Serge chuckled awkwardly and punched Coleman in the shoulder.
“Ow.”
Serge scooted his chair in and opened a menu. “What looks good?”
Felicia stared down at her own menu. “Notice the corner booth by the front window?”
“Yeah,” said Serge. “Evangelista, eating alone.”
“The contact went to the restroom before you arrived.”
Coleman nudged Serge and giggled. “Spanking it.”
“Serge!” said Felicia. “What’s wrong with your friend?”
He shrugged. “I keep trying to explain the off-limit topics around women, like how a lot of guys walking down the street are mentally undressing you gals and fantasizing tittie-fucks.”
“Serge!”
“Just giving an example of an off-limit. How else will you know what a gentleman I am?”
“This is serious.” She glanced again at Evangelista’s table. “That’s the contact’s briefcase next to his chair.”
“Recognize this contact?”
“Yes, but I don’t remember where.” Felicia turned a page in her menu. “American. I think he’s famous or something. Was hoping you could peg him when he comes back.”
“Do my best.” Serge squeezed lemon into his water. “Whoever it was did me a favor by picking this place as the meet point. I could eat anything in here, especially the palomilla steaks.”
Coleman knocked over a glass. “Didn’t break. No foul… What’s so special about the joint?”
“Versailles is the cultural dining epicenter of Little Havana. It’s an off hour right now, but at peak times, this place is a humming hive of exile political debate.”
“Looks like a regular restaurant.”
“You know how CNN sends reporters to barbershops in Iowa and interviews customers for the common man’s opinion of current events?”
“You mean the customers who wear fishing hats that say ‘Kiss my bass’?”
“Those are the ones,” said Serge. “And whenever something happens in Cuba, they send the camera crews here.”
“Don’t look,” said Felicia. “But his contact just came back.”
Serge intentionally knocked his fork on the floor, copping a glimpse as he bent down.
Felicia pretended to read her menu. “Know him?”
“Uh, yeah.” He looked down at his own menu. “I think you might want to consider dropping this business.”
“What business?”
“The whole thing. Your arms pipeline and whatever mystery’s behind it.” Serge reached across the table and placed a hand on hers. “Might be a good time to walk away. Make that run.”
She pulled her hand back. “This isn’t like you. What’s the problem?”
“Evangelista’s contact. I know him.” Serge shifted his eyes toward the other table. “And you don’t want to.”
“I’m not backing off. It’s my country.”
“And this is my country,” said Serge. “I know how the game is played. And the players.”
“So bail out if you’re scared. I’ll go it on my own.”
“I’m not scared. But I wish you’d be just a little bit.”
Felicia dismissed him with an offhand wave. “The generals disappear people all the time in Latin America.”
“Trust me on this. The guy has so much money and influence, he could make an entire city block in Miami disappear, no questions asked.”
Felicia picked up her menu again. “So who is this prince of darkness?”
Serge picked up his own. “Good way to put it…”
While they were talking, Evangelista picked up the briefcase and left. He strolled west up the sidewalk past the restaurant’s windows. A few minutes later, the contact finished a glass of water and departed eastbound.
Felicia threw a twenty on the table and got up. “We need to get moving.”
They reached the front door. A call from behind.
“Excuse me,” said the maitre d’. “You have a message.”
“I do?” said Serge.
He handed him an envelope.
Serge tore open the flap. “Who’s it from?”
“The gentleman at that table.” He tilted his head toward the empty one that had yet to be bussed.
“Which gentleman?” asked Serge. “The big one in the tropical shirt?”
“No, the other.”
Serge unfolded the note and read. He didn’t speak.
“What is it?” asked Felicia.
Serge looked up. “You’re not going to believe this…”
Chapter Thirty-Four
One hour later
A ’68 Plymouth rolled through a quiet neighborhood in Little Havana. Modest ranch houses and haciendas. A dog barked, trash cans at the curb for pickup, chain-link, Mexican tiles. The Road Runner continued, only one occupant in the car.
Serge slowly turned onto Southwest Ninth Street (also Brigade 2506 Way) and pulled to a stop in front of a quiet stucco home with the address 1821. He unlatched a gate, walked up the steps, and opened the front door without knocking.
Inside: long rows of bookcases, tables with maps, walls covered in photos and flags. At the rear of the room, a solitary man in a business suit stood with hands clasped behind his back. Reading a plaque.
Serge stepped beside him and stared at the next plaque. “Nice day.”
The man laughed. “Kind of weird meeting in the Bay of Pigs Museum. But from everything I’ve heard about you, actually not. How’d you find this place?”
“It’s on my rounds. And I could count on it to be empty. No respect for history.” He pointed through double glass doors. “See all the color pictures of older men on the side walls in that meeting room? They’re the patriots. The black-and-white photos of younger men behind the podium are the martyrs.”
“Whatever. The whole reason I wanted to meet-”
Serge interrupted by holding up a hand. He looked down at his own tropical shirt and the invasion brigade souvenir pin affixed over the pocket. Then at his contact’s empty lapels. “Where’s your pin?”
The man laughed again. “I know you must recognize me. Let’s get down to brass tacks.”
Serge cleared his throat and tapped the top of a small glass souvenir case. “The pin. It’s our signal.”
“You’re joking.”
“I never joke about national security.” Serge turned around. “I’ll go back outside, and we’ll start again.”
The man sighed as Serge left the building.
Moments later, the door opened again. Serge crossed the room.
The man tapped his lapel pin. “Happy?”
“Yes.” Serge fiddled with the area over his own pocket. “Now take off your pin before our code signal is detected by enemy agents.”
“We’re in an empty freakin’ house.”
“Ahem…”
“For the love of… Fine, whatever you say.”
The pin came off and went in a pocket.
Serge smiled. “So imagine my surprise when I got your message at Versailles. What on earth could the one and only Malcolm Glide want with me?”
“We’ve been watching you.”
“I’ve seen the black SUVs.”
“You’re good,” said Glide. “And President Guzman trusts you. That’s important.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You may scare other people.” Serge formed a steely glare. “I know you’d like nothing better than for his administration to topple so you and the generals can have the whole sandbox to yourselves again.”
Glide nodded with pursed lips. “I know why you think that. Because that’s exactly how I want it to look.”
Serge’s eyebrows knotted. “What?”
Malcolm gestured at the map table. “Have a seat. What I’m about to tell you has the highest security classification. Not even the FBI. And only the very top of the CIA.”
“Right, and you’re just going to spill it to me.”
“Guzman’s in extreme danger.”
“From you.”
“Like I said, I know how it looks.”
“It looks like you’re a disgrace to our political system. All those smear campaigns, preying on voters’ worst fears.”
“What can I say? I’m the best.” Malcolm sat back with a coy grin. “I know we’re on opposite sides of the philosophical aisle. But I was hoping that would make my proposition seem all the more credible.”
“You mean work with you? Now you’re joking.”
“That right-wing political stuff is just business. It’s also the reason why they came to me.”