The American Agent (An American Agent Novel Book 1)

by Eric Dabbs

  "Ah, sí, Señor, here it is. This way please."

  Half the tables in the white-cloth dining area remained empty, but the lunch shift would fill them in short order. While Alex followed the maitre’d, he scanned the extravagant dining room for Coraco. He was seated in the back, in a separate, but adjoining area. Sunlight lanced through the towering bank of windows, casting golden hues throughout the rear section of the restaurant. Alex knew right away where he wanted to sit.

  "Excuse me...Señor," he addressed the maitre’d. "May I sit over there?" He pointed to the room where Coraco and Carmen dined on appetizers.

  "I'm so sorry, but that room is reserved for the restaurant owner and his party. You will have to sit in the main dining room."

  Wow. Coraco owns this place too. Alex chuckled, somewhat miffed, but countered with an alternative, pointing to a table near the entrance of the adjoining room. "How about there?"

  "I suppose..." The maitre’d pursed his lips.

  "Thanks," Alex said and helped himself to a seat.

  "You seem to be rather interested in Señor Coraco."

  "I'm a guest at his party tonight. Thought I'd introduce myself to him, but if he's expecting company, I'll wait until later."

  "He is quite a busy man."

  "I'm sure he is."

  The maitre’d gave Alex a final look, brow raised. "Your waiter will be with you shortly."

  "One more thing..."

  "Sí?”

  "Who is Coraco expecting?"

  "A few business acquaintances is all I know."

  "Guess I'll try to catch up with him at the party tonight then."

  "That would be a wise idea," the maitre’d said and departed for the front again.

  Alex turned his attention to the high profile couple. As luck would have it, the walls separating the dining areas had windows positioned at eye level next to each table. Coraco and Carmen sipped from their wine glasses. Briefly, a waiter showed up at Alex's table and took his order, Chile Relleno and water with lemon, no alcohol in order to keep a level head.

  As the server departed, two men in blue business suits passed by and entered Coraco's dining area. Older gentlemen. Late sixties. One had a full head of gray hair, the other thin-framed and nearly bald. They seated themselves across from Coraco and Carmen.

  Sitting close to the doorway that led into the separate dining area, Alex managed to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  "Would you please excuse us," Coraco said, his unwavering gaze on Carmen Sanchez. "We have important business to discuss."

  From Carmen’s sagging jaw, she understood perfectly. It was an order, not a suggestion. She asked no questions, shot him a fake grin, rose quaintly from the table and left. The moment she was gone, Coraco set his wine glass down and turned serious.

  “How are we progressing with our pet project?” Coraco said.

  "Everything is lining up splendidly," the man with the full head of gray hair began. His words ebbed and flowed with a British accent. He had a prominent chin, a class three occlusion in dental terminology. "We have given the flight lieutenant a down payment. He expects the remainder upon delivery of the—"

  "Sshhh." Coraco placed a bony finger to his lips. "No need to get too detailed at this point."

  "Sorry, bloke," the man replied.

  "When should the delivery take place?" the nearly bald counterpart asked. His accent matched the first man's, but carried a more clipped, nervous tone, uptight, like he wasn't sure about the meeting or whatever deal they had in mind.

  "Soon," Coraco replied. "I have a few more arrangements that must be made first."

  The man nodded. From his position at the table, through the window, Alex saw a side profile of his face.

  "Patience, my dear amigo." The words rang with a lack of sincerity. "Everything is working according to our plan."

  Alex leaned toward the doorway, listening.

  Carmen whisked past him so unexpected it startled him.

  "What plan?" She nestled into her seat, returning from her brief visit to the restroom, returning her napkin to her lap. "A woman can only powder her nose for so long."

  "Just a business transaction, nothing to concern yourself with, Corazon." Sweetheart in Spanish. With this, he added a chauvinistic smile, followed by a harsh glare, the steam billowing from his dark eyes.

  Carmen frowned, and then rebounded by eying Coraco's two guests. "Are we ready to order?"

  As the two men nodded, yes, Alex’s food arrived, the platter of Chile Relleno.

