Free Pineapple Grenade by Tim Dorsey

room used to have a conference table during the Johnson administration. Today, a square grid of penknife-scarred school desks.
    A junior agent in the front row went first. Pages flipped in a single-spaced surveillance report. “Subjects departed primary location 0730, took Biscayne to Flagler, where said parties parked for secondary observation. Departed 0948, for safe house.”
    Oxnart flipped through a stack of telephoto eight-by-tens. “These aren’t shit.”
    “Sorry, sir. Nothing happened,” said the junior agent. “Except that last photo.”
    “What’s this picture of a dead shark in the street?”
    “Three guys threw it in front of the Costa Gordan consulate. I think someone was sending a message.”
    The chief tossed the photos back. “Ship them to Langley, computer section, but be discreet. Tell them it’s personal business on company time . . . What else?”
    “Departed safe house, 1820; Subject Alpha arrived home 1847. Subject Bravo, 1901.”
    “Keep up the good work, Huff.”
    “Sir?” asked the agent.
    “What?”
    “Why is our CIA station conducting surveillance on the other CIA station?”
    “Because they’re our biggest threat.”
    Call it the current climate. A long, depressing streak of revelations, press leaks, and congressional hearings. Waterboarding, rendition, black-box prisons, false-flag interrogations, Gitmo, naked human pyramids. The clandestine service had become a reality show. Rumors of war crimes trials, politicians outing agents. An already paranoid culture became even more compartmentalized and firewalled with career preservation. And since they now knew even less about what the rest of the Company was up to, the biggest worry wasn’t overseas but the agent next door.
    Station Chief Oxnart picked up an overlooked surveillance photo. “What’s this?”
    “Station Chief Lugar eating dinner,” said a junior agent.
    Oxnart handed him the picture. “Find out what this means.” Then he clapped his hands sharply and addressed the rest of the room. “Look smart, everyone. We got the Summit of the Americas, and I want to be all over Lugar’s men. Start with the airport. Make sure every inch is covered.”
    Meanwhile . . .
    “This is Monica Saint James with Action News Eyewitness Eight, reporting live from Tampa International Airport, where, as you can see behind me, a Miami-bound flight has been stranded on the runway now for almost seven hours. Our station has received numerous cell-phone calls from passengers begging to be let off the plane . . .”
    The camera zoomed on the window of row 27, where someone was clawing at the glass.
    “. . . Our own calls to the airline and transportation officials have all been met with ‘no comment’ . . .”
    Serge hyperventilated with his head between his knees in the crash position. He stood up and tapped the businessman, then slid into the aisle.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Getting everyone off this plane.”
    Serge walked to the back, went in the restroom, and closed the door.
    A minute passed.
    The restroom door opened. Serge peeked outside. Nobody looking. He quickly slipped back into his seat.
    Soon a squat woman in polyester waddled to the back of the plane. She went inside the restroom. And came right back out, running up the aisle.
    The woman grabbed the first flight attendant she could find and pointed frantically toward the rear of the plane. The attendant hurried toward the restroom.
    Back inside the terminal, TV crews continued filming.
    “. . . Sources tell us there is a heated, backroom disagreement over the airline’s handling . . . Wait a minute. Something seems to be happening. It looks like the emergency doors have opened . . .”
    The cameraman focused on yellow slides inflating. Passengers jumped from the doors and zipped down to the runway. Rescue vehicles raced across the tarmac.
    “Thank God!” said Coleman, entering the terminal through their original departure gate and heading for