Pineapple Grenade (15 page)

“I think he’s a pervert.”

“Museums naturally attract oddballs. The perfect place for spies to meet. They’re always meeting in cultural attractions and other places where loitering is encouraged.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

“Get Smart
. People think it was a comedy but completely miss the Cold War subtext. I need a cone of silence.”

“What about a shoe phone?”

“Got one,” said Serge. “Made my own this morning with a cell phone.” He took off his left sneaker, tapped a finger inside several times, then held it to his ear. He pulled it away from his head and peeked through the foot hole. “It’s broken. What the fuck?”

“Maybe you can buy another.”

Serge put his shoe back on. “That’s already the third one I’ve gone through.”

“Is it under warranty?”

“Yes, but the last time the phone people gave me some bullshit: ‘You’re not supposed to
walk
on it.’ ”

Serge grabbed the handle of his pal’s briefcase. Coleman grabbed the other. They got up and left in opposite directions.

The businessman had moved on to the next painting. A hand in his right pocket. In the bottom of the pocket was a hole, where a wire led inside his shirt to his tie tack. The concealed hand pressed a button, taking photos with a pinhole camera.

When the room was empty, the man left the museum. He looked left: Coleman trotting down steps toward the Metro Mover. Stage right: Serge, fifty yards ahead, crossing the courtyard. The businessman picked up the pace.

Serge headed down Flagler Street. The man maintained a half-block separation.

Serge stopped to stare in the window of a luggage store. The businessman bent down to tie his shoe. Serge resumed walking. The man stood up.

At the corner of Miami Avenue, without breaking stride, Serge casually dropped the briefcase in a trash can and turned the corner.

The businessman began running. He reached the trash can and grabbed the briefcase. A black SUV screeched up to the curb, the man jumped in, and they sped off.

Chapter Nine

The Royal Poinciana Hotel

Room 318.

Florida sunlight blazed through broken blinds.

The bed hadn’t been turned down.

A fully clothed man lay on top of the covers with limbs twisted in various directions as if he’d fallen off a roof.

Eyelids fluttered in the harsh light.

The man pushed himself up with a groan. Blood on the front of his shirt. Where’d that come from? He went to get off the bed and fell to the terrazzo floor. He stood up and staggered toward the bathroom for a routine vomit to get a fresh start on the day. Then three aspirin and a chase of what was left at the bottom of the Jack Daniel’s.

He coughed and felt a pain in his right side. The man raised his shirt and found a stack of bruised ribs. That’s weird.

He walked to the window and shielded his eyes for a view of banks, a monorail, and the ocean.

“Where the hell am I?”

A look around the room. No remote control. His right hand turned the volume knob, clicking the TV on. A commercial for restructuring consumer debt. He went to the dresser for clues. A taxi receipt, gum, room key, airline boarding pass. A wallet with no ID, no credit cards, and fifty-six dollars. Three passports, all the same face. Chad Utley, Ireland; Roland Dance, Bahamas; and the real one issued by the United States.

The TV:
“. . . Dignitaries continue arriving as the Summit of the Americas returns to Miami . . .”

A whapping sound from the unbalanced ceiling fan. It morphed into a louder whapping outside from a news helicopter on its way to a seven-car pileup on the Don Shula.

The man walked to the window and peeked out the blinds again.

“Miami . . . Shit . . . I’m still only in Miami.”

He noticed a brown paper bag in a familiar shape, opened another bottle of Jack, and took it back to bed with him. Along with the authentic passport.

He took a slug, opened the passport, and examined the photo of a younger self:

Ted Savage, international persona non grata.

Ted had worked as a data analyst in the U.S. embassy in Costa Gorda. His CIA cover.

Costa Gorda was a success story of democracy.

Too much for some people.

The volcanic soil was rich down there, and the Caribbean nation exported impressive amounts of tropical fruit, coffee, and, of course, bananas. All of it shipped by American corporations with long-term land leases.

Fernando Guzman became president three years ago after a spotless election. Church bells rang. Firecrackers.

It was the kind of freedom certain people in Washington love to celebrate, except when it happens. Guzman had gotten the notion he was independent.

“As my first official act, I’m announcing wage reforms. Minimum two dollars a day.”

Hit the export companies where it hurt. Phone calls. Campaign donations.

The companies needed to bend Guzman to their will. Which meant a CIA boot print in the country. And payments to the generals in case a coup was required. And in that case, the generals would need an enemy, real or imagined, against which to rally the populace.

Which meant rebels.

They actually existed. All fifteen of them. Camped in the mountains wearing Che Guevara T-shirts, smoking potent dope, and holding Marxist poetry slams.

The government knew where they were and left them alone because they were harmless and unworthy of the trouble, like Deadheads who remain in the field six months after the concert.

“Pepe, I’m hungry.”

“So get some food.”

“I think we’re out.”

“Did you check the ammo boxes?”

“Just crumbs . . . pass that spliff.”

“Guess we have to go back down to the village”—where they posed for novelty photos with the tourists, in trade for chickens and vegetables.

“
Viva la revolución!
. . . More beans please.”

Meanwhile, President Guzman remained unyielding.

