Davis cut in. “Sounds like you’re saying that despite Chávez’s best intentions he’s pretty much screwed things up.”
“He’s helped the poor, no question,” Mancini answered. “But inefficient government management and expropriations have chased away local and foreign investment, and hinder the country from expanding past a single-resource economy.”
“Oil, in other words,” Davis added.
“Petroleum production. They pump something like 2.3 million barrels a day. Down from 3.5 million in ’98 and continuing to plummet.”
The female voice on the Garmin instructed Crocker to turn off the highway. They entered what looked like an upscale residential community, but bags of garbage were piled along the side of the road, many of the shops seemed empty, and pro- and anti-Chávez graffiti covered the walls.
Four blocks farther on they reached the elegant Las Mercedes district and turned down an alley to a nine-story modern sandstone structure shaped like a hexagon. Part of the aboveground parking structure was roped off.
A young man in shorts and flip-flops who stopped them and offered to guard their car explained in Spanish that the roped-off area was occupied by squatters. He pointed out that he, his mother, brother, and three sisters lived in a twelve-by-twelve-foot wooden cubicle allocated to them by the Chávez government. His family and three dozen others shared a single bathroom with no hot water in the parking structure.
“How do you cook?” Crocker asked in broken Spanish.
“We have electricity, but no gas for cooking,” the skinny man explained. “So the government delivers three meals a day and provides beds and furniture. They even bus my younger brother and sisters to a school three miles away.”
Crocker handed the kid a five-dollar bill, parked the Pilot, and led the team down a flight of stairs to a modern lobby. Armed soldiers were stationed at either side of the front desk.
“What are they here for?” Crocker asked the male hotel clerk.
“They make sure we don’t raise prices beyond those set by the government.” The clerk went on to explain that the country had two exchange rates. The rate set for “priority” imports was 2.60 bolívars to the dollar and for nonessential items 4.30.
“I assume we’re getting the nonessential rate,” Crocker said.
“Yes you are, sir.” But most of the benefit of the better rate quickly evaporated when the clerk explained that room prices had just been raised 15 percent.
A sign on the marble counter carried more warnings. In addition to the rampant street crime they had already heard about, the SEALs now learned that the country was experiencing a temporary energy shortage, which meant that guests could expect regular power outages.
“That’s ridiculous,” Ritchie commented as they rode up to the third floor.
“Especially in a country that’s one of the top oil producers in the world.”
The rooms were big and nicely appointed, with king-sized beds, LCD TVs, desks, safes, and balconies overlooking the garden and pool. But the trash cans hadn’t been emptied, the sheets were stained, and Crocker and Akil’s toilet didn’t work. They used Mancini and Cal’s while they waited for the plumber, who came four hours later, just as they were getting ready to leave for dinner.
Outside, the sidewalks were packed with strollers, partyers, and last-minute shoppers, especially tree-lined Avenida Principal de las Mercedes and inside the huge, multilevel Paseo shopping mall. The six fit men passed fashion boutiques, galleries, restaurants, discos, pubs, and beautiful young women displaying lots of tanned flesh even though it was Christmas Eve. Akil’s head swiveled so rapidly to take in all the pulchritude that Crocker thought it might fall off.
Stores offered everything from Japanese anime dolls to Chinese noodles, haute French fashion, Turkish-made hookahs, NFL jerseys, English toffee, Colombian coffee, and Indian cotton.
The city boasted a modern subway system, yet the streets were clogged with traffic-mainly U.S.- and Japanese-made cars. From one of them Crocker heard a rap song blaring in Spanish, “People from the barrio ready to fight for a better life…”
Mancini stopped to sample the arepas-warm cornmeal patties filled with melted cheese-from a sidewalk vendor, and then they entered a traditional English pub. Crocker ordered fish-and-chips washed down with Newcastle Brown Ale. They bantered about the football season, basketball, trucks, motorcycles. Then the subject, as it always did, turned to women.
Akil turned to Ritchie: “You hear what Tommy Lee from Mötley Crüe said about marriage?”
Ritchie: “I know this is a setup. What?”
“Marriage is the only war where one sleeps with the enemy.”
“And the enemy he got to sleep with was Pamela Anderson,” Davis added.
Mancini: “That’s before Kid Rock got hold of her and turned her into trailer trash.”
“Monica isn’t like that,” Ritchie said. “She’s classy, and we get along.”
Akiclass="underline" “Just wait.”
“You know why marriage is like a violin?” Mancini asked. “After the music is over, the strings are still attached.”
As the SEALs bantered back and forth, Cal used his fingernail to peel the label off a Dos Equis bottle.
“Cal, you dating anyone?” Ritchie asked.
“Not really. No.”
“You keep in touch with that Thai girl?”
“Naw.”
“You live by yourself?”
“I’m sharing a house in Lago Mar with two young waitresses who work at Hooters.”
“Seriously?” Ritchie asked, raising his left eyebrow.
Cal nodded. “Yeah.”
“What are they like?” Akil wanted to know.
“Beautiful but messy as all get-out. Leave their clothes and shit everywhere. Walk around in their panties.”
“That’s all?” Akil asked.
“Sometimes even less.”
“And that’s a problem?” Ritchie asked.
Cal smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Naw.”
After dinner, he, Akil, and Ritchie ducked into a theater to catch the newest James Bond movie. Davis returned to the hotel to Skype his wife and year-old son. Crocker and Mancini entered a bar called Islands and found a young Hispanic man in a white polo with a Miami Dolphins logo on the front pocket sitting in a booth in the back.
“Ernesto Navarro. Most people call me Neto,” he said, offering a hand with a large burn scar.
Crocker asked, “You the guy who’s selling the beachfront property?”
“On Margarita Island. Yes.”
Having dispensed with the bona fides, the SEALs sat. The room was dark and noisy, with most of the young patrons crowded around the bar.
Neto, who was with the Caracas CIA station, asked, “You guys okay to talk here, or do you want to go somewhere else?”
“This is fine,” Crocker said, looking around and seeing that no one was seated close by. “Do we run any risk of being watched?”
“By SEBIN this time of year? About as much of a chance as the Wizards winning the NBA finals.”
SEBIN (Servicio Bolivariano de Inteligencia Nacional) was the Venezuela secret police, previously known as DISIP. The Washington Wizards were the worst team in the NBA, with a record of two wins and fifteen losses.
“I assume you’ve been briefed on why we’re here,” Crocker said, cutting to the chase.
“Unit 5000,” Neto answered, pointing to his head. “I’ve become an expert.”
“Thanks for doing this on Christmas Eve.”
“Duty, man. Whatever needs to be done. My kids are already in bed dreaming about Santa Claus.”
“How many do you have?” Mancini asked.
“Two young boys. Total rascals.”
Crocker: “I hope Santa’s going to be generous.”
“He will be.”
The waitress, who wore a Hawaiian shirt tied above her waist, placed three bottles of cold beer on the table and smiled to reveal a metal ball in her tongue. She left behind a cloud of orchid-scented perfume.