“Saving that Ridley is the coincidence. If it was a Ridley. The data goes back to 1953—one was caught in nets off Pinar del Río on Cuba’s western coast. A few years back, a Ridley was photographed laying eggs near Sarasota. They’re not supposed to be in the Gulf or Caribbean, but sea turtles are like underwater birds. They travel anywhere they want; flawless navigation systems, which suggests a magnetic sensitivity that’s still not understood. It crossed my mind I’ve never actually seen a Ridley. Not confirmed anyway, which is why I’m pissed at myself about this morning.”

Tomlinson’s attention focused. “Really? You sure that’s the only reason?” He said it as if envisioning a woman who was lonely and alone in her vacation cottage. Then added, “I hope you’re not thinking about going back to Cuba. That’s risking jail, man; a firing squad, from what I remember. Or has something changed?”

Ford shrugged, adjusted his protective gear, and buckled his pants. “I’ll ask Victor to catch the first few innings. He might have gone to the wrong field.”

“Vic? No . . . he went to his car to get eye black. What about Cuba? You know I’m right.”

“Not him. The guy I was talking about.”

Tomlinson said to Ford, whose spikes clicked as he walked away, “Not if I’m called in to pitch, you’re not leaving. Hey . . . Whoa! Do you have a death wish or get dumped again? Dude . . . I can talk you through this.”

•   •   •

THERE IS A FINE LINE between getting dumped and a relationship ended by the unanimous vote of one.

Ford thought about that as he walked past the spring training clubhouse, across the parking lot to the stadium, into a tunnel of noise and odors: popcorn, beer, and grilled brats. Cuba was also on his mind. What Tomlinson said would’ve been true a few years ago but might be okay now with the right cover story—or a companion with the right political ties.

The man he was searching for had those ties.

Ford spotted him in the outfield cheap seats, alone above the bull pen. The nearest cluster of fans was three sections closer to third base. The man had been watching relief pitchers warm up, not the game, but was now arguing with two security cops.

No doubt who it was, even from a distance. The man’s size and his choice of seats would have been enough.

Baseball spikes are tricky on aluminum. It took Ford a while to get to left field and intervene on behalf of the man who was an old enemy and sometimes a friend—General Juan Simón Rivera, recently arrived from Central America via Havana.

“Tell them,” Rivera said in English when he spotted Ford. “Tell them who I am. Perhaps they will understand that diplomatic immunity includes baseball and cigars.”

He’d been smoking a Cohiba, that was the problem.

Ford replied in Spanish. “You want me to blow your cover, General?” This was safe to ask in front of two Anglo sheriff’s deputies who resembled farmhands.

Rivera, the former dictator of Masagua, a tiny country that exported bananas and revolution, got control of himself. Decided, “Hmm. A man of my intellect is seldom a donkey’s ass, but good point. Yes . . . better to indulge these fascists—for now.” Spoke loudly in slang Spanish, then waited with regal impatience while Ford pacified the cops.

When they were gone, Ford endured a bear hug; they exchanged pleasantries—who was married, how many wives, how many kids. Rivera, finally getting to it, said, “I’m surprised you recognized me. I’ve come incognito for a reason.”

Instead of signature khakis and boots, he wore a yellow Hawaiian shirt, a Disney visor, and flip-flops. Not enough to disguise a husky Latino with a gray-splotched beard and wild Russian hair, but Ford played along.

“A European tourist, General, that’s what I thought at first. Very clever.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Oh, it took me a while.”

Rivera expected that. It was a game they played, informal formality, but each man knew the truth about the other. He said, “Sometimes a wolf must blend with the sheep. Yet, not clever enough to fool you, my old catcher friend.” He noticed Ford’s uniform. “Why are you not on the field? I might even agree to pitch a few innings . . . if you have a large uniform. It doesn’t have to be clean, but it cannot be an even number. I’m partial to the numbers three, nine, and thirty-seven.” With his hands, he gestured I think you understand.

Santería, a mix of Catholicism and voodoo, was big on numerology, especially when it came to baseball. Rivera was devoted to the game. In Central America, he had built his own field in the rainforest and drafted soldiers based on their batting averages. He fancied himself a great pitcher whose politics had ruined his shot at the major leagues.

Ford replied, “General, my teammates would be honored. But, first . . . why are you here?”

“Always the same with you, Marion. Rush, rush, rush. Only bachelorhood has spared you ulcers, I think.” Rivera nodded to the bull pen, where a pitcher who looked sixteen but was almost seven feet tall, sat with his hat askew. “That is Ruben. He’s one of my protégés. The Twins have offered him a tryout, but a mere formality. Ruben’s fastball rivals my own, yet he is a southpaw, as you can tell from his sombrero.”

A joke. Gorro was Spanish for “cap.” The general was in a pawky mood.

“He can’t be from Masagua. I never saw anyone from Masagua much over six feet—except for you. Are you his agent?”

Rivera touched an index finger to his lips. “Unfortunately, the situation requires that Ruben pretends he doesn’t know me. I can’t explain right now.”

Ford could guess where this was going but waited.

“I have an interesting proposition, Marion.”

Ford said, “In Cuba.”

“I told you as much on the phone. A nice chunk of silver in U.S. dollars if you agree.”

Ford sensed trouble but also escape: turtles, isolated beaches, a land without cell phones—if he wasn’t arrested. “I’ll listen, but I don’t do that sort of work anymore. Not if it’s dangerous. Or political work—count me out if politics are involved.” He hadn’t ruled out human trafficking in deference to his own curiosity.

“Politics?” Rivera said. “I spit on the word. I piss on their speeches. To hell with their silly games. I am a freedom fighter—always—but have learned there are benefits to this free enterprise system of yours. A man is allowed to change, isn’t he?”

“Only the small-minded hate change, General.”

In clumsy English, Rivera replied, “You can say that twice. We will feast ourselves several days in Cuba. A week at most, every expense paid. But, first”—he hesitated while shifting to Spanish—“I have a little problem here that must be dealt with.”

“In Florida?”

“Let us hope so.” Rivera leaned closer to speak over the noise of the PA system. “I have lost a baseball player. Temporarily, I’m sure, but it would be unwise to contact your police.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“Not ‘missing’; ‘wandered off.’ Since this morning, when I visited his motel—a place not far from here, with a large red sign. Without shoes or money, the lunatic could not have gone far.”

“He’s crazy?”

“Well . . . no more than most, but he’s not as smart as normal men. And honest, very honest, which makes him unpredictable.”

Ford had spent much of his life on the water and in baseball dugouts, which is why he asked, “Were his glove and bat missing? He could have worn spikes instead of shoes.”

“I didn’t think to check. I was too angry because a briefcase I entrusted to him was also gone. Nothing of value—some letters, a few photos. What I think is, the crazy fool took my orders to protect the case too seriously and carried it with him when he wandered off.” Rivera demonstrated the size of the case by holding his hands apart. “An old leather briefcase. Not big, but well sewn.”