The fix

13

When you're a spy, certain things are much harder than you'd think. You begin to expect that the entire world thinks like you do and therefore has an implicit understanding that actions have consequences. You start thinking that people will look at the world and will realize that it's better to just be good, that it's better not to pull every dog's tail, that it's better to live your life, earn your money, live within your means and if sometimes a deal falls into your lap that seems too good to be true, it's because it is and you should run like hell.

So if you're not a spy, you should pay your parking tickets. You shouldn't own a TEC-9, much less try to deduct one from your taxes, and you shouldn't have sex with people you'd have no compunction killing.

You shouldn't, finally, pretend to be someone you're not-because, eventually, you'll end up like Eddie Champagne, with a guy like Dixon Woods on your ass and the rest of the world coming to pieces around you, including a former Navy SEAL named Sam Axe using you to help him place small bombs inside a luxury hotel in Miami.

Sam didn't want to do it, but I told him it was the best way to dispose of Eddie Champagne without actually getting Eddie Champagne disposed, so the two of them left Cricket O'Connor's house and headed to the Hotel Oro, where he'd reserved a room under Eddie's name and even used Eddie's credit card. Making a paper trail.

The way Sam had it figured, being placed in charge of Eddie Champagne wasn't the worst job in the world, especially since he sort of liked the elegance of triangulation. It was just the checking-in that concerned him, since he'd need to convince Eddie to be equally elegant while being forced into a posh hotel against his will.

And in plastic cuffs.

We all knew that if Eddie bolted, we might never see him again, and that just wouldn't work. You rack up a bill, you pay your debt.

So after parking Cricket's Benz across the street in self-parking, figuring maybe waiting for the valet at the end of the evening wouldn't be the best bet, all things considered, Sam broke it down for Eddie. Eddie was still half sauced, though with all that coffee, toast, fear and anxiety he'd found a sort of stoned equilibrium and had actually broken down in tears in the car while Sam drove, realizing that they were literally driving in his car. Sam couldn't figure out if the tears were real or another ploy, but they helped him with the plan.

"Here's the deal, Ed," Sam said. "I'm getting real tired of how Hank is running our crew." Co-opting Eddie's language was sort of fun for Sam, though he thought that Eddie had probably picked up his vernacular from someone else, too. "You and me, we sort of see eye to eye on a lot of things."

Eddie wiped his nose on his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Way I figure it, you and me? We could work together down the line. Who knows?" Sam saw the rotors working in Eddie's head already.

"Absolutely," Eddie said.

Absolutely, Sam thought. The thing about most criminals is that they aren't wicked-they're stupid. They're opportunists. "I'm going to try to get this Dixon problem away from you in a way that doesn't, you know, end up in your death."

"Thanks, buddy," Eddie said. He sounded like he really meant it, which he probably did.

"But you're going to have to man up some," Sam said. Man up. Who talked liked that? "Take a broken arm. Maybe another broken jaw. Or maybe just a bullet somewhere fatty." Sam gave him a poke in the shoulder, which, Sam was disturbed to find, was about as fatty as his own shoulder. He really needed to start cutting out starches.

"I've had worse," Eddie said. He was actually getting jubilant.

"Okay," Sam said. "But you need to cooperate with me. No scene in the hotel at check-in. No shitting yourself or anything nasty."

"Done," Eddie said.

"We get to the room, you cooperate, and you have my word, you will see tomorrow."

"Maybe you'll take me to see Cricket? I mean, of course, if everything ends up kosher?" Sam saw that Eddie had tears in his eyes again. Incredible. The guy was either in line for an Oscar, or he was really starting to feel the weight of his deceptions.

Sam put his money on the Oscar. "Sure, Eddie, sure."

Eddie pursed his lips in thought again. "You think, maybe, I could get some room service, too? Maybe a steak?"

Oh, yeah, Sam thought, the Oscar is his. But that was okay. If it was enough to get him into the hotel and maybe get him to trust Sam a bit, he was willing to get the man a steak for his troubles. "We'll get two," Sam said, and then he pulled Eddie out of the car, put a coat over Eddie's cuffed wrists, grabbed a duffel bag out of the trunk-a duffel bag filled with solar Malibu lights and some light soldering equipment-and made his way into the hotel.

