“No. You’ll have to hold your prisoner somewhere else.” He added, “The embassy does not get involved with kidnappings.”
“Only transportation,” said Brodie. He added, for the record, “This is not a kidnapping.”
Worley did not respond to that. He stood. “I’m late for a meeting.”
Brodie wanted to say, “Those AA meetings never start on time.” But he said instead, “It’ll look good on your résumé when we bring this bastard to justice.”
Worley gave him a long look, and said, “If you need me, my number is programmed on the sat phone.”
Taylor said, “Thank you for your help.”
Worley looked around the lobby. “There’s a great rooftop pool here. Fantastic views. If you face north you won’t even see the slums. Enjoy Venezuela.”
“It is our destiny to discover her,” said Brodie.
“It is,” said Worley. “But she can be a real bitch.”
CHAPTER 14
Their American taxpayer–funded suite was on the fifth floor and it looked clean and comfortable, with all the modern amenities. A sizable living room separated the bedrooms, and all three rooms had balconies that faced north, where a well-manicured outdoor courtyard and restaurant lay beneath them, and the lush green mountains of the coastal range spread out across the horizon. It was a great view, and Brodie had to lean out over his bedroom balcony to catch a glimpse of the congested hills of Petare, a few miles to the east and a world away.
Brodie and Taylor met in the living room. Brodie set the briefcase from Worley on a coffee table and opened it. Inside were two 9mm Glocks with pancake holsters and four loaded magazines, a Taser, and plastic zip ties.
“Everything we need for a kidnapping,” said Taylor.
Or, thought Brodie as he picked up one of the Glocks and slapped in a mag,a simpler solution to this case.
There was also the aforementioned satellite phone, stacks of ten- and twenty-dollar bills totaling ten thousand dollars, and two U.S. passports that bore the same photoshopped pictures from their visas but with different names and ID numbers. Brodie had been renamed “Clark Bowman” and Taylor was “Sarah Bowman.” Stuck in the passports were new monthlong visas that bore their new names. He couldn’t tell if they were legit visas or forgeries, but they’d certainly pass muster with any overzealous cop or soldier trying to shake them down on the street. The passport pages were full of arrival stamps, and the books themselves were made to look worn. Brodie had not yet had the pleasure of visiting the Bahamas, but Clark Bowman had.
Taylor slipped the passport into her pocket and remarked, “I’d never take my husband’s last name.”
“Clark tookyourname, Ms. Bowman. He’s very progressive. His favorite food is quinoa and he loves cats.”
“I hate cats.”
“Clark is okay with that.”
They both clipped their holsters on their belts. Brodie was usually not armed while on overseas undercover assignments, since getting caught with a piece was often more trouble than it was worth. But this was different. Kyle Mercer would not be taken willingly, and asking the local police to detain him was not an option.
They took a few hundred dollars from the stacks of bills and put the rest into a combination-lock safe in a cabinet under the TV. Brodie set the combo to the same numbers he’d used on his wall locker through basic and advanced infantry training, and at Camp Victory outside Baghdad. He did this more out of habit than anything else, though being as he was still alive, maybe he ought to consider those his lucky numbers.
They opened up the backpack from Worley and stuffed their pockets with some bolívar notes of indeterminate value; then Brodie tossed the backpack into the cabinet next to the safe. If the maid felt like helping herself to an extra tip, she was welcome to it.
They had left Mercer’s classified file back at Quantico, but Taylor had made a few copies of Captain Mercer’s file photo—a posed portrait of him in his dress green uniform and green beret from his time before joining Delta Force—that she had hidden between the pages of a paperback novel in her bag. They each put a copy in their wallet.
Brodie powered up the sat phone. He found a single number listed in the contacts that he assumed was for Worley, and they both programmed the number into their personal cell phones as well. He hoped they wouldn’t need Worley’s number until it was time to get them out of Venezuela once Mercer was in custody.
“What did you think of Colonel Brendan Worley?” asked Brodie.
“He’s not really an Army attaché,” replied Taylor.
“No. But it’s good cover. He’s got diplomatic immunity through the embassy, and an official reason to be in contact with people in the Venezuelan military.”
“He’s been here too long. You can smell that on people.”
“That was the rum.”
Taylor took a bottled water from the minibar and sat cross-legged on the couch. She took a sip, looked out the sliding glass doors leading to thebalcony. A sheer curtain ran across the doorway, catching dancing patterns of mottled sunlight through the palm leaves. Birds squawked in the distance. “It’s actually beautiful here.”
