Pineapple Grenade (30 page)

“Ask her what she’s into,” said Coleman.

“She’s not from the meeting! And she can’t know about that because most women consider waiting outside meetings a red flag, then go cold on you and spend the night at home with their cats eating ice cream and watching Meg Ryan movies.”

“Gee, Serge, you sure know a lot about women.”

“And they
especially
can’t know that you know a lot about them.” Serge turned back around with a nervous smile. “You didn’t hear any of that, did you? If you did, I was talking about this great Meg Ryan movie where she bumps into a guy on the street who she mistakenly thinks waits outside the meetings, but in a heartwarming twist turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to her. So where were we?”

“You have to let me make it up to you.” She adjusted a purse strap on her shoulder. “Can I at least buy you a drink?”

“No objection.”

“Wait a minute . . .” She stepped slightly forward and looked him over. “Do I know you?”

“I’m not yet a household name—”

Her eyes widened. “You’re Serge!”

“Or maybe I’m wrong.”

“Serge, don’t you remember me?” She tapped her chest. “Felicia, from the consulate. I’m the receptionist you asked to deliver that note. Sorry if I was aloof, but you wouldn’t believe all the crazy people who walk in off the street. I had no idea you were working with us.”

“I get it now.” Serge nodded with a knowing grin. “The old pretend-accidental bump-and-greet in the street. You’re the honey trap, sent to romance me and drop my guard. The next thing I know, we’re in bed and you secretly inject my butt with a lethal isotope.” He stopped and smiled again. “Okay, I’m game. Let’s play spy.”

She laughed and flirtatiously touched his arm. “I love a man with a sense of humor.”

“Women always say that so they don’t appear superficial,” said Serge. “But it’s only true if Brad Pitt is telling knock-knock jokes. Don Rickles eats alone.”

“There’s a place up the street I like,” said Felicia.

They walked three blocks to a newly opened bistro. The maître d’ appeared with hands folded in front of his stomach. “Will it be dinner or the bar?”

“The bar,” said Serge. “We’re playing spy.”

The man gestured with an upturned palm. “That way. Enjoy.”

They entered the lounge, and Felicia hopped on a stool like it was a horse she’d ridden her whole life. “Serge, what’ll you have?”

“Water. Stirred, not shaken.”

Felicia never had to wait for a bartender. He stood before her at the ready.

“Perrier for my friend,” said Felicia. She ordered a fruity umbrella drink.

“What about me?” asked Coleman.

“And me?” said Ted.

“She didn’t bump into you,” said Serge.

“That’s fine,” said Felicia. “Whatever they want.”

Two hours later:

“Oh, Serge! . . .”

“Oh, Felicia! . . .”

“Faster! Harder! Faster! . . .”

Serge thrust like a stallion in a ritzy hotel room across from Bayfront Park.

“Oh, Serge! Whatever you do, don’t stop!”

“I think I can handle that.”

“Oh, yes! Faster! I’m almost there! . . .”

Serge went even faster.

“Oh God! Oh God! Say something horny! . . .”

“Knock-knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Brad Pitt. I brought my cock.”

“Oh God! . . .”

Behind his back, a hand with ruby nail polish clawed his shoulder blades. A second hand rose in the air, gripping a syringe with a glistening needle.

Miami International

An eight-seater prop jet took off from a short runway on a little-used corner of the airport. The all-white plane had no markings except a small tail number registered to a PO box in Key Biscayne. But it belonged to the U.S. government.

Binoculars followed the aircraft as it ascended into the clouds toward Florida Bay. The binoculars swung back to the foot of the runway as another pair of engines revved until the tower gave the go sign. The plane accelerated down the tarmac and lifted off in the same direction. Then another plane. And another, all banking south, with six more stacked up on the taxiway and others still arriving.

The binoculars lowered and hung by a cord around Oxnart’s neck. He rubbed his head. “Are all these planes ours?”

“No,” said Mandrake. “Maybe half, tops.” The agent held an intercepted shipping manifest out of Miami. As each plane departed, he checked off another destination.

“The congestion’s delaying our mission. I’ve never seen this part of the airport so busy.” Oxnart raised the binoculars again and panned the distance across an open expanse of runway, heat lines wavering up from pavement. Mirage puddles. Weeds through concrete cracks. A lone, lost jackrabbit. Twin tanks of jet fuel anchored next to a small, rusty hangar. A departing plane filled his field of vision.

“Where can all these other flights be coming from?”

Another takeoff. Then a high-decibel shock wave. The jackrabbit stood on its hind legs in the middle of the runway and looked around, hundreds of yards from safety in every direction. In rabbit thought: Fuck me.

Oxnart’s binoculars backed up.

“See something?” asked Mandrake.

He focused on the hangar at a thousand feet. “Uh-oh.”

“What’s the matter?”

Through high magnification, Oxnart watched another pair of binoculars staring back at him. “It’s Lugar. That son of a bitch must have intercepted our intercepted manifest.”

Across the runways, Lugar lowered his binoculars. “Oxnart. Shit. Must have gotten the manifest.” He turned to a case agent: “Priority dispatch, all operatives. We have company. Code red . . .”

The agent took notes. “Which red? The darker one?”

