Authors: Tim Dorsey
The Next Morning
A TV correspondent stood on the side of Biscayne Boulevard.
“. . . And that’s the latest from Bayfront Park, with the summit just two days away. Back to you, Jane.”
“Thanks, Gloria. And in other local news, police are seeking the public’s help in locating a Pennsylvania tourist who disappeared after arriving at his downtown hotel last night . . .”
A family photo of Frank Littleton filled the screen.
“. . . Anyone with information is asked to call their anonymous hotline, five-five-five-TIPS. You may be eligible for a reward . . .”
A
n abandoned corrugated-aluminum Quonset hut stood near one of the water-filled quarries on the edge of the Everglades. It had stored fertilizer at some point.
Property records listed the deed to Berkshire Holdings, Ltd., which was a front for an umbrella of contract operations financed with Cayman bank accounts replenished from untraceable cash deposited by CIA go-betweens with a paper trail that led to a table for six in the rear of Joe’s Stone Crabs.
A man stripped to his undershorts sat tied to a chair in the middle of a back room. A naked lightbulb hung over his head. Blood from a forehead gash.
“You have to believe me,” said the captive. “I don’t know anyone named Ted Savage.”
Slap
.
“You were staying in his room!”
“Check my wallet. I’m from Beaver Falls.”
Slap
.
“How are the Haitians involved?”
“I just sell auto parts.”
Slap
.
“What do you know about the assassination plot?”
“The office will vouch for me.”
Slap
.
“How did you first meet Serge?”
“I don’t know any Serge. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
Slap
.
Agent Manchester called Agent Reed aside. “You think maybe we
do
have the wrong guy?”
“Not a chance. That’s Savage all right. You saw him come out of the room at the Royal Poinciana. And we doubled-checked the number, three-eighteen.”
“But his driver’s license says Frank Littleton.”
“How many fake licenses do you have?”
“Five. But he doesn’t look at all like Savage.”
“So he had plastic surgery. The Company does it all the time.”
“Okay, it’s him,” said Manchester. “But he’s a lot tougher than they told us. I don’t think he’s going to crack.”
“Any ideas?”
“Guess we’ll just have to waterboard him.”
“All right, we’ll waterboard him.”
They stood and stared at each other.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“I thought we were going to waterboard him.”
“I don’t know how to waterboard someone.”
“Neither do I.”
“We’ll probably need a board.”
“Okay, let’s go look for a board.”
They left the room and went outside. “I thought I saw a pile of lumber over there.” Manchester walked toward the quarry.
A cell phone rang.
“Reed here . . . Oh, hi, chief. Everything’s going great. We’re just about to waterboard him—”
Screaming on the other end. Reed held the phone away from his ear.
Manchester leaned to listen. “Lugar sounds angry.”
Reed brought the phone back to his head. “What do you mean we grabbed the wrong—? . . . No, I haven’t seen any TV today . . . I can explain . . . Yes, sir . . . Yes, sir . . . No, sir . . . I understand, sir . . .” He hung up.
“What was that about?” asked Manchester.
“We got the wrong guy.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s all over TV. Missing tourist. And they spotted Savage on the street an hour ago.”
“So what do we do with whoever’s in there? We can’t let him go and we can’t kill him.”
“That’s what Lugar said. Told us to sit tight until he comes up with something.”
“Do we still have to waterboard him?”
“I don’t think so.”
The agents went around the front of the warehouse. Reed slid open the squeaking freight doors and went inside. They headed toward the back room with the hostage.
“What will we say to him?” asked Reed.
“This is going to be awkward.”
The room grew closer.
“Oh, Mr. Littleton,” Reed called out. “There’s been a teeny misunderstanding.”
“We’re very sorry,” said Manchester. “I’m having lunch brought in. You like Chinese?”
Reed turned the knob and opened the door. “I hope you’ll—”
An empty chair.
The Royal Poinciana
Two police officers stood at bulletproof glass.
“Could you ring her room again?”
“If you insist.” The desk manager dialed. And waited. “Still not answering.”
“It’s important.”
“Something about her missing husband?” asked the manager. “Is he okay?”
“We think so.”
“What happened to him?”
“It’s better we spoke privately with his wife.” Because they’d just received eyewitness reports of someone matching Frank’s description running through the west part of town in his underwear, and the department was chalking it up to his having had a rough night. “Could you take us to her room?”
“Give me a sec.” He hung a “Back-in-Five” sign on the glass and led the cops to the elevator. They got off on three. The manager knocked on the door of 318. “Mrs. Littleton? Are you in there?” Harder knocking. “Mrs. Littleton, the police are here. I think they have good news.”
No answer.
“Open it,” said one of the officers.
The manager sorted through a large metal ring of keys and stuck one in the knob. “Mrs. Littleton?” Opening the door . . .
“Sure this is the right room?” asked an officer.
“Positive. But it’s empty, like nobody even stayed here.”
“Did she check out?” asked the cop.
“No,” said the manager, rubbing his nose. “That’s odd.”
They stepped back into the hall and headed for the elevator.
The door to 321 opened. A trio came out.
“Hold that lift!” said Serge.
They rode down with the cops.
“Where to today?” asked Savage.
“Thought we’d take a little drive,” said Serge. “A most excellent Miami historic site. And a can’t-miss for any true spy buff . . .”
South of Miami
Building 25.
Shades drawn. Ceiling fan whirled.
