by Tim Dorsey
“Sir, we’ve picked up a third subject. Hold on to your hat.” Another photo. “Ted Savage.”
“The outed agent? That can’t be a coincidence. They’re planning something big.”
Dresden reviewed his notes. “They held some kind of a meeting in Churchill’s.”
“Churchill’s?”
“An old bar.”
“Where?”
“Little Haiti.”
“What on earth were they doing there?” asked Oxnart.
Dresden handed forward another stack of photos. “Took those with my tie tack.”
The station chief studied them. “Who the heck are these two new local guys they’re talking to?”
“Sir, we now have reason to believe the Haitians are involved.”
“The Haitians! Christ!”
“We suspect those two new guys are ex-secret police under Baby Doc, the Tonton Macoutes.”
“What kind of business does Serge have with the Macoutes?”
“Don’t know,” said the agent. “But it must be pretty important. They left the bar to secretly exchange something.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t know that either. Coleman’s apparent specialty is concealment. He made a flanking maneuver behind the bar, where we lost audio and visual contact.”
“Jesus!” said Oxnart. “How far does this thing reach?”
“Pretty far,” said another agent. “We’ve uncovered some kind of pipeline between Haiti and Costa Gorda.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because Serge has been making large, unknown shipments to both countries from the Royal Poinciana Hotel.”
“The Royal Poinciana?”
“That’s the return address on the manifests.”
“You idiot,” said Oxnart. “It’s the hotel where Serge must be staying!”
“Oh.”
Oxnart began pacing. “We need to get our arms around this. Where were Lugar’s boys during all that?”
Dresden handed over the last photos. “That’s their black SUV.” He smiled. “I don’t think they got any pictures of us.”
“Then we still have a shot,” said Oxnart. “And I have a pretty good idea what Lugar’s next move will be. The center of it all is the Royal Poinciana. Get a team together.”
“How do you want us to approach it?”
Oxnart looked toward a pair of desks in the back of the room. “Sheffield, Winslow, this is your party. I don’t want to know your plans.”
“We’re on.”
“And realize you’ll be flying solo. Absolutely no contact with the station until it’s over. This mission doesn’t exist, nor will it ever exist.”
Across Town . . .
“The Haitians?” said Station Chief Lugar. “Christ!”
“That only scratches the surface,” said Agent Bristol. “We’ve detected a secret network in the Caribbean, where Serge has been making clandestine shipments.”
“How does Ted Savage fit into this?”
“Probably the scapegoat. Could have something to do with all the chatter we’ve picked up about an assassination plot.”
“And we don’t have anything on that either?”
Agent Bristol shook his head.
“Damn,” said Lugar. “Something’s in the air, and Oxnart’s kicking our ass.”
“Sir.” Bristol raised his hand. “I think we can still salvage this, especially since we now know where they’re all staying.”
“You’re right,” said Lugar, snapping his fingers toward a pair of agents. “Manchester! Reed! Get over to the Royal Poinciana. Intercept protocol.”
“Kidnap Serge?”
“Absolutely not. We don’t know anything about his operation. If it comes from the top of our own agency, and we bollix it up, there go our careers.”
“Then what do we do?”
“What I’m about to say, I never said.” He stared down the agents. “Grab Savage, sweat him down.”
“You’re saying to abduct a private American citizen on American soil?”
“That’s why you’re on your own . . . This mission doesn’t exist.”
“Sir?” A younger agent raised his hand.
“What is it, son?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been going over all these files, and I think we may have it all wrong.” The agent unfurled a rap sheet. “I think Serge is just an eccentric criminal who somehow stumbled into things, and we’ve let our imaginations get away from us.”
The room erupted in laughter.
“You still have a lot to learn,” said Lugar. “That’s the way it’s supposed to look.”
Chapter Twenty
Miami International Airport
Rental-car counter.
The Littletons of Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. Couldn’t wait for vacation.
“We’ve never been to Florida before,” said Nadine. “Always wanted. The children are at my parents’.”
The rental clerk smiled. “You reserved a Taurus?”
“That’s right,” said Frank. “Here’s my license and proof of insurance.”
And so on through the rental procedure.
“Would you like to buy the tank at our special discount?”
“No, we’ll fill it ourselves.”
“Here are the keys,” said the clerk. “Where are you staying?”
“Downtown,” said Frank.
“The Royal Poinciana,” Nadine added with excitement. “Sounds like a great place. The name alone—”
The clerk’s expression changed.
“Something the matter?” asked Frank.
A smile returned. “No, everything’s fine.” The clerk placed a map on the counter and leaned over it with a red felt-tip. “Here’s the best route to your hotel. I strongly suggest you don’t get off the expressway until you reach your exit. Especially along here and here and here and definitely here.”
“Why?” asked Frank. “Are those like bad neighborhoods with a lot of crime?”
“I’m not allowed to say that.”
“We’d heard Miami has gotten better,” said Nadine.
“It has,” said the clerk. “You’ll have a great time. Just stay on the expressway . . .”
A half hour later, a rented Taurus sat in a ten-dollar lot two blocks off Flagler. The Littletons’ rolling luggage clacked through night streets.
“Look at Bayside. It’s so beautiful.” Nadine looked straight up. “And the skyline!”
Then they turned the corner. Luggage slowed. Eyes glanced around.
“Hey man! Got a couple bucks?”
“Don’t look at him,” said Frank.
Rolling sped up.
“Yeah, ignore me, man!”
They reached the address.
“This can’t be it,” said Nadine.
“There’s the sign.”
“Why isn’t it lit?”
“Let’s get off the street.”
Luggage into the lobby.