True to his word, and much to Sam's surprise, Eddie was the perfect prisoner at check-in, so much so that Sam went ahead and placed his room service order right there at the front desk. Even threw on an extra 50 percent tip ahead of time. It was Eddie's bill, after all.

And after they finished their steaks-Sam had the T-bone; Eddie opted for the filet; both had the hot butter-Sam had to admit that Nate had been right. The guy could talk. He didn't mention to Sam wrestling a polar bear, but he did have a story about a bison. They got to having such a great time, Eddie didn't even mind when Sam asked him to hold on to the devices he was building, his greasy fingerprints leaving smudges of himself on everything-the inside parts, the outside parts, the triggers, the soldered pieces, everything.

Sam couldn't figure out if Eddie knew what he was doing or not. Maybe he had just decided prison would be better than Dixon Woods in a locked room.

The sap.

Either way, it didn't matter to Sam. He'd be long gone by the time Eddie Champagne figured out that decision definitively.

Sam stepped out onto the secluded balcony overlooking the Hotel Oro's pool and set up his homework project. When he was through, he made two calls: one to the IRS and one to the FBI.

Just before six, Fiona and I pulled up at the Hotel Victor, the hotel directly next to the Hotel Oro, and parked in one of the spots directly out front reserved for people checking in. The sign said thirty minutes only, which was about ten minutes longer than I thought it would take us to do our job.

Outside it was one of those nights when Miami feels laced with magic: A mist of fog was in the air, so the glittering lights of South Beach cast a glow into the world, giving the impression you were already remembering what you were experiencing, a soft focus with, at different angles, a sharp glare of truth, of reality, that you were alive in a moment.

I wore a light tan-colored suit, a collared shirt open at the neck, a red pocket square that I removed when I saw that Fiona was wearing a short red dress that would have made Audrey Hepburn give up cocktail numbers for good. We didn't want to match, look too much like tourists after all, particularly since if we weren't careful, our pictures would be in the paper.

Or Palm Life, since an hour earlier Jay Gatz had given James Dimon a call. "James, sport," I said, "I thought you'd be interested in an ad hoc event taking place this evening at the Hotel Oro. Daisy thought you might appreciate the visual experience."

"Mos def," he said.

I almost hung up, thought it wasn't worth the two minutes of my life I'd lose to hear James Dimon speak one more word, but marched on nonetheless. The greater good and all that. "Come at six fifteen," I said. "There's a fantastic new Russian model named Natalya Choplyn we'll be entertaining poolside. She's very underground overseas but is about to"-I paused for just a moment, in case I couldn't control the bile in my throat-"jump off here. This would be a real get for you."

"Hot," he said.

"Very," I said. "Let me spell that last name for you. C-H-O-P-L-Y-N Make sure you get that down."

Now, sitting with Fiona in the Charger, I couldn't help but wonder what would become of Natalya after this evening. I had a sense that she'd find herself intimately acquainted with the laws governing economic espionage, particularly economic espionage committed by a foreign national on American soil. Fifteen years would be a good starting point if Natalya wasn't ex-KGB, but since she was, there was a good chance the government-ours or hers-might just disappear her after they-the IRS, the FBI, Putin himself-became aware of the transfer of millions of dollars into her account, particularly millions of dollars derived from bogus mortgages.

And if I could time it just right, she'd be sitting with Dixon Woods when it happened.

"You ready?" I said to Fiona.

"Remind me again why I don't get to shoot Natalya?"

"Public place, bigger fish to filet," I said. "We can get in and out and not even wrinkle our clothes."

We stepped out of the car and made our way across the street, sidestepping spillover lines of people from clubs on either side of the street. The people outside had their own unique blush this evening, but then everything felt different to me the moment before action.

Everything slows.

Colors become brighter.

It's as if I can see all the moves before they even happen.

A few steps before the Oro's front door, I stopped Fiona, who was walking with a rather purposeful gait. "You ready?"

