Pineapple Grenade (10 page)

Station Chief Oxnart picked up an overlooked surveillance photo. “What’s this?”

“Station Chief Lugar eating dinner,” said a junior agent.

Oxnart handed him the picture. “Find out what this means.” Then he clapped his hands sharply and addressed the rest of the room. “Look smart, everyone. We got the Summit of the Americas, and I want to be all over Lugar’s men. Start with the airport. Make sure every inch is covered.”

Meanwhile . . .

“This is Monica Saint James with Action News Eyewitness Eight, reporting live from Tampa International Airport, where, as you can see behind me, a Miami-bound flight has been stranded on the runway now for almost seven hours. Our station has received numerous cell-phone calls from passengers begging to be let off the plane . . .”

The camera zoomed on the window of row 27, where someone was clawing at the glass.

“. . . Our own calls to the airline and transportation officials have all been met with ‘no comment’ . . .”

Serge hyperventilated with his head between his knees in the crash position. He stood up and tapped the businessman, then slid into the aisle.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting everyone off this plane.”

Serge walked to the back, went in the restroom, and closed the door.

A minute passed.

The restroom door opened. Serge peeked outside. Nobody looking. He quickly slipped back into his seat.

Soon a squat woman in polyester waddled to the back of the plane. She went inside the restroom. And came right back out, running up the aisle.

The woman grabbed the first flight attendant she could find and pointed frantically toward the rear of the plane. The attendant hurried toward the restroom.

Back inside the terminal, TV crews continued filming.

“. . . Sources tell us there is a heated, backroom disagreement over the airline’s handling . . . Wait a minute. Something seems to be happening. It looks like the emergency doors have opened . . .”

The cameraman focused on yellow slides inflating. Passengers jumped from the doors and zipped down to the runway. Rescue vehicles raced across the tarmac.

“Thank God!” said Coleman, entering the terminal through their original departure gate and heading for the monorail to the parking lots and taxis.

“Hold up,” said Serge. “There’s one more thing I have to do . . .”

The last passengers exited the aircraft, which was the signal for a standby tactical unit in body armor to rush aboard. They swept the plane and reached one of the restrooms. On the mirror, drawn in soap:

A bowling ball with a lit fuse.

Back in the airport, total chaos. News crews surrounded passengers getting off the monorail for firsthand accounts.
“. . . You wouldn’t believe the smell! . . .”

And at the departure gate, calm was finally restored. A woman with four-inch nails headed back to her desk. She stopped and gasped. On the ground, a clean rectangle indicated the outline of a missing Elite Club doormat.

Chapter Five

Miami International Airport

Blinking lights in the night sky toward the Everglades. A distant drone. Another Beechcraft full of weapons on its way to points south.

Limos continuously left the airport.

An orange-and-green Road Runner sat at the curb outside arrivals.

Coleman killed a Schlitz. “That really blew, driving all the way from Tampa.”

“But it took less time than we sat on that runway yesterday. Planes are now dead to me. I hate airports.”

“Me, too,” said Coleman. “The magic toilets always flush before I can squat and get fully situated, and it sucks down the little paper covering I laid out, because the paper tongue in the middle hangs in the water, and then I have to get another, and it sucks that one down, too.”

“Coleman, the whole key to airport life is tearing off the paper tongue first,” said Serge. “It’s against the rules, but you have to start fighting back somewhere.”

“Serge?”

“What?”

“Then if we both hate it so bad, why are we at another airport?”

“My new job.” Serge adjusted small opera binoculars.

“Job? Who hired you?”

“Those guys who threw me out in the street. Remember? Just after we got into town and I started taking photos of consulates.”

“I thought you were kidding about getting hired. They told you to come to the airport?”

Serge shook his head. “When you’re hired for such a sensitive intelligence position, they trust your judgment.” He set the binoculars down and opened a laptop.

“What are you doing now?”

“Killing time until my mission starts.” He began typing. “I’m writing to a pen pal.”

Coleman cracked another beer. “You mean that guy whose family got abducted.”

Serge shook his head. “Someone else.”

“You’re cheating on your pen pal?”

Serge continued typing. “I know it’s not right, but the heart wants what it wants.”

“Can I see?”

“Just let me finish this.”

More typing. Serge finally hit the save button and passed the laptop across the front seat.

Coleman leaned closer and began reading . . .

Dear Sarah Palin, Almost President

Going Rogue . . . and making it look so hot!

First, I know others say it all the time, but I’m your number one fan. And I’ll straight-talk like you always do: I’m writing you for a date. I’ve been following your career and there’s no stopping the Palin juggernaut if you’ve got the right man behind you (which you don’t). We both know the marriage is finished. You’re so past that Alaskan Urban Cowboy phase. So here are my plans to manage your life. Next phase: blockbuster movie star! It’s a natural—all you need is the right vehicle. And I’ve got it! Are you ready? Are you sitting down?
All in the Family: The Movie
. Can’t believe nobody’s thought of it before. To update the show for our times, we gender-shift and make you Archie Bunker. They wouldn’t even have to write your lines, just tape-record the speeches. Remember “Drill, baby, drill”? You pushed for offshore drilling, then after the spill you
opposed
offshore drilling, saying it was a dangerous idea that was forced by restrictions on arctic refuge exploration. No screenwriter in Hollywood has that kind of imagination. From there, everything falls into place. Instead of Edith, the guy you live with who drives the snowmobiles would be “Ed” the dingbat. And of course Levi is “Meathead.” So let’s start making some calls!

