high-def… Joining us tonight is conservative campaign strategist Malcolm Glide.”
“Thanks for having me, Jane. As the unfortunate events in Miami clearly demonstrate, the nation is far from safe, even in our own hemisphere. That’s why my elected colleagues are introducing an emergency bill for immediate and massive arms shipments to our staunch military allies in Costa Gorda.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Glide. But weren’t you the lobbyist for the scandal-ridden contractor in Iraq that misappropriated over a billion dollars and whose missile guidance systems chronically malfunctioned, directing rockets back to our own troops?”
“Jane, when the nation is at war, it’s no time to undermine the morale of our corporate officers.”
Serge smiled at the set. “Have to admit he’s good.”
“Serge!” Felicia grabbed his wrists. “Glide did set you up.”
“No, he didn’t. I saw the files.”
“And I saw ours…”
TV: “… Meanwhile, funeral arrangements are being finalized for prominent Latin businessman Victor Evangelista, an innocent bystander who was accidentally killed by stray fire during the assassination attempt…”
“Huh?” said Serge. “Didn’t they find his gun?… Oh well, first casualty is the truth. Guess someone high up decided it would be too embarrassing if his ties to Washington came out.”
“Evangelista was on our side,” said Felicia.
“What are you talking about?”
“Federal agent,” said Felicia. “He was the one working undercover for our governments, not Glide. He was amassing evidence against Malcolm and his companies. And he was just days away from taking down everyone, including half our generals. They couldn’t let that happen.”
“But… that… what?…”
“Serge. There was an assassination plot all right, but not against Guzman. The real target all along was Evangelista. Everything Glide did was designed to take Victor out of the picture. He played all of us: you, me, Ted, a whole daisy chain of dupes.”
“But then why did Evangelista have that gun?”
“Like I said, federal agent. He was there protecting against the plot. My guess is that Glide fed him your name and photo, and when he saw you on the other side of the stage, his gun came out.”
“And then ours came out,” said Serge. “Beautiful.”
“They must have figured that even if he fired first, one of us would be left to get him.”
“Except poor Ted was the one who got the shot off,” said Serge. “And took a bullet from Victor in return.”
“That’s where it gets worse.”
“How can it possibly get any worse?”
“Where did the bullet come from that hit Savage?”
“Evangelista, of course.”
Felicia shook her head. “Our security got Evangelista’s gun. Never fired. And no GSR on his hands.”
“Then who shot Ted?”
“My money is on an undercover plant in our own bodyguard detail.”
Serge shook his head fast to clear the fog. “I’m getting dizzy.”
“Serge,” said Felicia. “During a plot, there’s always a backup gunman.”
“Why?”
“To kill the first shooter and cut ties for deniability,” said Felicia. “You’re big on history. Ruby shoots Oswald. And back when Aquino landed in the Philippines and that soldier shot him on the runway, and then that other soldier shot him.”
“So Glide set me up as the scapegoat, except Ted took my place?”
Coleman raised his hand. “Can I get a drink?”
Serge and Felicia in unison: “Shut up!”
TV: “… Meanwhile a massive manhunt continues tonight in South Florida for the would-be assassin who remains at large this hour and is believed to be in the Miami Beach area.”
Serge grabbed his head. “I can’t believe this was all about stupid gun shipments.”
“It wasn’t,” said Felicia. “Remember when I thought the guns were just a means to something bigger? They were. The business with the dead reporter that kept nagging me. The geology report he was supposed to slip me before they killed him.”
“That’s right,” said Serge. “You mentioned it.”
“I finally got a copy from one of my sources in our interior ministry.”
“So spill.”
“Oil,” said Felicia. “They discovered a new field off our coast. I guess the petroleum companies are getting too much grief from your country over what’s happened in the Gulf. So they went looking for an easier government to ply.”
“And Glide?”
“All his candidates are backed by huge oil lobbyists. He simply expanded his dealings offshore to Costa Gorda. The guns never had to leave Miami. That was just designed to raise money and pay off the generals, because no matter how big that oil field is, Guzman wasn’t about to let those drilling rigs anywhere near our coral reefs.”
Serge looked oddly at the tiny TV screen. “But… if Glide actually was trying to set me up…”
Then a flash of recognition. His eyelashes fluttered as recent images strobed through his brain: the security film at Hooters, the photo of Felicia in the hotel room window, more probable images yet to come from stage cameras.
His eyes shot toward Felicia. “Oh my God, you’re right! Evangelista really was the target!”
“So you finally believe me?”
“Except you’re wrong. They weren’t setting me up. They were setting you up. You’re the patsy.”
“Me?”
“Works better. You’re a foreign national. Probably dummy bogus evidence linking you to the rebels. Think: Who sent you to Miami in the first place?”
“Scooter’s uncle, the general, to watch out for him… Oh my God.”
TV: “… Authorities are looking for this woman caught on various security cameras…”
“That’s me!”
Serge stood. “We have to get you out of here.”
“This can’t be happening.” She rested her forehead on the table.
“It’ll be okay. We’ll talk to Guzman.” He stroked her hair. “Felicia?”
Blood ran between his fingers. A man ran across the street.
“Felicia!” He shook her hard. Down to the ground she went.
A curdling yell echoed off the Art Deco hotels and sidewalk restaurants.
“Nooooooooooo!”
Biscayne Bay
Midnight. A million stars.
Several serious yachts anchored in one of the few deep channels.
Lights on. Music carrying across the water. People in evening wear filled the back deck of the largest vessel. Slow dancing. A radar dish rotated above the cabin.
One of the couples climbed off the stern and onto the swim platform, then into a smaller boat that ferried them back to their own yacht. Other couples followed. Vague voices calling back to their host as lines cast off.
A party winding down.
“Thanks for having us, Mr. Glide…”
“Congratulations on the funding bill…”
“Here’s a check for the best candidates money can buy…”
Laughter at the last remark.
A magnum of Dom Perignon hung by Malcolm’s side as he waved toward the last guests motoring off into the dark bay. He went back inside and plopped onto a spacious leather couch. A radar screen showed tiny blips where