"Let me check my purse," she said. She was holding a red Kate Spade bag under one arm. "Five vials of tear gas, a Sig, a BlackBerry, some lipstick. I'm set for the evening. No condoms, though, so let me know if we need to stop off."

I looked up at the length of the Hotel Oro. Sam was in room 511, overlooking the pool. He and Eddie Champagne were just another couple having a good time, for all the staff of the hotel knew. At six, just to let us know he was in his room, he would flash the room lights five times, followed by another eleven times, so I'd know for certain the game was afoot.

At this point, at this hotel, with whoever was watching, things had to be as low-tech as possible. In a confined space like a hotel, picking up cell signals, if you're looking for a specific one, is freshman-year-at-Quantico sort of stuff.

A moment later, the flashing started. Sam was in.

We were about to be.

We had thirty minutes to make it happen.

We strode past the valet station and I gave a cursory glance for my favorite bookie/valet but didn't see him, though it was hard to be sure who I was seeing, since they were all wearing that same black suit.

"Black Armani is out," Fiona said.

"You get that?"

Once into the lobby, it was Miami bass and Miami style-the bronzed bodies happy to laze in the cabanas on my previous visit were now thumping across the two bars, filling the dance floor, the cabanas moving right along with them. Lining the walls, looking appropriate surly, were Longstreet men, sweating through their black T-shirts and suits, their entire paramilitary careers boiled into watching other people have a good time. From backing up strike forces to backing that ass up.

We all make choices.

As we walked, the crowd moved imperceptibly away from us. Neither Fi or I projected much of a good-time vibe, and that was good. If they got too close to Fi, she was liable to crack tear gas on the floor just to see the expression on their faces.

We passed the serpentine reservation desk, and I looked for Star but didn't find her, either. Forever must have come to a close. Or maybe she got that job modeling at Abercrombie. Or maybe Natalya had her killed for knowing my name. All were possibilities, none that I could ruminate on now, the music pounding in my ears, adrenaline pushing me out the door to the pool area, where the people nearly having sex at the bar looked positively Amish by comparison.

The infinity pool worked alive with movement, men and women writhing to the same nameless beat from inside, huge amps spreading the dusty bass into the air. Servers whose only bit of indulgence was a strip of fabric over their nipples moved through the crowded tables, stopping every few steps to drop off drinks, pick up glasses, and bend over suggestively in front of men and women wearing even less clothing.

"It smells like sex out here," Fiona said. "We should stay. Get a room."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Maybe we'll come back for lunch one day. Your mother never did get to eat that day, Michael."

I spotted Natalya the moment we entered the pool area. She sat at a round table just adjacent to the rear bar, a nice crowded locale, but with a fine exit as well, since the bar backed up against the low shrubbery separating the hotel from the ocean. It wasn't beyond reason to assume there was a boat out there, waiting. But it was impossible to see, since the beach was covered with people, some just gawking at the crowd inside the Oro, others simply sitting in the cooling sand, watching the water.

Natalya was alone at the table, but I counted three Longstreet men on a first-floor balcony-smart-and three men who looked like, well, Communists, with their pale skin and inability to find a beat, trying to look natural at the far end of the bar. They were wearing shorts and white T-shirts, their sunburns practically glowing through the fabric.

"In and out," I said to Fiona. We were only steps away.

"My pleasure," she said.

I looked up into the sky. I didn't see any large spy satellites, so that was nice. But I did see Sam, right where I knew he would be. Or, rather, I saw the light inside Sam's room.

Natalya stood up when she saw us. "Michael," she said, professional charm oozing from her, "it's such a pleasure." She leaned toward me and gave me an air kiss on either cheek. Putting on a show.

"Hello, Ms. Copeland," I said, figuring, You want a show? We'll give you a show.

She turned to Fiona and tried to give her the same air kisses. "Touch me," Fiona said, "and you'll be eating out of a feeding tube. Respectfully." Fiona wasn't much for shows.

"By all means, have a seat then," Natalya said.

"Yes, I have opium to buy and sell to little kids," I said, as we sat down. "Wish I had more time to chat. But I'm sure you understand."

Natalya frowned. Visibly frowned. "I thought once we were done here, the three of us could be sociable. All in the game, isn't it? It's not me you're mad at, Michael. In the same situation, you would have done the same thing."

