Pineapple Grenade (33 page)

Conversely, Peloquin didn’t know anything about who was texting him, just that the deposits in Switzerland had all cleared. It wasn’t a first-name business.

Another driver’s license came from a different part of the wallet. A different name, Winston Chabot. And a decidedly different look.

The man opened one of the suitcases on a table and unloaded packs of cash until he came to a metal box. He took it in the bathroom, squirted the contents of an unmarked bottle into his hands, and rubbed his face. Then he looked in the mirror and began tearing off his forehead and cheeks. He cranked sink faucets. Another nameless bottle and soon his hair was black. He held up the second driver’s license.

Perfect match.

The new Mr. Chabot came back into the oversize bedroom. He was that peculiar blend of human who thrives on extreme adrenaline yet enjoys speechlessness. Good thing, because the suite was now his pampering prison cell until an undetermined time when the call came. If it ever came. He got paid either way, just to be on standby. Procedure called for him to stay in the room and not be seen. In Madrid, it had been over a month. And so began an arm’s-length relationship with the room-service staff, which he quickly trained to knock, leave the trays outside, and wait for the fifty-dollar tip to slide under the door.

Chabot walked past the floor-to-ceiling windows. Most of the guests left the curtains wide open to enjoy the glittering nightscape of the Magic City, but these were pulled tight. In the distance, generators hummed. Floodlights. An around-the-clock crew continued final preparations on the main stage for the Summit of the Americas.

Another piece of luggage opened, this one with a custom-fitting foam liner.

With his left hand, Chabot removed the stock of an Israeli sniper rifle; with his right, he called room service.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Spy

The DJ petted his cat.

A new song cranked. The
Mission: Impossible
theme. A giant laser lit up. Men in lab coats scurried around checking pressure gauges.

The men’s room in the back of the nightclub was even busier.

Ted Savage, Coleman, and Escobar had made a beeline for the handicapped stall and barricaded themselves.

Escobar extended the Phillips-head on a utility knife and, moments later, Ted and Coleman pulled the mirror off the wall. It lay across the sink.

“Break that shit out!” said Savage.

Escobar dumped a baggie of white powder. “Hold on to your fuckin’ heads, dudes. This is hundred-percent pure Peruvian flake. Couple lines of this primo blow and you won’t be able to find your own nuts.” He flicked open a giant barber’s straight razor.

“Now, that’s a freakin’ blade!” said Coleman.

“Cut those cocksucking rails!” urged Savage.

Escobar sliced and diced. He pulled back the blade. “Who’s first?”

Savage dove forward with a rolled-up twenty. A hard snort, then his head snapped back. Nose pinched between his fingers. “God
damn
. Where’d you get this shit?”

Escobar was already cutting Coleman’s lines. “Had it flown up in the diplomatic pouch. Nobody checks. Nobody’s allowed to . . . Your turn.”

Coleman bent over . . .

Back in the lounge:

Serge drained a bottle of water. “So the consulate sent you to check up on me?”

“No, that was on my own,” said Felicia. “With the generals and that dead reporter, I can’t trust anyone. And Guzman’s still a little naive. I’m doing this for my country.”

“What makes you think you can trust me?”

“Because you’re not in the spy business. You aren’t connected to anybody, and I need independent help to see this through.”

“But of course I’m a spy,” Serge protested. “You injected me. That’s like spy baptism.”

“Come on.” Felicia laughed. “That was when I
thought
you were hooked up. But you told me a lot when you were under the serum.”

“Like what?”

“You’re just a local guy who foiled a random carjacking. But everyone now thinks you’re working for someone else, so you’re playing along.”

“What about me showing up earlier in your office?”

“Saw right through that.”

“You did?”

“Of course. You noticed me on the street and wanted a date. Happens a dozen times a week. All kinds of stupid excuses to talk me up, like delivering a package to the wrong address . . . Except you were actually pretty funny—and cute—but I didn’t want to let on.”

“I can live with that account . . . So you know it was just a typical carjacking?”

“The simplest explanation is usually the right one. But in the diplomatic world, imaginations run wild.”

“But you won’t tell them, right? I’d kind of like them to go on thinking I’m Jason Bourne.”

“I don’t think I could convince them otherwise.” Another laugh. “You’ve created quite a circular firing squad.”

“How so?”

“Guzman likes you, because you saved his life from a so-called hit squad, and the head of my consulate likes you because Guzman likes you, but he hates you because he doesn’t know your game and you might threaten his cushy gig in Miami, and Escobar thinks you’re after his job—or used to—but he’s more of a threat to himself and is now being courted by the CIA to find out more about you. And of course there’s the local boob twins, Oxnart and Lugar. Then Victor Evangelista, who’s dick-deep in gunrunning.”

“Please keep talking to me like that.”

“It’s no joke. Vic’s the key. We need to trace his shipments backward to the source and figure this whole thing out before another democracy’s overthrown by multinationals.” Felicia craned her neck around Serge, squinting toward the back of the club. “What’s taking those guys so long?”

“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

What she didn’t want to know:

“Dear God, help me!” screamed Escobar.

