“Sooner or later,” he’d said, “I should have known. Every tourist asks the same goddamn questions. Which is why I avoid the stupid bastards. I hoped you might be different.”
“I didn’t say I believed the story,” Ford replied. “There must be a few players alive who actually saw him throw or swing a bat. I’ve even heard there are films that prove he never played the game.”
“Films?” A cynical grunt mimicking laughter. “There are no films. And if there were, they would have been destroyed long ago.”
Ford took a gamble. “That’s not what I’ve been told.”
That suspicious look again: Who are you?
The old man also took a chance. “Do you know what would happen if a player, even a great infielder, whispered the truth about Fidel?” With wizened hands, a gesture to a room filled with boxes, a sink, and his cot. “He would spend the rest of his life in this shithole—but banned from ever walking on that field again . . . or leaving through the gate.”
• • •
GO TO COJIMAR? Or drive west to check on the girls if they didn’t arrive at the hotel soon?
Thinking about that, Ford went out on the balcony of his room. It overlooked a park that separated Old Havana from Chinatown and the squalor of a city that, for half a century, had been trapped in a vacuum and was still waiting to breathe. Lots of traffic—vintage cars and exhaust fumes—buildings painted in pastels now bleached to bone by a sun that was just setting.
A black Mercedes-Benz with dark windows was an anomaly in a place like this. Ford noticed the car, watched it circle the park while pedestrians averted their eyes. A Mercedes symbolized power.
On the east side of the park was a police vehicle that resembled an ambulance. The Mercedes pulled alongside and stopped. A back door opened, a man with his hands cuffed behind him was ejected, followed by two military cops in green.
Ford went to the railing for a better view. The man in handcuffs was bald, wearing jeans . . . Christ, it was the same guy he’d seen washing his hands after robbing Kostikov. But now, along with prostate problems, his face had been beaten crooked, then bandaged. They’d done a sloppy job.
Ford winced. I should’ve warned him, goddamn it.
Maybe so. But nothing he could do now but watch and wonder who was at the wheel of the Mercedes. A massive shape within the tinted glass. The Russian, possibly, but the car pulled away, while one of the military cops led his prisoner to the sidewalk, not the ambulance. Not yet anyway. First, the cop pointed to a series of buildings, his hand moving clockwise while he lectured.
Hotels, Ford realized, that’s what he was pointing out. Police were going to force the poor bastard to help search room to room for the man he’d seen exiting the toilet, a gringo wearing a green cap.
Ford retreated and closed the doors. The baseball cap was in a stadium trash can, but he wasn’t going to wait around. There were hundreds of hotels in Havana. By midnight, when he was done meeting with Rivera, it might be safe to return—but only after checking with the Plaza security captain he’d overtipped, a smiling man named William.
In a canvas briefcase, he packed everything but the clothes he wore: khaki slacks and a gray guayabera shirt that passed for formal wear in Cuba. He didn’t care about fashion. Guns were illegal in Cuba, so he wore the guayabera like a smock to hide the 9mm pistol holstered inside the back of his slacks. In an ankle holster was the mini 9mm Sig Sauer.
He hadn’t made up his mind yet about the Soviet pistol. It lay on the counter, where he had fieldstripped and reassembled the odd-looking thing—a miniature stainless barrel with an oversized magazine. The grips were polished bronze like a 1960s cigarette case. Inside were six brass cartridges that looked more like tubes than 8mm bullets. The magazine had confirmed what he suspected—this was no ordinary pistol.
Something else he realized: he was in a lot more trouble than he’d anticipated.
During the Cold War, a Soviet armorer had designed a silent bullet, a slug propelled by an internal piston and lethal up to fifty meters. Building a gun to fit the odd cartridge came later and this was the newest version—a PSS Vul, with a six-round magazine.
The Vul was truly soundless—or so Ford had read—hugely expensive to produce, and among the rarest weapons in the world.
The Russians won’t stop until they get this back. Unless Kostikov is too embarrassed to admit he was pantsed in a public toilet. Or . . . unless he dies before the theft is reported.
Both were attractive possibilities. Ego was the commonest of silent killers.
Once again, he removed the magazine, shucked the slide, and tested the trigger—too much slack, then crisp at the end with a short reset. He did this a few times and experimented with the hammer, cocking and uncocking. When he felt comfortable, he seated the magazine but didn’t chamber a round. The Vul’s holster was wallet-sized, the trigger unprotected, so easily snagged. If the gun went off accidentally, how would he know unless he felt the impact and saw blood?
Before leaving, he wrote a note to Marta on hotel stationery, then a second note on blank paper, both in Spanish:
Seeking Señor Anatol Kostikov. A wallet containing cash and credit cards was found in the parking lot of the Grand Stadium after the game between Pinar del Río and the Industríales. Please apply in person with proof of ownership at [he left a blank space]. A small reward is not necessary but would be appreciated.
Ford put the note in an envelope.
Later, if he found a suitable ambush spot, and if the timing felt right, he would add the location.
• • •
IN THE LOBBY, he asked William, the security captain, “Where’s the dining room?” which gave them time alone in a corridor, where he slipped the man an envelope addressed to M. Esteban, plus another fifty euros. After whispering instructions, Ford exited through a side door.
Havana at dusk: shod horses on asphalt, frangipani blossoms, diesel fumes. Never take the first cab. Or the second. He walked south on Paseo del Prado, a boulevard built for lovers and parades. Benches beneath trees, streetlights dimmed or broken, villas converted into tenements, where, high above, baby diapers, towels, hung from balustrades designed for debutantes and politicos.
It was seven-fifteen. Almost three hours before he was to meet Rivera at a restaurant that was on the same street but closer to the sea. Ford considered returning to the stadium to check on the old man but knew, before deciding, that he would take a cab to Cojimar.
Tomlinson is being watched, the general had warned.
That was okay. Ford would do some watching of his own. And if he happened to see a black Mercedes . . . well, he would play that by ear. Send the cab away, pretend to be a tourist who was lost and didn’t know the language. Or a drunk looking for a good time with money to burn. There were many ways to convince a stranger, even a high-level assassin like Kostikov, to roll down a window or open a car door.
If it didn’t happen, he would check on Tomlinson, then find Sabina, Maribel, and their mother. Hopefully, they were on their way to the hotel. If not, he would hire a cab, or take his boat and from a distance confirm they were safe.
The name on the card in Kostikov’s wallet still bothered him: Vernum Quick. Coincidence and random intersectants were common, but less so if three links hinted at a possible triangle. The man lived in Plobacho, the village not far from where the girls lived. But how far?
Ford crossed the Prado and stopped under a lamp. There were no detailed maps of Cuba available—the government didn’t allow it—so he had come prepared. From his bag he selected a print from Google Earth that showed the mountainous coastal region west of Havana. Tiny Plobacho wasn’t visible, but he found the Espinar River to the west. He used a knuckle to measure. By road, the village was about three miles from the remote hillside where Marta Esteban lived. A comforting distance, but she and her daughters no doubt frequented the village tiendas. Also, Vernum Quick was a Noviate Santero—a “Novice Priest.” That increased the odds of interaction.