"There wouldn't be a same situation," I said. "I would have killed you. Money means nothing to me."

Natalya picked up a glass of water from the table and took a sip. There were two other glasses and a pitcher, but I'd already told Fiona that Natalya liked her poisons.

"Apparently," Natalya said.

"And this isn't a game," I said. "You threatened my life. Fiona's. My family's. So you'll excuse the lack of my desire on our part to let bygones be bygones. Save 'Auld Lang Syne' for New Year's and all that. Plus, I count six guys ready to shoot me."

"Perceptive," Natalya said.

"Realistic," I said.

Fiona reached into her purse to pull out her Black-Berry, and all six men moved forward, which caused Fiona to stop midreach. "Care to tell your pit bulls to sit and stay?" Fiona said.

Natalya gave both groups of men a nod, and they shrank back to more relaxed positions. It took her a few moments, but Fiona eventually accessed Hank Fitch's Dominican account. "Where to?" she asked.

"If you don't mind?" Natalya said, indicating the BlackBerry. "I just want to make sure what you say is happening is happening."

"Be my guest," Fiona said and handed her the BlackBerry. Natalya looked over the information, which was mostly just several zeros and a three. It was all legitimately in the account-of course, Hank Fitch didn't really exist, his account consisting of falsified documents on every turn-and the money certainly existed. It had been transferred from the accounts of White Rose Partners-in a legal, traceable transfer, though one that was certainly being monitored now by all sorts of agencies-into Hank Fitch's account, and it would now be transferred, legally, into an account held by Natalya. Of course, she'd be smart enough to have a shell set up somewhere, but that wouldn't matter.

"You've done nice work, Michael," Fiona said.

"I get good rates in the Dominican," I said. "You should consider keeping your money there."

"I've always preferred Nicaragua," she said and handed Fiona a slip of paper with her account information.

"Wait," I said to Fiona. "Tell me one thing, Natalya. Out of courtesy for the game. Who is your source?"

Natalya leaned back in her chair and exhaled. "You know I can't tell you that, Michael. He'd stop being my source."

"Three million dollars doesn't buy you what it used to," I said.

"The American dollar is weak," she said, but there was something eating at her. "I can tell you this. You're doing yourself no favors in this drug business. Get yourself a job. Get away from whatever answers you need to be searching out. Because my source has been in your government for a long time, Michael. Longer than both of us. And he says you're as culpable in that weak American dollar as anyone."

"I haven't done what my dossier says," I said. "So you tell Yuri that the Cold War is over. Tell him to cash his checks and come back to the Motherland. Tell him…" A flashing light caught the corner of my eye.

Sam telling me it was now, which meant Dixon Woods was in the building. A little early. Not surprising.

"Just tell him," I said.

"I'll do that," Natalya said, but I saw her looking over my shoulder. She must have caught the light, too, though she didn't seem alarmed. Must have thought it was just a light, nothing more.

"Are we done rattling sabers, Michael?" Fiona asked.

"Go ahead," I said.

In just a few keystrokes, three million dollars passed from the account of Hank Fitch into the account of Natalya Choplyn. We waited silently for the confirmation from both banks, and when it came, I heard Natalya give out a thick sigh. She turned and waved away the men behind her from Longstreet, who shrugged and went inside their room. Three guns down.

She then looked at the three men at the bar and nodded once. There was a grave look on her face, one I hadn't seen before, and I realized that those men weren't guarding her-they were watching her, making sure that she did what she was supposed to do, that the scales were evened. Natalya Choplyn's life was saved, though not for long.

"They have your kids?" I asked.

"No," Natalya said. "No. Of course not. It's not like that anymore, Michael."

"It isn't?" I said.

Natalya didn't answer.

"You don't even have children, do you?" Fiona said.

"We should celebrate," Natalya said.

"That's the laugh, Michael," Fiona said. "I think she fooled you. I can tell she's married, certainly, that round of fat around her chin. It's disgusting, really, letting yourself go like that, Natalya. But she's not stupid enough to actually procreate."