Time for hardball. And overnight, the ragtag mountain band of clowns became a full-fledged insurrection. At least on the local news.

Deep in the sanctum of CIA headquarters: “Are they really a threat?”

“No.”

“Then do something.”

They activated Savage. They picked him because he knew the terrain.

In the bars: “Señor Ted! What will you have?”

“Whiskey.
Dos
.”

In the brothels: “Señor Ted!”

“Is Conchita on tonight?”

In the alleys: “Special for Señor Ted. Forty dollars.”

“Forty an ounce! When did prices go up?”

In the gutters: “Señor Ted. This is the
policía
. Time to wake up and let us take you back to the embassy.”

“Wha—? Oh, thanks, Paco. Here’s twenty for each of you.”

They told Ted to write a report: Investigate the impending Communist takeover by a massive rebel force in the mountains.

So up the mountains Ted went, as he had done so many times.

A rustle in the brush.

Pepe jumped up, aiming an empty gun. “Who goes there?”

“Don’t shoot. It’s me.” He stepped into the rebel camp.

“Señor Ted!”

Savage held up one hand. “I brought rum.” Then the other. “And weed.”

“Arriba!”

He came back and wrote the report. He fucked up. He told the truth: The country’s soccer celebrations were a bigger threat.

Even worse, he leaked it to the press, just like he’d been told.

Disaster.

More phone calls. Discredit the messenger.

Two days later, all the networks went big with background dirt on the data analyst who had authored the “erroneous” report. Surveillance photos from the brothels and gutters. Almost as an afterthought, one cable commentator dropped what he pretended to be an idle comment. The report’s author was CIA.

Outed.

They reeled him home.

No place to go, so he went places. Kentucky Derby, New Year’s in Times Square, Mardi Gras. He didn’t remember flying to Miami.

But now here he was. Savage lay back in his bed at the Royal Poinciana with a wet washcloth on his forehead and a bottle on the nightstand. “At least I won’t get mixed up in any more trouble at this fleabag joint.”

Two floors below, Serge led Coleman into the lobby. “Here’s our hotel!”

Biscayne Bay

Key Largo is commonly thought to be the beginning of the Florida Keys. But that’s just the ones with the bridges.

Unconnected to land, stringing northward from Largo like little beads, are a scattering of small, mostly uninhabited islands that reach almost to Miami. Soldier Key, Sands Key, the Ragged Keys, Boca Chita, Elliott, Rubicon.

A forty-foot cigarette boat confiscated by the DEA departed Convoy Point and raced south across the bay. A giant rooster tail of salt water and foam sprayed behind the stern, its bow crashing over the swells.

Malcolm Glide held on to anything he could. “You’ve driven these things before?”

“Million times,” said Station Chief Duke Lugar. “I just hope we don’t have any leaks.”

Malcolm looked around the deck.

“Not the boat,” said Lugar. “Our operation. I’ve got my neck way out.”

“Don’t sweat it,” said Malcolm. “We’re airtight. How are the men coming?”

“Hungry for action.”

A dotted line of mangroves came into view on the horizon. Lugar cut the wheel starboard, running parallel to the islands. “Fifteen minutes,” said the agent. “I need to ask you something. Pretty sensitive.”

“What is it?” asked Malcolm.

“We got a loose end in surveillance chatter that I can’t seem to figure out,” said Lugar. “Was hoping you could help.”

The boat crashed down hard over a larger-than-usual wave rising from a shoal, knocking both men forward. Which meant shallower water, which meant they were getting close.

“So what’s this loose end?”

“Could be a code name. Know anything about a Florida operative named Serge?”

“Serge?” said Glide. “Doesn’t ring any bells. Why? What have you heard?”

“Picked him up on routine detail near the airport.” Lugar pulled back on the throttle and threaded a coral channel. “At first we thought he was freelance, but it’s beginning to look like he’s working for Oxnart.”

“Oxnart?” Glide knew all about the jealous rivalry between the station chiefs, because he’d personally nurtured it for leverage. He grabbed a railing as the boat took another jarring bounce. “In what capacity is this Serge?”

“Attached to the Costa Gordan consulate. Extra security for the summit,” said Lugar. “But something’s not right. I don’t trust him.”

Glide smiled to himself:
You mean you don’t trust Oxnart.
“So what about him’s not kosher?”

“Just this feeling I have. He suddenly shows up out of nowhere and foils an assassination against President Guzman.” Lugar eased the throttle down to idle speed. He turned to Glide. “Did you have anything to do with hooking up Serge and Oxnart?”

“Me?” said Glide. He wished he did, the way it was under Lugar’s skin. “Probably someone higher in the Company. You know Oxnart’s talented and moving up fast.”

Lugar clenched his teeth, edging the speedboat’s bow into soft sand twenty yards from the shore of a small, unnamed island. He threw out the anchor. “This is as far as we go. It’s not the kind of place that’s got a pier.”

“What kind of place is it?”

“A spot we use from time to time.” The agent took off his shoes and hopped over the side in a foot of water. Malcolm followed as they splashed toward a break through the mangroves. In the distance, faint yelling and gunfire.