to follow that guy as long as I can and see what develops.’ ”
“You’ve done it before?”
“Many times. My record is four hours through several counties until the guy came unglued.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Near the end, I got sloppy and he spotted me.” Serge crouched again and slid another page. “He sped up in his car, and I had to weave through lanes at high speed. Then I only briefly drove on the sidewalk, but I guess that made him uncomfortable. The surveillance turned into a chase.”
“You chased him in traffic?”
“Not for long. He had no spy training and wrecked his car at the first light pole. So it was mainly a foot chase. And we’re running through yards, jumping fences and ducking under clotheslines, and he keeps looking back and yelling, ‘Who are you?’ and I say, ‘Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’m going for a personal record.’ But he ran in a police station instead.”
Coleman crumpled a beer can. “Sounds like you could have gotten in a lot of trouble.”
“There’s no law against marathon following,” said Serge. “Just as long as you respect others’ privacy.”
“Who do you want to follow today?”
“I like to pick the one person in public who’s acting the most suspicious and paranoid.” Serge bent down and slipped another page. “In any big city crowd, there’s always someone like that. Then I help them.”
“How?”
“By confirming their fears.” Serge crouched and tucked a page under the door of room 318. “But who will that person be today?…”
On the other side of the door to room 318:
Agent-in-exile Ted Savage heard footsteps in the hall. He groaned and looked over the side of the bed. A sheet of white paper on the floor.
“What’s this?”
He flipped it over. Blank on both sides. He knew the drill.
Ted ran a cigarette lighter under the page. Brown lines began to appear. He stared perplexed at a happy face as he continued with the lighter, revealing words at the bottom.
The lighter bounced on the floor. The page fluttered down as Savage stumbled backward onto the bed.
“ ‘JM/WAVE’! Jesus, they know I’m here! They’re sending a message from Building Twenty-five!” He ran to the window, looking for parked vans concealing the capture unit.
Nothing in sight.
Ted ran for the dresser. Jack Daniel’s empty. Back to the window. “Get a grip. You need to calm your nerves and focus. There has to be a bar down there.” He scanned the street. “Remember your training! Think! What’s the first move?” He looked back at the narrow slit under the door where the message had been delivered. “Abandon compromised location.”
Ted snatched the note off the floor and dashed out of the room.
Two people stepped into the elevator. Serge grabbed the edge of the accordion metal cage and began closing it.
Pounding footsteps.
Serge reopened the cage and smiled. “Room for one more!”
Ted jumped inside, hyperventilating.
“Good afternoon!” Serge chugged from a thermos. “Don’t you hate it when rude people won’t hold an elevator when someone else is almost there, and instead slide to the corner so you can’t see them and hit the ‘Door Close’ button? Steams me something terrible. Seen it a hundred times, but do I stand by idly during this cultural defilement? No! I’ll already be in the elevator when it happens, the door closing on some family with kids. And the asshole who just hit the ‘Door Close’ button is heading for the fifteenth floor, and even if I’m going to the sixteenth, I’ll hit the button to get off on two, but just before leaving, I’ll mash all the other buttons, then jump out and yell: ‘Have a nice tour of the hotel. Now get with the fucking team!’ ” Serge stared straight ahead and nodded. “Manners are important. That’s how I roll.”
Ted pointed at the unlit control panel. “We’re not moving.”
“Oh, right.” Serge hit the button for the lobby.
Ted faced away, examining the secret note again.
Serge looked over his shoulder. “What have you got there?”
“Nothing!” Ted crammed it in his pocket.
“Sorry,” said Serge. “My manners.” A chuckle. “And I was just mentioning them. Life’s funny that way, like you’ll be using Reynolds Wrap on a sandwich, and suddenly a Burt Reynolds movie comes on TV. There are forces at work out in the universe that I don’t understand. Do you drink coffee?”
Ted anxiously watched overhead numbers, awaiting escape into the lobby.
“Wait.” Serge stared at Savage’s profile. “I know you.”
“Not me!”
“No, I’m positive,” said Serge. “I never forget a face.” The doors opened. “Have you ever done time?”
Savage sprinted out of the hotel.
Coleman popped some pills in his mouth. “That guy has serious problems.”
“We could be in luck.”
“How’s that?”
Serge led the way onto the street. “The first person we met today might be the most suspicious. Let’s follow him awhile and see if the pattern holds up.”
Ted walked urgently down Flagler Street, checking each storefront for a bar. Only perfume and suitcases.
Serge trailed discreetly with hands in his pockets. “Where do I know him from? It’s killing me.”
Ahead, Savage nervously spun around on the sidewalk. Serge ducked behind a hotdog cart. “What really makes me curious is he knew how to raise the invisible ink on the message I saw when I peeked over his shoulder.”
Coleman wrapped his fingers around an airline miniature of whiskey and sucked his fist. “Think he’s a spy?”
“Not a chance, but it means he was an interesting kid like me doing all the science tricks with lemon juice and, later, gasoline.” Serge stepped out from behind the cart. “He’s on the move.”
They shadowed Ted west.
A block behind, an SUV pulled away from the curb and drove well below the limit with a telephoto lens out the window.
A block ahead, Savage couldn’t find a bar. But he had luck with a liquor store.
He came back out with four airline miniatures of whiskey in his pockets. Ted clutched one in his hand, glanced around the street, then sucked his fist.
“Now, that’s suspicious,” said Serge. “He’s definitely our guy.”
Chapter Eighteen
Meanwhile…
Biscayne Boulevard.
Tourists strolled through Bayside Market with name-brand shopping bags. Some lined up for tours of the bay on large ferries, snapping photos of celebrity homes along Star Island. Stallone, Estefan, Shaq, Ricky Martin. Others ate lunch in Bubba Gump’s and Hooters and carried takeout to the neighboring park.
Behind them, rows of colorful international flags flapped in the onshore breeze. A loud din of construction. Workers putting final touches for the Summit of the Americas.
Near the sidewalk, a man in a hat sat on a park bench feeding pigeons.
Scooter Escobar ran across the boulevard. He took a spot on the bench and stared straight ahead. They exchanged newspapers. “You wanted to see me?”
