A clay disk sailed over the trees. A general in a jacket with leather elbow pads raised a vintage double-barrel.
Boom.
Soldiers with machine guns patrolled atop walls and down in the jungle paths around the base of the compound.
General Escobar lifted his arm above the balustrade. A peregrine falcon circled a final time over the mountain and came in for a talon landing on Montoya’s glove.
The same scene every weekend, a collision of class and crass. Dom Perignon, skeet shooting, falconry, and art masterpieces throughout the residence, where all the TVs were on Baywatch, and the pool full of naked women and drunk old generals peeing in the shallow end.
Or at least the TVs were usually on Pamela Anderson. Today they carried dubbed-in satellite reception from Miami.
“… This is Eyewitness News Action Seven Noon Report. We take you to South Beach and the site of an unfortunate fatal accident…”
Another channel.
“… Action Eyewitness Nine, from just off Washington Avenue, where police are releasing few details outside a club ironically called SPY…”
Another channel.
“… Unnamed sources identify the victim as Scooter Escobar, an intelligence agent attached to the Costa Gordan consulate, who is also the nephew of a five-star general-”
A hand turned off the set. A trusted colonel walked across the patio to Escobar. “They’re ready.”
Escobar released his falcon for more airtime.
His inner circle left the skeet-shooting platform and sat solemnly around an outdoor table at the base of a fountain featuring swans and Greeks. Other lesser generals staggered from the pool in Speedos and picked up the idle shotguns.
“Pull!”
Boom.
They went round the circle at the table, expressing deep condolences, which Escobar accepted with solemn nods. Then he angled forward with folded hands. “Gentlemen, this was no accident.”
One of them looked toward the house. “But they said on television-”
Montoya held up a hand. “Forget what they say. It was a message.”
“From who?”
“No confirmations yet, but I have a pretty good idea. There’s a new player in Miami. Close to Guzman. Word of our plot has obviously leaked out.”
A travel attache held up a photo from consulate surveillance. Someone being thrown out the door and to the ground.
“What do we do?” asked the general on his left.
“Move up the schedule. The summit ball is tonight.”
“What about this new player?”
“If we’re lucky, one stone, two birds.”
“Pull!”
Boom.
Escobar looked over his shoulder and snapped his fingers. An aide promptly appeared and placed a solid-gold telephone on the table.
A general raised his hand. “But the summit ball… I mean, won’t that attract a lot of attention?”
“That’s why we create a diversion.” Escobar finished dialing and raised the receiver. “This is Escobar, give me the head of internal security… Carlos, I need a favor. Yes, television… five minutes will work…”
From the other end of the table: “General, who would you like us to use?”
Escobar hung up the phone. “Who’s available?”
“We already have our top asset in place.”
“Hate to burn that one in case we have to abort,” said Escobar.
“There’s the backup we always keep in Miami.”
“Let me see the files…”
“Pull!”
Boom.
Soon the table was covered with classified reports on rice paper. Discussion, advice, debate… then a voice from the house: “Sir, it’s coming on TV.”
They left the scattered documents and went inside. On the largest flat-screen plasma, a Costa Gordan broadcast from the capitaclass="underline" “Breaking news at this hour as a surprise rebel offensive has raised the national threat level…” The camera swung to a large vinyl banner of a chili pepper with a fresh, dark red square at the top.
“Pull!”
Boom.
An explosion of falcon feathers.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Downtown Miami
The Performing Arts Center.
Stretch limos stretched around the block.
Back doors opened. Couples emerged in tuxedos and evening gowns. Heavy on diamonds and elective surgery. The limos pulled away and more rolled up.
VIPs entered the historic Olympia Theater and passed through the metal detectors cloaked in decorative cloth. Guards at three security checkpoints examined credentials and matched invitations against the guest list. Police snipers perched on adjoining rooftops.
The Diplomats’ Ball.
A man in a white tux approached the first checkpoint. Nobody looking at him. Because of the Latin bombshell on his arm.
“These credentials…” said the first guard, glancing back and forth at his lists. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to step aside.” He got on the radio.
A limo longer than the others pulled up. Camera flashes. Passengers emerged and arrived at the checkpoint. Security men snapped to attention. “Good evening, President Guzman.” No need for his papers.
Guzman looked to the side. “Is there a problem?”
“Sir,” said a security agent with a clipboard. “They’re on the list, but he doesn’t have the correct color badge.”
“It’s okay.” Guzman threw a smile off to the side. “I’ll vouch. They’re with me.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
Guzman put an arm around Serge’s shoulders and looked over the gleaming tux. “You clean up pretty well.”
White-gloved waiters circulated with sterling trays of hors d’oeuvres, caviar, and crystal champagne flutes. Someone tinkled a grand piano. A hundred overlapping conversations under eighteenth-century oil paintings in gold frames.
“Glad you could come,” Guzman told Serge.
“You kidding? I’d have made it if I had to crash this thing.”
Guzman laughed. “Not much chance of that with all this security.”
“That’s what they said about Obama’s state dinner when that hot blond chick and Dom DeLuise slipped through to meet the president, knocking Balloon Boy clear off the front pages. Did you hear about Balloon Boy down where you live? I want to be Balloon Boy. I’ve made some rough sketches.”
Guzman laughed heartily again. “That’s why I’m glad you came. You’re a real person I can have a normal conversation with. I’m required to attend these parties, but I hate them. The more wealthy and powerful the guests, the more vapid the chitchat. Plus, everyone’s so guarded, worried about slipping and saying the wrong thing because everyone else in the room is a potential enemy for career and social standing.”
“Except if the party goes late and everyone gets plowed,” said Serge. “Then it’s completely surreal. When the working class gets hammered, they throw beer bottles at the banjo player and break their necks on mechanical bulls. But if the A-list goes in the bag, you see things you can’t make up, like walking in an unlocked bathroom, and someone on the museum board is jerking off in a cummerbund.”
“Might want to keep your voice down,” said Guzman. “But go on. I’m enjoying this.”
“I made this one shindig in Ocala. That’s Florida’s horse country. Limos arriving at a giant mansion on a hill surrounded by pastures and stables, and in the beginning it’s all very sophisticated bullshit with everyone in formal wear. Except the woman of the house greeting her guests at the door in riding boots. And the riding helmet. And holding the riding crop. And I’m like, we get it. You want attention. Isn’t it enough that everyone knows you’re ridiculously rich with stables full of racehorses? No. She has to dress like she’d just finished a fucking steeplechase. And she’s one of these types with a fake Martha’s Vineyard accent who has to introduce herself to everyone with three names. ‘I’m Meredith Astor Farthington, of the Providence Farthingtons.’ And I roll my eyes, and go, ‘I’m Serge Alexander-the-Great Storms, by way of Hobbit-Town.’ Then I look over her equestrian outfit and say, ‘I guess nobody else got the memo that this was a costume party. What were you last time, a pirate?’ ”