Another typical afternoon, everyone rushing about in that irrational state of mild alarm from being at an airport, checking watches, rechecking flight times, worried about the length of X-ray lines, herding toddlers and golf clubs. Distracted. Except the stationary man across the street. Minor details tallied behind designer sunglasses. A briefcase with a broken latch, a suitcase with a sticker from Epcot, license plates, levels of suntans, duty-free bags, the brand of cigarettes a Taiwan executive rapidly puffed after a Detroit flight, a chauffeur with the left side of his jacket protruding from a shoulder holster. Whether the shoes of skycaps and other badged employees matched their station in life. Anyone else in Ray-Bans.
He was satisfied.
The man crossed back to the original side of the street and stood at the curb. His shirt was sheer, formfitting, and Italian. The form said athletic. Could be mistaken for a European cyclist or soccer goalie. Three-hundred-dollar loafers with no socks. A stylish crew cut, dyed blond like the bass player for U2. He didn’t waste motion and seemed like one of those people who never laugh, which was correct.
A cell phone vibrated in his pleated pants. He flipped it open. A text message:
“+.”
He closed it and waved for the next taxi.
Biscayne Boulevard
“Know what else pisses me off?” said Serge. “Calling customer care: ‘Please listen carefully as menu items have changed.’ ”
“It’s always that same woman,” said Coleman. “Who the fuck is she?”
“The Tokyo Rose of automated messages,” said Serge. “She wants us to believe they’re hard at work around the clock improving menus.”
“They’re not?”
Serge shook his head. “Since I became aware of the phenomenon, I’ve been calling dozens of menus every few days for over a year to check, even when I’m neither a customer nor need care.”
“And they don’t change?”
“Only the wait time changes. But you’re busy thinking: ‘Holy Jesus! A new menu! And I just got used to the old one-better pay close attention or I won’t receive ultimate pampering.’ And you’re so rattled you miss the real issue of not talking to a live human.”
“That always bites.” Coleman continued up the sidewalk.
“And when you don’t want to talk to a human, some solicitor calls right after I’ve poured milk in my cereal, and I say, ‘Can’t talk now,’ which among their people means keep talking, so I interrupt and say, ‘Serge isn’t here. Cereal’s happening.’ And they ask what’s a convenient time to call back, so I say, ‘I don’t know. The police are still looking for him. Somehow he got the home address of a telemarketer and they found a bloody clawhammer. Where do you live?’ ”
“What else do you hate?” asked Coleman.
“Segues.”
The shark was a man-eater.
Probably a bull, at least ten feet nose to tail.
It had somehow strayed from Biscayne Bay into the mouth of the Miami River, where people weren’t expecting sharks.
They expected sharks even less in the downtown business district, where it now lay on the hot pavement in the middle of Flagler Street.
But it was a busy lunch hour. Office workers in suits walked purposefully along the road. Others in guayaberas sipped espresso at sidewalk sandwich windows. They offhandedly noticed the shark, but it wasn’t bothering them, as it was dead, and it was not their concern.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “There’s a dead shark in the middle of the street.”
“It’s Miami.”
Taxis and sports cars swerved around the fish. Above, commuters looked down from the windows of a Metro Mover pod that slid silently along elevated monorail tracks winding through the downtown skyline and south over the river to the Brickell Financial district. Serge unfolded a scrap of paper and crossed something off a list. He raised a camera sharply upward, snapping photos of a forty-story office building, all glass, glistening in the sun.
Coleman glanced around and sucked a brown paper bag. “You’ve been taking pictures of buildings all morning.”
“Correct.” Serge reached in his backpack and removed an envelope. “Stay here. I won’t be long.”
He ran into the building, then returned.
“What did you just do?” asked Coleman.
“Delivered a message.” Serge checked his address list again and strolled half a block. He raised the camera.
“What’s this building?” asked Coleman.
Click, click, click. “Argentinian consulate. Last one was Germany.”
“Consulate?”
Serge held up his page of notes. “That’s this whole list-sixty consulates within a two-mile radius.” He resumed west. “Outside of Washington, Miami is the diplomatic capital of America. Even the Canadians have a consulate here.”
“The Canadians! Christ!”
“No shit. They scare the hell out of me,” said Serge. “I mean, what on earth are the Canadians doing with a consulate in Miami?” Click, click, click. “Nothing good.”
“But why do you need so many pictures of the same buildings?”
“I don’t need any.” Click, click, click. “These are to provoke a response.”
“Response?”
Click, click, click. “Take enough photos of consulates, and people act fidgety. That’s how I intend to make contact.”
“With who?”
Serge stowed the camera. “What’s the one thing every consulate has?”
“Desks?”
“A spy.” Serge pulled another envelope from his backpack. “And in case my photos don’t work, there’s Plan B.” He ran across the street again and returned.
“Who are you delivering those messages to?” asked Coleman.
“The spy.”
“What’s the message?”
“Just a generic greeting. Brighten up their day.”
“No secrets?”
Serge shook his head. “I’m not out to pass information. Just raise curiosity.”
“What for?”
“To get hired.”
“By the consulate?”
“Or whoever has it under surveillance.”
“You’re losing me again.”
“All consulates are under constant surveillance.” Serge pointed at a black SUV parked up the street. “Looking for defectors, secret agents, keeping track of their own to see who’s career is moving up. If you loiter around enough of these buildings, you’re bound to show up on an internal report. ‘Say, who’s this new guy at ten consulates on Tuesday? That’s seriously connected. Maybe he should work for us.’ ”
“Can I see one of the messages?”
Serge grabbed another envelope from his backpack.
Coleman unfolded the note. “But it’s blank.”
“Exactly.”
“I mean, there’s no message here.”
“Oh, there’s a message all right.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Spies will. You pass a note with regular writing and it goes right in the junk-mail pile.” Serge took the paper back and returned it to the envelope. “But they can’t resist a blank page. It’s like crack to a spy: ‘This must be super important! Get the lab guys right on it!’ ”
“What kind of message are they supposed to find?”
“If they’re remotely competent, they’ll be able to raise the invisible ink.”
“Where’d you get invisible ink?”
“Grocery store.” Serge walk another block. Click, click, click. “Stay here.” He ran across the street again.
“Wait! I want to come.”
Coleman caught up with him in the lobby. “What kind of job are you looking for?”
Serge stared at a wall, reading plastic letters inside a glass case that listed offices by floor. “I’ve always wanted to be a secret agent. From now on, I’m completely dedicating my existence to the art of spycraft. And it fits snugly with my new Master Plan, Mark Five.”
“You never said anything.”
“Just found out. Watched that spy-movie marathon on TBS and kind of fixated.” He tapped the glass case. “Here it is, seventh floor.” They dashed across the lobby.
“So you’re really going to be a spy?” asked Coleman.
“I already am one.”
“But you don’t work for anybody yet.”