Pineapple Grenade (22 page)

“It’s just red,” said Bancroft. “Like we used to have.”

Glide shook his head. “It’s a darker red.”

“I thought we were already at darker red.”

“That was last time,” said Glide. “This is even darker. Boo!”

“This is ridiculous is what it is—a political ploy to exploit people’s fears,” said Bancroft. “I find it very interesting that the raising of the threat level conveniently coincides with your political interests, like distracting from oil spills or increased covert funding.”

“Senator!” Glide said with feigned astonishment, placing a hand over his heart. “A little reverence, please. It’s the national thermometer.” Director Tide held it up again.

The committee broke out into partisan bickering.

A gavel banged. “Order! Order!” barked the chairman. “The gentleman from Iowa has one minute remaining.”

“Thank you,” said Bancroft, turning to the witness table. “I’m afraid I’ll need more proof than you’re offering . . .”

Malcolm pulled the microphone to his mouth. “Communists.”

“. . . But I’ve seen the satellite photos,” continued the senator. “And the foreign intelligence services—British, French, Brazilian—they all report the same thing. No rebel movement of any significance.”

Malcolm slid the microphone closer. “The rebels are . . . in exile.”

“Isn’t that good?” asked the senator.

Malcolm shook his head. “Exile is scary. It has an
X
.”

“I’ve heard enough,” said the chairman. “Time to vote . . .”

The tally predictably fell along party lines. No more funding. The room stood. Politicians yawned and checked the time.

The director of homeland security covered his microphone and whispered sideways to Glide. “What about all those agents we have secretly in the mountains posing as rebels? The committee just cut off their money.”

“I know.”

“Then how are we going to get them home?”

“We can’t.”

“But that’s a major scandal.”

“That’s why I need you to hold another press conference.”

Three a.m.

A tiny, glistening bead of liquid appeared at the end of a hypodermic needle.

A finger flicked the syringe.

The front door opened.

“Found him flopping around in the bushes,” said Coleman. He led the staggering, drooling hostage back to the chair and sat him down. “Serge, he broke two of the holy candles.”

“I’ve got spares.” Serge held up the syringe. “One more injection should do it.”

He located a vein and hit the plunger.

“There.” Serge tossed the needle at the wall like a dart and rubbed his palms together. “Time to play! And I’ve always wanted to play with those things since I was a kid!”

“The giant bubble wand?” said Coleman. “Those are a gas! The stoners and me would always buy one before we tripped.” He moved his hands slowly through the air. “That huge blob pulsing and floating across the field, and one of the heads said it was his soul, and another dude said he was the devil and popped it, and we couldn’t get the first guy to stop crying. Then we pulled out the other giant wand—the one with a hundred holes—and the field was covered with all these tiny bubbles, and the crying guy ran after them, biting the air. He’s now a stockbroker. Serge, do you also have the other wand with the hundred tiny holes?”

“Right here,” said Serge, pouring soap water into the baking pans. “That’s why I got two sets of fans.”

He turned them on.

Air currents. Curtains flowed. Candles flickered down inside their glass holders.

The fans’ oscillating switches had been turned off, so they remained stationary, blowing straight ahead.

Then Serge activated the headless fans attached to the other chairs. Their oscillating switches stayed on. Duct-taped to the rotating necks were the Wham-O bubble wands. And since the bases of the latter fans had been secured perpendicular to the floor, their slowly rotating necks dipped the bubble wands down into the baking pans. Then lifted them up ninety degrees, where the regular fans blew out bubbles: a humongous, single blob on the left; hundreds of tiny ones on the right.

“Trippy,” said Coleman. “Especially in the candlelight.”

“Candles are the key,” said Serge.

The wands dipped down again. More soap bubbles. They began popping on Jethro’s chest and arms.

“So what’s the deal?” asked Coleman. “We make him damp and sudsy?”

“No,” said Serge. “This is just the trial round. And put that joint out!”

“But, Serge.”

“No
buts
. You want to end up like him?”

“How can that happen?”

“Because the real lesson is about to begin.” Serge clicked off the fans and dumped out the soap-water trays. Then he refilled them from a gallon jug. A familiar smell filled the air.

“I get it now,” said Coleman. “When did you think it up?”

“You know how those big soap bubbles have a swirling, rainbow sheen on the surface?” asked Serge. “Got to thinking, where else have I seen that chromatic effect? Then it hit me. Time to go shopping!”

He approached Jethro. “I know you can hear me, but I need to make this quick because the summit’s in town. You don’t want to miss the summit! So here’s the deal. Keep trying to move and maybe you can get away before my contraptions take effect. Or maybe not. Who knows? I just spitballed the calculations. But if you do get away, no more funny stuff with Sally or I’ll come back and crunch the numbers with a computer. Any objections? Good . . . Oh, and one last kicker from the archives: Don’t you love those great History Channel shows about B-17 Flying Fortresses making bombing runs over German ball-bearing factories? But you ask: How is that relevant? . . . Showtime!”

