Taylor didn’t reply, and Brodie took a look at Captain Kyle Mercer’s confidential file, which Dombroski had handed him after their meeting with Hackett. Mercer was thirty-three years old, born and raised in San Diego. Mercer’s father, Peter, was an accountant, and his late mother, Betty, had managed a clothing store. Kyle Mercer did well in school and earned a scholarship to UCLA. After college he enlisted, and after basic and advanced infantry training he attended Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia, where he excelled and graduated at the top of his class. Afterward he received airborne training at Benning, then applied for and was accepted into the Special Forces Qualification Course. He trained at the Special Warfare School at Fort Bragg, where he was ultimately recruited into Delta Force. At this point the specifics of his file became murky, with mission reports full of redactions. What Brodie did see was the impressive pedigree of an elite solider and no red flags prior to his desertion. Among his many listed skills was fluency in Spanish, which he’d studied in high school and college. Kyle Mercer also spoke Pashto, the result of a three-month stint at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California. That skill, thought Brodie, must have come in handy during his captivity, and probably kept him alive.
Brodie recalled an old joke: “Join the Army, see the world, meet new people, and kill them.”
He returned his attention to the report, which included testimonials from Mercer’s Delta teammates. To a man, they described Captain Mercer as a capable, competent, and brave commanding officer. No one remarked on behavior that was out of the ordinary in the days or hours preceding his desertion. The only thing of note about the testimonials was that the names of every man interviewed, and the names of any other person or place they mentioned, were redacted.
Brodie also looked over the report of the Fort Dix CID’s interview with Simpson, which was brief and mostly useless. The only new detailshe learned were that Simpson had had a productive and lucrative meeting with the Venezuelan state oil execs before getting sloshed on rum, and that Simpson was sure it was Mercer because of a distinctive tattoo on Mercer’s arm of an ouroboros—the ancient symbol of a snake eating its own tail. Also, according to Simpson, Mercer had a trimmed beard and appeared to have gained about thirty pounds, mostly muscle, since his infamous hostage video seen by most of America on the nightly news.
Brodie asked his partner, “Why does a guy who’s in hiding, and whose face has been on TV, sit in a high-traffic hotel bar frequented by Americans who might recognize him?”
“There aren’t too many Americans in Caracas these days,” replied Taylor.
“Right, but the few that are there, like Simpson, are almost guaranteed to be at a place like the Marriott.”
“You think Simpson is lying?”
Brodie opened his laptop and pulled up pictures of the Caracas Marriott’s lobby lounge. It was a comfortable-looking, no-frills modern hotel bar with lounge seating located on a mezzanine level above the check-in desks. A wide stairway led up to the lounge, and the bar ran along the left wall as you entered. The bar, notably, had no mirrors along its back wall.
“Simpson said Mercer was sitting at the bar, while he was sitting in the lounge area with his Venezuelan oil company pals. Simpson noticed the tattoo first, which is on Mercer’s right biceps, and only positively IDed Mercer when Simpson said his name and Mercer turned around.” Brodie spun his laptop around to show Taylor a picture of the bar and lounge.
“No way,” said Taylor.
“Right.”
“Situational awareness” is a familiar concept to anyone in the military, and second nature to a well-trained officer. In short, it means not having your head up your ass in a given situation—be aware of your physical surroundings, the context in which you are existing in them, and the multitude of potential consequences of your actions or the possible actions of others. No officer—let alone one in Delta Force—who was a fugitive from military justice would sit at that bar with an entire room full of people at his back.
Brodie’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked it and saw a text from Dombroski:Meet me at the O Club in 15. Alone.
The Officers’ Club at Quantico was Colonel Dombroski’s preferred venue for conducting business. It was also his favorite place to drink. These two activities often occurred at the same time.
Brodie got up from his desk. “I need to take care of some personal business; then we’ll pay Mr. Simpson another visit. Get us the last flight out of Newark tonight, and adjoining rooms at the Marriott.”
Taylor clicked on something, furrowed her brow. “Looks like gunmen shot up the Marriott lobby two days ago. How about the El Dorado?”
“When’s the scheduled shoot-out there?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“Do the best you can.”
Brodie left the office.
CHAPTER 6
The Officers’ Club at Quantico was a nice enough place. Large windows admitted the morning sun, and it had an elegant bar with high-backed stools and a couple dozen tables with comfortable chairs. Mounted above the bar were plaques for military units stationed at Quantico as well as an old wooden propeller that maybe came off the plane of the guy who shot down the Red Baron.
Brodie and Dombroski sat at the mostly empty bar. Since it was just past ten, they showed restraint and ordered pilsners.
Dombroski looked around. “This place looks like a goddamn Applebee’s.”
Brodie had heard this complaint before from his superior, and he hoped it wasn’t a warm-up to another lengthy diatribe about the changing culture of the military. The O Clubs where Dombroski had caroused and drunk to excess in his misspent youth had been housed in grand buildings containing ballrooms and dining rooms staffed by uniformed stewards. The reason for the decline in these magnificent old facilities was partly economic and partly social. The Army was trying to “deglamorize” alcohol, and didn’t want the liability of an officer leaving a club and plowing into a family in a station wagon. But Brodie had seen Dombroski drive, and a couple of beers could only improve his performance.
Dombroski raised his glass to Brodie. “I stopped believing in luck or God, so I’ll just say watch your ass and come home safe. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
They drank.
Dombroski said, “I’m in touch with a Defense Intelligence guy who’s posted at our embassy in Caracas, Colonel Brendan Worley. He’ll be your logistical support on the ground. He’s an Army attaché, been in country afew years so he knows the place well. He’s aware of the broad details of your mission, that you’re there to track down and apprehend Captain Mercer. You can share additional details with him as necessary, on a need-to-know basis. He’ll meet you in your hotel lobby when you check in, and he’ll give you your kit.”