“Holy crap!” yelled Savage. “Why the fuck did you do that?”

“Wasn’t on purpose.” Crying now.

“What do we do?” whimpered Coleman.

“Okay,” said Savage. “Uh . . . Uh . . . First we have to remain calm.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.”

Back in the lounge, Serge stretched and arched his back. “How do you get all your information?”

“Mostly from the head of our consulate. He’s chatty in bed. Guy goes through Viagra like popcorn.”

“Don’t you love those TV ads for the stuff?” said Serge. “Especially the medical warnings: ‘Discontinue use if experiencing diminished eyesight.’ I mean, who’s schlong out there is so limp it requires blood to be diverted in such quantities that the room starts to go dark?”

“Serge, come back to me,” said Felicia.

“What?”

She gently placed a hand on his. “I know who you are.”

“Right, I’m not a spy.”

“No, I’m talking about everything.” She lit a dark brown cigarette. “Police records, psychiatric diagnosis, the
bodies
.”

“How’s you learn all that—allegedly?”

“I’m a spy.”

“But if you know my whole history, you’re . . . not afraid to be sitting here?”

She formed her mouth into a circle and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. “Natural attraction has no master. You can’t diagram it logically.”

“You’re attracted to me?”

“Jesus, Serge. You’re otherwise so intelligent.” She rolled her eyes. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“I don’t . . . I mean, you . . . me?”

She stubbed the cigarette. Her hands disappeared.

“What are you doing?”

A huskier voice. “What do you think I’m doing?”

Serge seized the sides of the table with his hands. “Whoa!” He glanced around to see if anyone was watching.

The voice became even throatier. “You enjoy that?”

“But we’re in the middle of a club full of people.”

“I like it that way. Public places.”

“Paraphilia?” said Serge.

“And dangerous situations, particularly espionage. That’s why I was so good wrecking political careers.” Felicia’s mouth neared the side of Serge’s head. “Are you getting in the mood? I’m in the mood. In fact . . .” She whispered the rest, then plunged her tongue in his ear.

Serge watched her other hand move to her own lap. He gulped with diminishing eyesight.

“Serge, let’s do it right now, right here! I’ve never been so ready! Nothing could turn off my—”

A restroom door crashed open. Three men ran screaming back into the lounge.

“Serge! . . .”

“Help us! . . .”

“We’re in trouble! . . .”

Serge’s head slumped to his chest. Eyesight returned.

“Serge!” yelled Coleman. “You have to do something!”

Serge closed his eyes. “Go away.”

Felicia grabbed Serge by the arm. “Look at all the fucking blood!”

“What?” His head perked up. “Holy shit, all three of you are covered in it! Where’s it all coming from?”

“Mainly Escobar,” said Savage.

“Where’s he hurt?”

Savage and Coleman pointed at Escobar’s left hand, wrapped in a giant toilet-paper ball like a red boxing glove.

“What the heck happened to his hand?” said Serge.

“He cut his finger off,” said Coleman.

“Call 911!” Felicia shouted to the bartender.

Houselights came on.

“How’d he cut his finger off?” said Serge.

All three went back to crying and stomping their feet.

Felicia jumped up and applied pressure to Escobar’s hand. She looked back at Serge. “They’re ripped on blow.”

“For openers,” said Serge. He grabbed Escobar by the shoulders. “The doctor is on the case. This can be fixed with microsurgery. Where’s your finger?”

“Got flushed down the toilet,” said Escobar. “You really believe they can fix it?”

Serge closed his eyes tight again. “Why did you flush your finger down the toilet?”

“Wasn’t on purpose,” said Escobar.

“Yeah,” said Coleman. “We were dumping all the coke to get rid of the evidence because of the problem with his finger, and it just fell in.”

“But Coleman really tried to save it,” said Savage. “His arm even got stuck.”

“That’s why there’s so much blood,” said Escobar. “We had to stop and get Coleman’s arm out of the toilet first, and couldn’t attend to the other wounds.”

“Other wounds?” said Serge.

Savage displayed his left hand. “Me and Coleman cut ourselves on the broken mirror. That’s why Scooter lost his concentration and cut his finger off.”

“Back up,” said Serge. “How did the mirror break?”

“I leaned against the sink,” said Coleman.

“How did you break the mirror leaning on the sink?”

“The mirror was lying across it,” said Escobar.

“Why was the mirror on the sink?”

“There was no other place to put it,” said Coleman.

Ambulance sirens. A burst through the club’s secret door with a stretcher. “Who’s hurt?”

Serge pointed in different directions. “Those two are just scraped. The short one lost a finger.”

“Where is it?” asked an EMT.

“On the way to Biscayne Bay.”

They hoisted him onto the gurney. The lounge’s door flew open again.

Ambulance sirens faded into the breezy night.

Felicia looked at Serge with regret. “Rain check?”

Serge managed his best smile under the circumstances. “I’ll look forward to it.”

She headed toward the door. “I need to check a few things out. Let’s meet again tomorrow and put my plan in motion.”

Chapter Twenty-Six