcase came from. We have enough problems in the embassy.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Brodie.
Brodie had worked with the DIA before and he knew that the Defense Intelligence Agency was—in addition to its military intelligence–gathering duties—in charge of the Defense Attaché Offices in American embassies around the world. Military attachés like Worley represented the Defense Department’s interests in the country where they were posted and liaised with the military of the host country. Sometimes these interests were closelyaligned with the host country’s and the relationship was friendly, such as with a NATO ally, or mutually beneficial but complicated, as in Pakistan. But in a country like Venezuela, relations were openly hostile and mistrust and suspicion ran high. This was a tough post.
Brodie asked, “So who did you piss off to get this assignment?”
Worley replied, “You want a shit assignment, try Uzbekistan. I served at our embassy in Tashkent for two years. And I was posted in Yemen during the Arab Spring. That was a shit-show. Plus it was hard to find booze, and all the women wore bedsheets. At least here you’ve got some good scenery.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette and added, “We’re doing important work here.”
Brodie wondered what that important work entailed. It was common for intelligence officers to use the military attaché title as cover for their espionage work. The line between soldiers and spies used to be a distinct one, but they were now in an era of CIA-directed drone strikes and Pentagon spies stationed in embassies around the world. Lines blurred, missions overlapped. This was all done in the interest of a more robust war-fighting posture against a nebulous enemy. But sometimes lines are drawn for a reason.
Taylor asked, “Are you followed?”
“Everyone in the embassy is. Though of course I made sure I wasn’t today. In fact, the heat’s coming off us a little because the regime has to worry more about its own people. They’ve got limited resources, which is what you’d expect when your principal patron is Cuba, which is more broke than this place.”
Brodie nodded. He’d read in one of the State Department briefings about the close relationship between the Venezuelan government and Cuban intelligence ever since the early years of Chávez’ rule. Fidel Castro had long been obsessed with fomenting socialist revolutions among his Caribbean neighbors, and Hugo Chávez’ rise to power gave him an ideal proxy on the South American continent. Havana had set up something of a permanent presence in the military and intelligence infrastructure of the Chavista regime. But now both Hugo and Fidel were dead, and their pale imitations—Nicolás Maduro and Raúl Castro—were attempting to carry the flame of la Revolución.
“The embassy is available to you if your cover is blown and you needrefuge,” continued Worley. “Though the bigger danger here is violent crime, as you saw this morning, so just be smart about where you go and when you go there.”
Taylor inquired, “Are the police helpful to foreigners in trouble?”
Worley laughed, which said it all, but he expanded on the subject. “Let me tell you a story. About a month ago, a Venezuelan-American comes into the embassy consulate section looking for a replacement for his U.S. passport that he says was stolen. Stolen by whom? asks the consulate officer. How was it stolen? So the guy says he’s a U.S. resident, a musician, and he came back to his home country to record some folk music or whatever, and to see his family. He’s driving one night in a borrowed car, and he’s pulled over by a police car on a lonely road. To make a long story short, the two policemen take everything he has, including his car and all his clothes, and leave him naked on the side of the road.” Worley paused for effect and said, “If he’d been a woman, they’d have also raped him. As it was, he told us he thanked God they didn’t kill him.”
Brodie and Taylor exchanged glances. Well, that answered the question. Brodie asked, “Did he file a complaint with the Civilian Review Board?”
Worley laughed, then said seriously, “The police are worse than the criminals, if that’s possible. Stay away from them.”
“Lima Charlie,” said Brodie, using the military phonetic alphabet. Loud and clear.
“And then there’s SEBIN, the domestic Intel people. In a way they’re worse than the police, because they’re actually good at their jobs. Don’t get on their radar.”
Brodie said, “We passed the Helicoide on the way in.”
Worley nodded. “That’s one of their facilities, mainly a prison. Their main headquarters are in another building closer to the city center. Offices up top, torture chambers in the basement. The locals call the building La Tumba. The Tomb.”
“Subtle.”
