Pineapple Grenade

by Tim Dorsey

  “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.”

  Mal
colm 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.”

  “I said halfway.”

  “Realize that,” said Glide. “We wouldn’t want you if you just went by what I’ve said here today. When we meet again, I’ll provide solid proof.”

  “Where do you want to meet?”

  “You pick again. I’m sure I’ll get a laugh.”

  Serge picked.

  Malcolm laughed. “I was right. Tomorrow at one?”

  “Thirteen hundred.” Serge pressed a sequence of buttons on his wrist. “I’m resetting my watch to military time. You should, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re within a day of the strike. I learned it from the TV show 24.” He clicked a last button. “We’re now on Serge time.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Big Day

  One P.M.

  “Can I help you find anything?”

  A man in a tailored suit set down a five-hundred-dollar purse. “No, just looking. Wife’s birthday.”

  “Please let me know if you need any assistance.”

  A curt nod.

  The saleswoman left.

  Another man picked up a purse.

  Malcolm Glide turned and checked his watch. “Serge, right on time.” He smiled and tapped his lapel: Miami Seaquarium pin.

  Serge nodded his approval, then opened his mouth.

  Malcolm stopped him: “I know . . .” He removed the souvenir and stuck it in his pocket.

  “What have you got?”

  Glide reached in another pocket and looked around the department store to make sure no one was in earshot. “First time I ever met in a Saks Fifth Avenue.”

  “The Dadeland Mall. History motivates me.”

  Glide glanced around again. “But it looks brand new.”

  “Not the store.” Serge held palms out in midair. “The space. It speaks to me.”

  “What’s it saying to you now?”

  “Nothing. That would be crazy.” Serge chugged a 7-Eleven to-go cup. “Before Saks, this was the location of Crown Liquors, where, at two twenty-eight P.M. on July eleventh, 1979, two customers pulled machine guns from paper bags, spraying the store with eighty-six rounds and cutting down a pair of rivals in a scene no less brazen than the Wild West or Prohibition-era Chicago. It has since been dubbed the first shots fired in Miami’s so-called Cocaine Cowboys War.”

  “That’s all very interesting,” said Glide. “But—”

  Serge suddenly dropped the empty Styrofoam cup and staggered backward like he was being riddled by bullets.

  Salesclerks ran over, helping him up from where he’d fallen and taken down a rack of blouses.

  “Sir, are you okay?”

  “I got it from here,” said Malcolm. “My friend’s prone to seizures.” Then he turned to Serge and helped straighten out the front of his tropical shirt. “Man, you are good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, really.” Malcolm bent down and picked up what he’d dropped from his pocket. “A few seconds ago, when you were lying there under women’s clothes, I initially thought, ‘Maybe I’ve been wrong about this guy. He actually is off his rocker.’ Then it hit me. I’ve never seen such exquisite technique before.”

  Serge made a sweeping motion with an invisible machine gun. “Don’t be fooled by cheap imitations.”

  “What brilliant spycraft! Most people check for surveillance tails by secretly peeking around. But you go the opposite direction, way over-the-top.”

  “That’s where I live.”

  Malcolm turned his neck. “See how absolutely everyone in the store is staring over here like there’s something deeply wrong with you?”

  “I’ve gotten used to the popularity.”

  “It’s perfect! Surveillance teams are trained to avert their gaze. But when you create this kind of public spectacle that’s so weird and embarrassing, it would be abnormal not to look. Then anyone who isn’t paying attention stands out like a sore thumb, and you’ve nailed your tail.” He turned again. “As you can see by the crowd’s universal disgust, we haven’t been followed.”

  “You mentioned solid proof.”

  “Obviously I can’t let you keep this.” Glide handed him a large brown envelope with a bulge in the side, then turned toward a row of white doors. “You can check it out in there. And these are your credentials.”

  Serge grabbed a shirt off a table and went inside the nearest dressing room.

  Two p.m.

