“I don’t understand.”
“CIA fronts pay him to secretly arm the generals, because Congress won’t let ’em do it themselves. And both the generals and the CIA want him to arm the rebels.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Welcome to spy town.” Felicia lit a thin cigar. “The rebels are a joke. Unless our governments arm them, they’re worse than harmless, except when they come out of the mountains to beg for food or wash people’s windshields.”
Serge whistled. “If we armed all the windshield guys in Miami, you got an apocalyptic wasteland. Or more so.”
“They have no choice but to arm the rebels.”
“Why?”
“Because any regime bankrupt of even the slightest intelligent ideology needs to see enemies where there aren’t any.”
Serge nodded. “Glenn Beck.”
“These are volatile times for my country,” said Felicia. “It’s no secret that for decades, our government-make that the generals-has been on the take. First it was letting drug smugglers pass through. And now guns. Except the volume of the traffic is far more than the junta and rebels could use in ten lifetimes. It’s obvious that Costa Gorda has become a weapons pipeline and money-laundering haven for every tinhorn south of Mexico-and brings great shame to me and my homeland.”
“Shades of Noriega.” Serge placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. “But isn’t it good that at least the guns are moving on and not staying in your country.”
“No. It means more millions to skim for the generals, which means more power, which means they’re able to override any legitimate democratic vote of the people. That’s why the election of President Guzman worries so many.”
“He’s a good man,” said Serge.
“Incorruptible,” replied Felicia. “But he didn’t get elected without also being an expert politician. Everyone’s holding their breath over just how long his finesse can juggle the generals. Especially the generals.”
“And I thought our politics was rough.”
“I’m betting the military will eventually get too nervous and do something stupid, like a coup. Or a bullet.” Felicia dropped the cigar and crushed it out with her foot. “My country’s biggest hope is to expose the generals’ financial network to the world. Except that seemed impossible until now. We’ve got to follow this trail wherever it leads.”
“So you’re a patriot,” said Serge. “Even shorter life expectancy.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You’re the one who mentioned a bullet.”
“But we’re way up here in Miami. What can happen?”
Suddenly a crash through a side window of the warehouse. Serge knocked Felicia to the ground and shielded her with his body. “Stay down!”
He pulled a. 45 pistol from behind his back and twisted toward the window.
Someone was crawling through the small opening.
“Coleman!” yelled Serge. “What the hell are you doing in the window?”
“I think I’m stuck.” A grunt.
“You were supposed to stand lookout by the car.”
“I got lonely.”
Serge pointed the gun toward sunlight. “But the door’s wide open.”
A pause. “Serge?”
“Yes?”
“What am I doing in the window?”
“Talking to me.”
“Does Felicia have any weed?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m going to wiggle back out now,” said Coleman.
“Hope it works out for you.”
A grunting sound. Then Coleman thudded to the ground outside. “Ow.”
Felicia got up and brushed off. “We probably need to get moving.”
“What was that?” asked Scooter.
“What was what?” said Serge.
“Thought I heard voices.”
“I hear them, too,” said Savage. “Does Coleman talk to himself?”
“Yes,” said Serge. “But it’s the language of children raised in the forest by animals.”
From the rear of the warehouse: three knocks on a metal wall.
From the front: “Who left the door open?”
“Shit.” Felicia spun. “The back door! Hurry!”
They raced outside. Serge quietly eased the exit shut, just as the first backlit silhouettes slid the front doors the rest of the way open for a motorcade of white vans.
Felicia crouched behind the Plymouth. She looked up at the ventilation fan. Voices again: “We don’t have all day. Get busy with those crates.”
“The planes are waiting. It’s a tight window.”
Serge whispered sideways. “Recognize them?”
“The first sounds like Victor,” said Felicia. “The second’s familiar, but I can’t place it… Where are you going?”
“Follow me.” Serge crawled on hands and knees to the corner of the building. He flattened himself and peeked around the side.
“See anything?” Felicia slithered forward in the dirt for her own look.
“No, just the back end of a white van… Get down!”
“What is it?”
A trail of dust coming up the gravel road. Five black SUVs. Serge aimed a small digital camera. Click, click, click. The dark vehicles pulled around the front of the warehouse and disappeared. From the ventilation fan: the sound of car doors slamming.
“You’re late!..”
“I know the second voice now,” said Felicia. “It’s that Lugar character. His Miami station must be the one supplying Evangelista.”
“I’m new to this business, but I think this is a good time to split.”
“Unless we want to follow them…”
Building 25
A dozen tables pushed together. Agents breaking stuff open with pliers and hammers and razor blades.
“Where’s Bamberg?” asked Oxnart.
The sound of a car outside. “There he is now,” said an agent twisting the head off a dashboard hula girl.
Bamberg came through the door and dumped a box on an empty table.
“That the last of it?” said Oxnart.
“Except for what Lugar got to first.”
Another agent cracked open a snow globe with a leaping dolphin. “What are we looking for anyway?”
“Maps, account numbers, microfilm. Who knows?” said the station chief. “Just keep looking.”
An ashtray shattered. “But we’re running out of time.”
Oxnart checked his watch. “Damn. We’re just going to have to pack it up and take it with us in the vehicles…”
Meanwhile:
“Step on it!” said Felicia. “You’re going to lose them!”
“I’m doing my best,” said Serge.
