“Interesting,” said Serge. “There’s a dead guy on the floor and no reaction from you. Most innocent people would comment.”
“You’re pointing a gun.”
Serge glanced casually at his hand. “Just a formality.”
Felicia shoved the man into a wall. “Who sent you to kill Guzman?”
“What are you talking about?” The man rubbed the back of his head. “I’m his physician.”
“Sure you are,” said Serge. “Then what’s the deal with the hypodermic gun?”
“Oh, that, ” he said, nodding. “The president was complaining of fatigue. Lack of sleep from all his appointments here. I was going to give him a vitamin-B injection.”
“Serge,” said Felicia. “What are you doing?”
“Going through his bag.”
“I see that. What for?”
“We’re going to have fun,” said Serge. “What have we got here? Maybe I can use this. And I can definitely use this…”
“Serge!” Felicia looked around quickly. “We don’t have time. Someone could walk in here any minute!”
“This will be express fun.” He reached in his pocket and tossed something to her. “Bind his hands behind his back.”
“Plastic wrist restraints?”
“Always carry some to parties,” said Serge. “You never know what the theme’s going to be.”
Felicia pulled the strap tight as Serge laid out medical supplies atop the toilet tank. “So you’re really a doctor?”
“Absolutely.”
“But maybe your certification has lapsed in this country.” Serge picked up a blood-pressure tester. “So I’m going to give you a field exam to see if you’re still up to snuff.”
Serge wrapped the tester around the man’s neck and fastened the Velcro. “They always put these on people’s arms. But the neck is much more accurate.” Serge began squeezing the black rubber bulb. “Wow! You’re off the charts!”
“… I… can’t… breathe…”
Serge eased off the pressure until the slightly deflated ring hung loose around the man’s neck.
The man trembled uncontrollably. “Dear God! Please don’t strangle me!”
“Strangle you?” said Serge. “Never. What gave you that idea?”
“So you’re going to take this thing off me?”
“Didn’t say that.” Serge grabbed an empty syringe and a small surgical vial. He slipped them under the blood-pressure wrap, one on each side of the man’s trachea. Then he squeezed the bulb a couple times to hold them in place.
Felicia stared in confusion. “What are you doing?”
“Placing braces beside his windpipe because we wouldn’t want him to stop breathing.” Serge smiled big in the man’s eyes. “How’s your breathing?”
“Okay.”
“Felicia, your purse.”
She tossed it. “What are you looking for.”
“Here’s a lipstick. And a nice fat pen.” He held them up to the man’s face. “This is your medical recertification test. If you really are a doctor and not an assassin, this should be a breeze and I’ll let you go. I always like to give my students an escape clause.” He stopped to grin again. “Don’t you just love the suspense?”
Felicia nervously peeked over the top of the stall at the restroom’s outer door. “Will you hurry?”
“Don’t sweat. It’s just a one-question test.” Serge turned to the captive. “And here’s the question. Answer right, and I’ll take that thing off your neck and you’re free to leave. Now, I’m going to reinflate that tester to the max. But first I’m going to place these two items next to a blood vessel to relieve the pressure. And that’s the name of my new game show: You Pick the Blood Vessel! ”
“So if I pick right, nothing will happen to me?”
“No, you’ll pass out. That’s definite.” Serge began squeezing the bulb again. “But I’m a trained professional. I’ll catch it in time and cut you loose. You’ll come back around pretty quick.”
“And if I guess wrong?”
“You won’t pass out.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you’re a doctor.” Serge squinted at him. “You wouldn’t be lying to me about that, would you?”
“Serge!” said Felicia.
“Almost done.” He turned to the captive. “What? No idea?” A frustrated sign. “Okay, I shouldn’t be doing this because it’s against contest regulations, but here’s a hint.” Serge tapped two different spots on the man’s neck. “Jugular vein or carotid artery.”
Silence.
Serge squeezed the bulb. “If you don’t pick, I’ll do it for you.”
“Okay, carotid.”
“Interesting choice.” He slipped the lipstick and pen under the inflation ring. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze…
“He’s not passing out,” said Felicia.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. “No, we’re well past that point.”
“Look at his face! It’s completely red.”
“Purple’s up next,” said Serge. Squeeze, squeeze…
Eyes bulged. Then his whole head began vibrating like a paint-can shaker in a hardware store. Spastic tremors through all limbs, feet slapping the tiles.
The outer restroom door opened.
“Serge,” Felicia whispered. “Someone’s here.”
An undersecretary from Montevideo stepped up to the urinal. The thrashing in the adjoining stall couldn’t go unnoticed. “Is everything okay in there?”
Felicia intentionally fell back against the stall’s wall with a loud moan. “Mmmmm, yes, oh yes, baby…”
The undersecretary chuckled to himself. He’d been to a lot of these balls. He zipped up and left.
Felicia stared down at a foot still twitching from residual death rattles. She seized Serge’s hand. “We’re out of here! Now!”
They sprinted back to the ballroom, then composed themselves in the doorway and resumed walking at a casual pace.
“What on earth did you do to that guy back there?”
“Long explanation,” said Serge. “But a great dinner story. Involves the history of Florida Championship Wrestling and the infamous sleeper hold. We’ll grab a bite later.”
On the other side of the room near the main entrance, Victor Evangelista hung on to a brass railing. “If this goes sideways…”
“Shut up,” said Malcolm. “These guys know their job.” He turned and gave a nod.
Five new men slowly fanned out across the ballroom around the central axis of President Guzman.
Guzman smiled. “Serge, where have you been?”
“I’m like a cat. Whenever I’m in a new building, I have to explore.”
Guzman smiled. “Then you haven’t seen the whole building.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if you had, I’d be able to tell.” Guzman looked toward Felicia. “Why don’t you take her and check out the other big room through that ornate door. It’s the mini-expo where countries tout local goods and attractions.”
Serge glanced through the door. “Burlap sacks of coffee beans must be Colombia. The colorful, twirling carnival dancers, Brazil.”
“Machu Piccu diorama, Peru, obviously,” said Guzman.
“Wait…” Serge took a couple steps left to see farther into the room. “I don’t believe it. A horse! A real horse!”
“Argentina,” Guzman said with a grin. “Was waiting for you to notice.”
“What a coincidence! Come on, Felicia, this is a gas.”
Guzman watched with amusement as the couple departed. The president’s mouth slowly turned down as Serge approached the archway. A certain simultaneous confluence of movement had begun. Funneling behind Serge. A guy here, another there and over there, deliberately scattered in the vast crowd so nobody would give a second thought unless they were Secret Service. Or a politician who gave a lot of speeches in public. Guzman continued observing the men, whose converging vectors defied random cocktail-party mingling. “This is not good.”
Guzman quickly gathered his own security detail from the loose pocket surrounding him. He pointed through the arch and snapped orders.
“But, Mr. President, you’ll be unguarded.”
“Rodriguez and Acevedo, stay with me,” said Guzman. “The rest of you, move!”
On the far side of the expo room, next to the Juan Valdez impersonator, Serge stroked a horse’s mane. “Hey there, fella. You like canapes? Try these…”