  Since Coraco's party had yet to order, and he’d received his food rather fast, he had no choice but to eat like a sloth. The smell of stuffed chili pepper made it a difficult challenge. The flavors rolled across his taste buds. It was mouthwatering.

  His initial plan had been to introduce himself to Coraco, but an idea came to mind and he opted for a less intrusive strategy.

  Time passed, and after finishing their meals, Coraco and Carmen rose, followed by their two visitors. Coraco took a final sip of his wine and set the empty glass next to his plate.

  The party started Alex's way and passed by on their way out. Once they were gone, and after the waiter returned his credit card, Alex walked over to their table, and with a napkin, he snatched Coraco's wine glass up by the slender neck. Casually, he tucked it behind his back and whistled as he strolled past the server. As he approached the maitre’d, Alex shielded the glass with his side and then concealed it in front of his stomach as he pushed through the double doors.

  After the valet returned the Porsche—back on the N340 motorway—he gave Wes a ring. He explained his idea for the wine glass. Wes agreed to meet him at the harbor. He would have what Alex needed before he left for the party.

  "With a little ingenuity, I think I can fix you up nicely," Wes replied.

  Alex said goodbye, tossed the phone in the passenger seat, and punched the accelerator, streaking past the other motorists on the winding road. Marbella was less than an hour away.

  With some time to kill before his meeting with Wes, Alex chose a path through the heart of Marbella. On the trip back, the overcast skies opened to produce a few drops of rain, enough to require use of the wipers, smearing the windshield in the process.

  Now back in town, the clouds began to break up, allowing shafts of sunlight to illuminate parts of the mountainside surrounding Coraco's estate.

  At a traffic light, he made a right onto the main road leading into the coastal city. Small shops cluttered both sides of the street. Cars whizzed by, splattering through the damp asphalt. Pedestrians fluttered in and out of local businesses. Alex stopped at a red light and watched people walk up and down the sidewalk. When the light changed, he resumed course across the intersection.

  As if materializing from the thick humid air, a familiar face appeared among the crowd.

  His heart thumped in his chest.

  The woman walked in the opposite direction, passing without eye contact.

  Alex twisted in his seat, glimpsed her as she turned a corner and disappeared around the edge of a building.

  A subconscious warning flashed through his mind.

  A car.

  The boxy shaped vehicle was stopped in the middle of the street. Alex pounded the brakes, screeching to a halt, missing the car's rear bumper by inches.

  "Come on, seriously?" Alex groaned.

  He slammed a fist on the steering wheel, yanked it hard and made a U-turn, forcing an oncoming driver to brake in front of him. The man blew the horn, his face twisting in anger.

  "Yeah, okay, sorry." Alex threw up a hand, grunted.

  After completing the turn, he raced the Porsche down the street, cut in front of another car with a hard left, and zoomed down the road where he last spotted the woman.

  The Porsche stopped at the curb, window down.

  The woman stood in front of him, back turned.

  "Sam?" Alex said.

  But the woman didn't hear him amidst the bustling sound of the automobil
es, the streets alive in the middle of the day. She vanished around another corner, lost in the throng of pedestrians crowding the walkway.

  Alex eased the car to the end of the street and stopped. There was no trace of Samantha. His better judgment told him she had to be thousands of miles across the Atlantic Ocean, back home in Savannah, Georgia, but his eyes said otherwise.

  He wagged his head. Blew out a gust of air, his thoughts swirling. Only one task could bring things into focus again. His job.

  Time to meet Wes, drop off the wine glass, and prepare for his rendezvous with Carmen Sanchez, and ultimately, Alfred Coraco. Samantha would have to wait for another day.

  17

  With his coffee brown eyes staring back at himself in the bathroom mirror, Alex adjusted the bow tie, shifting it from side to side until the accessory was positioned perfectly. His chance encounter with a woman who appeared to be Samantha baffled him. Had he been dreaming? Imagining the whole thing? His subconscious holding on to a remnant of his past, her invisible strings still attached to a lonely place in his heart. Absent minded, he watched himself insert the cuff-links with a thumb, one, then the other, following that by slipping the coat over his gun harness. No. That was then. This is now. Alex shoved the thoughts away. He had a job to do. A task at hand. Considering what he'd been through to this point, he was certain he could pull it off.

