Pineapple Grenade (43 page)

“Yes, but I don’t remember where.” Felicia turned a page in her menu. “American. I think he’s famous or something. Was hoping you could peg him when he comes back.”

“Do my best.” Serge squeezed lemon into his water. “Whoever it was did me a favor by picking this place as the meet point. I could eat anything in here, especially the palomilla steaks.”

Coleman knocked over a glass. “Didn’t break. No foul . . . What’s so special about the joint?”

“Versailles is the cultural dining epicenter of Little Havana. It’s an off hour right now, but at peak times, this place is a humming hive of exile political debate.”

“Looks like a regular restaurant.”

“You know how CNN sends reporters to barbershops in Iowa and interviews customers for the common man’s opinion of current events?”

“You mean the customers who wear fishing hats that say ‘Kiss my bass’?”

“Those are the ones,” said Serge. “And whenever something happens in Cuba, they send the camera crews here.”

“Don’t look,” said Felicia. “But his contact just came back.”

Serge intentionally knocked his fork on the floor, copping a glimpse as he bent down.

Felicia pretended to read her menu. “Know him?”

“Uh, yeah.” He looked down at his own menu. “I think you might want to consider dropping this business.”

“What business?”

“The whole thing. Your arms pipeline and whatever mystery’s behind it.” Serge reached across the table and placed a hand on hers. “Might be a good time to walk away. Make that run.”

She pulled her hand back. “This isn’t like you. What’s the problem?”

“Evangelista’s contact. I know him.” Serge shifted his eyes toward the other table. “And you don’t want to.”

“I’m not backing off. It’s my country.”

“And this is my country,” said Serge. “I know how the game is played. And the players.”

“So bail out if you’re scared. I’ll go it on my own.”

“I’m not scared. But I wish you’d be just a little bit.”

Felicia dismissed him with an offhand wave. “The generals disappear people all the time in Latin America.”

“Trust me on this. The guy has so much money and influence, he could make an entire city block in Miami disappear, no questions asked.”

Felicia picked up her menu again. “So who is this prince of darkness?”

Serge picked up his own. “Good way to put it . . .”

While they were talking, Evangelista picked up the briefcase and left. He strolled west up the sidewalk past the restaurant’s windows. A few minutes later, the contact finished a glass of water and departed eastbound.

Felicia threw a twenty on the table and got up. “We need to get moving.”

They reached the front door. A call from behind.

“Excuse me,” said the maître d’. “You have a message.”

“I do?” said Serge.

He handed him an envelope.

Serge tore open the flap. “Who’s it from?”

“The gentleman at that table.” He tilted his head toward the empty one that had yet to be bussed.

“Which gentleman?” asked Serge. “The big one in the tropical shirt?”

“No, the other.”

Serge unfolded the note and read. He didn’t speak.

“What is it?” asked Felicia.

Serge looked up. “You’re not going to believe this . . .”

Chapter Thirty-Four

One hour later

A ’68 Plymouth rolled through a quiet neighborhood in Little Havana. Modest ranch houses and haciendas. A dog barked, trash cans at the curb for pickup, chain-link, Mexican tiles. The Road Runner continued, only one occupant in the car.

Serge slowly turned onto Southwest Ninth Street (also Brigade 2506 Way) and pulled to a stop in front of a quiet stucco home with the address 1821. He unlatched a gate, walked up the steps, and opened the front door without knocking.

Inside: long rows of bookcases, tables with maps, walls covered in photos and flags. At the rear of the room, a solitary man in a business suit stood with hands clasped behind his back. Reading a plaque.

Serge stepped beside him and stared at the next plaque. “Nice day.”

The man laughed. “Kind of weird meeting in the Bay of Pigs Museum. But from everything I’ve heard about you, actually not. How’d you find this place?”

“It’s on my rounds. And I could count on it to be empty. No respect for history.” He pointed through double glass doors. “See all the color pictures of older men on the side walls in that meeting room? They’re the patriots. The black-and-white photos of younger men behind the podium are the martyrs.”

“Whatever. The whole reason I wanted to meet—”

Serge interrupted by holding up a hand. He looked down at his own tropical shirt and the invasion brigade souvenir pin affixed over the pocket. Then at his contact’s empty lapels. “Where’s your pin?”

The man laughed again. “I know you must recognize me. Let’s get down to brass tacks.”

Serge cleared his throat and tapped the top of a small glass souvenir case. “The pin. It’s our signal.”

“You’re joking.”

“I never joke about national security.” Serge turned around. “I’ll go back outside, and we’ll start again.”

The man sighed as Serge left the building.

Moments later, the door opened again. Serge crossed the room.

The man tapped his lapel pin. “Happy?”

“Yes.” Serge fiddled with the area over his own pocket. “Now take off your pin before our code signal is detected by enemy agents.”

“We’re in an empty freakin’ house.”

“Ahem . . .”

“For the love of . . . Fine, whatever you say.”

The pin came off and went in a pocket.

Serge smiled. “So imagine my surprise when I got your message at Versailles. What on earth could the one and only Malcolm Glide want with me?”