“Excellent infiltration,” said Station Chief Oxnart. “Sorry you had to get slapped around.”
“Thank you,” said Agents Sheffield and Winslow, otherwise known as Frank and Nadine Littleton of Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania.
“Read your report.” Oxnart fed it into a shredder attached to a burn bag. “Lugar’s men must be in heavy shit to grab you off the street like that. They’re protecting something important. What’s your gut tell you?”
“They seemed awfully worried that we’d found out about Serge. Slapped me extra hard asking about him.”
“So he is working for them after all?”
“Looks that way. The Haitians, too.”
“Damn,” said Oxnart. “The Lugar connection means Serge is on the level. Actually protecting Guzman. That must be what this fake assassination jazz was about.” He smacked a desktop. “I never trusted that snake Malcolm Glide. He’s been working with Lugar all along. And when Serge foils the so-called plot, they both get credit and we look like schmucks.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Sheffield.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because they kept grilling me about the plot.” The agent pointed to a bruised cheek. “I think they genuinely didn’t know and were worried we’d found out about something they didn’t.”
“That makes no sense,” said Oxnart. He suddenly raised a finger in the air. “Unless there’s a second, real plot. And our fake plot is a diversion. That’s it! Glide’s setting me up to be the scapegoat!”
A hand raised in the back of the room. “I’m really confused now.”
“So am I,” said Oxnart. He turned around and grabbed a piece of chalk. “Let’s diagram it out on the big blackboard . . .”
Meantime, a few miles away:
An orange-and-green Road Runner cruised south on the turnpike.
Serge took Exit 16 and sped west on 152nd Street, a checkered area below the city proper, where Miami bleeds into tomato farms, unpaved airstrips, gravel pits, and vast new subdivisions of shortcut construction methods and identical orange-tile roofs packed so close they seem continuous from a distance.
The eye of Hurricane Andrew came through here.
Serge pointed out the window. “There’s the Metrozoo.”
The Plymouth swung left. A road with a private entrance.
“This doesn’t look like the way to the zoo.” Coleman bent over to light a joint.
“Because it’s not.”
Coleman passed the joint to Savage. “Then where are we going?”
“I’ve always been fascinated by the Cuban Missile Crisis, partly because that’s when I was born.” Serge’s hand was out the window, sailing up and down in the wind as he had done since childhood. “My granddad told me that while waiting in the maternity ward, they could hear the military trains rumbling south on tracks next to Old Dixie Highway. They carried all kinds of tanks and artillery and ran at night so it wouldn’t freak out the neighbors, but everyone knew. Beaches down in the Keys covered with rows of mobile-missile batteries, all pointing at Fidel.”
Coleman took a big hit and blew it out the window. “That would have been radical to lay out on the beach back then, get stoned, and look up at missiles.”
“It was a special time,” said Serge. “Remember that railroad crossing back there? Same tracks.”
“Far out.” Another joint-hit with a loud suction sound. “Shit. There’s a dude up ahead with a gun.”
“Get rid of the joint.”
“That’s a big fucking gun.” The doobie flew out the window. “We better turn around.”
“Negative. We’re going straight.”
“But that’s a serious guard shack,” said Savage. “And the guy’s dressed like a soldier.”
“Heightened checkpoint,” said Serge, “because of this place’s classified status.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here!”
“Shhhhh!” Serge applied the brakes and pulled up to the crossing-gate arm. “He’s coming over.”
The guard checked the windshield for a security-clearance sticker and didn’t find one. He walked to the driver’s side.
“Credentials?”
Serge grinned. “Don’t have any except a universal respect for others.”
The guard took an added step back, from training. “Why are you here?”
“History!” said Serge. “Always wanted to see Building Twenty-five. If those walls could talk! Operation Mongoose, CIA front Zenith Technical Enterprises . . .”
A hand went to the automatic rifle. “I must ask you to turn around.”
“What? We can’t see Building Twenty-five?”
“Sir, turn the vehicle around!” The rifle raised. “Immediately!”
“Look, we both know the drill. And in this line of work, sometimes it’s best not to carry credentials, if you get my drift.” Serge winked. “So if you wouldn’t mind, could you go back in your little booth, pick up the phone, call the station chief, and say ‘Serge is here!’ I wouldn’t want you to have to explain to him later why you turned me away.”
The guard stared a second, then went in the booth.
“Serge,” whispered Coleman. “Why on earth did you do that?”
“Because whenever they won’t let me in someplace, I love to say, ‘Call the person in charge and tell them Serge is here!’ Done it a million times.”
“Has it ever worked?” asked Savage.
“Never. But I get a big kick.”
“So he isn’t going to let us by?”
“Not a chance. Building Twenty-five’s been mothballed for decades, and there hasn’t been a station chief since 1968. That guard’s probably just calling for backup. I knew it was a long shot seeing Building Twenty-five, but I’ll happily settle for pulling up to the security gate at the former JM/WAVE installation and saying, ‘Call the station chief!’ The key to life is self-amusement.”
“He’s been on the phone a long time,” said Coleman.
“Must be calling extra men in case they have to shoot out the tires.”
“I want to turn around.”
“Let me savor the moment a little longer . . .”
Inside Building 25, a phone rang.
“Station Chief Oxnart here . . . Front security? What can I do for you? . . . Could you repeat the last part? . . . He really said that? Those exact words? . . .”