Brodie nodded. He was glad to hear they’d have some support on the ground. And some tools of the trade they’d never be able to get past Caracas airport security.
Dombroski added, “He’ll also supply you with paper currency. It’s hard to bring in cash without getting a shakedown at the airport, and your plastic will be no good there. He’s sending a car and driver to meet you and take you to your hotel.”
“We’ll take a taxi. Less conspicuous.”
Dombroski shrugged. “That’s what I thought too. He said you’ll stick out just by virtue of being Americans these days. His driver knows the ropes, he’ll be armed and make sure you don’t get robbed or kidnapped on the way to the hotel.”
“I feel safer already,” said Brodie. “What about getting Mercer out?”
“Colonel Worley will be able to help with those arrangements too.”
Taylor was booking them round-trip tickets for the sake of appearances, but once Mercer was in custody their flight home would be via private charter. Brodie wasn’t too worried about this part of the mission. Over the decades, America’s intelligence agencies had gained a lot of relevant experience in how to sneak people in and out of Latin America.
Dombroski pulled an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Brodie. “Your tourist travel visas. They’re legit, with your real names and to be used to travel under your regular civilian passports, so if they are entered into a central database at Caracas passport control you’ll be fine. Normally takes months to get these and you have to send in your passport book, but it looks like Hackett’s people have a guy at the Venezuelan Embassy in their pocket and he expedited them yesterday. On paper, you’ve been vaccinated for yellow fever, though you’ll want to do that for real if you end up needing to head to the interior of the country. Also, although you have different last names, you’re married to each other—good luck with that—and you both work as life insurance agents in Alexandria.”
“Do we share a room?”
“That’s up to you and Ms. Taylor. But you’ll book two rooms.”
“Right. And why are we visiting Venezuela?”
“Because you’re stupid.”
Brodie opened the envelope and looked at their visas. They used the same photos that Brodie and Taylor had on their military IDs, but with a combination of cropping and photoshopping to obscure their uniforms. He closed the envelope and slipped it into the pocket of his faux Armani sports coat.
On that subject, Dombroski said, “You’re supposed to be in uniform when reporting to a general in his office.”
Maybe, Brodie thought, he should have worn his uniform to remind General Hackett—and Dombroski—that he’d been an infantryman before this gig, and that he’d been awarded the Bronze Star for valor, the Purple Heart for too much valor, and the Combat Infantry Badge for being there. Even generals showed you a bit more respect when they saw the CIB on your uniform—which neither Hackett nor Dombroski was authorized to wear.
“Brodie?”
“This is my uniform.”
“You make me look bad.”
“If I come back with Mercer in cuffs, you’ll look fine, Colonel.”
Dombroski changed the subject. “You and Taylor worked well together in Kentucky.”
Brodie couldn’t tell if this was a statement or a question. “We did.”
“Except for shooting the mule. But I think we can all agree that was entirely your fault.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know Taylor was CA in Afghanistan.”
CA meant Civil Affairs, specifically the 95th Civil Affairs Brigade out of Fort Bragg. Civil Affairs was the Army’s soft power on the ground, interfacing with the local populace, overseeing public works projects, and, in the case of Afghanistan, navigating the delicate and often messy business of tribal politics. It was tough, dangerous work, and confirmed the old adage that it is harder to build than to destroy.
Brodie, of course, knew Taylor’s history. He wished his superior would get to the point.
“Sometimes,” said Dombroski, “these Stability Ops people get recruited by the Company.”
That was the point. The CIA. That perennial bogeyman of the military and civilian worlds alike. The CIA was everything the Army was not—nebulous and nimble, with a loose command structure and a murky code of ethics. Not to mention a purposely confusing mission statement. This engendered a natural distrust and, in Brodie’s opinion, a lot of unhelpful scapegoating.
Brodie asked, “Are you questioning her loyalty?”
“Of course not. But there were rumors going around about her down at Bragg. About certain entanglements.”
