"You know nothing," Natalya said.
Sam hit the lights again.
"Your lookout is trying to get your attention," Natalya said. "You'd better give him the okay sign. I'd hate for someone to get shot now that the deal is done."
Shit.
I turned and waved at Sam, though I couldn't see him. I looked at my watch. We had about five minutes to get out of this situation, which was good since I saw Dixon Woods striding through the crowd.
He was a big man-over six three-and he looked the part he was born to play: He fairly screamed Special Forces with his square head and closely cropped hair, a jaw line that was dashed with hints of stubble, arms that grew larger on the outside of his short-sleeved shirt. When I saw him in real life, the comedy of Eddie Champagne was clear. Where Dixon Woods was all coiled muscle, Eddie was doughy and simple. The sharpness of his cons certainly didn't translate to his body, but then a woman like Cricket would probably never know the difference, and men like Stanley Rosencrantz and his partners only cared about the stories he could tell and the myth that exists in secrecy.
Even from our table, I could tell Dixon Woods was the real deal.
"You're right," I said to Natalya. "We should celebrate. It's just a game, isn't it? And here we are, three survivors. Let me get the first round."
I got up before Natalya could say a word and walked directly toward Dixon, my eyes steady on his. There was a look of recognition on his face.
"Woods," I said when I was near him. I'd make this quick.
"Westen?" he replied.
Shit again.
"Yes," I said. I tossed my head from side to side. "You have to pardon me. I am drunk!"
"Belgrade, right?"
"I wasn't there," I said.
"Neither was I," he said.
I pointed at him. He pointed at me. It was like we were in a very bad boy band and about to do a dance number. I grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a big man hug. He had a gun on his back, probably a nine. I nudged his leg with mine and felt something solid on his ankle, probably a knife.
"What are you doing here?" I said far too loudly, all joy and conviviality.
"Business." He looked around. Not nervously. Just checking the scene. "Let me ask you: You ever hear of a guy named Hank Fitch? I'm supposed to meet him here."
"That kind of business," I said. I shook my head. "I try to keep my nose straight, know what I'm saying?"
"I hear you," he said. "Bills, man. You know how that goes. I'm working private now."
"Where've you been?"
"Fighting Jihads, making money," he said. Just two old friends we were. Now he was sizing me up. "You were a bad man."
"Weren't we all," I said. I pointed at the table where Fiona and Natalya were still sitting. That they hadn't come to blows yet was nothing short of a miracle. "Why don't you join us for a drink?"
Dixon looked around. Thought about it. "I'm meeting that guy," he said. "Fitch."
"One drink," I said. "Won't kill you, right?"
"I haven't been back in Miami in a long time," he said, feeling the vibe now himself, acting like people do when they wish they were drunk. "A drink won't kill me. You-you I'm not so sure about."
"Belgrade," I said, like we had been in a fraternity together, and I was remembering the Alpha Phi mixer. "A crazy time."
I put my arm over his shoulder and guided him to the bar, where we picked four beers out of a bin filled with ice tended to by a woman in a gold string bikini, then walked back to our table in time to hear Natalya say, "I know you don't care for me, Fiona, but I could use a person like you."
"1 don't get used," Fi said. She stood up abruptly. "Ever."
"Ladies," I said, stopping Natalya from whatever she was about to say. "I wanted to introduce you to an old friend just in town for a few days on business." I had my arm around Dixon and could feel him tensing. He knew this wasn't right. I just kept slurring right along. "This is Dixon Woods. He runs an opium operation out of Afghanistan, but he's also very active in the real estate market here, and he's employed by Longstreet Security, though I'm going to guess he's not telling them he's here this evening meeting with all of us."
"You're drunk," he said. "My name is-"
"No," I said, squeezing him tighter, letting spittle gather between my words. I kept his arms pressed against me so he couldn't reach for his gun, not that I thought he'd pull a gun in the middle of a crowded hotel.
But I would.
"Don't even bother. We're all friends. For instance, that's Natalya Choplyn. She's ex-KGB. You don't know it, Dixon, but you guys are now business partners. You should chat. Get to know each other."
I gave Fiona a glance, but she didn't need any signs from me. She already had two vials of tear gas in her hand. But she is much smarter than me, so she also had a glass of water in the other, and she promptly hurled the water on Natalya, soaking her.
At the same time, I slid my hand down Dixon's back, grasped his gun, and squeezed off a round through his pants, which sent him to the ground in a screaming heap, even though the bullet had buried itself in the ground. The scorch alone would put a man down, never mind the factor of surprise.
Not to be outdone, and probably because she'd been wanting to do it for years, Fiona grabbed Natalya by the throat and cracked a vial of tear gas right across her face and then flung another toward the bar, where the other Russians were now crouching from the gunfire.
Here's how tear gas works: It attacks wet spots on your body-tear and saliva ducts, mucous membranes, your tongue, your eyes, sweat glands-and creates an unbearable amount of pain and suffering, particularly if you get hit with it directly. If you happen to have your entire face covered with water, and you happen to be sweating, perhaps because you've just been involved in a multimillion-dollar deal with a spy who, in the process, has convicted you of economic espionage, it's likely to hurt quite a bit more.
Sam was supposed to set off his small explosions by now, but for some reason, as Fiona and I sprinted out toward the ocean, away from the toxic fumes of tear gas, nothing had happened yet.
The plan was for the Malibu lights to set off a series of small explosions that would sound like gunfire. He told me he was going to wire the solar fuses to a nichrome wire coated in solder, run them wire to wire, dip them in a dusting of gunpowder and surround them with match heads so that when the lights heated up-a reaction caused by their dip into darkness-he'd have a series of explosive squibs. Or just a really loud electrical match. He'd toss a blanket over them, and then, a few seconds later… things would go boom.
Sam promised me nothing would actually explode.
Sam promised me that it would just sound like gunfire.
Sam promised me that it would be enough to get Eddie Champagne, who he said he was going to lock in the bathroom, arrested without getting him killed.
I was thus more than a little surprised a few moments later, when Fiona and I were already lost in the crowd on the beach, when there was an enormous explosion that propelled most of the balcony of room 511 into the pool of the Hotel Oro, deck chairs, chaise longues, a lovely side table all airborne in fiery glory. Most of the crowd had already scattered, which was good, since little flaming bits of Malibu lights were raining down all around.
"That's not good," I said, but the truth was, it was better than I could have hoped, since it happened just as police and men wearing IRS windbreakers came storming into the pool area, followed, in due course, by James Dimon (snapping photos that were doubtlessly present in the moment) and scads of Longstreet men who found themselves armed to the teeth with no one to shoot or guard, since both Dixon Woods and Natalya Choplyn were right where we'd left them, on the ground, clawing at their own eyes from the tear gas, Fiona's BlackBerry still sitting on the table, loaded with all the documents anyone with a badge would need to piece together the workings of Natalya Choplyn and Dixon Woods, particularly the intimate details of how she was defrauding our mortgage system for the Russians.