"You know nothing," Natalya said.

Sam hit the lights again.

"Your lookout is trying to get your attention," Natalya said. "You'd better give him the okay sign. I'd hate for someone to get shot now that the deal is done."

Shit.

I turned and waved at Sam, though I couldn't see him. I looked at my watch. We had about five minutes to get out of this situation, which was good since I saw Dixon Woods striding through the crowd.

He was a big man-over six three-and he looked the part he was born to play: He fairly screamed Special Forces with his square head and closely cropped hair, a jaw line that was dashed with hints of stubble, arms that grew larger on the outside of his short-sleeved shirt. When I saw him in real life, the comedy of Eddie Champagne was clear. Where Dixon Woods was all coiled muscle, Eddie was doughy and simple. The sharpness of his cons certainly didn't translate to his body, but then a woman like Cricket would probably never know the difference, and men like Stanley Rosencrantz and his partners only cared about the stories he could tell and the myth that exists in secrecy.

Even from our table, I could tell Dixon Woods was the real deal.

"You're right," I said to Natalya. "We should celebrate. It's just a game, isn't it? And here we are, three survivors. Let me get the first round."

I got up before Natalya could say a word and walked directly toward Dixon, my eyes steady on his. There was a look of recognition on his face.

"Woods," I said when I was near him. I'd make this quick.

"Westen?" he replied.

Shit again.

"Yes," I said. I tossed my head from side to side. "You have to pardon me. I am drunk!"

"Belgrade, right?"

"I wasn't there," I said.

"Neither was I," he said.

I pointed at him. He pointed at me. It was like we were in a very bad boy band and about to do a dance number. I grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a big man hug. He had a gun on his back, probably a nine. I nudged his leg with mine and felt something solid on his ankle, probably a knife.

"What are you doing here?" I said far too loudly, all joy and conviviality.

"Business." He looked around. Not nervously. Just checking the scene. "Let me ask you: You ever hear of a guy named Hank Fitch? I'm supposed to meet him here."

"That kind of business," I said. I shook my head. "I try to keep my nose straight, know what I'm saying?"

"I hear you," he said. "Bills, man. You know how that goes. I'm working private now."

"Where've you been?"

"Fighting Jihads, making money," he said. Just two old friends we were. Now he was sizing me up. "You were a bad man."

"Weren't we all," I said. I pointed at the table where Fiona and Natalya were still sitting. That they hadn't come to blows yet was nothing short of a miracle. "Why don't you join us for a drink?"

Dixon looked around. Thought about it. "I'm meeting that guy," he said. "Fitch."

"One drink," I said. "Won't kill you, right?"

"I haven't been back in Miami in a long time," he said, feeling the vibe now himself, acting like people do when they wish they were drunk. "A drink won't kill me. You-you I'm not so sure about."

"Belgrade," I said, like we had been in a fraternity together, and I was remembering the Alpha Phi mixer. "A crazy time."

I put my arm over his shoulder and guided him to the bar, where we picked four beers out of a bin filled with ice tended to by a woman in a gold string bikini, then walked back to our table in time to hear Natalya say, "I know you don't care for me, Fiona, but I could use a person like you."

"1 don't get used," Fi said. She stood up abruptly. "Ever."

"Ladies," I said, stopping Natalya from whatever she was about to say. "I wanted to introduce you to an old friend just in town for a few days on business." I had my arm around Dixon and could feel him tensing. He knew this wasn't right. I just kept slurring right along. "This is Dixon Woods. He runs an opium operation out of Afghanistan, but he's also very active in the real estate market here, and he's employed by Longstreet Security, though I'm going to guess he's not telling them he's here this evening meeting with all of us."

"You're drunk," he said. "My name is-"

"No," I said, squeezing him tighter, letting spittle gather between my words. I kept his arms pressed against me so he couldn't reach for his gun, not that I thought he'd pull a gun in the middle of a crowded hotel.

But I would.

"Don't even bother. We're all friends. For instance, that's Natalya Choplyn. She's ex-KGB. You don't know it, Dixon, but you guys are now business partners. You should chat. Get to know each other."

