25-10-62. Radio SWAN Island. Pro-fascista tráfico. U.S./CIA 19:23 hrs. Putas mentiras . . . All entered in a flowing, feminine hand.

Putas mentiras meant “lying whores.” The date was in transposed Latino: 25 October 1962. A dangerous period. The Cuban Missile Crisis. It was the Kennedy-Khrushchev era, when the world had teetered on the brink of nuclear holocaust.

Tomlinson considered the concrete fortress. Hell, no wonder they had built this place. There were probably similar bunkers spaced around Cuba in case bombs fell while the Castros were on the road. The logbook entry explained the letter Fidel had written on the day JFK died. Swan Island, as sailors who had transited the Canal knew, was off Honduras. Tomlinson hadn’t made the connection. Apparently, the CIA had transmitted radio propaganda from there.

The SWAN lies.

So what else was new?

Fidel had also instructed his mistress—perhaps his former mistress by then—to destroy everything. Imelda Casanova had obviously ignored those orders. Tomlinson closed the book and moved around the room. It was a small space, cluttered but orderly, and a treasure trove of Castro memorabilia. Somehow, Juan Rivera had learned that Figuerito had access to such things. He had bartered freedom in trade for blue-chip collectibles to be sold on the Internet.

Comrade, my ass, Tomlinson thought. Yet another soul bites the big green weenie.

On a shelf was a stack of stuff: a cartoon of Uncle Sam with fangs like Dracula, Look magazines, 1960 to ’63, Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, LBJ on the covers . . . Oh, and the Buddhist monk who had set himself ablaze to protest U.S. involvement in Vietnam. Very heavy and sad, sad mojo. Time had stopped in this bomb shelter. All inhabitants had turned to dust.

Stored in a box was happier news, the trophy from Figuerito’s photo: an ornate silver cup with seams like a baseball. Big; tarnished with a greenish black patina. Tomlinson lifted the trophy and read the inscription:

INTERNATIONAL LEAGUE CHAMPIONS

1959

That was all. The name of the winning team hadn’t been added. Inside the cup was a Miami Herald clipping from the same year. Dateline: Havana, Cuba.

During a game between the Havana Sugar Kings and Minneapolis Millers, a late-inning celebration degenerated into firecrackers and gunfire. Minnesota’s third-base coach, Frank Verdi, was struck, as was Leo Cardenas, the Sugar Kings’ shortstop. Neither was seriously injured, but three U.S.-born pitchers for the Kings fled the stadium and are still missing. The game and the series have been canceled according to . . .

Tomlinson stopped reading when he heard the door to the next room open.

“Figgy,” he said, turning. “Look what I found.” He hoisted the trophy.

Figuerito grinned and made a fist as if he’d just sunk a long putt. “Now the old woman has done two good things.”

“Yeah?” Tomlinson looked past him, seeing a woodstove and a table set with china for two. “Can I meet her?”

“That’s the first good thing,” the shortstop replied. “You don’t have to. She’s dead. Now there’s no promise to break when I show you what I’ve been lying about.”

Tomlinson was so untracked and confused—then fascinated by what awaited on the other side of the door—that he wasted several minutes gawking before he remembered to say, “Figgy, we’ve got to ditch the Santero’s cell phone. Or . . . how about we move our asses and hide?”

Anatol Kostikov, leaving Marta’s house, watched flames in his rearview mirror and ruminated over a likely investigative tagline: Sex deviant sets fire to destroy evidence.

Workable if he pitched the theory to the right Cuban official. Someone sloppy enough not to bother with DNA, or interviews, or details that had more to do with arson than sex crimes. The key was killing Vernum first; make it look like self-defense, then planting evidence enough to stifle an investigation. To hell with what anyone else thought or said. He was a senior Russian agent, by god, and Cuba, once again, was in his country’s debt.

On the passenger seat was a bag. It contained all the evidence he needed. Under the seat was another pint of vodka. He needed that, too, plus a few more pills.

The vodka went down with a nice burn.

On the dashboard, the GPS tracker marked the location where Vernum’s phone had gone dead ten minutes earlier. The would-be spy was two kilometers away, if pursued on foot, five kilometers by road, but driving was still the only choice. Stupid to leave his Mercedes near a crime scene. Plus, along with stomach cramps, Anatol now had something else to worry about. He was bleeding. Not badly, but enough. A bullet had furrowed the fat on his left side when a pistol magically appeared in Marta’s hands. She’d shot him. Fired three times, eyes closed, before he’d slapped her to the ground.

The Russian gulped from the bottle and watched the scene repeat itself in his head. The obnoxious brat screaming when he grabbed her, teeth snapping like an animal. Then the mother was there, her face ashen in the headlights, bringing her hands up, up, up, which should have been warning enough, but he had been complacent in a country that didn’t allow even Party members to own guns.

It was his only excuse for what happened next. Those scenes, Anatol did not want to replay in his mind. Among the worst was later, when he tried to put a bullet in the woman’s skull, but the stolen Glock was loaded with dummies that wouldn’t fire because even cops weren’t trusted in this tropic shithole nation. The Latina and girls had bolted, while he rushed to pilfer a few bullets before they got to the trees. The scene had stayed with him, Marta’s expression of horror, and the burden of his own sloppiness.

Goddamn . . . disgraceful. In the same day, he had been robbed in a public restroom, then shot by a peasant female. Him, Anatol, the descendant of legendary Cossack warriors.

To spare his reputation, if nothing else, he had to find Vernum. This time, do every little thing right. Place the evidence just so and cover his tracks. Once that was done, he was free to turn his attention to Fidel’s letters, then the CIA agent. If he was methodical—and his luck changed—he might even ship home an antique Harley or three when his job was done.

Another gulp of vodka allowed him to linger on the lone masterstroke in this long, shitty day. After so many screwups, he had stepped back and rallied. The seasoned professional had asked himself a professional’s question: How would a sexual deviant kill three victims and cover his tracks?

The resulting finesse was a nice touch he would share with that worm Vernum.

The answer: burn them all alive.

•   •   •

ANATOL SKIRTED a cluster of trees, his eyes on the GPS tracker, while the house burned in the far, far distance. He was so intent on his quarry that had it not been for the scent of blood, he would have kept going up the hill, past a derelict chimney, then another sixty meters.

Metallic iodine and brass. Distinctive, that odor, if the sample was large enough. Some of his most satisfying achievements were linked to the smell of blood, but it could also signal danger.