“Russians,” Rivera said, suddenly uneasy. “Do you recognize the large one? His name’s Kostikov.”

Ford knew a great deal about Anatol Kostikov, was surprised to see the man here, but asked, “What about him?”

“I expect to be followed, but it’s never been like this. We shouldn’t meet for a couple of days.” Rivera attempted to stand but sat back when Ford pinned his arm.

“General, don’t make it so obvious. Maybe he came to see the game. But”—Ford had to think for a moment—“just in case, let’s get the important stuff out of the way. Do you know if Tomlinson is here?”

A nod. “Don’t contact him, he’s being watched. Friends say he arrived in Cojimar, but without the briefcase. That might be the problem. Figuerito drowned. Something about a freighter hitting them, but his sailboat survived.”

“Geezus. The shortstop? Why the hell would he—”

Rivera pulled his arm free. “Not now. On the Prado, in the old city, there’s a restaurant not far from the seawall, La Científico, an old mansion with apartments downstairs. We can meet there tonight for drinks if—”

“What about Tomlinson?”

“Yes, yes, he’s fine. I’ll tell you later.”

“What are you afraid of, Juan? You’ll only attract attention if you leave now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The man pretended to watch a hitter for the Industríales take a called third strike. “Curve ball,” he said, but his smile was forced. “Almost as good as mine.”

Ford focused on the big Russian who was scanning the bleachers while the younger men filed toward seats. “You’ve been smuggling Cuban ballplayers and selling contraband on the Internet. The Russians are back. You’re surprised they’re interested?”

“If he was sent to find me, yes. Kostikov was KGB, now the FSB—Federal Security Service—but you know about that. A very high-level talent, if you understand my meaning. Ruthless. You’re sure you’ve never heard the name?”

Ford waited while the Russian’s eyes swept past them, no hint of interest, before the man turned and exited. “It’s okay, old buddy. You can breathe again.”

Rivera dismissed that with a laugh and settled back with his cigar and seemed to relax in the noise of a thousand cheering, stomping fans. Two hitters later, he spoke again, but without turning his head. “We’ll discuss Tomlinson and the briefcase at the place I mentioned. La Científico. A great scientist once lived there—Cuba’s second president.”

“You are scared.”

“Only careful, until I figure out what is happening. My contacts here, even the powerful ones, are behaving oddly.”

“How long since your last visit?”

“Three weeks, almost four.”

“Did you actually bribe the warden to get the shortstop out of jail? Or did you help him escape?”

“What does it matter? No one cares about Figuerito. Something else has happened. Something important enough to change how an important person like me is treated. That’s what I don’t understand.”

Ford, looking at the Russians, who were drunk, said, “I wonder what.” He asked about Rivera’s friend, the woman who had been hospitalized with uranium poison. She was dead. He asked for specifics. How was this trip different? Then brought it back around, saying, “You’ve spent your career reading powerful men. What’s your best guess?”

“It might have to do with the briefcase,” Rivera conceded. “And what we were talking about—the year of the Revolution.”

“What do a bunch of personal letters have to do with the Revolution? I can’t imagine them—you know who I mean—writing to a mistress about political secrets or—”

“Hear me out,” Rivera said. “The winter of the Revolution, the Sugar Kings were one game away from beating the Americans in what was called the True World Series, but Fidel’s army put an end to it. Do you understand? After decades of being treated as inferiors, this was Cuba’s first chance to prove its team was as good as any team in the major leagues.”

Ford asked, “The games were played here?”

“All but the fourth game and the final seventh, which was under way, and tied in extra innings, in Pinar del Río. The Minneapolis Millers had great players, such as Carl Yastrzemski and Orlando Cepeda. The Kings had American players, too, from Cincinnati’s farm system. Lou Klein broke the Latin League home run record; Luis Tiant was rookie of the year, plus the three American pitchers I told you about. A great deal of pride was at stake.”

“And money,” Ford said. “Are you sure about those names?” The timing seemed a little off.

“No, but the money, yes. Havana’s casinos were run by Meyer Lansky and other Mafiosos. The betting was international. Batista knew he was losing control of the country. He would have paid any amount to have won that game.”

Ford said, “And stayed in power,” but was thinking, Rivera is after more than just motorcycles and machine guns. What the hell is in those letters?

The general signaled a passing vendor and bought two empanadas, which he shared. “As an example, take Nicaragua’s last revolution. Nineteen eighty . . . was it eighty-four? No, nineteen eighty-five. When Daniel Ortega came to power, the first thing he did was order the execution of the former dictator’s best pitchers and his cleanup hitter. That was—what?—only thirty years ago. To most Americans that would seem absurd, but you know it’s true. Personally, I understand the demands of politics, but to do such a wasteful thing shows contempt for the game.”

Ford nodded because it was true. “Better to draft them into your army,” he suggested.

“Exactly. Same with lying about a contract offer from the major leagues. Contemptible. Three perfect games I have pitched and many no-hitters, yet I have never shown disrespect for the scouts who didn’t have the balls to sign me.” Rivera ate the last of his empanada. “They were biased fascists, of course.”

“Intimidated by your stature, more likely.”

“No doubt, but I never asked a scout to lie for a story in Sports Illustrated, unlike . . .” Rivera touched his chin, meaning “The Bearded One.” “There is a book written by a Yale professor—”

“The Pride of Havana. I read it.” Ford knew where this was going.

“The professor searched every box score in every Cuban newspaper published during Fidel’s teens and twenties and found only one mention—a softball game when he was in law school. That man was my hero. You know that. Yet, you now ask why it is important?”

Ford glanced over while the generalissimo stared into space. “I’m surprised you let yourself believe something in a book.”

“I didn’t until I checked with certain sources. I got drunk the night I learned it was all true. Shitty softball, not even the real game. Fidel pitched, his only appearance on a Cuban mound, and he lost. My god”—Rivera tossed the empanada wrapper into the aisle—“I would prefer a bullet in the ass to losing a slow-pitch softball game. That book is banned here, of course, because the legend must be protected. Especially now. As you say, people wouldn’t believe it anyway, and proof died with one lying baseball scout. No . . . Cubans would never believe the truth. Cubans would have to hear the truth from Fidel’s own dead lips.”

Rivera festered over that—a man whose political and baseball careers had been lost in the shadow of the Castros—but paid attention when Ford said, “Lips . . . I thought that’s what you were worried about. A lip-reader.”

The general’s reaction: Huh?

Ford shielded his mouth with a hand. “I thought that’s why you got upset when I brought up the subject. In the press box—someone with binoculars. They’re watching us. I assumed you knew.”

Rivera said, “Pendejos,” and made a show of searching for something at his feet. “Is it Kostikov?”

Ford, getting up, said, “Don’t say the name of the restaurant again. I know the place. Are you staying there?”