Vernum spun around. It was an identically dressed girl, but a different girl, this one short, not tall, with legs like saplings, and barefoot, which was typical of younger children. She was on a footpath, the two of them shielded from the house, here in the shadows alone. A stalk of raw sugar protruded from the girl’s pocket—a treat stolen from the nearby cane field, he guessed.

“Changó.” Vernum smiled. “I will give you something nice for this, man.”

The girl had a fierce little face with nostrils that flared. “Who are you? You don’t belong here.” She drew the cane stalk in a threatening manner and placed a hand on the tiny canister clipped to her coveralls.

He knelt, laughing, so they were eye to eye. “Don’t be afraid, child. I bet you like chocolate. Do you like chocolate?” The girl backed a step when he extended his hand. “My car is near the river. Come with—”

“You’re a trespasser,” the girl interrupted, “or a thief. If you’ve come to steal our stuff, I’ll . . .” She raised the stalk, then lowered it. “What happened to your face?”

The stitches. He’d forgotten. “Some evil fool attacked me. I don’t like evil men, that’s why you’re safe with me. It’ll just take a minute to walk to my car.” Again he offered his hand while the girl stared, puzzled by the stitches in his mouth and eyebrows or as if making up her mind about the chocolate.

No . . . she was making up her mind about him. “You have a snake’s face and mean eyes,” she said. “Go away or I’ll hit you with this.” Raising the cane stalk, she stepped back and, for some reason, unsnapped the little canister from her coveralls.

Vernum’s expression changed. “You arrogant little puta. Someone should teach you manners.”

“Stop your damn swearing,” the girl said. “Don’t come near me or I’ll—”

Vernum lunged, slapped her to the ground. That’s when Sabina, looking up, used the canister of mace, aimed for the eyes, just as Marion Ford had taught her.

Friday morning, after cleaning branches, leaves, and other river debris from his boat, Ford paid cash for a slip at Marina Hemingway, west of Havana, then sat in the shade reading until customs agents were done with their search.

Dr. Archie Carr’s The Windward Road, a book about sea turtles, meshed with what agents found aboard, so he was soon able to make a bed on the casting platform. Cozy there beneath the bow shield. He paid 750 euros for a hundred gallons of fuel, ate roast chicken at El Aljibe in the embassy district, then again fell asleep to the rhythm of marimbas and waves.

Government offices opened at nine. He took a cab to a complex near the University of Havana and applied for research permits as Marion D. North, Ph.D., the name on his fake passport. Receipts for the permits, stamped on official letterhead, would be enough to satisfy the coastal cops. Even so, he couldn’t rationalize another stop at the home of Marta Esteban—not while the sun was up. To associate with an American was dangerous in itself, which is why he’d done only a quick stop-and-drop that morning after navigating two miles of river, hadn’t spoken to the mother, and was gone before sunrise.

Ford told himself, The girls will be able to explain, yet the subject nagged at him. Maribel had witnessed a murder, but it was not a typical crime. A serial killer was on the loose in her rural district, and gossip about the girls returning would travel fast through the countryside. Was Marta Esteban savvy enough to understand why he had given her daughters money and the name of a hotel—the Hotel Plaza in the old city—and instructed them to book rooms for a few nights? Or would she fear a setup?

No way to contact Marta. Like many homes in rural areas, there was no phone.

Ten-year-old Sabina, with her fierce temper and tongue, was the focus of Ford’s worries. That puzzled him because Maribel was the obvious target. It was irrational.

Intuition, Tomlinson would have said.

•   •   •

AT AN AFTERNOON GAME, near the bull pen in Havana’s Grand Stadium, Gen. Rivera said to Ford, “That is a dangerous subject here. Even now. Every Cuban has heard the same rumor, but few believe because, well, they don’t want to believe.” After relighting a cigar, he amended, “Every Cuban born before the days of JFK, anyway.”

What Ford had said was “Some myths die hard,” an oblique reference to a fact: Fidel Castro had never played baseball. Not even high school baseball. Yet, the legend he had been offered a contract by the Pittsburgh Pirates and Washington Senators was still parroted by U.S. writers, broadcasters, even historians.

Ford replied, “The world doesn’t know or care about old lies—not that it matters now. You were talking about an incident, something about Americans who played here in 1959—”

“It matters,” the general insisted, but kept his voice down.

“To a few crazies, maybe, but not the rest of the world.” Ford was taking in the spectacle. There were a thousand people or so in the stands, cops patrolling every section. Nice field; the scoreboard missing some lights, but he liked that. “Big egos a long time ago when baseball was important,” he said. “I can see why it pisses off someone like you, but let it go, General.”

“Latinos aren’t gringos,” he snapped. “It will always matter to the movement, to Fidel’s legacy, and to the new government that is already going to hell. Never underestimate the power of superstition and baseball in Cuba.”

Ford, who had just arrived, wanted to push through the pleasantries, end this talk of sports and find out what was important. Any news about Tomlinson? The Castro letters—how had Rivera gotten them? More importantly, who wanted them? But the generalissimo was a stubborn man. “Juan, you see things from a different aspect. Here, particularly, I know it’s better to talk in generalities. Being offered a major league contract”—Ford smiled at the thought—“he wasn’t the first man to lie about that.”

“If you knew history as I do, you wouldn’t take it so lightly. The Revolution interrupted the most important baseball series of that era: the Havana Sugar Kings against the Minneapolis Millers, champions of the American minor leagues. Cubans were furious. To hell with politics, why were these games canceled? National pride, even racial pride, was at stake. There were riots that threatened the Revolution. So Fidel became an instant champion of the game, created his own team, The Bearded Ones, while his propaganda people spread a lie—a brilliant lie that U.S. magazines printed. The world still believes Fidel sacrificed a major league career to save Cuba. That’s why the subject is dangerous to discuss. There is an old saying: Disprove one nail in the cross and religion becomes mere fairy tale. I was once a believer,” Rivera said. “No more.”

Ford looked around before warning him, “Yes. Dangerous, as you said, to use certain names.”

The general ignored him. Nodded toward the field where the Industríales—the equivalent of Cuba’s New York Yankees—and Pinar del Río were tied in the fifth inning, playing before a good crowd that seemed sparse in a stadium that seated seventy thousand. Rivera started to say, “Havana’s Sugar Kings were a Triple-A team for Cincinnati in those years . . .” but his attention shifted to a group of men coming through the nearest tunnel. They were noisy, with drunken, florid faces, among them a giant who was older but looked fit, yet had to weigh over three hundred pounds. A former athlete, fluid in his movements, but with a sour attitude; indifferent to the men he was with.