She walked to the edge of the pool and dived in.
Brodie watched her as she swam the length of the pool. She seemed to be a strong swimmer, which might come in handy if they wound up swimming to Aruba, which reminded him to call Worley about transportation.
He took out the sat phone and dialed Worley, who answered and said, “Mr. Brodie. Enjoying Caracas?”
“Not even slightly.”
“It grows on you.”
“So does toe fungus.”
Worley chuckled, then asked, “Was Raúl helpful?”
“What did he tell you?”
“We haven’t spoken.”
Brodie didn’t reply.
“So what can I do for you?”
“There’s a chance that we will have our suspect in custody tonight.”
“Excellent.”
“If we do, I need to know where I’m taking him.”
“That’s not a phone conversation.”
“I thought this line was secure.”
“It is. Until it isn’t.”
“Okay, then we need to meet. Are you at the embassy?”
“Actually, I’m at the Marina Grande Yacht Club. You can meet me here. I’ll give the Bowmans’ names to security.”
Brodie was happy to discover that Brendan Worley was working hard on behalf of the American taxpayer at a yacht club. Although, given the breakdown in relations between the two countries, the new directive from Washington might have been: Put your feet up, have a drink, and watch Caracas burn.
Worley asked, “Where are you now?”
“We’re at the El Dorado rooftop pool.”
“Good for you. And is Ms. Taylor with you now?”
“No. She’s signed up for tango lessons.”
Again, Worley chuckled, then said, “I understand that Luis was moonlighting for you today.”
“Correct. And you need to inform your consulate people that he and his family need tourist visas.”
“We can discuss.”
“Nothing to discuss.”
“All right… See if you can be here in an hour.” He added, “I have another meeting at five.”
Probably with Señor Martini. “See you later.” Brodie hung up, stood, andwatched Taylor as she did a backstroke down the length of the pool, aided by her God-given flotation devices.
