Pineapple Grenade (24 page)

South of Miami

Another TV was on.

“. . . This is CNN reporting from Costa Gorda, where a crack American Delta Force has just been deployed to help President Guzman quash the rebel uprising . . .”

The picture switched to a small band of rebels surrounded in the middle of the village. The Delta team’s translator stepped forward.

“Put down the goat and surrender.”

A tense pause.

“We don’t speak Spanish. Where are you from?”

“United States,”
said the Delta force commander.
“And you?”

“New Jersey. Do you have any food?”

Back to the anchorman, holding a hand against the tiny speaker in his ear.
“Wait a minute. We have breaking news. We’re going live to Washington, D.C. . . .”

The image switched to the press room at the Office of Homeland Security. An empty podium flanked by flags and a vinyl thermometer.

Director Tide arrived from the wings and shuffled notes on the podium.

“Good afternoon. I’ve called you here to announce new airport security measures. In addition to shoes, all passengers must now take their socks off.”

A hand went up. “What for?”

“I can’t reveal that,” said Tide. “But what I can disclose is that we’re raising the threat level again. We’re announcing a new color.”

The journalists waited in silent anticipation as the director reached in his pocket and slapped a new plastic square at the top of the thermometer. He turned back around.

All hands went up in the audience.

Tide pointed at the front row. “Chuck?”

The reporter lowered his hand. “That’s not a color. It’s just a question mark.”

“Correct,” said the director. “It’s the secret color.”

The same hand went up again. “Why does it have to be secret?”

“Otherwise the terrorists win.”

A
hand went up. It reached a television knob and turned off the news.

Station Chief Oxnart faced the room.

“What have we got? Newcastle?”

“Couldn’t find Serge. Lost him near Sweetwater.”

“And you’re still drawing a paycheck?” said Oxnart.

The agent nervously reviewed notes. “But we were able to outbid Lugar for the dummy front company on the river.”

“At least that’s something,” said the chief. “Any day I can beat that asshole.”

“Got something else,” said Newcastle. “Might be Serge’s handiwork. Arson murder in Sweetwater shortly after we lost the tail.”

“Method?”

“From the police report, some kind of elaborate accelerant trigger.”

Oxnart nodded to himself. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“I don’t know,” said Newcastle. “It just doesn’t fit.”

“What doesn’t fit?”

“The victim.” He checked his notes again. “One Jethro Comstock, unemployed pipe fitter.”

“Unemployed, my ass,” said the chief. “He had to be connected. They don’t send in an expert like Serge just for some lowlife.” Oxnart narrowed his eyebrows. “Something’s going down in Miami, and Serge is in the middle of it. I want to know what it is! . . . Can’t anybody find out where he’s staying?”

A phone rang. “Oxnart here.”

It was the guard station.

“Send him through.” Oxnart hung up. “Everyone look sharp.”

A stretch limo parked in front of Building 25.

Station Chief Gil Oxnart was already waiting in the open front door. “Malcolm Glide, you crazy son of a gun! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Glide bounded up the porch steps and shook hands, but his expression was dramatic.

“Something the matter?” asked Oxnart.

“Damn budget cuts.”

Oxnart nodded solemnly. “Heard about that. Congress don’t have a clue what’s happening on the ground.”

“I need your help.”

“Name it,” said the chief.

“Assassination plot. Big one.”

Oxnart’s head jerked back. He’d been waiting his whole life. “Who’s the target?”

“President Guzman.”

“Guzman? From Costa Gorda?” Oxnart snapped to attention. “You can count on me to stop it. Who’s behind the plot?”

“We are,” said Glide.

“What? But Guzman’s our ally.”

Glide shook his head. “Not a real assassination. Just a plot.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Things are starting to move pretty fast with the summit. Something big is about to go down in Miami, and we haven’t been able to put it together yet.” Malcolm placed a hand on Oxnart’s shoulder. “We need the assassination plot as a diversion. Disinformation to confuse the enemy until we can figure out what’s going on.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“Something to do with Costa Gorda.” Malcolm squeezed Oxnart’s shoulder. “Looks like the regime has become unstable. Between the rebels and the rumors of arms shipments.”

“But we’re helping ship the arms,” said Oxnart.

“So the rumors are true.”

“You’re the one who told us to,” said Oxnart.

“Then that’s a double confirmation.” Glide squeezed the shoulder harder. “You’re a good man, Oxnart. I know everyone else is grooming Lugar, but you can go places.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So I want to hear lots of chatter about this assassination.”

“You got it.”

“I knew I could count on you.” Glide began walking toward the door. He stopped and turned. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“What is it?”

“Have you picked up any intelligence about a new operative in town?” Glide played his cards close to his chest. “Probably a code name. Sounded like, um, Serge?”

Oxnart concealed a hard swallow. “Uh, no. Why? Should I?”

Glide shrugged. “Probably nothing.” He continued out the door. “You know where to reach me, so don’t call.”

Downtown Miami

Serge strolled confidently into the Royal Poinciana Hotel.

He leaned with an enthusiastic grin toward the desk manager behind bulletproof glass. “Hey, it’s me. Remember? The guy you hooked up to do extreme shopping for those bodegas in the islands. Has my paycheck arrived yet? I’ll bet they paid me a huge bonus for my exquisite taste.”

The desk manager stared with an open mouth.

“What’s the matter? You all right?”

“What did you do with the shopping list I gave you?”

“Threw it away, of course.”

“You were supposed to use the list.”

“That’s what everyone thinks. So when they zig, I zag. Sometimes hop on one foot. Because you never know, right?”