“What are all those giant boxes?” asked Nadine.
“The website didn’t mention they were renovating,” said Frank.
The couple arrived at the reception desk.
“It has bulletproof glass,” whispered Nadine.
“I know.” Frank put his mouth to the metal grate. “Excuse me. We have a reservation. Under ‘Littleton.’ ”
The night manager flipped through a box of cards and reached the Ls. There it was. Littleton. Three-night stay, but the manager pegged them as an early checkout at first light.
After a credit-card swipe, a key came through the slot.
They got on the elevator and stared at the empty bracket for the inspection certificate. “Is this thing safe?”
Frank closed the cage. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
They got off on three and stuck the key in a door. Frank felt for the light switch and flicked it. Roaches made a jailbreak.
They stood without speech. Then, Nadine: “My God!”
“So that’
s why the rates were so low.”
“We can’t stay here.”
“Honey, I don’t think we’ll be able to find anything else at this hour.” Frank looked at his watch. “It’s almost eleven.”
“I’m afraid to touch anything. Who knows what we’ll catch.”
Frank tried the air conditioner.
“Is it going to stay that loud?”
“At least it’ll drown out the traffic.” He grabbed his suitcase.
“You really expect me to sleep in that bed?”
“The covers are just old,” said Frank.
“There’s old, and then there’s disease.”
“Maybe we can spread all our clothes over it and lie on top.”
Nadine went in the bathroom. A shriek.
Frank ran. “You okay?”
She shook with tears.
He looked in the doorway and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “The last guest was just a little messy.”
“And needed to be hospitalized.”
“I’ll go buy some cleaning supplies.”
“Where?”
“Saw this drugstore a block over that was still open.”
“Get bleach.”
Frank grabbed the doorknob.
Thuds against the wall from the next room. Screaming. Crash.
Frank turned. “Make sure to keep the door locked. And don’t unlock it until you’re sure it’s me.”
“I’m just going to stand in the middle of the room and not move.”
“Be right back.”
The door closed.
Nadine stood perfectly still. Except for flinching at every new thud from the neighboring room. She decided to turn on the TV, using a sock to work the controls. Snowy picture, halfway into the local eleven o’clock report. “. . . Police continue to dig under the house . . .” She changed channels. “. . . A naked intruder armed with a sword . . .” Another channel. “. . . Robbers wearing beauty-parlor hair dryers over their heads as disguises . . .” The sock clicked the set off.
She went back to the middle of the room to wait. And wait. Time slowed down.
But not that slow. She kept looking at her watch. Eleven-thirty. Midnight. Twelve-thirty. One. Tried Frank’s cell phone twenty times. No answer.
Finally, a brave run down to the front desk.
“My husband’s missing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gone. He went to the drugstore almost two hours ago.”
“But the drugstore closes at midnight.”
“That’s what I mean.”
The manager pointed at the wall behind him. “Sure he didn’t go to Bayside? Hooters is still open.”
“No! Do something!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll call the police.” He picked up the phone, then under his breath: “Probably find him at Hooters.”
Lobby door opened. Three men strolled inside.
“What a great day we just had,” said Savage. “Especially your underbelly tour.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“I’ll never look at Miami the same.”
“Excuse me?”
They turned. The night manager had his mouth to the metal grate in the diffracting glass. “Could you come over here?”
“Me?” said Savage. “What is it?”
“I need your key back. Unless you want to lose your deposit.”
“But . . . my room.”
The manager popped a pork rind in his mouth. “You didn’t pay today.”
“Got busy.” Ted went for his wallet. “I’ll pay now.”
The manager chewed and shook his head. “Too late. Already rented it. Got your possessions in a bag back here.”
“But it’s my room.”
“Not anymore. Some couple from Pennsylvania.” He glanced toward a tearful woman standing off to the side.
“Why is she so upset?” asked Serge.
“Husband went to Hooters.”
“Any more rooms?” asked Ted.
“Sold out. Big shopping group from Trinidad.”
Ted turned to Serge. “What am I going to do?”
“Why don’t you stay with us?”
“But the rooms are so small.”
“Shoot,” said Serge. “They got ten people stacked in most of them. And Coleman usually doesn’t make it to the bed.”
Two A.M.
Room 321 of the Royal Poinciana.
Serge jogged in place on the Star-Elite doormat.
Savage and Coleman sat cross-legged on the floor, taking turns sucking on an artificial leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker.
“Coleman? . . .”
Coleman looked up. “We made it a bong.”
Downstairs in the lobby: A small crowd gathered around a commotion.
“Ma’am,” said a police officer with an open notebook. “You’ll have to calm down if I’m going to understand you.”
Nadine Littleton took a deep breath. “I just know something terrible has happened to him.”
“What about his personal habits?”
“What do you mean?”
“Has he ever done anything like this before? Strip clubs?”
“No!” More sobs.
“Ma’am, just routine. I need to cover all bases so we can find him faster . . . Does he have insomnia? Take any late-night walks?”
She blew her nose in a tissue and shook her head.
“What about enemies?”
“Oh, yeah. Lots.”
“Really?” The officer got ready to write. “Who?”
“Everyone at the sales office since he got the new parking spot.”
The officer clicked his pen shut. “We’ll get a bulletin out. If you can think of anything else, please give us a call.”
A second officer returned. “Nothing at Hooters.” He looked at Nadine. “Mind if we keep this picture you gave us.”
“Please just find him.”
“We’ll do everything we can.”
“Thank you, officers.” Nadine Littleton of Beaver Falls took the elevator back up to room 318.
Chapter Twenty-One
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 . . .”
An 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.
