Pineapple Grenade (35 page)

A damaged Plymouth sat outside a fence with the hood up. Serge refilled the radiator with a gallon jug. Coleman, Scooter, and Ted lay on their backs in the weeds, passing a joint and staring at clouds.

“Far out.”

Felicia stood next to Serge with binoculars, panning the Opa-locka Airport. “There’s Evangelista and the white vans. But I don’t see Lugar’s guys or their vehicles.”

“Don’t look now,” said Serge. He grabbed her for a deep, hard kiss as five black SUVs raced by and sped across the tarmac.

She pushed him away and raised the binoculars again. “A plane’s landing.”

“Lugar’s crew must have gotten tied up in traffic, too,” said Serge. “Told you we’d make it in time to see the shipment depart.”

Felicia watched the Beechcraft taxi to a stop and the stairs flip down. Men from the vans went to the plane. Doors opened on the SUVs.

“That’s weird,” said Felicia.

“What’s going on?”

She handed him the binoculars. “Take a look.”

“That is weird,” said Serge. “They’re
un
loading the plane. And they’re putting the crates back in the same SUVs.”

Felicia grabbed the binocular’s back. “Those aren’t the same SUVs.”

“Of course they are.”

She shook her head. “The others didn’t have the same window tinting. And I don’t see Lugar anywhere.”

“Tinting?” Serge clicked away with his digital camera. “Nobody’s eyesight is that good from this range.”

“Mine is and . . . wait, someone’s got a briefcase. He’s handing it to Evangelista.” She adjusted the focus. “I know that guy. It’s Oxnart, from the other CIA station.”

“I remember him from Building Twenty-five,” said Serge. “Lugar’s rival.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Three a.m.

Washington Avenue. South Beach scene in full swing.

Crowds hopped behind velvet ropes. Limos arrived.

Felicia and Serge strolled up the sidewalk, trailed by the bumbling trio. Scooter wore a hospital bandage on his left paw.

“I’m having trouble getting my head around this,” said Felicia. “Arms coming and going.”

“What’s the plan?”

“I’ll tell you when we get inside . . .”

The gang reached a corner and zigzagged into a dark alley. Four hard knocks on a steel door. A metal slit opened.

SPY.

Scooter Escobar raced for the back of the club and ordered drinks. Ted and Coleman joined him behind the laser gun. Felicia and Serge grabbed their regular table. The DJ waved down at her from his Blofeld perch and cued up a techo-dance version of the Johnny Rivers espionage classic.

Serge glanced at the Three Musketeers in the rear. “Let’s hope it goes better this time.”

“I think it will,” said Felicia. “They had that fear-of-God look.”

“Never stopped Coleman. He once broke arms on consecutive nights.”

“At least Escobar doesn’t think you’re a foe anymore,” said Felicia. “And they gave him a meaningless promotion for summit security to keep his uncle happy.”

“Is Scooter really necessary?” Serge uncapped a bottle of water. “He’s bad chemistry. Coleman and Ted don’t need any more encouragement.”

In the back of the club: “Check it out!” Scooter revealed an eight ball of cocaine under the table.

“Scooter’s part of the plan,” Felicia told Serge. “He’s our entrée with some of the people on the other side that I need in order to fill in the missing pieces. They’ve started meeting him on park benches trying to get intel on us.”

“And they trust him because he’s untrustworthy?” said Serge.

“That’s the picture.”

“. . . Secret agent man! Secret agent man! . . .”

Serge leaned forward on elbows. “So what’s next?”

Felicia unfolded a summit schedule on the table. “First order is protect Guzman. He’s heavily guarded and impossible to reach except for two openings. The grand summit ball, and the final big speech onstage at Bayfront Park. We cover those two events, and otherwise we’re free to continue tracking the arms.”

Serge sat back in his chair. “Uh-oh.”

“What is it?” Felicia looked around. “What’s wrong?”

He pointed toward the laser. “They going in the restroom together again. Let the show begin.”

“Serge.” She reached and held his wrist. “There’s something else important I have to tell you.”

“You can’t quit me, baby?”

“This part is really serious.” She squeezed his wrist tighter. “You might be in grave danger. I want you to think hard before continuing on with me.”

“. . . Odds are he won’t live to see tomorrow . . .”

“What’s to think about?”

“Some stuff Escobar forgot to mention after the last time they mined him for information. They were asking about you in the same breath as the Guzman plot. I’ve seen the pattern before. Honduras, Bolivia. Here’s how it happens: If a plot succeeds, the shooter will be dead within the hour. That might be you.”

“Except I’m not going to shoot anyone,” said Serge. “So I’m safe.”

She shook her head. “Doesn’t have to be the real shooter. Just a scapegoat. The proverbial lone gunman they’ve set up. With your criminal record and out-of-the-blue coziness with Guzman after the carjacking, you came to them on a platter.”

“That’s sounds too random.”

“Because it is,” said Felicia. “At first I thought the scapegoat was Savage—and probably he was. But you became a much better fit.”

“You knew Savage was in town?”

