Pineapple Grenade (16 page)

“You sure everything’s airtight?” said Lugar. “Congress made these arms deals explicitly illegal. Not to mention if they found out what we’re doing out here.”

“I’ve taken care of everything,” said Malcolm. “You just do your part.”

Lugar splashed ahead in the shallowing water. “And it will really hit the fan if that geology report gets out—”

Glide grabbed him by the arm. “Where’d you hear about a geology report?”

“I just . . .” Lugar read the telegraph in Malcolm’s eyes and caught himself. “What geology report?”

Malcolm released his arm. “That’s better.”

They reached the shore. A trail opened up, and the pair hiked through light brush until they found an open field.

All manner of menacing activity: guys with olive face-paint firing at silhouette targets, bayoneting straw bags hanging from trees, crawling through the live-fire obstacle course.

Malcolm looked around. “Did we bulldoze this land?”

“No,” said Lugar. “About a century ago it used to be a pineapple farm. Most people don’t know it, but back then America got almost all its pineapples from these islands.”

A trainee in a foxhole lobbed something.

No sound.

“The grenade didn’t go off,” said Malcolm.

“About half don’t because they’re leftover army surplus from the Second World War,” said Lugar. “We took what we could get.”

“You mean the so-called pineapple grenades because of how the casings were scored?”

Lugar smiled. “Ironic.”

“So when does the party begin?”

“They’re flying out tonight,” said Lugar.

Glide began walking toward the obstacle course. “Where’d you find these guys anyway?”

“Most worked out of front companies in warehouses around the airport. The rest were at the dog track.”

Chapter Ten

Downtown Miami

A dingy 1930s hotel sat squashed between high-rise bank towers that lit up the night skyline. One of those old-style joints connected to the rest of the buildings on the block. Aqua with faded peach trim. Circular, nautical windows in a line under the edge of the roof. Its name displayed on a vertical neon sign sticking out from the corner of the third floor:

T
HE
R
OYAL
P
OINCIANA

The sign was dark.

Inside the lobby: “I love these old hotels!”

“Serge, I think they’re closed for repairs or something.”

“Why do you say that?”

“All these huge boxes piled to the ceiling. They fill most of the lobby,” said Coleman. “Broken plaster, rusty pipes, all those construction workers putting more stuff in boxes.”

Serge looked toward an industrious squad of people wrapping the boxes with reinforced packing tape. “They’re not renovating—they’re shipping.”

“Shipping?”

“Remember the professional shoppers I told you about?”

“Yeah,” said Coleman. “You never finished explaining.”

“Watch and learn.”

Serge approached the front desk with bulletproof glass and a pass-through key slot. The man behind it looked twenty years older than his birth certificate. Stained Miami Heat T-shirt, stubble, and that hollow, gaunt type of face that reminded people of carnival booths. He watched a black-and-white TV with rabbit ears. A Spanish game show. Contestants wearing scuba suits in a vat of salsa.

“Excuse me?” said Serge.

Nothing.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

The man laughed at the TV and choked briefly on his burrito.

Serge banged the glass. “Yo! Captain!”

The desk manager noticed Serge, stood, and wiped hands on his shirt. He leaned toward the round metal grate in the middle of the glass. “What?”

“I want in the pipeline.”

“Pipeline?”

Serge pointed back at the people taping boxes.

“Oh, that,” said the manager. He shook his head. “Don’t think they’re hiring. All of them work for stores in the islands, and most are family operations.”

“Know all about it,” said Serge. “They fly them up for sleepless, three-day shopping binges. But I’m already here. They’ll save air fare. And when I put my mind to shopping, I can trample Joan Collins.”

“Sorry,” said the manager. “Can’t help you.”

Serge reached in his wallet and snapped a crisp hundred-dollar bill between his hands. He slid it through the key slot.

The manager held it to the light and stuck it in his pocket. “I’ll make some calls.”

“And I’ll do advance recon so I’m totally prepared for my spree. What do they need?”

“Mostly luggage and electronics. But others take cabs to Walmart and Costco.”

“What do they buy?”

“Everything. Paper plates, toothpaste, double-A batteries.”

“That’s actually profitable?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. They can’t get normal distribution for American-brand goods, and a single can of Coke sells for five clams.”

“Five dollars!” Serge whistled. “Even Starbucks doesn’t have that kind of balls.”

“There’s this one guy who calls every month and pays me fifty to buy a laptop, but I’m not giving up that name.”

“Understandable. We’ll take a room. This is the perfect place to build up my immune system.”

“Thirty dollars.”

Serge fed currency through the slot, took a brass key, and got in an elevator. He slid the accordion metal cage closed.

Room 321.

A single queen bed with a six-inch depression in the mattress. The toilet seat lay on tiles under the dripping sink. The air conditioner was missing the front cover, displaying dust-caked condenser blades. Shouting and violent wall thumps from a fight in the next room involving five people and an ironing board.

