“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?”