They followed their original route back toward the airport and over the mountains, then cut west onto a two-lane road that ran along the coast and offered a nice view of the ocean. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, and the blue water was speckled with yachts and sailboats.
They turned off the coastal road and approached the entrance to the Marina Grande Yacht Club, which consisted of a guard booth and a sliding metal gate topped with razor wire. Like the entrance to the El Dorado, this bubble of luxury did its best to look welcoming despite the prison-like fortifications. A sign in gilded paint advertised the name of the club, and the smiling booth attendant wore a crisp white suit. To the side, next to a line of palm trees, stood an armed guard in black fatigues, holding an AK-47.
Brodie and Taylor gave the booth attendant their fake passports, which he checked against a guest list. The attendant instructed the cabbie in Spanish as to where Señor Worley could be found, then pushed a button to open the gate, and they drove through.
The cab dropped them off in the parking lot near the beach, and Brodie paid the driver in bolívars, but didn’t insult him with a tip.
They walked onto a wide, flat beach surrounding a cove. At the far end of the cove was the marina, where rows of gleaming pleasure boats of all sizes sat at anchor.
It was a hot day, but the air was significantly cooler here by the water than in the city. Brodie observed the beachgoers who were sipping drinks on recliners under palm-thatched huts or wading in the cove’s shallow waters. A handsome couple walked past them, hand in hand, toward an outdoor café on an elevated deck overlooking the water. Maybe money couldn’t buy happiness, but it could buy this, and this looked pretty good.
They found Worley sitting in a beach chair in the shade of a thatched hut, sipping a dark drink out of a tall glass, watching the ocean. He’d swapped hisdirty slacks and beat-up loafers for a pair of wrinkled shorts and plastic flip-flops. He wore a Tommy Bahama T-shirt.
Worley looked at them through a pair of aviator sunglasses as they sat down in adjacent chairs. “How’s married life?”
“Unconsummated,” replied Brodie.
Worley laughed.
Taylor ignored that as she looked around and asked, “Is this place secure?”
Worley assured them, “The employees are paid to hear only what you want them to hear, and to remember only your drink order.”
Brodie asked, “What about the guests?”
“All anti-government. Regime people are not welcome here.”
A young female club attendant in a white collared shirt and short white skirt came by to take drink orders. Worley ordered three Venezuela Libres—whatever that was—before downing the rest of the drink he was working on and handing her the empty glass. She smiled and walked away.
Brodie got down to business. “We’re fairly sure we found the brothel.”
“I’m glad Raúl was helpful.”
“We’re planning to make the arrest tonight.”
“I’m sure Captain Mercer will have other plans.” He added, “I don’t think a fugitive would hang around a place where he was spotted.”
“We’ll see.”
“Actually, he may be waiting for you.”
“I hope so.”
Worley looked at him. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Brodie asked, “Do you know anything about MBR-200?”
“What is that? A new workout plan? Breakthrough boner pill?”
Brodie had a feeling that Brendan Worley was feigning ignorance, which was probably his specialty. “It’s a gang in Petare. They run the brothel.”
Worley shook his head. “Gangs rise and fall by the hour up there. I don’t keep track.”
“Right. What we need from you—”
“I hope you’re not going to ask for backup. The embassy can’t get involved in extrajudicial—”
“I need a plane, Colonel. Ms. Taylor and I will take care of the rest.”