Serge walked back and switched on the fans.

The wands dipped into their pans.

They raised up. New, rainbow-hued bubbles floated toward Jethro.

The room grew slightly brighter in a series of tiny flashes. Then a big one.

“Cool,” said Coleman. “Gasoline bubbles.”

“Remember, the key is the candles,” said Serge. “They don’t have to actually touch the bubbles because the fumes are what ignite.”

“Fumes?” said Coleman. “Are
we
in danger?”

“Of course not,” said Serge. “Proper handling of flammable liquids requires plenty of ventilation. And I’ve got two fans. It’s amazing how many people conduct unsafe lifestyles.”

“The bubbles are exploding a foot or more away from him,” said Coleman. “Isn’t that too far?”

“Like when the Germans fired anti-aircraft guns, and the sky flashed nonstop with exploding flak during the B-17 raids,” said Serge. “Throw up enough and some are bound to hit.”

The living room:
flash, flash, flash
 . . .

“Some hit,” said Coleman. “But the bubbles are too small.”

“I still wouldn’t like it.”

“Oooooo!” said Coleman. “A big one just singed him good.”

“They’re getting closer to the target.”

“Some of the bubbles aren’t going off. They’re just hitting Jethro and making his shirt wet. Others are popping on the wall behind him.”

“Not a good sign,” said Serge. “They could be ignited by later bubbles.”

“Cool! I gotta see that!”

“You won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re leaving.”

“Again? You never let me watch!”

“Coleman, this could get unpleasant. I’d rather watch bunnies and chickadees.”

Flash, flash, flash
 . . .

“But, Serge!”

Too late. He was already out the door and running to the car.

Coleman lit a joint in the passenger seat and grumbled. Serge drove a short distance and parked at the end of the street before the turnpike entrance.

Coleman flicked an ash out the window. “Why are we stopping?”

“Plan our next spy moves.” Serge opened a map. “The seasoned spy brings all of Miami into play . . .”

Behind them, the sky grew brighter.

“Why all of Miami?” asked Coleman.

“To provide the cover of confusion.” Serge pointed at spots on the map. “This city’s like Europe—all these utterly distinct cultural districts with severe borders.”

Neighbors began walking out on lawns, pointing and dialing cell phones.

Coleman tapped another ash. A fire engine raced by. “But how do the different sections of Miami give us cover?”

“Throw off the enemy,” said Serge. “The more places you conduct your ops, the more factions they think are involved.”

Coleman leaned toward the map. “Like where? . . .”

The sky raged with light in the rearview. Sprays of high-pressure water. Another siren as an ambulance flew by. Onlookers yelling.

“Well,” said Serge, counting on his fingers. “You got Little Havana, Little Haiti, Liberty City, South Beach . . .”

Three police cars zoomed past with all the lights going.

“. . . Coconut Grove, downtown, Brickell, and the MiMo architecture district, to name but a few.”

“What’s that racket?” Coleman turned around and looked out the back window. “There’s all kinds of cops and emergency vehicles. Everyone’s standing on their lawns.”

“This is kind of a rough neighborhood.” Serge threw the car in gear. “We probably should get going before something bad happens.”

Chapter Sixteen

Costa Gorda

Another moonless night in the mountains.

“I’m hungry,” said one of the rebels.

“I told you, we have to ration staples until they make another supply drop,” said the squad leader. “Two spoons of Spam a day.”

“Henry,” whispered Ralph. “When
is
that next drop?”

“Don’t know. Can’t reach them on the high-band.”

“We were only able to salvage two boxes from the last drop. The rest landed on the others still burning from the napalm.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Ralph looked back at a waning campfire and audible groans. “The men are starving. Some are getting sick from eating the berries . . .”

On the other side of the encampment, more whispering among the lower ranks:

“I can’t take this anymore.”

“I’m so weak I can barely stand up.”

“Guys!” Someone ran over with a small shortwave. “Just picked up the BBC. The intelligence subcommittee canceled our funding.”

“But they wouldn’t just leave us here . . . right?”

“What do you think? This is an illegal operation. We’re expendable.”

Eyes darted round the circle. Panic. “They’ve abandoned us!”

“What are we going to do?”

“I know this village at the edge of the next province. They must have food.”

“How far?”

“About ten clicks past the river.”

“What are we waiting for?”

Back on the command side: “Ralph, what are those guys doing?”

Ralph turned around. “Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“We’re hungry.”

Downtown Miami

This time, a shark was dropped in front of a Cuban deli with plastic Italian tablecloths. The chalk menu sat under a painting of a rooster.

A light afternoon crowd. In the back of the deli, at the very last red-and-white-checkered table, sat a young man from a mail room on the seventh floor of an office building across the street. His face was in his hands. Pork sandwich untouched.

“They’re going to send me home!” said Scooter Escobar. “I just know it!”

“They’re not sending you anywhere,” said the woman seated across from him, picking through her avocado salad. “You’ve got the safest job in the whole consulate.”

“But you’ve met this Serge character.”