The waiter returned with Brodie’s drink, and he sipped it. Smooth and not too sweet. Definitely a more complex and pleasant profile than the Bacardi 151 he used to shoot in college.
Worley reached for a large backpack next to his chair and slid it towardthem. “Some local currency. Good for buying an arepa on the street or for wiping your ass when your hotel runs out of toilet paper. Venezuela is not quite at the wheelbarrow full of cash to buy a loaf of bread stage of third world inflation, but they’re getting there. That whole bag of bolívars was worth about twenty bucks as of a few hours ago.”
“We’ll spend it fast,” said Brodie.
“Needless to say, don’t use the landlines here. This hotel especially is going to be tapped by the government. Your cell phones will probably work in the hotel, but coverage is very limited around the city and getting worse, and also susceptible to eavesdropping if you’re relying on the local carriers. There’s a satellite phone in the briefcase that will work pretty much anywhere with open sky. There’s also a thumb drive with a VPN client you can install on your laptops if you need to connect to the hotel Wi-Fi. Gets around all the government censorship and firewalls, no one can eavesdrop, and if anyone tries to trace your IP address they’ll think you’re in Miami.”
Brodie raised his glass. “Enough of these and I’ll think I’m in Miami.”
Worley laughed, looked between them. His smile faded. “So what makes you think he’s here?”
“We had a tip,” said Brodie.
“A sighting?”
Brodie didn’t reply.
Worley’s piercing eyes shifted between the two of them. “He’s a hell of a big fish.”
“He is,” agreed Brodie.
“But this is also a big pond,” said Worley. “I know the city. So if I can help you find this SOB, I will.”
Brodie regarded Colonel Worley. The guy was definitely a spook, but a different breed of spook. He was still military, and Mercer’s desertion and betrayal probably pissed him off on a personal level. Brodie said, “He was spotted in a brothel.”
Taylor added, “We think it’s in Petare.”
Worley took one last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray next to him. “That doesn’t narrow it down much.” He added, “It’s a very big slum.”
“Maybe you know someone,” said Taylor.
“I know a lot of people,” said Worley. “But they don’t hang around slum whorehouses.”
Brodie wasn’t sure he bought that. A guy like Worley worked the system, and the system didn’t function without the bottomfeeders.
“I’ll give you a hypothetical scenario,” said Brodie. “I’m a visiting dignitary from someplace where you, Colonel Worley, need a contact or a favor. I’m known to have certain, specific predilections. Let’s say underage girls. So I need someone who can direct me to the right place and also keep quiet. Except, of course, the pimp is not keeping quiet because he’s reporting to you.”
Worley stared at Brodie, unblinking. “You’re looking for the CIA. Different acronym.”
“With the same bag of dirty tricks,” said Brodie.
Worley didn’t react to that. This guy was a cool customer. A bit creepy, actually. He downed the rest of his rum. “I might have a guy. If he can help you, he’ll call you. You don’t want to just start banging on doors in Petare. That will get you killed.”
“Right.” Brodie gave Worley his cell number. He didn’t love handing out his personal number to whatever sketchy underworld character Brendan Worley would pass it on to, but the satellite phone wouldn’t work in the hotel room. Taylor also gave Worley her number as backup. Brodie said, “Also, when we find our fugitive, we’ll need some help getting him out of the country.”
Worley nodded. “I’ve been apprised of that.” He added, unnecessarily, “You can’t go through normal diplomatic channels to get him extradited. But there are other ways.”
“We assumed there were,” said Brodie. “Or we wouldn’t be here.”
Worley thought a moment, then said, “The less you know, the better. But we usually use a private aircraft which I will arrange to be standing by at a local airport. If and when the time comes, you’ll let me know and I will direct you to an abandoned airstrip near Caracas. The aircraft lands, you are there with your prisoner, and off you go.”
Brodie nodded. Sounded simple. Except for the details. Such as, this private aircraft would have to be small enough to land at an abandoned airstrip, so it probably didn’t have the fuel to get to the U.S.—meaning they’d flyto Guantánamo, or maybe a U.S. military installation in Panama. He asked Worley about that, and Worley replied, “I don’t have to know where you’re flying to, and neither do you.”
“Right. The less we all know, the better.”
“You’ll know when you get there.” He added, “I’ll fill you in on the rendezvous details when—if—the time comes.”
Taylor asked Worley, “If there’s a lag time—like bad weather or something—can the embassy hold our prisoner while we’re waiting for the aircraft?”