  Biscayne Boulevard. North of the Herald Building. Beemers, Saabs, city bus with a vodka ad. A crew in safety vests worked jackhammers. Salsa music echoed from alleys.

  An attractive woman in a pantsuit sat on a bench along the 2100 block. Pedestrians walked by. Another rude suggestion. She checked her watch, just like the minute before.

  2:02.

  A screech of tires.

  Serge hopped out and took a seat on the bench like he didn’t know her.

  “You’re late,” said Felicia.

  “Got caught in traffic . . . taking pictures.”

  “At least nobody’s following us—” Felicia cut herself off. “Check that. We have company.”

  “Where?”

  “High noon across the street. That guy with the telephoto camera taking pictures this way.”

  “He’s not following us,” said Serge. “He’s following the building.”

  “Building?”

  Serge arched his neck back over the bench and aimed a small digital camera straight up. “That building.” Click, click, click . . .

  Towering behind them stood a vertical glass rectangle perched on a pedestal. Running up the side, blue-and-white patterns of leaves like a giant ceramic kitchen tile. One of those buildings that looks old and new at the same time: designed to be futuristic when it was christened in a bygone era.

  “What so special about that?” asked Felicia.

  “The Bacardi Building, crown jewel of the recently embraced MiMo architecture movement during the fifties and sixties.”

  “MiMo?”

  “Contraction of Miami Modernism. Buffs are constantly coming out to take photos. And spies always meet in culture.”

  “To hell with the building. What did you find out at Dadeland?”

  “Shit’s on. It’s going down this afternoon during the big outdoor summit gathering at Bayfront Park.”

  “So Glide’s really on the level?”

  “As level as they come. He showed me the files. All the bank records, photos of Evangelista meeting the generals and an assassin called the Viper. Plus taped phone conversations with same. Most of the stuff exactly matched what you’ve developed—and more.”

  Felicia jumped up. “We better get moving.”

  “I’m ahead of you.”

  They dove in the Road Runner and raced south. “Have a plan?” asked Felicia.

  “I scouted the area around the summit. Too many high-rises within eight hundred yards of the amphitheater. Even an average shooter . . .”

&n
bsp; “Then what are we going to do?”

  “People picture snipers’ nests like Oswald resting a rifle on a window ledge of the School Book Depository. That was amateur hour. True pros set up way back in the room for concealment, with highly calibrated rifles on stands in steady vise grips. Then they fire the kill-shot through an open office or hotel window ten feet in front of them.”

  “So we just look for an open window,” said Felicia. “In this heat, there shouldn’t be a lot.”

  “Except the window only has to be open a few inches for the shot. And like I said, there are a lot of buildings.” Serge reached into his pocket. “Here are the credentials Glide gave us.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  Serge had a cell phone to his head and waved for her to be quiet. “Mahoney? Serge here. Remember the backup plan? . . . Time to back it up. Bring all you got . . . Yeah, and call the Volkswagen Boys.”

  Serge hung up and hit the gas. “Things are going to start happening fast from here on out.”

  Things did.

  Other phones rang in Miami.

  Building 25. “Agent Oxnart . . . What? . . . When? . . . Right.” He hung up. “Everyone, code black. Bayfront. Move!”

  A former safe house in Coral Gables. “This is Lugar. . . . Where? . . . We’re on it.” He hung up. “Bayfront. Directive Omega . . .”

  A cell phone buried deep in a pants pocket: “Evangelista here . . . Change in plans? . . . Who? . . .”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Downtown

  Mass confusion.

  Ten times worse than when the arena lets out after a Heat play-off game.

  Flashing lights, police cars everywhere in the middle of streets, sealing the entire grid. Motorcycle cops zipped down the middle of the evacuated roads ahead of limos with bulletproof glass and flapping flags on fenders.

  The Road Runner got stacked up twenty deep under the I-95 interchange. Police with batons waved drivers back in the direction they’d come.

  “We won’t be able to get anywhere near the place,” said Serge.

  Felicia stuck her head out the window. “We’re not even moving.”

  “You look like the running type,” said Serge.