“Obey always me,” he told the woman. “Keep doing.”

Hopeful, the expression on her face until he swung her out the door, held her there while the airstream ripped at her clothing, but, by god, she didn’t drop that phone.

Vernum thought, I would marry her, and then leaped to his feet when the Russian signaled Come closer.

“How’s this?”

“Nyet, coward, here.”

Mother of hell, this was a test, he realized, and so far only the blonde was passing. He shuffled his feet, video rolling, while he brachiated from seat to seat. The opening was no wider than Vernum’s shoulders, but a universe of screaming reality out there when he was at the door. A mile down, miles above, nothing but blue.

“Is angle good?” The assassin showing his artistic side while the blonde clawed at his wrist, her shoes gone, her blouse shredding like a flag.

Through the viewfinder, Vernum managed eye contact with the woman and fell in love with her face, a perfect blend of horror and pain that fired his deepest needs within. I would give anything, he thought, to trade places with that pig. Why isn’t he laughing?

Kostikov was more concerned with his lesson for today. Yelled a phrase of Russian at the lens, barked something else to the woman, his manner stern, and that was it—he dropped her with a Good riddance swipe of the hands, didn’t even watch her body rocket downward, tumbling, although Vernum captured it on HDV.

My god. Ecstasy. Even without reviewing footage, he knew this was something he would watch over and over a thousand times, at night, alone—or with that right special someone just before he ate her soul.

•   •   •

“SECRECY,” THE RUSSIAN SAID when they were seated again, “is first rule of importance. Here, I show you.” A satellite phone was produced. On it a Facebook photo: the scarecrow hippie and two female German agents, all naked, but only one of them wearing the KGB necklace that now dangled from Kostikov’s pocket.

Vernum, for a change, spoke with respect. “Comrade, this is the work I have searched for all my life. Please give me another chance to—”

“Shut your talk” was the reply. “Obey orders, that second rule of importance. Tell truth to superiors, that third.” The Russian was slow on his feet, but his hand grabbed Vernum’s chin before he could react. Pulled him across the aisle until they were nose to nose. “Fourth rule: I am your only superior. Is clear?”

Yes.

“Above all others.”

Oh, yes!

“Is true you are sex deviant?”

A trick question. Vernum was screwed either way, so he tried a broader truth. “I like . . . killing.”

“Good.”

Really?

Yes, the Russian approved. “Is okay with women or girls, even boys. Bugger ten dead goats, what I care? But do not lie to Kostikov.” A pause. “I tell you something—just us. Your DGI agents are idiots. Your government is shit. What you think of that?”

Vernum could only nod.

“I tell you use device or take gun, shoot all Cuban generals, what then?”

“Follow orders, comrade” was the correct response.

The Russian released him. “Okay. I want briefcase. Just me. Same with defector of name Casanova. Just me. You will help.”

Vernum, close enough to smell the man’s breath, said, “Of course,” but had to wonder, Is this another test?

“In DGI debrief, you will confirm whatever I say. No mention of German whore”—the man was fishing something from his pocket—“or video that you now make for me copy. What this called in Spanish?”

“A memory stick,” Vernum replied. He glanced forward and, for the first time, realized their pilot was Russian. My god, it was true, he was being recruited by the KGB. “Right away,” he said. “I’ll make a copy before we land, then delete it from my phone.”

Smart—that was Kostikov’s reaction. He appeared to relax a little, settled back and gave Vernum permission to watch the footage first.

Hunched over his phone, hunger is what he felt.

“You enjoy?”

Oh my god, yes. Twice he played it, always pausing when the blonde made eye contact, and knew he could never bring himself to delete the footage.

Kostikov sat back, hands laced behind his head. Taking it easy now that the job was done. “Is important to have hobby. Like me. I have hobby.”

Vernum’s attention zoomed. “More videos like this?”

“No, a hobby is for amusement. That is question I have for you. About your village, I hear story of time before Fidel. You know this story? I think was 1958.”

Even now, speaking Fidel’s name was dangerous, but that isn’t why Vernum evaded. “A story about . . . ?”

“Motorcycles,” the Russian said. “Do you know story?”

Vernum was too frightened not to tell the truth. “I do. Three Harley-Davidsons. I know where they’re hidden, but not exactly where. But that traitor Figgy Casanova, he knows.”

The Russian’s tongue circled his lips. “Story contains stupid game, baseball. Three fascists during Cold War—”

That’s as far as he got. The man burped, touched a hand to his belly, and his thoughts turned inward while jerked chicken filled the air. Burped again, looked out the window. “Must shit,” he muttered and called something to the pilot that might have been Hurry up and land.

Ford topped his tanks at the Chevron pier, Key West, and was south of Sand Key Light when the electronics suite bonged with a special alert to mariners. Alerts weren’t rare, but this one was synched to his GPS, so he paid attention.

Between 13:30 and 14:00 hours EST, the U.S. Coast Guard received three reports of near collisions with a cruise ship or freighter, registry unknown, and one report of debris, possibly from a raft or sailing vessel but unconfirmed. Conditions: light to medium fog, seas near calm. Coast Guard has dispatched assets to investigate. Advise all vessels in shipping lanes south of Key West to be on alert . . .

Exact GPS coordinates followed.

Ford considered how this might impact his crossing. He didn’t want to be seen by the Coast Guard, especially in international waters. On the positive side, cutters and helicopters were likely to collect in one small search area.

A stroke of luck, he decided.

Even in fog, collisions at sea were uncommon, but only because the sea is so damn big. A rogue freighter, is what it sounded like, one of those mega-ton robots with a sloppy crew who didn’t bother to stand watch when on autopilot. Ford pictured a raft full of refugees, or novices in a sailboat screaming, waving their arms to get the attention of an empty helm while the monster plowed them down.

Tomlinson was too good a sailor not to stay on his toes in the shipping lanes.

It was nearly three-thirty—15:30 hours. Ford switched his radar to a wider grid and steered a 230 heading, which was his best guess at the line Tomlinson would plot to Havana, or Marina Hemingway, fifteen miles west.

His friend hadn’t shared particulars. This was another guess. But he had told Ford why he was sailing to Cuba: A woman’s love letters are sacred, so I’m going to return them.

That simple, but only because Ford had condensed his pal’s diatribe into a simple declarative sentence. Tomlinson was a romantic idealist, ruled by emotion yet smart enough to rationalize even the dumbest of choices. Less so in this case, but seldom so passionate. He had used phrases such as Internet flesh peddlers, political ping-pong gawkers, and soul merchants. The moral imperative, he’d said, trumped all: we have a duty to right wrongs if it is within our power. “I don’t give two hoots in hell who wrote the letters, the sentiments belong to only one heart, a woman’s heart. Those letters are her last linkage, for christ’s sake, to the days when she was young and full of hope. Screw world voyeurism, man. I want to strike a blow for human privacy.”