Pineapple Grenade (26 page)

“I didn’t say I wasn’t in the trade, just not with the Company.”

“Then who
are
you?”

Serge clicked the heels of his sneakers together and gave a quick salute. “Serge A. Storms, patriot-in-waiting.”

Coleman pushed himself up from the ground and walked toward Ted. “You need to mellow out. I have some coke.”

“You do?”

Coleman poured a generous bump on the back of his hand and Savage vacuumed. He snorted deep with zooming eyes.

“Dammit.” Serge steadied Ted. “He was spastic enough before.”

“It’s what he needed,” said Coleman. “I know this territory.”

Ted nodded. “Right, Miami. Should have known. World capital of ex-spook, paramilitary, soldier-of-fortune, dummy-front-corporation, back-channel, plausible-deniability, invisible-ink, yabba-dabba-doo . . .”

Serge smiled patiently. “Why don’t I buy you a drink and bring you back down?”

“Now you’re talking!”

“Me, too?” asked Coleman.

Serge seized his collar. “No more rocket dust for him.”

“But he likes it.”

“That’s the problem.” Serge straightened out his pal’s shirt. “I’ve got a rare chance to pick the brain of a famous spy, and I can’t have you turning it to hamburger.”

Ted walked over. “So where are we going?”

“I know the perfect place.” Serge led them back to Biscayne Boulevard and hailed a cab. “Just a mile or so down the road, but another world away.”

“Where?” asked Ted.

“Churchill’s,” said Serge. “Heard of it?”

“Heard of it? I could have bought the place with my tabs.”

A taxi pulled over.

“Churchill’s?” said Coleman. “What’s that?”

Serge and Ted looked at each other and laughed as they all got in.

The pastel Paradise taxi sped north. A small plastic palm tree stood on the roof. The driver jabbered nonstop on a cell phone in Swahili. A pine-tree air freshener on the rearview battled the jerk-chicken upholstery. The radio on “Classic Mo-Bastic Reggae! 107.5 FM, Miami!”

“So where do you know me from?” asked Ted.

“The news. I watch it all the time. Even when I don’t watch it. I leave CNN on at night for white noise, but you know how you hear something in your sleep and it infiltrates your dream? And then Larry King is chasing me through a misty forest while Tori Spelling
reveals all.
” Serge shook with the willies. “I can’t leave it on anymore. Anyway, that’s when I heard about your case. How you were ‘outed.’ ”

“They betrayed me.”

Coleman raised his hand. “I don’t know what’s going on again.”

“You gave them your whole life,” said Serge.

They turned left off Biscayne onto Fifty-fourth. Jimmy Cliff from the radio:

“. . . The harder they come . . .”

“Then they got that TV prick to disclose my classified status.”

“. . . The harder they fall . . .”

Serge swayed to the music. “You’re with friends now.”

“. . . One and all . . .”

“Serge.” Coleman nervously tapped his shoulder. “Where are we?”

“Little Haiti. We’re putting another distinct Miami district into play.” Serge leaned over the front seat and handed the hack a twenty. “Let us out here.”

“But we’re still a few blocks from your stop,” said the driver.

“I like to take in the neighborhood on approach. Here’s another ten.”

“It’s your funeral.” The cab screeched off.

Coleman looked around an arid landscape of sunken-eyed scavengers milling outside barricaded buildings. He clung to the nearest arm: “Serge, that guy coming toward us on the sidewalk is swinging a giant machete.”

“Are other people around?”

“Yes, lots.”

“Does it seem unusual to them?”

“No.”

“Then it shouldn’t to us.”

Onward up Second Avenue.

Coleman pointed again. “There’s one of those double-decker buses from that other country.”

“England,” said Serge. “See the building next to it? Churchill’s, one of Florida’s most venerable watering holes.”

“Seems a little out of place in this neighborhood,” said Coleman.

“Totally out of place,” said Serge. “A British pub in Little Haiti catering to Goth kids. Non sequiturs rock my world.”

They walked another block and went inside the pub’s corner entrance beneath a large portrait of the former British prime minister and a sign: U
NDER
O
LD
M
ANAGEMENT
.

A block back, an SUV with tinted windows pulled up to the curb.

Coleman climbed a stool. “The bar’s empty.”

“An empty bar at midday is the perfect place for spies to meet. No eavesdroppers. And the arrival of any potential adversary can’t go unnoticed.”

They didn’t notice two men in off-the-rack suits arrive at a table up front.

Ted looked around. “Where are the Goth kids you mentioned?”

“They only come out at night.”

Bartender: “What can I get you fellas?”

“Bottled water,” said Serge.

“Whiskey,” said Ted.

“It’s on me,” said Serge.

“Make it a double.”

The woman returned with drinks.

“Thanks.” Serge twisted off the plastic cap. “Can I take pictures?”

“Knock yourself out.” The woman returned to the end of the bar and took a seat in front of a TV:
“Our biggest-ever shoe and handbag intervention. Next on
Oprah
.”

Serge clicked away with his digital camera, starting at the sailfish over the bar, hung against a faded Florida mural of egrets and gulls on a coastal marsh. It was a narrow joint, barely enough for the row of stools at the front, two end-to-end pool tables, and a small band stage for live weekend jams.

“So, Ted,” asked Serge. “What brings you to Miami?”

“They dumped me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I woke up and here I was.”

Serge nodded.
“Burn Notice.”

“At least I think they dumped me,” said Savage. “I was at the bar in New Orleans. Gets fuzzy after that.”

