“General Hackett has not been straight with us.”
Taylor finished her drink, looked at her partner, and said, “Here’s what I’ve learned—you’re either a very smart detective or you’re a paranoid asshole.”
“There’s not much difference.”
“We should get moving.”
He stood, and she did the same. As she was putting on her pool wrap, he asked, “How much did you pay for your bikini?”
“About twelve dollars.”
“That’s a lot for a little.”
She smiled. “Sometimes a little goes a long way.”
They walked into the rooftop café and took the elevator down to their floor. As they went to their respective bedroom doors, Brodie asked, “Can you meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes?”
“Can do.” She opened her door, looked at him, and said, “The pool’s open all night. So if we’re back here tonight without our prisoner, that’s our consolation prize.”
A midnight dip in the pool with Maggie Taylor sounded good. “It’s a date.”
She smiled and disappeared into her room.
He entered his room and, rather than try to analyze that interaction, thought about what to wear to a Venezuelan yacht club. He also thought about Brendan Worley, and about bringing Kyle Mercer to justice, and about how to survive the night.
If he could do all that, then he could always ruin his professional relationship with Maggie Taylor back home. As in Iraq, the mission came first, but the ultimate goal was to go home—standing up, as they used to say.
CHAPTER 26
Brodie and Taylor met in the lobby, and he noticed that Taylor was appropriately dressed in white slacks and sandals and wore a blue boater top that hid the bulge of her gun. She also had a small handbag for her lipstick and extra mag. Brodie had rescued his khaki slacks from the laundry bag and wore an untucked green shirt, beneath which was his pancake holster and his Glock to accessorize his Venezuelan yacht club attire.
Brodie asked the front desk to call them a taxi, and a few minutes later a black Ford Explorer pulled into the hotel drive. The car had a yellow seal on the door that saidTELETAXI, and their driver—a graying man in his fifties—was running a meter and had his cab license displayed, so Brodie figured the odds were good that this was not a kidnapping. The doorman told the driver their destination and they set out.
The cabbie, whose license said “Ramón Sanchez,” spoke English and asked them, “You are Americans?”
“No,” Brodie replied reflexively, “we are Canadians.”
“Good. The Americans threaten my country. They are planning an attack.” He added, “They want to control our oil.”
“They’re imperialists,” Brodie agreed. “They just took over Tim Hortons, our national donut chain.”
Ramón processed that, then asked, “Why do you go to the Grande Yacht Club?”
“We’re interviewing for a job,” Brodie replied.
“You want to work for the rich? They are parasites.”
“They suck,” Brodie agreed.
“Yes, like parasites. They suck the blood of the people. Someday we will free Venezuela of the rich.”
Taylor chimed in, “You’ve already done a good job of freeing Venezuela of the middle class.”
Brodie smiled and gave her a wink.
Ramón continued as he navigated out of the city, “There should be no private clubs.”
Brodie and Taylor sat in silence and let him talk, interrupting only to say they agreed with him. The Americans suck.