Meanwhile, I’ll work on your PR. If we’re going to be seeing each other, we have to be honest, so don’t take this the wrong way: You tend to polarize people. There, I said it. But it’s not your fault. The people polarize themselves. Everyone thinks baseball’s the national pastime, but a big chunk of the constituency has always had a dick-hard need for second-class citizens, and the loss of white-only drinking fountains has finally caught up and made them lose their fucking minds. To watch the news (if you did), you’d think half the country was illegal Latin Muslims from Arizona holding gay marriages at the World Trade Center. But back to your polarity, which I’ll boomerang to a super advantage. People think you’re only about money. And just because you quit your old job. What’s wrong with that? It’s the all-American story. Hundreds of campaign volunteers working tirelessly on your campaign, residents counting on a diligent administration to steer the ship of state, but you saw Russia out your window and took a valiant stand against communism by selflessly bagging your responsibilities for millions in book deals and appearance fees. Now, that’s character.

And if money’s what it will take to get you to go out with me, so be it. I know this guy in Africa named Bobo, and I’m just about to come into $50 million, which I’ll gladly split with you. In fact I might need your help on that because I think it’s supposed to be hush-hush. I’m sure you have contacts who can help me move the money, and we’ll probably also need to get Bobo out before they use the face-spreaders. If I’m going too fast, you can just write all this on your hand.

Finally: the press. They’re so unfair: “Which newspapers do you read?” “What parts of the Bush Doctrine do you support?” Those are disingenuous “gotcha!” questions. If they possessed any honesty or courage, they’d directly ask, “Do you read?” and “Do you know what the Bush Doctrine is?” So next time they give you some bullshit pop quiz, here’s what you do, and trust me: America will be totally behind you on this. You kick ’em in the balls! (Or in Katie Couric’s case, the twat. You know you want to. And then you can yell at her, “That’s my Bush Doctrine, bitch.”)

Can’t wait for our first date! Please wear those jeans. Rrrrrrrrow!

The Next Mr. Palin,

Serge

Coleman finished reading and looked up. “How are you going to get this to her?”

“I’ll just send it through her website.”

“So you really think you’ll get a date? . . . Serge?”

Serge had become locked on the view through his binoculars. He tossed them in the backseat and threw the Road Runner in gear. “We’re on!”

Fifteen minutes and ten miles later:

A limo sat on the side of a dark access road next to the Dolphin Expressway.

A carjacker with a shaved head threw the chauffeur over the trunk and stuck a gun in his ear. “Don’t move!”

A second assailant in dreadlocks ran to the side of the stretch and aimed a TEC-9 in the back window. “Get the fuck out of the car or I’ll blow your motherfucking heads off!”

The limo people watched the man outside with the submachine gun as if he were on TV.

“What are we going to do?” said the chief of staff.

“Is this glass bulletproof?” asked the president of Costa Gorda.

One of the bodyguards shook his head.

“Then I suggest we get out of the car.”

A fist banged a window. “I said get the fuck out right now!”

A back door slowly opened. “We’re coming out. Don’t shoot.”

The president emerged with raised hands. He was seized by his jacket and thrown face-first against the side of the vehicle.

Soon they were all lined up, hands against the roof. The shaved head grabbed two briefcases from the backseat, then went down the row taking wallets and watches.

In the commotion of the blitz attack, nobody had noticed an orange-and-green Plymouth roll up quietly without headlights and park on the shoulder under petticoat palms.

Serge reached in his backpack. “We’ll have to move fast.”

“What do we do?”

Serge pulled a pair of items from the glove compartment and slapped one in Coleman’s hand. “Remember when we apprehended those thieves in Orlando? Just take this and do what I do.”

Back at the limo, a bodyguard made a false move, and the dreadlocks gave him a skull crack with his gun butt.

Two dark forms staggered and swerved up the street toward the robbery.

The shaved head turned. “Yo! Reggie, check it out. It’s our lucky night.”

Serge and Coleman stumbled closer to the group.

A MAC-10 swung toward them. “Give it up!”

Serge staggered a few more steps, covered his mouth, and bulged his cheeks. “My tummy doesn’t feel so good.”

The dreadlocks kept his own gun aimed at the entourage and looked over his shoulder. “They’re drunk.”

“Stop right there!” ordered the shaved head.

But the pair continued weaving and stumbling, each headed toward one of the assailants.

When Serge was a few feet from the shaved head, he grabbed his stomach and bent forward.