Pineapple Grenade (29 page)

Mandrake saw the chief’s expression. “What’s going on?”

Oxnart covered the phone. “Serge is here!”

“Where?”

He jerked a thumb toward the window. “Right at the front gate. As we speak.”

“Jesus, what are you going to do?”

“What do you think I should do?”

Back at the guard shack:

“Serge,” said Coleman. “I’m really scared. Let’s get out of here.”

“
Alllllllll
right. I guess that’s long enough for the joy.” He reached for the gearshift.

Ahead of them, the crossing-gate arm went up. The guard stepped out of the shack and saluted.

Coleman looked over at Serge. “What the fuck just happened?”

“There’s obviously been some kind of mistake,” said Serge. “A crack has opened in the cosmic star gate, and we’re going for it!”

He hit the gas.

Inside Building 25:

“Hurry with the erasers! Get that shit off the blackboard!”

“What’ll we say to him?”

“Play ignorant,” said Oxnart. “Rule number one: Gather the most amount of information while giving up the least.”

“I think that’s his car now.”

They ran to the window as a Plymouth Road Runner screamed up to the building and skidded into a parking slot.

“Back to the desks!”

Agents finished scrambling as three pairs of feet creaked up wooden steps outside.

A knock on the door.

Oxnart opened it. “How can I help you guys?”

“You must be the station chief,” said Serge.

“Come again?”

Serge smiled and waved dismissively. “Just kidding. There hasn’t been a station chief since ’68.” He walked inside. “So what’s going on in here? Some kind of class?”

“Class?”

“History. This old building. Must have been turned into a museum when I wasn’t looking—the perfect place to teach Latin American policy and espionage. University of Miami used to own it, so I’m guessing this is now an extension of their curriculum.”

“That’s right,” said Oxnart. “It is.”

“Makes perfect sense.” Serge reverently ran a hand along a wall.

Oxnart followed him. “So tell me, Serge, what do you do for a living?”

“Uh, data collection. Zenith Technologies.” He looked around at all the coats and ties. “They’re not dressed like students.” A chuckle. “You sure they didn’t reactivate the station?”

A pause.

Oxnart laughed. “Ha ha ha ha ha.”

Serge: “Ha ha ha ha . . . Too bad. I was hoping to get in on an operation where you slip diplomats LSD.”

Coleman raised his hand. “I can get you some.”

“Behave!” snapped Serge. He turned back around. “Sorry about that. Think we could sit in on your lecture . . .”

“I . . . don’t think—”

“Ooooo!” said Serge. “I see a coffeepot. Stay right here.”

Everyone murmured as Serge drained two Styrofoam cups and returned with a third in his hand. “Actually, I’d like to teach the class. What do you say?”

“Sir, we don’t—” Oxnart stopped and thought: Gather information. “Sure, the podium’s yours.”

Serge ran to the front of the room. “Good morning, students! . . . I said,
‘Good morning, students!’
”

They all looked toward the side of the room at Oxnart. He nodded.

“Good morning, Serge!”

“Thanks! And I can’t believe I’m finally here! Few know it, but this one building launched an economic boom that single-handedly transformed Miami from a sleepy frontier town to a major American city—the largest CIA field office in the world, with a yearly budget in today’s dollars of almost four hundred million, employing thousands, buying up land, airplanes, creating a secret navy of fishing boats, and the laughs! Some teenagers threw firecrackers in a driveway, which was actually a commando safe house, and the kids fled in an explosion of automatic weapons. I’ve wanted to be a secret agent ever since I was a child and passed notes in class, but my teachers were nuns and experts in torture. I still toy with spycraft, like every Fourth of July, I make a copy of the Declaration of Independence, sign it, and mail it to the Queen of England in care of the British Secret Service. Next: evading capture. I need a volunteer to get me in a choke hold. You, in the second row, come up here. Now choke me . . . That’s not choking. I can still breathe. That’s . . . better . . .”

“Ahhhhh!” The agent jumped back, grabbing his hand.

