Pineapple Grenade (20 page)

“But you own the corporations,” said Serge.

Steve shook his head and pressed the washcloth to his fist. “Another guy in Venezuela is doing the same thing. We own each other’s companies. There’s no extradition treaty.”

Serge whistled. “Nice work if you can get it.”

“Thanks again for the ice.” He left.

Serge shrugged at his brother. “It’s Miami.”

“Speaking of which,” said Mahoney. “How are you coming on my first case?”

“Definite progress,” said Serge. “I don’t think she’ll be having any more trouble from him.”

“How’s that?”

“He thought he was dealing with amateurs until I turned on the red beacon—”

The phone rang.

“Mahoney here . . .” He listened, and listened. Mouth turning grim. “. . . Very sorry to hear that . . . Yes, we’ll definitely do something.”

Mahoney hung up and poured a stiff one.

“What’s the matter?” asked Serge. “You don’t look so good.”

Mahoney stuck the bottle back in the desk drawer. “Just got off the phone with our first client.”

“And?” Serge raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Bet she was thrilled.”

“Not thrilled.”

“Really?” Serge looked baffled. “What’s she say?”

“Hard to make out because I think her mouth was swollen.” Mahoney swirled the drink in his glass. “Sounded like her ex banged her up pretty bad.”

“Motherfuck—” Serge dashed out the door, and Coleman followed.

“Serge!” Mahoney called after him. “Where are you going?”

A Plymouth screeched out of the parking lot.

Ten minutes later, Serge mashed the elevator button in a motel lobby. Over and over. “Screw it!” He ran for the stairwell and bounded up to the fourth floor three steps at a time.

Knocking on a door. Serge pressed his eye to the peephole. “Come on, Sally, open up. I can hear you in there.” More knocks.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “I hear footsteps.”

They backed up. The sound of someone fumbling with the chain and locks. The door opened. She already had her back to them, walking across the room with arms folded tight. Stopped next to a broken lamp.

“Sally.” Serge moved forward. “What’s going on?”

She stared out the window with no reply.

“Sally, please look at me.”

Then her head began shaking with sobs.

Serge lightly touched her from behind on the arm. A big flinch, pulling away.

“Sally . . .”

She finally turned around.

Serge stepped back with a gasp and bit his fist.

“Serge!” She stepped forward. Her tear-streaked face went into his chest with a desperate hug. But not before he saw the busted lip and the old, faded black eyes that had recently been replaced by new ones.

“Shhhh,” said Serge. “Now just tell me what happened.”

It took a long moment, but she regained her composure and slowly looked up at him.

Serge gasped again. “What are those red marks around your neck?”

“It’s where he kept strangling me.”

“Kept?”

“The first time I thought I was dead for sure. But he just wanted me to pass out, because I came to and he did it again, four or five more times. Said he wanted to show he had total control and could kill me anytime he wanted, which he definitely would do if I contacted you or anyone else again. And if I ran, he’d never stop looking for me no matter how far or long. And when he found me, he’d heat up a fire poker and . . . and . . .”

Serge’s eyes clenched shut at what she told him next. His hands covered his ears. “No, I can’t hear any more!” He pulled her arms away.

“Serge! I need you!”

But he was out the door.

Coleman caught up to him in the parking lot. He climbed in the passenger side of the Road Runner. Serge stared forward in the driver’s seat. Rapid, shallow breaths.

“I’ve seen that face before,” said Coleman. “What are you going to do?”

“We gave him a chance to listen to reason.” He threw the car in gear. “But now it’s Home Depot . . . and the toy store.”

Part II

The Parallax Enigma Jackal Manchurian Sanction

Chapter Fourteen

South of Miami

Building 25.

Afternoon briefing.

Oxnart looked out across school desks. “Mandrake?”

An agent opened a file. “Maintained surveillance from Biscayne to the cultural center. Here are some pictures of him exchanging briefcases in the Museum of Art.”

“Standard spycraft.” Oxnart nodded.

Mandrake handed another photo.

“What’s this?”

“He has a shoe phone.”

“Old school.” The chief handed the photo back. “Who’d he make the briefcase drop with?”

Another photo. “The chubby guy he was with at the carjacking.”

“Then things are looking up,” said Oxnart. “He might not be working for Lugar after all.”

The agent stared down at his desktop.

“What is it?” asked Oxnart.

“There was a second briefcase transfer. A dead drop in a trash can at the corner of Miami Avenue.” A hesitation before Mandrake produced more photos of a black SUV. “Lugar’s boys picked it up. We saw the drop while taking surveillance photos.”

“And you didn’t try to intercept?”

