Sniffling, the girl closed the book, reached to snuff out the candle and realized her mother was asleep. Maribel—nothing woke her. You could pound on the bathroom door for hours, that brat wouldn’t notice.

All is brief as the moon’s reflection . . .

Not if you were waiting on Maribel, it wasn’t.

Sabina went to the window to see if the moon was up, but the tamarind tree blocked her view. She could see the pump, though, and . . . Damn it to hell, her sister had been right about that bucket. Sabina had left it out there. In the morning, Maribel would nag and gloat unless the bucket was found somewhere else.

An idea popped into her head—what if the bucket was discovered in Maribel’s bedroom?

That will teach her to doubt me.

Cupping the candle, she went through the kitchen, unlocked the back door, and peered out. There was wind in the trees, no one around, and dark. She closed the door, then backtracked. When she stepped out onto the porch, she carried the candle in one hand, a machete in the other, and the mace canister was clipped to her pink-and-white pajamas, even though the canister felt empty.

There has to be a little left, Sabina reasoned.

The pump was midway between the rabbit hutch and the tamarind tree, the bucket in the sand nearby. When she stooped to get it, she dropped the machete. Then a gust of wind put the candle out. At the same instant, a strange, dizzying sensation swept over her. It caused her nostrils to flair, and she knew without knowing that someone was coming toward her, a man who had been hiding behind the tree.

“Don’t scream,” his voice warned.

Sabina couldn’t scream. It wasn’t like that afternoon, when she’d been angry. She had no air, couldn’t breathe, but managed to whisper, “What will you do if I run?”

“You mean after I catch you?” the man replied. “That’s what I want you to see.”

Ford didn’t get to the Hotel Plaza until late afternoon because he’d spent more time than expected in the stadium storage room. At least an hour waiting for the military cops to leave, then another hour listening to the old man.

Lázaro Junco had been talkative. He had stories to tell about a room crammed with boxes and bins he called junk but that actually cataloged the history of Cuban baseball.

As Ford discovered, the storage room wasn’t just the old man’s home, it was his prison.

An interesting day, though—and profitable. In the hotel lobby, Ford overtipped key staff members and paid cash in advance for a room. All in euros, compliments of Anatol Kostikov.

At the desk, he asked if Marta Esteban and daughters had checked in. “No,” the clerk said, but answered “Yes” to Ford’s other inquiries and requests.

Suite 216, marble floor and ceiling fans, was up the stairs to the right. He wedged a chair under the doorknob, showered and changed, then carried Kostikov’s billfold to the balcony, where he snapped on surgical gloves. Driver’s license, credit cards, and a complicated ID in Russian, with a photo, a thumbprint, and a hologram, and another in Spanish, a third in Arabic.

Ford created two piles: items of interest, items that were not.

Under the billfold’s flap was emergency money: two five-hundred-euro bills. In another, a blister pack of Viagra tablets, a condom, and an address written on a napkin in a woman’s hand. Using Hotel Plaza stationery, Ford copied the address, before flipping through a stack of cards that included memberships in a cigar club in London and the International Association of Harley-Davidson Riders.

Amusing. Even professional killers had hobbies.

Hmm . . . Did the card suggest a link to the motorcycles from 1959?

There was another potential link: contact information for a man who lived in the same rural province as Marta Esteban and the girls. Vernum Quick was the name, Noviate Santero written in a Cuban hand, and a phone number.

A coincidence?

Ford made notes. It would have been easier to photograph each item, but his phone would be the first thing confiscated if there was trouble. Paper was safer in this age of electronic spoor. When he was done, he wiped everything clean, and soon the billfold was exactly as he’d found it, including the hidden emergency money, but minus a wad of bills too obvious for a common thief not to find. More than two thousand in euros and pesos.

The old man had refused to accept all of the money despite his bitterness toward Russians and the sad turn his life had taken. Lázaro hadn’t been a boxer, as Ford had guessed. He’d been one of Cuba’s best baseball players, a catcher and third baseman for the Havana Sugar Kings, but his dreams of a major league contract had ended with the Revolution.

A scrapbook and Lázaro’s broken fingers proved it.

Junco’s RBI Beats U.S. Champs, Series Tied. The old man had beamed when he’d flipped to the headline. Easy after that to discuss the events of 1959 and the True World Series. Ford was eager but kept the questions light. It paid off. Lázaro, who had played in that final, unfinished game, knew details that few others could know, let alone discuss, including the three American pitchers who had ridden off on their Harleys rather than return to Havana.

“Excellent teammates, but I admit some of us felt a certain resentment. We, the Cubans, were paid shit, while the gringo stars were treated like gods, yet it was difficult not to like those three. One, he was from New York, I think. Even in the shower, he smoked a cigar and had this trick—I don’t know how he did it—of making smoke come out of his ass. The others were big, like well-fed farm bulls. They would ride to the countryside and speak of growing corn and wheat instead of cane. Simpatico, you understand? With the peasants who got their hands dirty. They didn’t care if they had money bulging from their pockets or not, but those men, hah! They loved Cuban women and their shiny Harleys.”

Lázaro had shared a secret then. “I will tell you something few know. Those beautiful motorcycles never left Cuba.” He had paused for effect. “And I know where they are.”

Ford said, “I hope you’re not foolish enough to tell anyone. Including me.”

“Why not? I’m not allowed to leave this goddamn place. Why not entrust what I know to a partner?”

It was the first hint that the stadium was the old man’s prison. Ford had offered to help but reminded the man they were both thieves, which got a toothless smile.

“They’re hidden in a mausoleum in a cemetery west of here,” Lázaro said. “A beautiful place, but I must admit this to you if we become partners: I’m not sure which mausoleum. And that cemetery is ten kilometers by ten kilometers, thousands of places those Harleys might be. True, I’ve heard of others who have searched without success. But I am a catcher, señor”—he had tapped a finger to his head—“Brains, that’s what makes us different. Oh, if I could spend some time in that place, I would soon figure it out.”

Fun talking to the old guy, despite the military cops outside searching. If nothing else, Ford had learned that the story about the three Americans was widely known, which suggested that Rivera had been taken in by another treasure-hunting cliché.

For an hour, Lázaro Junco’s bitterness was displaced by his memories until Ford mentioned Fidel.