Serge grabbed his water. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Stumbling out of Cosimo’s on Burgundy Street; next thing I knew I was waking up on top of the covers in a strange motel in another city and all my credit cards were gone. I had to turn on the TV to find out where I was.”

Coleman tossed back his drink. “Been there, done that.”

“Cosimo’s,” said Serge. “Another famous spy bar. Favorite of Lee Harvey Oswald while running his one-man Fair Play for Cuba Committee.”

“You know your history,” said Ted. “Anyway, looks like I’m stuck in Miami awhile.”

“People should go to jail for what they did to you.” Serge aimed his camera toward the back of the bar.
Click, click, click.

One of the men in suits aimed his tie tack.
Click, click, click.

“What’s done is done,” said Ted. “No use looking back.”

Two more people came through the open door of bright sunlight. Local residents. The Haitians grabbed a pair of stools on the other side of Coleman.

Coleman turned and smiled. “So you guys live around here?”

The answer came in death stares. Coleman gulped. Murderous mouths, soulless eyes. The closest had a thick scar running from his forehead, over his eyelid, to his cheek.

Coleman managed a crooked grin. “I’ll get back to you.”

Ted reached in his pocket. “Serge, one thing you should know before we hang out anymore. You might be in danger.” He unfolded the note with invisible ink. “JM/WAVE, the old anti-Castro operation. I think they’re planning to set me up for some kind of fall.”

“No, they’re not,” said Serge.

“Seriously, I understand these people. Now that they’ve neutralized me, I’m the perfect scapegoat for some rogue operation.”

“That’s my note,” said Serge.

“Yours? What? Why?”

“Just gettin’ my Serge on.”

Ted felt someone poking his arm. He turned.

Coleman held out his hand. “Want to burn a joint?”

“Sure,” said Ted. “But where? It’s broad daylight. I saw some police cars on the way over.”

“Got it covered.” Coleman climbed off his stool. “I’m an expert at finding hidden places to blow numbers in public.”

Ted hopped down. “What are we waiting for?”

Coleman felt someone poke his arm. He turned. The Haitians. A pair of giant, ivory smiles. “Can we come, too?”

“The more the merrier.”

They went out the front door and circled behind the bar. Coleman found an alley with garbage cans and stacked beer cartons. They crouched.

A black SUV drove off.

South Miami

Building 25. Nightfall.

Station Chief Gil Oxnart grabbed the podium.

“What have we got? Dresden?”

An agent opened a folder on his school desk. “Serge’s previously unknown associate goes by the code name ‘Coleman.’ Picked up surveillance on Flagler Street, where subjects proceeded west on foot until boarding the Metro Mover.”

“Classic move,” said Oxnart. “Difficult to follow the monorail below on the streets.”

“Had a heck of a time. Just about to lose him when they exited Freedom Tower Station, proceeding on foot to the 395 overpass.” Agent Dresden passed a set of eight-by-tens. “Followed taxi to Second Avenue, where subjects exited north.”

Oxnart turned to a city map on the wall, following the trail with his finger. “This route makes no sense, multiple modes of transportation, random pedestrian movement.” He returned to the podium. “No healthy person has a lifestyle like that. We’re obviously dealing with an experienced professional.”

“Sir, we’ve picked up a third subject. Hold on to your hat.” Another photo. “Ted Savage.”

“The outed agent? That can’t be a coincidence. They’re planning something big.”

Dresden reviewed his notes. “They held some kind of a meeting in Churchill’s.”

“Churchill’s?”

“An old bar.”

“Where?”

“Little Haiti.”

“What on earth were they doing there?” asked Oxnart.

Dresden handed forward another stack of photos. “Took those with my tie tack.”

The station chief studied them. “Who the heck are these two new local guys they’re talking to?”

“Sir, we now have reason to believe the Haitians are involved.”

“The Haitians! Christ!”

“We suspect those two new guys are ex-secret police under Baby Doc, the Tonton Macoutes.”

“What kind of business does Serge have with the Macoutes?”

“Don’t know,” said the agent. “But it must be pretty important. They left the bar to secretly exchange something.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t know that either. Coleman’s apparent specialty is concealment. He made a flanking maneuver behind the bar, where we lost audio and visual contact.”

“Jesus!” said Oxnart. “How far does this thing reach?”

“Pretty far,” said another agent. “We’ve uncovered some kind of pipeline between Haiti and Costa Gorda.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because Serge has been making large, unknown shipments to both countries from the Royal Poinciana Hotel.”

“The Royal Poinciana?”

“That’s the return address on the manifests.”

“You idiot,” said Oxnart. “It’s the hotel where Serge must be staying!”

“Oh.”

Oxnart began pacing. “We need to get our arms around this. Where were Lugar’s boys during all that?”

Dresden handed over the last photos. “That’s their black SUV.” He smiled. “I don’t think they got any pictures of us.”

“Then we still have a shot,” said Oxnart. “And I have a pretty good idea what Lugar’s next move will be. The center of it all is the Royal Poinciana. Get a team together.”

“How do you want us to approach it?”

Oxnart looked toward a pair of desks in the back of the room. “Sheffield, Winslow, this is your party. I don’t want to know your plans.”

“We’re on.”

“And realize you’ll be flying solo. Absolutely no contact with the station until it’s over. This mission doesn’t exist, nor will it ever exist.”

Across Town . . .

“The Haitians?” said Station Chief Lugar. “Christ!”

“That only scratches the surface,” said Agent Bristol. “We’ve detected a secret network in the Caribbean, where Serge has been making clandestine shipments.”