“Of course we did, but their SUV was closer and got there first. We almost crashed into each other.” Mandrake reached in his file. “Here’s a photo of them giving us the finger as they sped away.”

“Son of a bitch!”

The door opened. A breathless agent.

“Sinclair, you’re late!”

“Sorry, Chief, but I just got the workups on those mystery phone calls to our station.”

“And?”

Sinclair unfolded a printout. “Traced to this sketchy office building on the river. Then there’s that beeping message—our sound guys are still working on it. And a bunch of other calls made to consulates. Bolivia, Costa Gorda, Colombia, Canada—”

“The Canadians! Christ!” said Oxnart. “Who’s behind it?”

The agent glanced back at his notes. “Office rented to a private investigator, former state police agent named Mahoney.”

“Who’s that?”

Sinclair held up another photo. “Someone with an office that Serge was seen leaving.”

“Of course!” Oxnart smacked a fist into his hand. “Now it all fits together. The airport, the phone calls, Serge. And an ex-law enforcement agent is the typical profile for someone behind a front corporation.”

“Or a dummy front,” said Sinclair.

“And Lugar’s definitely running it! As if his horning in on my arms shipments wasn’t enough!” He took a deep breath and made a sweeping wave in the air. “Fuck it. Go visit this Mahoney. Whatever they’re paying him, we’ll pay more.”

“For what?” said Mandrake.

“Make it a front-dummy-front. That’ll put a burr in Lugar’s ass . . . And, Mandrake?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get a team together and work up intel on Serge.”

“In case we need to take him out?”

“No, hire him. We can’t let Lugar keep somebody like that . . . Everyone, get moving!”

M
eanwhile . . .

In a converted safe house in Coral Gables.

An emergency meeting.

“Dunbar,” said Station Chief Lugar. “What have you got on this briefcase?”

“Tailed Serge from the art gallery and intercepted it after he made a dead drop in a trash can, probably for Oxnart.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Their SUV was already waiting, but we got the jump and cut ’em off at the intersection,” said Agent Dunbar. “Almost crashed into us.”

“Hope you flipped them off,” said Lugar.

“Just like you ordered.” Dunbar set the briefcase on his desk and flipped the latches. “Simple three-digit combination lock, so only a thousand permutations. I started with all zeroes and, well, it didn’t take long. Double-O-Seven.” He pawed through contents. “Souvenirs, postcards, and matchbooks and bar coasters—I’m guessing locations of more drops and meets—a tip sheet of places to eat like the twenty-four-hour Cuban sandwich shop at the corner of First and Third, probably a document exchange. And an invisible message. I was able to raise the ink with a thermal decrypter.”

“Thermal?”

“A candle.”

“Let me see that.” Lugar stared at a smiley face and some words:

H
AVE A
N
ICE
D
AY—
JM
/
W
AVE.

“We’re still trying to decipher that last part.”

“You can stop,” said Lugar. “It confirms he’s working for Oxnart.”

“How’s that?”

“Dunbar,” said Lugar. “You actually have no knowledge of the history of the agency you work for?”

The agent shrugged.

“In 1961, JM/WAVE was the secret code name for the anti-Castro operation run out of Florida.” Lugar handed back the message. “Headquartered south of Miami near the zoo in something called Building Twenty-five, where Oxnart’s station is now located.”

“So Serge really is working for him?”

“No,” Lugar said sarcastically. “He’s just some nut running around playing spy.”

“What do we do about it?” asked another agent.

“It’s gotten too risky now to hire Serge away from Oxnart,” said Lugar. “That might be exactly what Oxnart wants, to get Serge inside with us as a double agent. Or worse, Serge has done something rogue to embarrass the agency. Then it’s a game of hot potato: Whoever hires him last gets the blame. Either way, Oxnart’s setting a trap.”

“But what if it’s not a trap?”

“Then we definitely need to hire Serge.” Lugar picked up a lamp and threw it. Agents ducked; it smashed against a wall. “So we run a special ops to learn the angles and decide whether it’s in our best interest to recruit Serge.”

“What kind of special ops.”

“Find out where he’s staying. Which means we first need to find out where he is right now.”

“Where do you think that is?”

Lugar stared into space. “Probably somewhere on a mission.”

Midnight

“We’re on a mission!” said Serge. “Wake up!”

An orange-and-green Road Runner sat in the dark, just beyond the yellow lights of the turnpike’s toll plaza.

“Coleman,
Coleman, Coleman
. . . Wake up,
up, up
. . . We’re on a mission,
mission, mission
 . . .”

Coleman remained motionless in the passenger seat, eyes frozen open.

“Coleman!” Serge violently shook his pal’s shoulders. “Shit, he’s dead! I knew he’d end up overdosing!”