Well, given the choice between being read the National Security Act by some assholes in a basement in Washington or getting into a shoot-out in a Caracas whorehouse, he’d pick the shoot-out. It was quicker and less boring.
Taylor came out of the clubhouse. “Taxi in five minutes.” She added, “I asked for Ramón from Teletaxi.”
“You’re a pain in the ass, Maggie.”
“Life’s a pain in the ass, Scott.”
Especially if you don’t get laid, don’t get your man, and get killed in a whorehouse. Could be worse, though. He could be raising rhubarb.
CHAPTER 27
Teletaxi arrived, but Ramón was not driving.
Brodie said to the driver, “El Dorado Hotel.”
The driver, Gustavo, like his colleague Ramón spoke English and commented, “One night in that place would cost a working man a year’s salary.”
Brodie said to Taylor, “This is going to be a long ride.”
Gustavo asked, “Are you Americans?”
“Canadians.”
“I do not see many Americans in Caracas.”
“They don’t know what they’re missing.”
“Do you enjoy my country?”
Brodie replied, “What can I say about Venezuela that hasn’t already been said about Cuba or Nicaragua?”
Gustavo thought about that, then asked, “You are here for business or pleasure?”
“A little of both.”
“Good. You must go out of Caracas and go to the south where are the jungles.”
“It’s on our itinerary,” Brodie assured him. “Venezuela—to know her is my destiny.”
“Sí.” Gustavo, who obviously got his news from the same source that Ramón did, said, “If the Americans invade us, we will go to the jungles. Venezuela will be like their Bay of Pigs, their Vietnam, their Iraq and Afghanistan.”
Brodie said to Taylor, “You should rejoin the Ninety-Sixth Civil Affairs Battalion. I see a career opportunity here.”
Taylor said something to Gustavo in Spanish, then told Brodie, “I told him I’m tired and want to sleep.”
Well, that was a nice way of shutting him up. Brodie had considered pulling his Glock. But Taylor took a softer approach. Good cop, bad cop. They made a great team.
He looked at Taylor, who was already feigning sleep, then gazed out the window as they drove along the coastal road, then cut south through the mountains. The sun sat low, casting long shadows over the dense trees carpeting the mountainside, and in the distance Brodie could see the shimmering glass and steel towers of the Caracas skyline.
Venezuela sucked. But it hadn’t always sucked. Not so long ago this had been a functioning democracy, a church- and family-oriented society. He thought of Luis, and of the pleasant staff in the hotel, and he remembered Miss Venezuela, of course, and the citizens on the streets who looked normal, though frightened. He also recalled the dumpster divers, the queue at the supermarket, and the downtrodden denizens of Petare who were one meal away from starvation. He also thought of the Chavistas in Plaza Bolívar, the predatory police, the thug at airport customs, the National Guardsmen, and the sick people at the health clinic controlled by MBR-200.
It seemed to him that Venezuela was a place where the worst elements of humanity had defeated civilization. He’d seen this in other countries, and it was as depressing as it was frightening. And what was even more depressing were the useful idiots like Gustavo and Ramón, who were not evil—they were true believers, deaf, dumb, and blind to the evil around them. Or maybe they were cowed.
Fear.This was a country that was gripped by fear.
If Kyle Mercer, who spoke some Spanish, was looking for a Spanish-speaking country to settle in, Brodie could think of a dozen other not quite so fucked-up places in South and Central America to make money and disappear. Therefore… Mercer had come here for another reason. Criminals on the run usually go where they know someone who can help them—a friend or relative. Or they go someplace to settle a score. But once the score is settled, they leave.
The car descended into the Caracas Valley. A haze hung over the city, making the surrounding hillside slums seem spectral in the fading light.
