Oxnart’s binoculars backed up.
“See something?” asked Mandrake.
He focused on the hangar at a thousand feet. “Uh-oh.”
“What’s the matter?”
Through high magnification, Oxnart watched another pair of binoculars staring back at him. “It’s Lugar. That son of a bitch must have intercepted our intercepted manifest.”
Across the runways, Lugar lowered his binoculars. “Oxnart. Shit. Must have gotten the manifest.” He turned to a case agent: “Priority dispatch, all operatives. We have company. Code red…”
The agent took notes. “Which red? The darker one?”
“Shut up. Just tell ’em to be careful.” Another jet roar. “Hit the ground fast and cover tracks.”
From opposite sides of the runway, Oxnart and Lugar aimed binoculars skyward as the last of the planes flew off in a loose pelican-like formation toward the sunset.
Meanwhile…
A shout in a ritzy hotel room across from Bayfront Park.
Serge jumped out of bed and grabbed his ass with both hands.
“What the hell just bit me?”
Then he noticed the dripping syringe in Felicia’s fist.
“I knew it!” Serge went for his pants bunched on a chair. And the gun in the pocket.
Felicia monitored her wristwatch.
Serge reached the chair. Then stumbled backward a couple steps. Stumbled forward. “Whoa, a little dizzy here…”
Felicia took him by the arm. “Why don’t you lie down in bed before you hurt yourself.”
“What did you stick in me?”
“That’s not important. It’s time to rest.”
“But I’m not tired.”
He fell facedown on the mattress.
Time passed.
Serge lay on his back. Eyelids finally cracked open a slit. Felicia dragged a chair to the bed: “That was just a little harmless truth serum. It’ll wear off soon, and you’ll be good as new. So let’s start with the basics. What’s your real name?”
He slowly licked dry lips. In dream-state slur: “Serge… Serge Storms.”
“Who do you work for?”
“People in need, future generations, endangered species, lost tourists, the disenfranchised underclass, strippers with hearts of gold trying to support a child on a single income…”
“What is your mission?”
“To save the republic, cheer on the home team, stay ahead of the curve, read the warning signs, respect my elders, support the troops, spend more time thinking about landfills, harness the untapped power of avoiding all your relatives, try not to fart around women…”
Felicia looked toward the syringe on the dresser. “Maybe I gave him too much.”
“Souvenirs, sunblock, sesquicentennial…”
Felicia sighed and looked at her watch again. Waiting for his gibberish to subside. “… Fancy fucking bathroom guest towels
…” Finally the drug fell within parameters. She turned back to the bed: “What do you know about the plot?”
“Plot? Let’s see, erratic time line, disjointed geography, arrive from Tampa, save Guzman, sink-or-float, blah blah blah, establish Scooter as the undependable wild card, introduce burned agent Savage as possible scapegoat, escalate CIA rivalry between Oxnart and Lugar as tension builds toward assassination at the Miami summit, some kinky stuff with a tree, bump into you, knock-knock…”
“Okay, that’s enough…”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Two hours later
Serge and Felicia strolled through chic South Beach. Beautiful people crowded sidewalk cafes along Ocean Drive. Every table a different language. German, French, Swedish, Portuguese from Brazil. Tiny portions of nuevo cuisine with sprigs of garnish arranged in tripods.
“Was that really necessary?” asked Serge.
“Sorry about sticking you,” said Felicia. “Could have sworn you were a double agent sent to assassinate President Guzman. I had to make sure.”
“But what would give you such a crazy idea?”
“Scooter Escobar.” She lit a thin cigar.
“That idiot?”
“And he’s getting stupider, arranging secret meetings with people he shouldn’t.”
“Exchanging newspapers on park benches?”
“It would be funny if it wasn’t.” She blew out a thin stream of smoke. “That’s where he heard about the plot-from your people-and that you might be involved. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but he tells me everything.”
“So you believe now that I’m on the level?”
Felicia smiled. “You were pretty funny when you were under. What’s the whole anger issue with guest towels?”
“Used to be married. Long story,” said Serge. “I don’t approve of Tiger Woods, but I heard he had like eighteen bathrooms. How much can a man take?”
More gorgeous people in thongs and T-backs rollerbladed by. On the ocean side of the street, bodybuilders flexed at women in convertibles. Pink and lime lifeguard shacks shaped like time machines. A film crew from Japan shot a TV commercial for sake.
At one of the alfresco tables, a deal was being closed. A ruggedly handsome man with striking Latin features and long, sexy black hair dined with an equally attractive woman in a swimsuit. In two months, her Sports Illustrated photos would hit the stands, and she’d become a supermodel. But right now she was still an Above-Average Model.
The man reached across the table between their wineglasses and held her hand. She gazed dreamily into his eyes. Another typical Miami Beach afternoon tryst was about to spawn. In the Art Deco hotel rooms above the strip, 136 were already under way.
Men at other tables stewed with envy. The Latin hunk could have any woman in the place. What they didn’t know-and the source of universal disbelief if they did-was that the oncoming liaison would be the playboy’s first. Ever.
Oh, he could line them up in stunning volume and variety, but he’d just never been able to land them in the boat. Had nothing to do with his appeal or bedside manner. It was luck. The wrong kind. Always some crazy, blind-side against-the-odds interruption before consummation. And as with any statistical sample, somewhere in the world was the man who ranked absolute last on the standard-deviation coitus graph. That was this guy.
Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.
But hope springs eternal, and Johnny was at bat again with the bases loaded. As he held her hands and stared into those emerald-green eyes, it seemed nothing remotely could go wrong. The sun was high, and a balmy breeze ruffled the fringe of their table’s umbrella. Sinful desserts arrived on a cart.
Three blocks south, Serge and Felicia strolled past the Colony Hotel.
Ahead, two men on the sidewalk, staring stupidly at the diners. A waiter asked them to move along.
“There you are,” Serge called out. “We were supposed to meet at that corner.”
“Serge!” Coleman came running over with Ted Savage. “I’ve never seen such great tits. There’s been like forty-three so far.”
“It’s Ocean Drive,” said Serge. “Nipple City.”
“Serge!” scolded Felicia.
“Baby, don’t crowd my facts.”
Coleman stared at more breasts. “I never want to leave this place.”
“Coleman, there’s more to Miami than silicone.”
“Like what?”
“Stay here long enough and anything can happen.” Serge swept an arm over the beach mating frenzy. “Look at all these people. Their backstories are arguably the most diverse and compelling in all the country, an international roll call of intrigue: TV producers, exotic-animal smugglers, money launderers, foreign agents, people on the run from Interpol, the ShamWow Guy. I’m getting pumped just thinking about all the secret life arcs surrounding us. Except in real life, it’s impossible for me to know what’s ticking behind all these five-hundred-dollar sunglasses. That’s why I love to read novels about Miami.”
Coleman’s eyes seized on a passing bikini top. “Novels?”
“In novels, the omniscient narrator knows all secrets and reveals them.” Serge watched a Lamborghini being valeted. “Sometimes I like to pretend that my own life has a narrator. I wish I could meet him someday.”