“You mean Fidel?”

“It’s his MO,” Cooper said. “He’ll take cash for anything he’s got access to. Including, for instance, the San Cristóbal underground missile transport caverns. He’ll take other things-oil, for instance-but basically the man will sell or rent anything he’s got if you’ve got U.S. dollars to fork over. You name it-soldiers, prisoners, boats, property, whatever. Gotta keep the war chest funded so he can keep the revolution alive.”

Laramie considered this.

“So if you’re right,” she said, “the trick becomes identifying the tenant. Most likely a revolutionary crony of Castro’s-or at least somebody with access to the cronies.”

“Ten or fifteen years ago, anyway,” Cooper said.

Neither of them said anything for a while, Laramie considering some names, recalling photographs she’d seen in the international press of Castro’s many labor-movement, socialist, or anticapitalist-themed diplomatic summits-and the guests he’d hosted at those events, or who’d invited him to theirs. Thinking that she’d brought Eddie Rothgeb aboard for a reason, and this was it: he’d be able to pin the list of America bashers down to the top ten, or top five suspects most likely to emerge as public enemy number one-and chief tenant of Fidel’s rental park.

Cooper rotated the flashlight beam, pointing it down the road that led past the strip mall and turned a corner in the cavern at another traffic light maybe a hundred yards distant.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said.

Laramie came out of her Castro-comrade daydream. She knew they shouldn’t spend any more time down here than necessary, but she would need to see everything while they had the chance.

She dug into her backpack and came out with the digital camera her guide had procured for her before she’d boarded the plane in Florida.

“I’ll do the tourist thing,” she said. “Lead the way.”

They started down the street.

Cooper was riding too fast to turn them into the woods in time.

They came around a bend in the road, about half a mile toward the highway from the gate, and had to control their skids to avoid crashing into the side of the FAR jeep that had parked sideways across the road.

Blocking the way out.

Cooper had his hand on his Browning before the bike had completed its skidding halt, but the young man in fatigues seated behind the wheel of the jeep had his AK-47 trained on Cooper’s chest.

“No, no, no, no, no,” the man said.

Laramie swore as she skidded along the dusty road behind him, turned sharply and crashed, mostly to avoid plowing into Cooper’s rear tire. She stood slowly, uninjured, and the Cuban’s gun rotated to point somewhere between the two of them. The man was smoking a cigarette, the white stick dangling, ash-heavy, from his lips. The setting sun hung over the trees behind the guy, so it was hard to see through the glare and get any definition on his face.

Either way, the guy looked to Cooper as though he’d seen a couple too many James Dean or John Wayne films.

Cooper suspected this was the guard they’d seen manning the shack at the top of the hill. The cigarette, the way he held the gun-it had been a long-range view, but if he was right, and this was the only MP around, Cooper figured they had a pretty good chance of shooting their way out of here.

Making it all the way back to the boat was another matter.

“American, eh? Both of you,” the soldier said. His accent was there, but his English was strong-practiced, Cooper thought. Almost formal.

“Yes!” He regretted reaching for his gun so early-Rust comes in many forms, and this form might just get me killed. “This is our honeymoon. Backpacking trip.”

“Yes, yes,” the soldier said. “But this is military base. Prohibido el paso.”

They were almost a mile from the highway, which wasn’t visible ahead on the winding road. Unless they bolted for the woods, there wasn’t much to do but try to talk their way out of this.

“Is that right? We didn’t realize. Did we, honey?”

“No,” Laramie said. “Sorry, sir.”

“You like what you find? Strange, no?”

Cooper and Laramie avoided looking at each other.

“I will need your passports. You are under arrest.”

Cooper observed that despite the caustic tone of the soldier’s statement, the guy didn’t make move one to reach for their passports.

“No problem,” Cooper said, but remained still.

“How did you travel here?”

Cooper couldn’t find a good reason to make something up.

“Sailboat,” he said.

“Which is where,” the soldier asked.

Cooper motioned in the direction of the beach where they’d made landfall, trying out a measure of honesty to see whether it would get him anywhere. “A couple hours that way by bike. Not sure what the town is called.”

Laramie said, “Can we pay you for your trouble?”

Cooper raised his eyebrows-brash, but maybe it’d work. The soldier swiveled his head to her, then back over to train his eyes on Cooper again.

“It is almost dark,” he said. “When were you planning to leave?”

Cooper narrowed his eyelids at the direction the line of questioning seemed to be taking.

“Tonight,” he said.

“Are you CIA?”

“No, we were just married,” Laramie said, “and-”

“Yes,” Cooper interrupted. “Both of us.”

She turned to look at him as though he’d lost it. The soldier nodded.

“Where are you going on your boat?” he said.

“Southwest,” Cooper said. “Mexico.”

The soldier nodded again, and that was when the sun lost some of its power, a cloud, or the tip of a tree, obscuring enough of its declining rays so that Cooper could read the soldier’s face a little better.

Well enough, in fact, for him to see a couple things. First, how young this guy was-maybe twenty-five at most. He could also see the soldier’s scheming eyes-not much different from the look Cooper had seen from Po Keeler during their conversation across the half-ass Plexiglas shield.

Cooper grinned and threw it out there.

“We can take you as far as Cancún,” he said. “My friend here can arrange the rest. Assuming, that is, the final destination you’ve got in mind is north of the Florida Keys.”

Laramie turned to look at him-wondering exactly how that would work, he assumed. But he knew “the people she worked for” could find a way to pull it off.

The guy turned to look at Laramie again.

“Including paying me for my trouble,” he said.

Laramie glanced back at Cooper again with a look he decided he’d have to call priceless.

“Sure,” she said. “Including that.”

The soldier set his rifle on the passenger seat, took one last drag, then tossed the cigarette into the road.

“Climb in, Yankees,” he said.

43

It was ten after midnight in Knowles’s room at the Flamingo Inn. Rothgeb opened the door to let Laramie and her guide inside, at which point Laramie observed that Wally Knowles’s computer system had expanded to seize every available surface in the room. Newspapers and stacks of printed sheets of white paper stood in neatly organized partitions in the few portions of the space the computer system had failed to overtake.

All business, Laramie shut the door, said her hellos, and got right to briefing them on their discovery of the San Cristóbal theme park. She fed them the working theory-that Castro had rented the place out-then asked them to generate a list. The list, she said, should include whichever of Castro’s allies they believed to be the most likely theme park tenant. She and Cooper had gained little additional info on the theme park-outside of the patrol schedules and the long-term inactivity of the place-from the FAR refugee her guide had arranged to be flown from Cancún to Washington aboard a military transport, where he would be granted asylum after they held on to him for a bit.