“No! Do something!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll call the police.” He picked up the phone, then under his breath: “Probably find him at Hooters.”
Lobby door opened. Three men strolled inside.
“What a great day we just had,” said Savage. “Especially your underbelly tour.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“I’ll never look at Miami the same.”
“Excuse me?”
They turned. The night manager had his mouth to the metal grate in the diffracting glass. “Could you come over here?”
“Me?” said Savage. “What is it?”
“I need your key back. Unless you want to lose your deposit.”
“But… my room.”
The manager popped a pork rind in his mouth. “You didn’t pay today.”
“Got busy.” Ted went for his wallet. “I’ll pay now.”
The manager chewed and shook his head. “Too late. Already rented it. Got your possessions in a bag back here.”
“But it’s my room.”
“Not anymore. Some couple from Pennsylvania.” He glanced toward a tearful woman standing off to the side.
“Why is she so upset?” asked Serge.
“Husband went to Hooters.”
“Any more rooms?” asked Ted.
“Sold out. Big shopping group from Trinidad.”
Ted turned to Serge. “What am I going to do?”
“Why don’t you stay with us?”
“But the rooms are so small.”
“Shoot,” said Serge. “They got ten people stacked in most of them. And Coleman usually doesn’t make it to the bed.”
T wo A.M.
Room 321 of the Royal Poinciana.
Serge jogged in place on the Star-Elite doormat.
Savage and Coleman sat cross-legged on the floor, taking turns sucking on an artificial leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker.
“Coleman?…”
Coleman looked up. “We made it a bong.”
Downstairs in the lobby: A small crowd gathered around a commotion.
“Ma’am,” said a police officer with an open notebook. “You’ll have to calm down if I’m going to understand you.”
Nadine Littleton took a deep breath. “I just know something terrible has happened to him.”
“What about his personal habits?”
“What do you mean?”
“Has he ever done anything like this before? Strip clubs?”
“No!” More sobs.
“Ma’am, just routine. I need to cover all bases so we can find him faster… Does he have insomnia? Take any late-night walks?”
She blew her nose in a tissue and shook her head.
“What about enemies?”
“Oh, yeah. Lots.”
“Really?” The officer got ready to write. “Who?”
“Everyone at the sales office since he got the new parking spot.”
The officer clicked his pen shut. “We’ll get a bulletin out. If you can think of anything else, please give us a call.”
A second officer returned. “Nothing at Hooters.” He looked at Nadine. “Mind if we keep this picture you gave us.”
“Please just find him.”
“We’ll do everything we can.”
“Thank you, officers.” Nadine Littleton of Beaver Falls took the elevator back up to room 318.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Next Morning
A TV correspondent stood on the side of Biscayne Boulevard.
“… And that’s the latest from Bayfront Park, with the summit just two days away. Back to you, Jane.”
“Thanks, Gloria. And in other local news, police are seeking the public’s help in locating a Pennsylvania tourist who disappeared after arriving at his downtown hotel last night…”
A family photo of Frank Littleton filled the screen.
“… Anyone with information is asked to call their anonymous hotline, five-five-five-TIPS. You may be eligible for a reward…”
A n abandoned corrugated-aluminum Quonset hut stood near one of the water-filled quarries on the edge of the Everglades. It had stored fertilizer at some point.
Property records listed the deed to Berkshire Holdings, Ltd., which was a front for an umbrella of contract operations financed with Cayman bank accounts replenished from untraceable cash deposited by CIA go-betweens with a paper trail that led to a table for six in the rear of Joe’s Stone Crabs.
A man stripped to his undershorts sat tied to a chair in the middle of a back room. A naked lightbulb hung over his head. Blood from a forehead gash.
“You have to believe me,” said the captive. “I don’t know anyone named Ted Savage.”
Slap.
“You were staying in his room!”
“Check my wallet. I’m from Beaver Falls.”
Slap.
“How are the Haitians involved?”
“I just sell auto parts.”
Slap.
“What do you know about the assassination plot?”
“The office will vouch for me.”
Slap.
“How did you first meet Serge?”
“I don’t know any Serge. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
Slap.
Agent Manchester called Agent Reed aside. “You think maybe we do have the wrong guy?”
“Not a chance. That’s Savage all right. You saw him come out of the room at the Royal Poinciana. And we doubled-checked the number, three-eighteen.”
“But his driver’s license says Frank Littleton.”
“How many fake licenses do you have?”
“Five. But he doesn’t look at all like Savage.”
“So he had plastic surgery. The Company does it all the time.”
“Okay, it’s him,” said Manchester. “But he’s a lot tougher than they told us. I don’t think he’s going to crack.”
“Any ideas?”
“Guess we’ll just have to waterboard him.”
“All right, we’ll waterboard him.”
They stood and stared at each other.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“I thought we were going to waterboard him.”
“I don’t know how to waterboard someone.”
“Neither do I.”
“We’ll probably need a board.”
“Okay, let’s go look for a board.”
They left the room and went outside. “I thought I saw a pile of lumber over there.” Manchester walked toward the quarry.
A cell phone rang.
“Reed here… Oh, hi, chief. Everything’s going great. We’re just about to waterboard him-”
Screaming on the other end. Reed held the phone away from his ear.
Manchester leaned to listen. “Lugar sounds angry.”
Reed brought the phone back to his head. “What do you mean we grabbed the wrong-?… No, I haven’t seen any TV today… I can explain… Yes, sir… Yes, sir… No, sir… I understand, sir…” He hung up.
“What was that about?” asked Manchester.
“We got the wrong guy.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s all over TV. Missing tourist. And they spotted Savage on the street an hour ago.”
“So what do we do with whoever’s in there? We can’t let him go and we can’t kill him.”
“That’s what Lugar said. Told us to sit tight until he comes up with something.”
“Do we still have to waterboard him?”
“I don’t think so.”
The agents went around the front of the warehouse. Reed slid open the squeaking freight doors and went inside. They headed toward the back room with the hostage.
“What will we say to him?” asked Reed.
“This is going to be awkward.”
The room grew closer.
“Oh, Mr. Littleton,” Reed called out. “There’s been a teeny misunderstanding.”
“We’re very sorry,” said Manchester. “I’m having lunch brought in. You like Chinese?”
Reed turned the knob and opened the door. “I hope you’ll-”
An empty chair.
The Royal Poinciana
Two police officers stood at bulletproof glass.
“Could you ring her room again?”
“If you insist.” The desk manager dialed. And waited. “Still not answering.”
“It’s important.”
“Something about her missing husband?” asked the manager. “Is he okay?”
“We think so.”
“What happened to him?”
“It’s better we spoke privately with his wife.” Because they’d just received eyewitness reports of someone matching Frank’s description running through the west part of town in his underwear, and the department was chalking it up to his having had a rough night. “Could you take us to her room?”