  Of course, he had no idea what to look for, but he would be thorough, do the usual spy routine, find his way into Coraco's office, which was unquestionably located somewhere in the mansion. Maybe he could find clues to what Coraco was hiding in the warehouse? That’s where he needed to be looking anyway. But that would have to wait for now.

  "Good evening, Mr. Preston."

  Alex swiveled around and found Wes standing at the foot of the bed.

  Alex gave a curt nod of respect, not many people could sneak up on him. The fact Wes had done so spoke volumes. He was no rookie. Seasoned in espionage was more like it. "Nice of you to let yourself in."

  "I assumed you'd be running behind schedule. No need to waste time knocking."

  "Were you able to forge a copy of Coraco’s print?”

  “Did you have the Chile Relleno for lunch?”

  Alex nodded, his respect deepening for Wes by the second. “I take that as a yes.”

  Wes eased over to the bedroom window, peeked through the blinds, slow and methodically, and then faced Alex again, his eyes narrowed, serious. "It was rather simple. By lifting Coraco's thumbprint, I was able to create a synthetic skin made of latex. Thick enough for a firm fit on the end of your thumb." Wes demonstrated on himself using his right hand. "Coraco's security system will never know the difference."

  "Gotta hand it to you, that's pretty smooth." Alex approached, took the rubbery-like sleeve from Wes and tried it on for himself. "A little tight, but it'll do."

  Wes snarled his nose. "But I took the measurement from the sample you gave me."

  "Maybe Coraco has a small hand."

  "That has nothing to do with it."

  "Wes, it'll be okay." Alex chuckled, a warm mirth flushing his cheeks. "Anyway, I doubt I'll need it tonight." He removed the clever invention and tucked it in a pocket inside the briefcase. "What I will need though...is something to crack open a safe, you know, in case I come across one. Odds are there’ll be one in his office. You wouldn't happen to have anything like that on you, would you?"

  "Mr. Preston, I am a weapons and equipment specialist, not a toy gadget man for a spy kid such as yourself." Wes paused, stone faced, but a moment later he flashed a smile. "But yes, I anticipated your need for this kind of hardware."

  Wes withdrew a small black device with a single earbud coiled around it from his inside coat pocket. "This," he continued, "is the gadget you were referring to...a safe cracker."

  "I did ask for something to crack a safe, didn't I?" Alex's upper lip curled into a sly grin.

  "It's magnetic," Wes said, point blank, "place it under the dial, insert the earbud, and listen as the gears click. Takes a bit of practice, but I'm sure you can manage."

  "I kill terrorists for a living. I can do anything I put my mind to.”

  "Yes...well, anyway, our team will be keeping tabs on your progress tonight, so don’t screw up."

  "Who's your team?"

  "Agent Reed and Wilson. Remember them?"

  "How could I forget? Say 'hi' to them for me, will you?" Alex turned away, picked up the Glock 21 pistol from the bed.

  "I'm sure they'll be happy to hear from you,” Wes said, holding a skin-colored object between his fingertips. "Here's your earpiece for the party. We'll be able to communicate with you. It's indistinct. No one should notice it." He passed the device to Alex. "We'll be around, so remember, play it cool and do your job."

  "Of course," Alex mumbled with disinterest, aiming the .45 caliber gun at the bedroom wall, the laser sight targeting the sheetrock with a red dot. "I'm always on the job."

  18

  Ferrari’s, Jaguar’s, Lamborghini's: The world's most luxurious automobiles, driven by the world's elite class of the rich and infamous. It seemed like every high roller the planet had to offer poured through the front gate of Alfred Coraco's estate. Some were born with a silver spoon in their mouth while others were legitimate self-made millionaires. Then there were those who acquired their riches from lucrative deals with Coraco himself. But all of them were at the party with one purpose in mind, to hobnob with the powerful real estate tycoon, hoping to boost their reputations even more. Everyone knew he was worth billions and exposure to him could always be profitable.