I gave Fiona a glance, but she didn't need any signs from me. She already had two vials of tear gas in her hand. But she is much smarter than me, so she also had a glass of water in the other, and she promptly hurled the water on Natalya, soaking her.

At the same time, I slid my hand down Dixon's back, grasped his gun, and squeezed off a round through his pants, which sent him to the ground in a screaming heap, even though the bullet had buried itself in the ground. The scorch alone would put a man down, never mind the factor of surprise.

Not to be outdone, and probably because she'd been wanting to do it for years, Fiona grabbed Natalya by the throat and cracked a vial of tear gas right across her face and then flung another toward the bar, where the other Russians were now crouching from the gunfire.

Here's how tear gas works: It attacks wet spots on your body-tear and saliva ducts, mucous membranes, your tongue, your eyes, sweat glands-and creates an unbearable amount of pain and suffering, particularly if you get hit with it directly. If you happen to have your entire face covered with water, and you happen to be sweating, perhaps because you've just been involved in a multimillion-dollar deal with a spy who, in the process, has convicted you of economic espionage, it's likely to hurt quite a bit more.

Sam was supposed to set off his small explosions by now, but for some reason, as Fiona and I sprinted out toward the ocean, away from the toxic fumes of tear gas, nothing had happened yet.

The plan was for the Malibu lights to set off a series of small explosions that would sound like gunfire. He told me he was going to wire the solar fuses to a nichrome wire coated in solder, run them wire to wire, dip them in a dusting of gunpowder and surround them with match heads so that when the lights heated up-a reaction caused by their dip into darkness-he'd have a series of explosive squibs. Or just a really loud electrical match. He'd toss a blanket over them, and then, a few seconds later… things would go boom.

Sam promised me nothing would actually explode.

Sam promised me that it would just sound like gunfire.

Sam promised me that it would be enough to get Eddie Champagne, who he said he was going to lock in the bathroom, arrested without getting him killed.

I was thus more than a little surprised a few moments later, when Fiona and I were already lost in the crowd on the beach, when there was an enormous explosion that propelled most of the balcony of room 511 into the pool of the Hotel Oro, deck chairs, chaise longues, a lovely side table all airborne in fiery glory. Most of the crowd had already scattered, which was good, since little flaming bits of Malibu lights were raining down all around.

"That's not good," I said, but the truth was, it was better than I could have hoped, since it happened just as police and men wearing IRS windbreakers came storming into the pool area, followed, in due course, by James Dimon (snapping photos that were doubtlessly present in the moment) and scads of Longstreet men who found themselves armed to the teeth with no one to shoot or guard, since both Dixon Woods and Natalya Choplyn were right where we'd left them, on the ground, clawing at their own eyes from the tear gas, Fiona's BlackBerry still sitting on the table, loaded with all the documents anyone with a badge would need to piece together the workings of Natalya Choplyn and Dixon Woods, particularly the intimate details of how she was defrauding our mortgage system for the Russians.

I put my hand in Fiona's. "Nice work," I said.

"You surprised me with that gunshot," she said.

"I surprised myself," I said. "You know, you can blind someone by hitting them directly in the face with tear gas."

"Not permanently?"

"No," I said, "not permanently."

We moved through the thickening group of gawk-ers rushing to the hotel, our pace leisurely, just a nice couple out on the promenade, unconcerned with the sounds of sirens. We'd been seen, of course, but the people who really mattered-Natalya, Dixon and Eddie-didn't have any way to roll this toward us, so being relaxed wasn't just a pose.

My phone rang.

"How'd you like that bang?" Sam asked.

"It was supposed to be a little something less," I said.

"I must have gotten carried away with gunpowder," Sam said.

"Where's Eddie?"

"I'd say about five seconds from being cuffed for good. If you don't mind, while things are under way over here, I'm going to go get my car."

"Of course," I said.

"Tell Fi I expect some recourse," he said.

"Of course," I said again, though I'd let them fight that one out. I closed my phone and squeezed Fiona's hand. "Dinner?" I said to Fiona.

"Dessert?"

"No," I said. "Not tonight." But Fiona's hand was warm, the air was brilliant, and we'd won, so anything was possible.