Control a man’s legs, you control the man—it was the wrestling mantra of a great high school wrestling coach, Gary Freis. Ford had lived that sport five days a week for years. In this case, ankles, not legs, which was better because Kostikov couldn’t see who had attacked him, or even the hands that stripped his pants off while he bellowed and dented the partition with his fists.

A final touch: Kostikov’s own belt looped around one ankle, then knotted to his other ankle with a quick half hitch.

Ford exited the stall with pants and cane tucked under his arm like a football. Didn’t run, although the bald guy with a bladder problem was now washing his hands—no clue that he would soon be confronted by a naked Russian giant.

Outside, Ford slipped into the flow of milling fans and kept moving while he searched Kostikov’s pockets. He kept a fat leather billfold, an odd little pistol with Soviet markings, and a satellite phone. Underwear, cigars, lighter, loose change, then his own green baseball cap, went into separate trash cans, all jettisoned discreetly. After some thought, he also dumped the satellite phone. Too risky because of the GPS.

Ford didn’t look back until the old man, Lázaro Junco, ushered him into the storage room, saying, “Hurry—are they after you?” Then saw what Ford carried under his arm. “Jesus Christ . . . you stole the man’s pants?”

Near the food vendors, military cops in green uniforms were rushing through a gate, a half dozen, who turned toward the HOMBRES sign far down the corridor.

“You stole Meyer Lansky’s umbrella,” Ford replied. “My advice is to lock the door.”

When Sabina sprayed Vernum Quick with mace, he was blinded but managed not to scream. Arms wide, he lunged for her . . . Lunged again at a blurry shape that was, in fact, a tree. He hit face-first, a collision that jarred air from his lungs and put him on the ground.

The girl pursued him like a hornet, used the mace again, chiding, “When my gringo friend hears this, he will steal your money and drown you in the river. Marion does whatever I tell him.” Only then did she run.

Or did she? Maybe the little mocosa—“the brat”—was waiting for him to open his eyes.

Vernum couldn’t see but knew the river was downhill. He covered his face and rolled into the weeds where the hill sloped abruptly. Kept rolling faster, thinking, Marion? Who’s Marion? and soon collided with another tree.

“¡Puta la madre, puta la hija!” he yelled, a profane version of “Like mother, like daughter.”

He listened for a moment, stood and clawed at his eyes, then got smart and removed his linen shirt, folding and refolding it to wipe the spray away. Soon, he could see from one eye, but, damn, that stuff burned. His skin, the lacerations on his face, were on fire.

At the river, he threw himself in. Water helped. So did the mud he washed himself with, but he didn’t waste time. Marta couldn’t call for help—no telephone. If he hurried, he might intercept them before they got away. He scrambled up the hill to the road, confirmed it was empty, then angled toward a dirt lane that led to the house. No one there either, and Marta’s bicycle was by the cistern, where he’d last seen it.

Had they fled on foot?

I’ll find them. When I do, that damn little wasp bitch will suffer first and be the last to die.

Rage. It flooded his head and darkened the sky. He fixated on specifics, what he would do to Marta while her daughters watched. Delicious, when he visualized details, nuances of whimpering and skin color of a woman crazed with fear. He drew on past experience, a catalog of images stored away for nights when he was alone and hunger-driven. Never, though, had he been favored with an opportunity like this.

Run, chicas, run until you collapse. I love the taste of a woman’s sweat.

At the edge of the yard, Vernum stopped and focused his hearing. My god . . . the fools, they were still inside.

From the house came the garbled chimes of girls arguing, their voices interrupted by the bell notes of a woman who was getting impatient. Marta Esteban . . . the woman who had snubbed him for years.

A quick prayer to Changó: I’ll buy you the best damn bottle of rum and light a box of candles. Anything, man, if you let this happen.

Vernum’s head swiveled. No one around. He sprinted to a tamarind tree only a few meters from what he guessed to be the kitchen window, the window open, sweet with the scent of beans. He crouched and turned sideways. The trunk of the tree shielded him while he sorted out three distinct voices, the most piercing of which was that vicious little girl wasp.

“I didn’t start this, you brat. No one in this house believes a word I say. Perhaps I will go live with the nuns. They’ll shave my head. Probably beat me and force me to eat fish until I die of starvation. No one in this house gives a damn.”

“Sabina! Do you want me to soap your mouth?”

“Didn’t I tell you, Mama? She swears constantly and makes up stories to scare me. Sometimes I believe she is possessed by demons, I truly do—”

“Shut up, Maribel. Let the zombie cut your throat. That’s what he threatened to do to me. And he would have cut my throat if I hadn’t knocked him down—”

“You? Hit a zombie? Mama, she’s lying again.”

“I didn’t say that! I’m the only one in this house not afraid of her own shadow. That’s why you hate me. Even my own mother sent me to live with fascists.”

“Enough, Sabina. My darling”—Marta’s voice softened—“there is no such thing as a zombie. At least admit that part of your story is, well, not a lie, exactly—”

“I’m not lying! His lips were sewn, one of his eyes was sewn, he was ugly and bawled like a pig when I squirted his face. If that’s not a zombie, I don’t know what the hell is.”

The older sister taunted, “Such language!” while Vernum winced and thought, Lying little puta. He was back in control of the situation, though, and continued to listen, but not as closely. He’d already made up his mind. Take the axe he’d seen in the woodpile, break down the door if Marta wouldn’t let him in. The older girl, Maribel, had to be the one who had escaped from the cane field. With her, he would . . .

Do what?

Damn that brat. It was impossible to think with her incessant talking. He tried to tune the girl out until he heard her say, “The gringo fascist will believe me. He promised he would be back . . . Probably on his way right now. You’ll see who is the brave one in this family.”

That grabbed Vernum’s attention. He searched the yard and refocused while the girl chattered on. “Do you really think I would waste my canister of pepper juice? It fit so nicely on my blouse, a gift from him, yet I chose to protect my coward sister.”

Marta spoke: “It is true, she used most of her spray. Maribel . . . don’t walk away until we decide. What did the man look like?”

“I told you, he was a monster, not a man. Do I have to repeat every word? The rich gringo gave us money for a hotel. That’s where we should be, a place that’s safe and has a swimming pool—”

“We don’t accept money from strangers. Now, stop your whining. How would we get there? Ride bicycles all the way to Havana?”