“You were stood up?” said Serge.
“The permanent stand-up.” Felicia knocked back a shot of tequila without making a face.
The guys were impressed.
She licked salt off the back of her hand. “I went down to the river, and this so-called contact of his was supposed to take me to him, but I saw blood dripping from the bumper first.”
“That meant you were next.”
“Those karate classes paid off.” Felicia waved for the waiter.
Serge sipped his bottle of water. “So who was this guy?”
“Blond crew cut, never seen him before.” Another shot of tequila arrived. “But I think I’ve heard of him. Freelancer who does contract work for the highest bidder. And not cheap.”
“Whatever that reporter knew, someone wanted it to stay with him.”
“And I think it leads back to the generals. They’ve never liked Guzman, and all they need is a push.”
“Who’s doing the pushing?” asked Serge.
“That’s what I need to find out.” She killed the second shot. “Only thing I know is it has something to do with the arms shipments. At first, all I had were the bank discrepancies and that reporter’s suspicions, but a few days later Scooter told me about his uncle and actually seeing the crates in a Miami warehouse. You’ve heard of Victor Evangelista, the infamous weapons supplier?”
“Who hasn’t?” said Serge.
“That’s when I knew for sure. Then Scooter mentioned the plot against Guzman.”
“I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” said Escobar.
“Just keep your ears open and tell me everything.”
“About what?”
“What we’ve been talking about!” said Felicia.
“Could you repeat it?” Scooter knocked over his kamikaze, flooding the small table.
Felicia grabbed his wrist. “Why don’t you go sit with your friends at that table way in back while I finish talking with Serge?”
Scooter looked around. “Where?”
Serge pointed. “Behind the giant fake laser gun used to shoot down satellites.”
The three amigos got up and Coleman winked at Serge. “I get it: you and Felicia.” He made a circle with the thumb and index finger of his left hand, then pointed his other index finger and stuck it back and forth through the hole.
“Coleman!” snapped Serge.
“We’re going…”
Serge covered his eyes. “I’m mortified.”
“Don’t be.” Felicia edged her chair closer. “How long have you known him?”
“Since he was a pup.” They both looked toward the back table, three arms waving drunkenly for a waiter. “I feel an obligation.”
“I think it’s sweet how you look out for him.”
“So how’d you become a spy?”
“By accident. I was just this government secretary back home, but the bosses were always inviting me to these big parties. I was at a soiree in this compound on the side of a mountain, and some old jerk I’d never seen before is all over me, the kind that touches a lot.” She shook her shoulders at the thought. “Just about to slap him when these other guys hustled me into the kitchen. Turns out the groper was running for vice president.”
“And those others guys wanted you to get dirt on him.”
“Wouldn’t believe how much I got paid.” She fiddled with her empty shot glass. “After that, I ruined five more candidates across the islands. Then Scooter needed a babysitter in Miami and here I am.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a spy,” said Serge.
“It’s a joke,” said Felicia. “Everyone imagines cloak-and-dagger, but ninety percent of the time you’re spying on friends. Sometimes in your own office, everyone protecting their jobs. And not even good spying. Just a bunch of silly bumbling-”
A loud crash in the back of the room.
Serge turned. “What now?”
“Coleman crashed into the laser.”
The other guys helped Coleman back into his chair. They guzzled drinks and slammed glasses down in unison. Then they all stood.
Felicia idly twisted a napkin. “I thought only women went to the restroom in groups.”
Serge’s expression sank. “I know where this is leading…”
Downtown Miami
Dance music pounded from the clubs and Bayside Market. Streets jammed with honking taxis and limos. Summit traffic. One of the bridges across Biscayne glowed blue underneath from hidden neon lights.
Diplomatic staff and international trade lobbyists continued arriving at the most expensive hotels between the river and the causeway to the beach.
Registration desks stacked up at the luxury-suite high-rises on Biscayne. Except the line for platinum members. A man in an Italian shirt with a canvas shoulder bag opened his wallet on the counter. Fit, trim, dyed-blond crew cut like the bass player for U2.
The cheerful receptionist took his driver’s license and credit card. “Welcome back, Mr. Peloquin!”-as if she personally remembered him, but the computer had prompted her greeting for a special repeat client. “How was your flight?”
He left his sunglasses on, exhaling hard through nostrils.
Her smile began to crack, and she rushed through the rest of the check-in. “Here are your room keys and drink coupons. Hope you enjoy Miami-”
The man snatched them before she was finished and headed for the elevators. Enjoy Miami indeed. He remembered his last visit. First the dislocated shoulder. And after all his trouble planting that reporter’s belongings in a Costa Gordan motel-how was he supposed to know where sharks fed in Miami?
The elevator reached the fifteenth floor. A magnetic key card opened a door. The luggage he hadn’t brought with him from the airport was already waiting in the room, courtesy of his employer.
The man slipped off loafers. Wallet and cell phone went on the nightstand. He reclined on the still-made bed, staring at a TV that he didn’t turn on.
A vibrating sound from the nightstand.
He opened the cell phone. A text message.
“?”
He pressed a button.
“.”
Arrival confirmation.
The cell phone closed. He picked up his wallet and took out the driver’s license. The name said Dreyfus Peloquin. Nobody knew what it really was. Or what he looked like. A few grainy, ten-year-old photos had been floating around, but good luck. The closest thing to a name was an offshore answering machine periodically checked by another number in Argentina. Anything worth passing on got typed into a free Internet mail account and saved as a draft.
Conversely, Peloquin didn’t know anything about who was texting him, just that the deposits in Switzerland had all cleared. It wasn’t a first-name business.
Another driver’s license came from a different part of the wallet. A different name, Winston Chabot. And a decidedly different look.
The man opened one of the suitcases on a table and unloaded packs of cash until he came to a metal box. He took it in the bathroom, squirted the contents of an unmarked bottle into his hands, and rubbed his face. Then he looked in the mirror and began tearing off his forehead and cheeks. He cranked sink faucets. Another nameless bottle and soon his hair was black. He held up the second driver’s license.
Perfect match.
The new Mr. Chabot came back into the oversize bedroom. He was that peculiar blend of human who thrives on extreme adrenaline yet enjoys speechlessness. Good thing, because the suite was now his pampering prison cell until an undetermined time when the call came. If it ever came. He got paid either way, just to be on standby. Procedure called for him to stay in the room and not be seen. In Madrid, it had been over a month. And so began an arm’s-length relationship with the room-service staff, which he quickly trained to knock, leave the trays outside, and wait for the fifty-dollar tip to slide under the door.
Chabot walked past the floor-to-ceiling windows. Most of the guests left the curtains wide open to enjoy the glittering nightscape of the Magic City, but these were pulled tight. In the distance, generators hummed. Floodlights. An around-the-clock crew continued final preparations on the main stage for the Summit of the Americas.