“Shut up. Just tell ’em to be careful.” Another jet roar. “Hit the ground fast and cover tracks.”

From opposite sides of the runway, Oxnart and Lugar aimed binoculars skyward as the last of the planes flew off in a loose pelican-like formation toward the sunset.

Meanwhile . . .

A shout in a ritzy hotel room across from Bayfront Park.

Serge jumped out of bed and grabbed his ass with both hands.

“What the hell just bit me?”

Then he noticed the dripping syringe in Felicia’s fist.

“I knew it!” Serge went for his pants bunched on a chair. And the gun in the pocket.

Felicia monitored her wristwatch.

Serge reached the chair. Then stumbled backward a couple steps. Stumbled forward. “Whoa, a little dizzy here . . .”

Felicia took him by the arm. “Why don’t you lie down in bed before you hurt yourself.”

“What did you stick in me?”

“That’s not important. It’s time to rest.”

“But I’m not tired.”

He fell facedown on the mattress.

Time passed.

Serge lay on his back. Eyelids finally cracked open a slit. Felicia dragged a chair to the bed: “That was just a little harmless truth serum. It’ll wear off soon, and you’ll be good as new. So let’s start with the basics. What’s your real name?”

He slowly licked dry lips. In dream-state slur: “Serge . . . Serge Storms.”

“Who do you work for?”

“People in need, future generations, endangered species, lost tourists, the disenfranchised underclass, strippers with hearts of gold trying to support a child on a single income . . .”

“What is your mission?”

“To save the republic, cheer on the home team, stay ahead of the curve, read the warning signs, respect my elders, support the troops, spend more time thinking about landfills, harness the untapped power of avoiding all your relatives, try not to fart around women . . .”

Felicia looked toward the syringe on the dresser. “Maybe I gave him too much.”

“Souvenirs, sunblock, sesquicentennial . . .”

Felicia sighed and looked at her watch again. Waiting for his gibberish to subside. “. . . Fancy fucking bathroom guest towels . . .” Finally the drug fell within parameters. She turned back to the bed: “What do you know about the plot?”

“Plot? Let’s see, erratic time line, disjointed geography, arrive from Tampa, save Guzman, sink-or-float, blah blah blah, establish Scooter as the undependable wild card, introduce burned agent Savage as possible scapegoat, escalate CIA rivalry between Oxnart and Lugar as tension builds toward assassination at the Miami summit, some kinky stuff with a tree, bump into you, knock-knock . . .”

“Okay, that’s enough . . .”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Two hours later

Serge and Felicia strolled through chic South Beach. Beautiful people crowded sidewalk cafés along Ocean Drive. Every table a different language. German, French, Swedish, Portuguese from Brazil. Tiny portions of nuevo cuisine with sprigs of garnish arranged in tripods.

“Was that really necessary?” asked Serge.

“Sorry about sticking you,” said Felicia. “Could have sworn you were a double agent sent to assassinate President Guzman. I had to make sure.”

“But what would give you such a crazy idea?”

“Scooter Escobar.” She lit a thin cigar.

“That idiot?”

“And he’s getting stupider, arranging secret meetings with people he shouldn’t.”

“Exchanging newspapers on park benches?”

“It would be funny if it wasn’t.” She blew out a thin stream of smoke. “That’s where he heard about the plot—from
your
people—and that you might be involved. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but he tells me everything.”

“So you believe now that I’m on the level?”

Felicia smiled. “You were pretty funny when you were under. What’s the whole anger issue with guest towels?”

“Used to be married. Long story,” said Serge. “I don’t approve of Tiger Woods, but I heard he had like eighteen bathrooms. How much can a man take?”

More gorgeous people in thongs and T-backs rollerbladed by. On the ocean side of the street, bodybuilders flexed at women in convertibles. Pink and lime lifeguard shacks shaped like time machines. A film crew from Japan shot a TV commercial for sake.

At one of the alfresco tables, a deal was being closed. A ruggedly handsome man with striking Latin features and long, sexy black hair dined with an equally attractive woman in a swimsuit. In two months, her
Sports Illustrated
photos would hit the stands, and she’d become a supermodel. But right now she was still an Above-Average Model.

The man reached across the table between their wineglasses and held her hand. She gazed dreamily into his eyes. Another typical Miami Beach afternoon tryst was about to spawn. In the Art Deco hotel rooms above the strip, 136 were already under way.

Men at other tables stewed with envy. The Latin hunk could have any woman in the place. What they didn’t know—and the source of universal disbelief if they did—was that the oncoming liaison would be the playboy’s first. Ever.

Oh, he could line them up in stunning volume and variety, but he’d just never been able to land them in the boat. Had nothing to do with his appeal or bedside manner. It was luck. The wrong kind. Always some crazy, blind-side against-the-odds interruption before consummation. And as with any statistical sample, somewhere in the world was the man who ranked absolute last on the standard-deviation coitus graph. That was this guy.

Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.

But hope springs eternal, and Johnny was at bat again with the bases loaded. As he held her hands and stared into those emerald-green eyes, it seemed nothing remotely could go wrong. The sun was high, and a balmy breeze ruffled the fringe of their table’s umbrella. Sinful desserts arrived on a cart.

Three blocks south, Serge and Felicia strolled past the Colony Hotel.