“Forget all the fancy jujitsu stuff,” said Serge. “Just remember the Rule of the Pinkie. Someone grabs you, don’t fight the whole hand. Simply bend back the pinkie. Wherever the pinkie goes, the rest of the hand will follow. An exotic dancer taught me that. In fact, many ordinary citizens have used spy techniques for years and not known it. Hard to imagine now, but remember back when there was only one phone company, and long-distance minutes were droplets of gold? And you’d be traveling out of state and call home to let the folks know you made it okay, and say, ‘I’d like to place a person-to-person call to
I. M. Safe
’? . . . Or when you keep a sex-addiction meeting under surveillance because they’re the best places to pick up chicks.” Serge looked around the room at suspicious eyes. “Okay, maybe that last one’s just me. But you should try it. They keep the men’s and women’s meetings separate for obvious reasons. And there are so many more opportunities today because the whole country’s wallowing in this whiny new sex-rehab craze after some golfer diddled every pancake waitress on the seaboard. That’s not a disease; that’s cheating. He should have been sent to confession or marriage counseling after his wife finished chasing him around Orlando with a pitching wedge. But today, the nation is into humiliation, tearing down a lifetime of achievement by labeling some guy a damaged little dick weasel. The upside is the meetings. So what you do is wait on the sidewalk for the women to get out, pretending like you’re loitering. And because of the nature of the sessions they just left, there’s no need for idle chatter or lame pickup lines. You get right to business: ‘What’s your hang-up?’ And she answers, and you say, ‘What a coincidence. Me, too.’ Then, hang on to your hat! It’s like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get. Most people are aware of the obvious, like foot fetish or leather. But there are more than five hundred lesser-known but clinically documented paraphilia that make no sexual sense. Those are my favorites . . .” Serge began counting off on his fingers. “This one woman had Ursusagalmatophilia, which meant she got off on teddy bears—that was easily my weirdest three-way. And nasophilia, which meant she was completely into my nose, and she phoned a friend with mucophilia, which is mucus. The details on that one are a little disgusting. And formicophilia, which is being crawled on by insects, so the babe bought an ant farm. And symphorophilia—that’s staging car accidents, which means you have to time the air bags perfectly . . .” Serge chugged the cup of coffee he’d brought to the podium. “Did you know Gloria Estefan turned down a CIA gig while working customs at Miami International? Parts of
Casino Royale
were filmed here,
Thunderball,
too.
Goldfinger
. Please listen carefully as menu items have changed. Shark in the road, Queen of England, when nuns attack. The star gate’s closing.” He ran out the door with Coleman and Savage.

All agents dashed to the window and watched the Plymouth patch out.

“Is everyone just going to stand here?” asked Oxnart. “Or does somebody have an inclination to follow them?”

Four agents raced outside. The rest huddled around their chief. “What did you make of him?”

“Better than I thought,” said Oxnart. “Took him no time to trace our infiltration at the Royal Poinciana. And the confidence coming right to our door—he was sending a message.”

One agent pointed back at the podium. “But what was that bizarre presentation? Remember I said I thought he was just some crazy criminal?”

“A well-honed act,” said Oxnart. “The most advanced method of holding back information is giving too much information.”

“So you believe he knows this station’s been reactivated?”

“Of course,” said the chief. “You think he just drove up here on some silly history tour?”

“What do we do?” asked another agent.

“Can’t go right at him now that he’s onto us,” said Oxnart. “But there is another lead we can follow up without detection—if Lugar hasn’t already thought of it.”

“What’s that?”

“Pack some bags,” said the chief. “We’re going to the airport.”

They headed out the door.

“At least now we know who’s been sending all those messages to the British.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Downtown Miami

A sheer, post-modern office building sat in the Brickell financial district.

Across the street:

Coleman repeatedly flicked a lighter for his joint.

“What’s the problem?” asked Savage.

“I think it’s dead.” Coleman kept flicking. “Serge, what are we doing here?”

“Just keep your head down or they’ll see us—before we
want
them to see us.”

“Are we spying?”

“Yes.”

“So this is part of your mission?”

“A different mission.” Serge kept a keen eye on the building. “I have an itch I need to scratch.”

“Itch?”

“I need sex,” said Serge. “If I go too long, I become irritable.”

“And this is why we’re hiding in these bushes?” Coleman looked down at Serge’s hands. “You’re going to do it right here?”

“Not
that,
” said Serge. “It would be creepy. Just keep crouching down and looking for women.”

“But there are no women.”

Serge pointed. “There.”

The front doors of the building opened. A chatty group of attractive females spilled out, car keys in hand.

Coleman pocketed his empty lighter. “Who are they?”

“The meeting just finished.”

Serge leaped from shrubbery and strolled across the street. “Excuse me?” he asked a redhead. “What turns you on?”

“Dendrophilia.”

“What a coincidence,” said Serge. “Me, too!”

They left arm-in-arm.

“Excuse me?” Coleman asked a brunette.

“Get lost.”

“Will that turn you on?”

A half hour later, Coleman and Ted rummaged through a trash can, finding a book of matches with one left. Serge suddenly emerged from a landscaped park across the street. He ran back through traffic, pulling up his zipper.

Coleman struck a match that immediately went out. “Damn.” He looked up. “So what was she into?”

“Trees,” said Serge. “Luckily there was that park.”

“Trees?” said Coleman. “How does that work?”

“I think I need an ointment.”

Serge led them back to their hotel, scratching. “I remember a drugstore up the block.”

They turned left on Flagler.

“There’s a Walgreens,” said Coleman.

They were in and out in a flash.

A tall woman with jet-black hair exited a luggage shop. Putting away her checkbook, not paying attention. And crashed into Serge.

He reached down and picked up his small drugstore bag.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” said the woman. “That was all my fault. Hope I didn’t break anything.”

“Just rash cream,” said Serge. “And it was definitely
my
fault. I always say that, even if it was your fault, because that’s the kind of gentleman I am. Not like the other guys who bump into women and, regardless of liability, try to cop a feel.”

“Serge.” Coleman tugged his arm. “Harold, right?”

“Shhhh! Can’t you see I’m talking to a beautiful woman who crashed into me and I’m turning it to my advantage with paralyzing charm, guilt manipulation, and previously applied deodorant?”