  As Alex Preston, Alex fit in well with his U.S. government financed Porsche 911. He stopped at the front gate and flashed an I.D. card. A guard wearing black pants and a white collared shirt bent down to compare the face in front of him to the tiny photo.

  "A moment please." The guard stepped away to the covered shack to check the invitation list.

  A grizzly beard shrouded the man's face, and a Browning 9mm pistol clung to his hip. Alex beheld the weapon with determined eyes knowing that if he couldn’t keep his cover, then Coraco’s force would reign down on him. He tugged at his collar. Swallowed hard.

  "Mr. Alex Preston," the man read from the registry, "of Preston Enterprises." He glared at Alex, voice as gruff as a snorting bull. "Follow the vehicles in front of you. When you get to the top of the hill, a parking attendant will direct you to the valet."

  As Alex adhered to the simple instructions and accelerated up the incline, in his side mirror, he caught a glimpse of Agent Wilson steering the stakeout van past the front gate. Wilson, Reed, and Wes would find a secluded spot to monitor his progress from afar.

  At the mansion, Alex stopped the Porsche and exited. He handed the keys to the valet. "Be careful with her," he said with a dead serious grin.

  The valet nodded, got in the car, and eased away from the curb.

  Alex adjusted his bow tie. "Here goes nothing," he whispered soto voce, and then swaggered up the steps leading into Coraco's residence.

  The door opened before he had a chance to knock. Alex executed a quick scan for a security camera, anything to explain how they knew of his presence. While doing so, he happened to glance behind him to see a guest climbing down from the running board of a black Humvee. The man was Asian and appeared to be in his mid-fifties.

  "Good timing," Alex addressed the doorman in front of him.

  The white-haired gentleman bowed his head at the compliment and motioned for Alex to enter. "This way, Señor. The party is being held on the first and second floors. Make yourself at home. Please admire Señor Coraco's fine collection of artwork."

  "I will," Alex replied as he moseyed into the gigantic foyer, which offered an open view to the second story ceiling. On each end of the vestibule, staircases curled from the floor up to the balcony. A crystal chandelier hovered over a granite water fountain in the center of the atrium, its glorious light shining down upon a trail of Spanish red brick tile leading
the way into an expansive great room and den.

  Alex angled to his left, sauntering into the great room first. The room was appointed with furniture straight out of a 1960's spy movie. He wondered which store Coraco shopped at. Not the same one he did. A gold couch. A burgundy chair in the corner. Crystal. Silver. Etcetera. Etcetera. He figured the Buckingham Palace was similarly decorated. The centerpiece was a stone fireplace with a magnificent mantle of chiseled gold. For a split second, Alex considered the possibility that the bricks were real gold.

  No. Gold plated, maybe? Not even Coraco could have that much money. Right?

  Guests socialized while they admired Coraco's art collections, many of which had been set-up in a tantalizing display: Picasso and his approximate contemporaries, you name it, the billionaire had it. Alex didn't dabble in art. He wasn't familiar with any of the artists or their works, and didn't care to learn.

  He put a hand over his mouth and coughed. "You getting this?"

  "Loud and clear," Wes replied. "But please refrain from coughing into your cuff-links. We can hear you fine with your hands at your side."

  Alex took the reprimand in stride as he maneuvered through the crowd.

  Conversations mixed with laughter. Wine glasses clinked. To his left, a waitress entered a swinging door into a kitchen.

  Alex's gaze wandered the room in search of Carmen Sanchez. She would be the key to landing him an introduction to Alfred Coraco. He figured flirting with Carmen might accomplish that, but at the moment, she was nowhere to be found. Alex left the great room, passed through the foyer again, and entered the den. More paintings, more guests. His eyes roamed about, hoping to hone in on her long, dark hair.

  "There you are," he said under his breath.

  The sight of Carmen Sanchez made Alex pause in admiration, if only for a moment. She wore a diamond-studded dress with a shear opening in the back, revealing bronzed skin as smooth as silk. Raven hair cascaded halfway down her back.

  Alex zeroed in on the Spanish beauty, and approached cool and calmly, hoping she would buy his act.