“What’s this building?” asked Coleman.
Click, click, click. “Argentinian consulate. Last one was Germany.”
“Consulate?”
Serge held up his page of notes. “That’s this whole list-sixty consulates within a two-mile radius.” He resumed west. “Outside of Washington, Miami is the diplomatic capital of America. Even the Canadians have a consulate here.”
“The Canadians! Christ!”
“No shit. They scare the hell out of me,” said Serge. “I mean, what on earth are the Canadians doing with a consulate in Miami?” Click, click, click. “Nothing good.”
“But why do you need so many pictures of the same buildings?”
“I don’t need any.” Click, click, click. “These are to provoke a response.”
“Response?”
Click, click, click. “Take enough photos of consulates, and people act fidgety. That’s how I intend to make contact.”
“With who?”
Serge stowed the camera. “What’s the one thing every consulate has?”
“Desks?”
“A spy.” Serge pulled another envelope from his backpack. “And in case my photos don’t work, there’s Plan B.” He ran across the street again and returned.
“Who are you delivering those messages to?” asked Coleman.
“The spy.”
“What’s the message?”
“Just a generic greeting. Brighten up their day.”
“No secrets?”
Serge shook his head. “I’m not out to pass information. Just raise curiosity.”
“What for?”
“To get hired.”
“By the consulate?”
“Or whoever has it under surveillance.”
“You’re losing me again.”
“All consulates are under constant surveillance.” Serge pointed at a black SUV parked up the street. “Looking for defectors, secret agents, keeping track of their own to see who’s career is moving up. If you loiter around enough of these buildings, you’re bound to show up on an internal report. ‘Say, who’s this new guy at ten consulates on Tuesday? That’s seriously connected. Maybe he should work for us.’ ”
“Can I see one of the messages?”
Serge grabbed another envelope from his backpack.
Coleman unfolded the note. “But it’s blank.”
“Exactly.”
“I mean, there’s no message here.”
“Oh, there’s a message all right.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Spies will. You pass a note with regular writing and it goes right in the junk-mail pile.” Serge took the paper back and returned it to the envelope. “But they can’t resist a blank page. It’s like crack to a spy: ‘This must be super important! Get the lab guys right on it!’ ”
“What kind of message are they supposed to find?”
“If they’re remotely competent, they’ll be able to raise the invisible ink.”
“Where’d you get invisible ink?”
“Grocery store.” Serge walk another block. Click, click, click. “Stay here.” He ran across the street again.
“Wait! I want to come.”
Coleman caught up with him in the lobby. “What kind of job are you looking for?”
Serge stared at a wall, reading plastic letters inside a glass case that listed offices by floor. “I’ve always wanted to be a secret agent. From now on, I’m completely dedicating my existence to the art of spycraft. And it fits snugly with my new Master Plan, Mark Five.”
“You never said anything.”
“Just found out. Watched that spy-movie marathon on TBS and kind of fixated.” He tapped the glass case. “Here it is, seventh floor.” They dashed across the lobby.
“So you’re really going to be a spy?” asked Coleman.
“I already am one.”
“But you don’t work for anybody yet.”
“And that’s exactly what they all think.” Serge waited outside an elevator and stared up at lighted numbers. “Where’s the rule that says you can’t just unilaterally declare yourself a spy and snoop around for no reason? That’s the whole key to life: Fuck explaining yourself to people. Plus Miami is the perfect place, absolutely crawling with self-employed, freelance agents in dummy corporations ready to join any government that can’t have direct involvement with an illicit operation. I’ll just act suspicious until the highest bidder comes along.”
The doors opened. They got in. Coleman sucked his paper sack. “But how do you get hired as a spy?”
“By acting like you don’t want to get hired. If you just barge into some office asking for a spy job, they’ll think you’re a double agent with disinformation. Or worse, a conspiracy kook off the street. That’s how the conspiracy works.”
Elevator doors opened on seven.
Ahead, glass doors with gold letters: C ONSULATE OF C OSTA G ORDA.
Serge grabbed a handle and went inside.
Flags and travel brochures and the national crest.
Serge whispered sideways to Coleman, “What you need to do is play hard to get, which makes them want you.”
“How do you do that?”
“Behave inscrutably. Then contact will be made on a park bench by a man in a hat feeding pigeons.”
They entered the consulate. “This next part’s critical,” said Serge. “I better drink lots of coffee.” He walked over to the reception area’s coffee machine and poured a cup.
Coleman drained his paper sack. “Serge, the woman behind the reception desk is staring at us. Not in a nice way.”
“My plan’s working.” He chugged the Styrofoam cup and approached the desk.
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Can I help you?”
Serge quickly glanced around, then leaned closer. “The code word is smegma. ”
Channel 7
“This is Cynthia Ricardo reporting live outside the Miami morgue, where police are still baffled by the so- called Hollow Man discovered in a run-down motel behind the former Orange Bowl. Also known as the Jack-O’- Lantern Man, he has since been identified as Juan Vizquel, whose fingerprints implicate him in numerous tourist robberies near the airport. Most puzzling is the cadaver’s empty chest cavity, missing all internal organs, but with no external surgical marks. Meanwhile, authorities are seeking the whereabouts of mysterious vigilantes responsible for the murder. Two surviving witnesses from Bowling Green credit the suspects with saving their lives during an attempted carjacking, and further believe that the pair-clad in superhero costumes-are on a crusade to rid Miami’s streets of crime and legalize marijuana.”
Inside the morgue…
A homicide lieutenant burst through lab doors.
“Got anything yet?”
The medical examiner didn’t look up. “Hold your horses.”
“The chief wants this solved fast,” said the lieutenant. “The press just came up with another nickname.”
The examiner was a gnomelike public servant with a habit of girlish giggles when handling close-up gore. It got under the lieutenant’s last layer of skin, and the examiner explored the possibilities.
