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Santa.”
    “We’re fighting a pandemic,” said Serge. “Out-of-towners don’t realize the dicey area surrounding the airport.”
    Coleman took another hit. “I didn’t think the neighborhood was that bad.”
    “Not the neighborhood specifically. But there’s a massive predatory element that lurks in the shadows, looking for any car that’s not local, especially rentals.”
    “Why?”
    “The reasons are like the sand on the beach. But to name a few: Criminals know most tourists can’t afford the hassle and cost of returning to testify, especially since it’s an international city and many are from overseas. Two: Visitors get lost faster than our Silver Alert seniors wandering from retirement homes. Three: They don’t have the Miami Survival Skill Set.”
    “Skills?”
    “They pull up at a stoplight and don’t know to leave a space for evasive maneuver from a box-in robbery. And if they get rear-ended, they definitely don’t know not to get out of the car to exchange insurance information like everything’s lollipops in Candy Land.”
    Serge’s eyes made another scan of traffic. They locked onto a vehicle ten cars ahead: limo with small flags flapping on each side of the hood. He changed lanes.
    “I didn’t know it was that bad,” said Coleman.
    “Used to be worse,” said Serge. “One summer it hit the tipping point, and an embarrassing number of Europeans had their return flights upgraded to coffins in the cargo hold. So the state legislature passed a law sanitizing license plates.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “Tourist robberies around the airport became so commonplace it spawned a widespread slang called ‘Z-ing.’ ”
    “Z . . . ?”
    “Rentals used to be designated with a Z or Y on their license plates. Or ‘Manatee County.’ Criminals must have a newsletter or something.”
    The limo drifted into the far right lane. Serge matched it. They crested an overpass, and the skyline grew near, giving the night air a phosphorus glow.
    “Serge?”
    “Yes, Beavis?”
    “I get the part about circling the airport, but why did we park at that curb, just to pull away two minutes later?”
    “I wanted to look at flags on the limo hood. Needed to make sure we’re following the right car.”
    “What’s the right car?”
    “The one from the country whose consulate just hired me. Spies are expected to take initiative.” Serge checked all mirrors. “Plus the Summit of the Americas is coming this week, and my beloved state is reaping the prestige she so richly deserves. The last thing I want is for her to get a black eye.”
    “You’re worried something might show us in an inaccurate light?”
    “No, the accurate light.” Traffic backed to a standstill. Serge craned his neck to find the limo. “If that stretch stays on the expressway, they should be okay. Just as long as they don’t get off the wrong exit.”
    “Serge, their blinker . . .”
    The limo got off the wrong exit.
    The Road Runner sped up, then screeched to a halt.
    Red taillights came on in sequence.
    “We’re stuck in a traffic jam,” said Coleman. “What are we going to do?”
    “This is what.” Serge swerved into the breakdown lane and raced toward the exit with two wheels in the dirt. They hit the bottom of the ramp and looked around.
    “Where are they?” said Coleman.
    “We lost ’em.”
    A dozen blocks ahead, a limo drove slowly down a deserted access road. The visiting president reclined in the back, pouring brandy from a Swarovski crystal decanter. “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
    “Yes, sir,” said the driver, glancing back through the open partition. “Biscayne Boulevard should be coming up soon.”
    They stopped at a red light.
    “But I thought Biscayne was downtown, on the other side of the skyline.” The president looked out the window. “There aren’t even any streetlights. It’s totally dark—”
    Bam .
    The president pitched forward. A flying brandy glass conked his