“You sent them three hundred pounds of Florida souvenirs.”

Serge smiled his widest. “Handpicked.”

“They’re not going to pay you.”

“Come again?”

“I couldn’t get him to stop screaming on the phone.”

“Screaming?” Serge stepped back. “That must have been from joy. Probably sold the shit out of those palm-tree snow globes and seashell crucifixes.”

“No, they didn’t sell at all. Everything’s being shipped back for a refund. And you pay the return freight.”

“That can’t be right,” said Serge. “Maybe you had a bad connection. I’ll make a few calls and straighten this out. Come on, Coleman . . .”

A half hour later.

Room 321.

Fierce sunlight streamed over the rattling air-conditioner.

A just-showered Serge came out of the bathroom squeaky-clean. Because he had showered twice “to get an edge on the others.” He rubbed his hair with a towel. “Coleman?”

No reply.

He looked down at a pair of legs on the floor. One sock, one bare foot. He kicked the foot. “Wake up!”

Coleman startled. “Ow! Shit! My head!”

“Stop fooling around. We have a full schedule of spying.”

“Serge, help me! I’m entombed!”

“You’re under the bed.”

Coleman wiggled his way out. “Beds often end up on top of me.”

“Just hurry.” Serge grabbed a stack of pages. “I’ve already had a busy morning waiting for you to come around.”

Coleman fired up a joint and mixed vodka with tap water. “Doing what?”

“Kind of got carried away making more invisible messages. So I need to slip the extras under all the doors on this floor.”

“What for?”

“The Miami experience! Some of the hotel guests are new in town. Why should we have all the fun?”

Coleman finished his drink and stuck a beer in each pocket of his shorts. “Ready.”

“You’re wearing what you slept in?”

“It’s already on.” He stubbed out his joint. “After you finish with the invisible notes, can we go to a bar?”

“Maybe later.” Serge grabbed the door handle. “First we need to do some surveillance.”

“On who?”

“Whoever we feel like.” He stepped into the hall and locked up.

“What do you mean?”

“Once again, the majority of people lack imagination and miss out.” Serge crouched down and slid a page under a door. “But at any time, you can simply decide to pick some stranger in a crowd and say, ‘It would be a riot to follow that guy as long as I can and see what develops.’ ”

“You’ve done it before?”

“Many times. My record is four hours through several counties until the guy came unglued.”

“Why’d he do that?”

“Near the end, I got sloppy and he spotted me.” Serge crouched again and slid another page. “He sped up in his car, and I had to weave through lanes at high speed. Then I only
briefly
drove on the sidewalk, but I guess that made him uncomfortable. The surveillance turned into a chase.”

“You chased him in traffic?”

“Not for long. He had no spy training and wrecked his car at the first light pole. So it was mainly a foot chase. And we’re running through yards, jumping fences and ducking under clotheslines, and he keeps looking back and yelling, ‘Who are you?’ and I say, ‘Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’m going for a personal record.’ But he ran in a police station instead.”

Coleman crumpled a beer can. “Sounds like you could have gotten in a lot of trouble.”

“There’s no law against marathon following,” said Serge. “Just as long as you respect others’ privacy.”

“Who do you want to follow today?”

“I like to pick the one person in public who’s acting the most suspicious and paranoid.” Serge bent down and slipped another page. “In any big city crowd, there’s always someone like that. Then I help them.”

“How?”

“By confirming their fears.” Serge crouched and tucked a page under the door of room 318. “But who will that person be today? . . .”

On the other side of the door to room 318:

Agent-in-exile Ted Savage heard footsteps in the hall. He groaned and looked over the side of the bed. A sheet of white paper on the floor.

“What’s this?”

He flipped it over. Blank on both sides. He knew the drill.

Ted ran a cigarette lighter under the page. Brown lines began to appear. He stared perplexed at a happy face as he continued with the lighter, revealing words at the bottom.

The lighter bounced on the floor. The page fluttered down as Savage stumbled backward onto the bed.

“ ‘JM/WAVE’! Jesus, they know I’m here! They’re sending a message from Building Twenty-five!” He ran to the window, looking for parked vans concealing the capture unit.

Nothing in sight.

Ted ran for the dresser. Jack Daniel’s empty. Back to the window. “Get a grip. You need to calm your nerves and focus. There has to be a bar down there.” He scanned the street. “Remember your training! Think! What’s the first move?” He looked back at the narrow slit under the door where the message had been delivered. “Abandon compromised location.”

Ted snatched the note off the floor and dashed out of the room.

Two people stepped into the elevator. Serge grabbed the edge of the accordion metal cage and began closing it.

Pounding footsteps.

Serge reopened the cage and smiled. “Room for one more!”

Ted jumped inside, hyperventilating.

“Good afternoon!” Serge chugged from a thermos. “Don’t you hate it when rude people won’t hold an elevator when someone else is almost there, and instead slide to the corner so you can’t see them and hit the ‘Door Close’ button? Steams me something terrible. Seen it a hundred times, but do I stand by idly during this cultural defilement? No! I’ll already be in the elevator when it happens, the door closing on some family with kids. And the asshole who just hit the ‘Door Close’ button is heading for the fifteenth floor, and even if I’m going to the
sixteenth,
I’ll hit the button to get off on two, but just before leaving, I’ll mash all the other buttons, then jump out and yell: ‘Have a nice tour of the hotel. Now get with the fucking team!’ ” Serge stared straight ahead and nodded. “Manners are important. That’s how I roll.”