“Serge, this is by far the dumpiest place we’ve ever stayed.”

Serge slapped the bed, launching a small cloud. “I have just the fix.” He reached in his suitcase and unrolled a Star-Elite Club red doormat inside the entrance.

Coleman reached in his own suitcase and removed a prosthetic leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker. He pointed at a splatter of spots on the ceiling. “Is that blood?”

“Yes.” Serge unpacked the rest of his luggage.

“What kind of people stay here?”

“Two camps: the shoppers, and out-of-state tourists who book sight unseen, then huddle all night in mortal fear of crime and flesh-eating bacteria and flee at dawn.”

The rotary phone rang.

Serge stared.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Coleman.

“This could be the call I’ve been waiting for my entire life.” Serge placed a hand gently on the receiver. “I hope it’s the Wish Man. And I’m ready in case he only grants one wish. I’ll say, ‘More wishes.’ Then I’ve got him. He’ll have to answer to his people.”

“You say that almost every time a motel phone rings, but usually it’s just a complaint from another room. Or a hooker.”

“Or both.” He picked up the receiver on the ninth ring. “Serge here. Is this the Wish Man?”

“Sanchez from the front desk.”

“Grant my wish.”

“Got you plugged in for a shipment. Pick up the shopping list in the lobby.”

“Be right down.” He hung up. “We’re on.”

Costa Gorda

Midnight.

Moonless. The mountain highlands rose ruggedly in the center of the small Caribbean nation.

Silence under the stars except for croaking tree frogs and nocturnal, cawing birds.

Then: the distant drone of a C-130 Hercules air transport plane. No tail markings. Registered to a nonexistent consortium in El Salvador. The back-bay door wide open.

A crew member in a harness yelled over the engines and wind. “Thirty seconds!”

Next to him, a crouching row of camouflaged men with parachute static lines hooked overhead.

“Five seconds!” yelled the harness man.
“Go! Go! Go! . . .”
—slapping each man on the leg as they jumped out the back of the plane.

The aircraft quickly emptied, banked hard, and climbed steeply until it couldn’t be heard.

Across the sky below, a sea of parachutes sprouted and drifted peacefully like airborne mushrooms. The drop zone was tricky in size and terrain, but the pilot was good. Only two guys had to be cut down from trees.

They gathered silk chutes and began a downhill trek behind their squad leader, who charted the way with a GPS. As they neared the coordinates of the reported rebel encampment, the leader called their translator to the front of the platoon.

He began shouting in Spanish: friendlies, allies, brothers, and most importantly, don’t shoot.

Ahead, in an unseen configuration of pup tents, men stirred from sleep. “Everyone up! Someone’s coming!”

When the paratroopers finally broke into the camp, they were met by a ragged, elements-beaten gang of insurgents pointing cocked Russian AK-47s.

The head of the paratrooper team whispered to the translator again. “Tell them we’re on their side. We’re here to help their struggle.”

The translator translated.

The rebels looked confused.

“What’s the matter?” whispered the squad leader.

“I’m not sure,” said the translator.

“Tell them again.”

He did.

More puzzled looks. The head rebel: “I’m sorry, we don’t speak Spanish.”

The squad leader took a step forward. “Ralph?”

“Henry?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

“We’re on a secret mission to train the rebels.” Henry glanced around. “Where are they?”

“You’re looking at them.”

“
You’re
the rebels?”

“Station in Fort Myers sent us down last month.”

“Where are the real rebels?”

“Got bored and left two weeks back.”

“Where’d they go?”

“I heard them mention a bachelor party.”

“This can’t be the whole rebellion.”

“Afraid so.”

“What about the cocaine traffickers?”

“They also split.”

“But intelligence says coke’s still coming through.”

Ralph grabbed a canteen off his belt. “We’ve had to start making their deliveries ourselves. I’m telling you, it’s getting exhausting.”

One of the other rebels raised a hand. “I want to go home.”

Henry tossed his parachute aside in disgust. “Typical government operation.”

A droning sound from above. They looked up.

Ralph raised night-vision goggles and peered through a break in the trees. “I don’t see any tail markings.”

“It’s okay,” said Henry. “That’s our plane. It’s circling around again for the supply-and-ammo drop.”

“Covertly beefing up the revolution so the generals can seek military aid?”

Henry nodded.

Minutes later, large pallets of food and weapons floated down on giant parachutes and crashed through the trees.

“At least there’s a silver lining,” said Ralph. “We’re sick of eating Spam.”

He started toward the boxes. Henry grabbed him from behind.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ralph.

Henry pointed skyward. Another drone from above. “Our plane again.”

“Thanks,” said Ralph. “Don’t want me to get hit by more pallets.”

“That’s not it,” said Henry.

“Why are you crouching down?” asked Ralph.

Boom
.

A flaming explosion in the trees.

Everyone hit the ground.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

More trees ablaze.