Serge gasped again. “What are those red marks around your neck?”
“It’s where he kept strangling me.”
“Kept?”
“The first time I thought I was dead for sure. But he just wanted me to pass out, because I came to and he did it again, four or five more times. Said he wanted to show he had total control and could kill me anytime he wanted, which he definitely would do if I contacted you or anyone else again. And if I ran, he’d never stop looking for me no matter how far or long. And when he found me, he’d heat up a fire poker and… and…”
Serge’s eyes clenched shut at what she told him next. His hands covered his ears. “No, I can’t hear any more!” He pulled her arms away.
“Serge! I need you!”
But he was out the door.
Coleman caught up to him in the parking lot. He climbed in the passenger side of the Road Runner. Serge stared forward in the driver’s seat. Rapid, shallow breaths.
“I’ve seen that face before,” said Coleman. “What are you going to do?”
“We gave him a chance to listen to reason.” He threw the car in gear. “But now it’s Home Depot… and the toy store.”
Part II
The Parallax Enigma Jackal Manchurian Sanction
Chapter Fourteen
South of Miami
Building 25.
Afternoon briefing.
Oxnart looked out across school desks. “Mandrake?”
An agent opened a file. “Maintained surveillance from Biscayne to the cultural center. Here are some pictures of him exchanging briefcases in the Museum of Art.”
“Standard spycraft.” Oxnart nodded.
Mandrake handed another photo.
“What’s this?”
“He has a shoe phone.”
“Old school.” The chief handed the photo back. “Who’d he make the briefcase drop with?”
Another photo. “The chubby guy he was with at the carjacking.”
“Then things are looking up,” said Oxnart. “He might not be working for Lugar after all.”
The agent stared down at his desktop.
“What is it?” asked Oxnart.
“There was a second briefcase transfer. A dead drop in a trash can at the corner of Miami Avenue.” A hesitation before Mandrake produced more photos of a black SUV. “Lugar’s boys picked it up. We saw the drop while taking surveillance photos.”
“And you didn’t try to intercept?”
“Of course we did, but their SUV was closer and got there first. We almost crashed into each other.” Mandrake reached in his file. “Here’s a photo of them giving us the finger as they sped away.”
“Son of a bitch!”
The door opened. A breathless agent.
“Sinclair, you’re late!”
“Sorry, Chief, but I just got the workups on those mystery phone calls to our station.”
“And?”
Sinclair unfolded a printout. “Traced to this sketchy office building on the river. Then there’s that beeping message-our sound guys are still working on it. And a bunch of other calls made to consulates. Bolivia, Costa Gorda, Colombia, Canada-”
“The Canadians! Christ!” said Oxnart. “Who’s behind it?”
The agent glanced back at his notes. “Office rented to a private investigator, former state police agent named Mahoney.”
“Who’s that?”
Sinclair held up another photo. “Someone with an office that Serge was seen leaving.”
“Of course!” Oxnart smacked a fist into his hand. “Now it all fits together. The airport, the phone calls, Serge. And an ex-law enforcement agent is the typical profile for someone behind a front corporation.”
“Or a dummy front,” said Sinclair.
“And Lugar’s definitely running it! As if his horning in on my arms shipments wasn’t enough!” He took a deep breath and made a sweeping wave in the air. “Fuck it. Go visit this Mahoney. Whatever they’re paying him, we’ll pay more.”
“For what?” said Mandrake.
“Make it a front-dummy-front. That’ll put a burr in Lugar’s ass
… And, Mandrake?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get a team together and work up intel on Serge.”
“In case we need to take him out?”
“No, hire him. We can’t let Lugar keep somebody like that… Everyone, get moving!”
M eanwhile…
In a converted safe house in Coral Gables.
An emergency meeting.
“Dunbar,” said Station Chief Lugar. “What have you got on this briefcase?”
“Tailed Serge from the art gallery and intercepted it after he made a dead drop in a trash can, probably for Oxnart.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Their SUV was already waiting, but we got the jump and cut ’em off at the intersection,” said Agent Dunbar. “Almost crashed into us.”
“Hope you flipped them off,” said Lugar.
“Just like you ordered.” Dunbar set the briefcase on his desk and flipped the latches. “Simple three-digit combination lock, so only a thousand permutations. I started with all zeroes and, well, it didn’t take long. Double- O-Seven.” He pawed through contents. “Souvenirs, postcards, and matchbooks and bar coasters-I’m guessing locations of more drops and meets-a tip sheet of places to eat like the twenty-four-hour Cuban sandwich shop at the corner of First and Third, probably a document exchange. And an invisible message. I was able to raise the ink with a thermal decrypter.”
“Thermal?”
“A candle.”
“Let me see that.” Lugar stared at a smiley face and some words: HAVE A NICE DAY- JM / WAVE.
“We’re still trying to decipher that last part.”
“You can stop,” said Lugar. “It confirms he’s working for Oxnart.”
“How’s that?”
“Dunbar,” said Lugar. “You actually have no knowledge of the history of the agency you work for?”
The agent shrugged.
“In 1961, JM/WAVE was the secret code name for the anti-Castro operation run out of Florida.” Lugar handed back the message. “Headquartered south of Miami near the zoo in something called Building Twenty-five, where Oxnart’s station is now located.”
“So Serge really is working for him?”
“No,” Lugar said sarcastically. “He’s just some nut running around playing spy.”
