Luis seemed surprised by that, but he did not look reassured. He must have been starting to wonder who these American VIPs were. He peered out the windshield, then shifted his focus to the bejeweled cross hanging from his rearview mirror. Maybe he was going to ask the Big Guy to look out for these dumb gringos. Couldn’t hurt.
The sun dipped lower in the evening sky, and above the downtown skyline a fiery orange band sat atop the green hills to the north and west. The imposing Parque Central complex was nearby, dwarfing everything in its vicinity, its towering glass façade reflecting the brilliant sky. A warm wind blew past Brodie’s arm hanging out the open window. Luis had urged him to keep the tinted window closed, but riding shotgun literally meant you needed to see and hear things clearly—and have a clean shot.
Evening settled in and the street life began to thin out. Storefronts rolled down their metal gates, street vendors wheeled away their carts, and the modest amount of traffic that there was began flowing out of downtown and toward the surrounding neighborhoods. A stream of pedestrians descendedinto the underground Metro station next to where Luis had parked, and very few people were emerging from it. It was a noticeably early hour for the center of a capital city to begin shutting down, though the reason was clear: Cops and criminals owned the night.
Brodie checked his watch. It was five to seven. He turned to Luis. “Okay, we’re walking to the plaza. Find a spot near the Tower of David and wait for us there.”
“And how long should I wait before I am to be concerned?”
“Maybe an hour. But we’ll call you if there’s a problem. If you call us after eight and we don’t answer, then you can choose to be concerned.”
“Contact the embassy,” added Taylor.
As Brodie and Taylor got out of the car, Luis warned them, “The police in this area are the worst in the city. Avoid them.”
“Copy that,” said Brodie. He turned to Taylor. “Ready for an evening stroll?”
“Locked and loaded,” said Taylor.
Museum Plaza was accessible from a narrow walking path that cut through a thick line of trees. They entered the path and then veered off into the trees, making their way around the perimeter of the circular plaza, which was bounded by two museums housed in dilapidated neoclassical buildings, as well as the entrance to a heavily wooded city park.
They approached the side of one of the museum buildings and stopped behind a row of palm trees.
They waited. People flowed out of the museums and the park, heading for the walking path that led to the street and the Metro. A vendor hawking miniature busts of Bolívar, Che Guevara T-shirts, and other revolutionary kitsch was packing up his wares and breaking down a vinyl overhang.
Brodie said, “You’d look good in a Che Guevara T-shirt.”
She didn’t reply to that and kept scanning the plaza. “Look. Over there.”
A short, thin man in a yellow polo shirt and white baseball cap ambled out of the park and into the center of the plaza. He checked his cell phone. At 7P.M., Brodie and Taylor stepped into the plaza.
Raúl saw them. A policeman in a light blue uniform walked betweenthem, heading toward the street. Once he was out of view, Raúl nodded to them, then began walking toward the exit of the plaza.
Brodie and Taylor followed. They caught sight of Raúl’s yellow shirt as he turned onto the sidewalk that ran along the wide boulevard in front of the museums. The lack of pedestrians, along with Raúl’s bright shirt, made it easy to see him at a distance.
They followed Raúl onto a narrow side street that was dark and empty, lined on either side with nondescript modern tower blocks without any street-level storefronts. None of the streetlights came on. A few motorbikes drove past, but otherwise it was desolate. Up ahead, they spotted a single business with its lights on. As they got closer they saw a lit-up plastic sign bearing the Burger King logo. Just as they reached it, the lights on the sign flicked out. Inside, Brodie saw a manager hastily closing up, racing against the unwritten curfew that was imprinted in the heart and mind of every Caraqueño.
Ahead of them, they saw Raúl pass a tall office building. He turned and looked back at them, then rounded a corner. They followed.
Brodie asked, “Did you ever think about how you’d fare in a zombie apocalypse?”
“Hasn’t everyone? Personally, I’d off myself.”
“Really?”
“You see these movies where people are running for their lives from these decaying monsters, and then they get away and try to have a normal life for about five minutes before one of those brain-eating bastards pops up out of nowhere. I wouldn’t be able to live with that anxiety.”
“I thought you were a fighter. Silver Star, right?”
“Yeah, in a real war, with real people who die and stay dead.”
“Good point. But—”
Taylor grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
A white sedan with a blue seal readingPOLICÍAdrove slowly through the intersection up ahead. The car rolled to a stop in the middle of the intersection, and Brodie could see the dim silhouette of a cop in the driver’s seat, looking around. There was another cop in the passenger seat.
The car turned and drove down the street toward them.