“The entire intelligence community knew. The guy’s a total screwup. That’s his specialty: the all-purpose patsy, taking the fall for shit across the hemisphere for so long we can’t remember. He thinks they burned him, but they’re just keeping him on ice until the next blame-trip.” Felicia signaled for another drink. “When he hit town last week, everyone was like, ‘Okay here it comes. Something big’s going down and the windshield’s hitting Ted again.’ Except it’s never been anything so big that he’d be eliminated. You may have just picked the worst possible time to fill his shoes.”

“But I’m all about timing.”

Meantime:

In the restroom, a rolled-up twenty vacuumed a mondo line of Colombian Idiot Dust. Ted Savage snapped upright and grabbed his nose. “Fuck me!”

“My turn!” said Coleman. His face went down.

Escobar tugged Savage’s arm. “Check this mother out.”

“Holy cow! That’s a freaking cannon!”

“You like it?” Escobar turned the black, nine-millimeter pistol over in his hand. “New military model only issued to special forces. Even fires in mud and shit.” He ejected the clip and popped the top cartridge. “See the star formation on the tip of the bullet? Got an explosive charge, illegal everywhere. The bullet fragments like a tiny grenade, and what would normally be a tiny flesh wound to the shoulder will take an arm clean off.”

“How’d you get it?”

“Received a huge promotion.” Escobar held the gun to his face and stared down the barrel with his right eye. “Security for the summit. Guess they wanted the best.”

Back in the lounge, the DJ cranked Paul McCartney.

Felicia knocked back another shot. “. . . And you’ll need to be fitted for a tux.”

“What for?”

“The big Diplomats’ Ball at the summit tomorrow night.”

“You’re asking me out on a date?”

“. . . Live and let die! . . .”

“This part’s business,” said Felicia. “For Guzman’s safety.”

“But I don’t have any credentials. How will you get me in?”

“I can put us on the list. We’ll make a great couple.”

Serge pumped his eyebrows. “Then after that a real date?”

“If nothing goes wrong between now and the end of the ball.”

“What could possibly go wrong?”

“. . . Said live and let die! . . .”

Bang
.

The restroom door crashed open. Two men came screaming through the lounge. Savage and Coleman ran up to the couple, crying and flapping their arms.

“Calm down,” said Serge. “What did you go and do now?” He looked around. “Where’s Escobar?”

Louder crying, pointing back at the restroom with shaking arms.

Serge noticed their shirts. “Blood again? How’d you cut yourselves now?”

Felicia jumped up. “They didn’t cut themselves. That’s spatter.”

Savage wiped tears. “It was an accident.” He lifted his shirt to show them the giant pistol he’d spirited out of the restroom.

“Are you crazy!” Serge glanced around fast and snatched the gun. “The bartender’s already calling the cops.”

Felicia took off running with Serge close behind.

They pushed open the men’s room door and froze.

“Dear God!” said Felicia.

“What a mess!” said Serge.

“Where’s his head?” said Felicia.

Distant sirens.

She grabbed Serge’s arm. “We need to get the hell out of here.”

Costa Gorda

Clouds drifted below.

Poking from their wispy curls was a steep mountain rising high into the jungle rain forest. Lush, humid, loud with colors and birds.

Jutting off the side of the mountain, just above the cloud line, sat a mansion. Red barrel-tile roof. Walls of coquina, hewn and helicoptered up. A courtyard with twin rows of palms down the sides of an elongated pool. At one end stood a towering bronze statue of General Montoya Escobar, which appeared handsome, august, and nothing like the general. At the opposite end of the water, just inside a granite balustrade that prevented a sheer drop into the tree canopy, stood the general himself.

A lone bird of prey circled above.

On the far side of the compound, a series of hollow booms.

“Pull!”

A clay disk sailed over the trees. A general in a jacket with leather elbow pads raised a vintage double-barrel.

Boom
.

Soldiers with machine guns patrolled atop walls and down in the jungle paths around the base of the compound.

General Escobar lifted his arm above the balustrade. A peregrine falcon circled a final time over the mountain and came in for a talon landing on Montoya’s glove.

The same scene every weekend, a collision of class and crass. Dom Pérignon, skeet shooting, falconry, and art masterpieces throughout the residence, where all the TVs were on
Baywatch,
and the pool full of naked women and drunk old generals peeing in the shallow end.

Or at least the TVs were usually on Pamela Anderson. Today they carried dubbed-in satellite reception from Miami.

“. . . This is Eyewitness News Action Seven Noon Report. We take you to South Beach and the site of an unfortunate fatal accident . . .”

Another channel.

“. . . Action Eyewitness Nine, from just off Washington Avenue, where police are releasing few details outside a club ironically called SPY . . .”

Another channel.

“. . . Unnamed sources identify the victim as Scooter Escobar, an intelligence agent attached to the Costa Gordan consulate, who is also the nephew of a five-star general—”

A hand turned off the set. A trusted colonel walked across the patio to Escobar. “They’re ready.”

Escobar released his falcon for more airtime.

His inner circle left the skeet-shooting platform and sat solemnly around an outdoor table at the base of a fountain featuring swans and Greeks. Other lesser generals staggered from the pool in Speedos and picked up the idle shotguns.

“Pull!”

Boom
.

They went round the circle at the table, expressing deep condolences, which Escobar accepted with solemn nods. Then he angled forward with folded hands. “Gentlemen, this was no accident.”