Christ . . . even with his lips glued shut, he’d almost tried to answer. A trick, Vernum realized. A shrewd bastard who spoke Spanish with a gringo accent. How did he know about the Russian?

“Stop pretending. I don’t care if you see me.” The man came closer. “You were out for less than a minute. If I’d shut off the blood to your brain much longer, yeah, you’d be in bad shape, but I’m careful about how I do things.” The man paused long enough to open the wallet. “Vernum Quick. Is that your real name or do you work for the DGI? Nod if you’re with Cuban intelligence.”

Vernum felt a boot nudge his thigh while he recalled the old war hero, Oleg, jabbering about a CIA operative who had rescued the girls.

“Former air force, but discharged after only nine months, huh? I’m surprised you’re not in jail.” Another pause. “You were going to murder those girls and their mother . . . but only after you assaulted them, right? Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean by ‘assaulted.’” The boot again, harder. “Answer me. A nod means yes, a grunt means you’re lying. My rules, and you’re running out of time.”

Vernum controlled his breathing. If the man lost his temper, he might say something to provide a bit of leverage or do something stupid.

The latch on the bag opened, then closed. “There are a couple of easy field tests I can do to prove you’re conscious. You won’t like it. This isn’t the movies—jab a prisoner with a pin or use a match. A motivated subject wouldn’t even flinch, but there is one fail-safe way to find out. I’ll take this hypodermic needle, heat it up, then stick it through your eardrum. The freaky types suggest a couple cc’s of cold water, but I don’t happen to think torture is funny.” The man knelt and touched a finger to Vernum’s nose—his only source of air—a warning. “Now, open your goddamn eyes.”

Vernum did and was surprised to see the LED screen of his own satellite phone, not a needle, only inches from his face. There was a recent text in broken Spanish. The name of the sender, thank god, was not included.

The pizda hippie and defector both alive. Will intercept or follow. Contact soonest.

The time stamp was five minutes ago, nine-nineteen p.m.

“This is from Anatol Kostikov, isn’t it? Grunt twice if I’m right.”

Vernum attempted to shrug while shaking his head. Weird to look into his abductor’s face and see only one dim green eye.

“You’re lying, but that’s okay. The Russian wouldn’t have hired you unless you have something to offer. Usually, it’s a special talent, but there’s nothing special about a pederasta who should have been euthanized long ago. Isn’t that true?”

Pederasta. A pedophile. Disgusting. Vernum had never been called that before but nodded anyway, frightened by the tone—detached—a man who asked questions as a test because he already knew the answers.

“That tells me you have something they want. That’s good enough for starters. The important thing is, I’m not to going to kill you”—the man touched Vernum’s neck with the delicacy of a surgeon and found his jugular—“because you’re working for me now. Keep that in mind when you wake up.”

An hour later, Ford was hiking up the hill to Marta Esteban’s home when the Santero’s phone buzzed with a second message: Why you no contact? They in car red Buick that is with gallineros seated driving west. Police do not know. Watch soon with eyes ready.

Ford puzzled over that, unsure if Kostikov was writing code or if his Spanish was as bad as Vernum had claimed. Tomlinson and the shortstop were in a car somewhere between here and Cojimar, but the Russian didn’t want Cuban authorities involved. That much fit with what Ford already knew and confirmed that Tomlinson was in danger but not immediate danger. But what the hell did gallineros seated mean? Gallinero was Spanish for “chicken coop.”

Gibberish, Ford decided. The Santero had become an eager, earnest informant after forty minutes of questioning. The key to breaking a hostile interrogant was plying his ego or tapping into his innermost fears. The man didn’t swim well. He was terrified of sharks. Blindfolded, Vernum had believed he was adrift in the Gulf Stream when, in fact, they hadn’t left the river.

Ford had a lot of information to sort through. Juan Rivera would have killed for what he had learned tonight. Instead, Juan had fallen victim to something he didn’t know.

The pressing issue was Vernum’s claim that he hadn’t hurt Marta or the girls. It was late; Ford had changed into fishing shorts, a blue chambray shirt, and a ball cap—better to look like a tourist and less like a ninja. But Kostikov’s message took precedence. If the Russian had found his phone in the stadium trash, that meant Vernum’s phone also contained a GPS chip. He’d assumed as much and was still unsure what to do with the damn thing. Using one finger, he texted a response: Dropped phone in water. Messages garbled cannot call. Meet you where? After adding a string of random letters, he hit Send.

That would give him some time. Somehow, though, he had to silence the phone’s tracking signal. Even if he shut it off, the thing would still transmit. A possible solution was in the systems menu. He found location services and disengaged all links.

Ford crossed through the trees to the drive and jogged the rest of the way. Every window in the Esteban house was alight with candles and lamps. He stopped near the tamarind tree, switched on a flashlight, and called a friendly warning: “Marta . . . it’s me, the guy from the United States. Your daughter calls me the gringo fascist.”

Lighten the mood on this traumatic evening, is what he wanted to do, the whole time hoping more trauma didn’t await.

But it was okay. The porch door flew open and the younger girl, Sabina, came flying out wearing baggy pink-and-white pajamas. “I told them, Marion, I told them both! They didn’t believe me—so typical . . .” Then she became shy as she drew nearer and stopped. Behind her, the mother appeared, carrying an oil lamp, a diffident woman with Polynesian hair that hung to the waist of her bathrobe.

Ford moved the flashlight so she could see his face. “Sorry, Mrs. Esteban. I didn’t know how to find the place by car, so I waited at the hotel, hoping you’d check in.” He squatted to be at eye level with Sabina. “How’re you doing, tiburónita? Where’s Maribel?”

“Little shark”—a nickname—and Maribel was on the porch, one hand clinging to her mother’s robe.

Sabina backed a few steps. “You look different.”

Ford was counting on it. “I cleaned up at the hotel. Is that so bad?”

“You’re not as big . . . and your legs are bare. Why are you dressed like a tourist from Canada? Don’t lie to me. Everyone thinks I’m stupid, but I’m not.”

Smiling, Ford stood and spoke to Marta. “If it’s too late, I can come back tomorrow.”

“No . . . stay. Please stay, come inside. Maribel, where are your manners? Bring the patrón a glass of cold water. Or coffee. Would you like coffee?” The woman’s eagerness signaled the shock of what the Santero had done. Ford had heard only one side of the story but had decided not to press for details. If Marta wanted to talk, he would listen. The complexities of emotional trauma were outside his field, but he had a bedrock respect for personal privacy.