“We’ve been watching you.”

“I’ve seen the black SUVs.”

“You’re good,” said Glide. “And President Guzman trusts you. That’s important.”

“Don’t bullshit me. You may scare other people.” Serge formed a steely glare. “I know you’d like nothing better than for his administration to topple so you and the generals can have the whole sandbox to yourselves again.”

Glide nodded with pursed lips. “I know why you think that. Because that’s exactly how I want it to look.”

Serge’s eyebrows knotted. “What?”

Malcolm gestured at the map table. “Have a seat. What I’m about to tell you has the highest security classification. Not even the FBI. And only the very top of the CIA.”

“Right, and you’re just going to spill it to me.”

“Guzman’s in extreme danger.”

“From you.”

“Like I said, I know how it looks.”

“It looks like you’re a disgrace to our political system. All those smear campaigns, preying on voters’ worst fears.”

“What can I say? I’m the best.” Malcolm sat back with a coy grin. “I know we’re on opposite sides of the philosophical aisle. But I was hoping that would make my proposition seem all the more credible.”

“You mean work with you? Now
you’re
joking.”

“That right-wing political stuff is just business. It’s also the reason why they came to me.”

“Who did?”

Malcolm shook his head. “Can’t reveal that. But they said it was the perfect cover. You know about the arms shipments?”

“Yeah, you’re ripping off the American people and destabilizing the legitimate democracy of one of our neighbors. You should go to jail for life.”

Malcolm leaned forward and folded his hands. “Have you ever asked yourself why none of the weapons ever leave Miami?”

“You’re in cahoots with Evangelista ripping off your partners in crime?”

“Serge, the arms can’t leave Miami.
That
would be destabilizing. Meanwhile, I’ve gained the trust of the generals and Evangelista in a way no covert agent ever could.”

Serge formed a sarcastic mouth. “They came to you because you’re a prick?”

“Precisely. We’re building an airtight case. Bank transfers, taped conversations, everything.”

Now Serge leaned forward. “Okay, purely for sporting value, what’s this proposition? But realize that if I get half the chance, I’ll use it against you and nail your ass.”

“Fair enough.” Malcolm nodded again. “The case is coming together like planned. Except things have started moving too fast in Costa Gorda. Guzman’s pushing through all these reforms. I told him it was crazy. Just wait and be patient, and he’ll get everything he wants. Right after our case . . .”

Serge’s eyebrows went up. “You talked to Guzman?”

Malcolm nodded harder. “He knows everything I’m doing. And he’s got the generals shitting themselves.”

“So where do I come in?”

“The summit. The best time for a coup is when the president is out of the country. And after that idiot Scooter killed himself, the generals moved up the schedule. They already tried to hit him at the Diplomats’ Ball.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. I sent in a capture team for you,” said Glide. “But lucky for us—and Guzman—we didn’t succeed. That was some nice work of yours taking out the asset.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“In any case, what you did at the ball changed my mind about you,” said Malcolm. “And I need your help.”

“What for?”

“They’re going to make another attempt at the big summit finale at Bayfront.”

“Know who they’re using?”

“Evangelista.”

“That’s the smart move,” said Serge. “He must have contacts with all the top freelancers.”

“We think the hitter he hired is already in town, but his whereabouts . . .”

“So why don’t you pull Guzman out of the summit?”

“Won’t budge. Says his nation’s enemies will win.”

“I like him more and more.”

“Then help your country,” said Glide. “Make sure they don’t succeed.”

“But if you and everyone else can’t find the shooter, how can I?”

“It may come to more drastic measures,” said Glide. “These things go down to the last hour, even minute.”

“Cut the head off?” said Serge.

“And the mission collapses.” Malcolm sat back and folded his arms.

“You’re actually serious,” said Serge. “You want me to do Evangelista?”

“Only as a last resort. Right now he’s too valuable. We’ve never gotten so deep inside the Latin American arms network. All his houses and mobile phones are tapped, even his yacht and the car that got blown up. Can’t tell you how hard it was to wire the second Ferrari.”

“One question: Why me?”

“Because of your particular skill set. I’ve gone over your police record.” He pulled a packet of folded paper from his jacket. “Did you really kill all these people?”

Serge grinned like a schoolboy. “We may have had words.”

Malcolm flicked his wrist. “I don’t want to know. They all look like regular crimes, and the odds are astronomical that you’ve never been caught. So the only answer is you had clearance—and protection. Plus the trail is so insane and random. Only a completely organized mind with ten million dollars of government training could have meticulously planned every last detail of a madman’s profile . . .”

“But I really am insane.”

“And that’s exactly what you’d be ordered to say. You have discipline, deny everything.” Malcolm returned the document to his jacket. “But we went over your record ten times. Never seen an operative so thorough. No trail to the government whatsoever.”

“And? . . .”

Malcolm paused and stared earnestly into Serge’s eyes. “If things go south, you’re expendable. The perfect patsy.”

Serge smiled for the first time. “I knew that was the answer before I asked the question. And you were honest about it, so we’re halfway to trust.”

Malcolm stood abruptly. “Great. Glad to have you on board.”