He crouched and pocketed the tracker but not the pistol. Even though he had dimmed the LED screen, his vision required several seconds to adjust. Head tilted, he inhaled . . . moved a few steps; sniffed again, and followed his nose into the trees. A penlight came out and threw a red beam. On a blanket were cups, seashells, and a sunflower as if spread for a picnic. A couple of pumpkin-like vessels nearby. Then what looked like an empty garbage bag, but it wasn’t a bag—it was the goddamn stupid Santero.

I can make this work, Anatol told himself. He believed that until he was standing over Vernum and saw how the would-be spy had died.

Idiot. What brand of stupid sex deviant allowed himself to be wired to a tree so an even crazier sex deviant could cut off his cock? Closer inspection added to the puzzle. Vernum’s wrists showed abrasions, but his hands were free, and there were no defensive wounds. So . . . he had been unconscious during the assault, or—Anatol had to project himself into the mind of a sick deviant—or Vernum was such a masochist, he had welcomed his own mutilation.

Either way, it would be tough to convince authorities that the murderer of two cops and an old man had, while taking a breather, parted with his own cock willingly.

Shit.

Profanity was better in Russian. He stomped away from the body, hissing, “Der’mo. Der’mo. Der’mo!” Then the finale: “Eto pizdets!”

Total screwed-up madness. This sort of crap didn’t happen to Anatol Kostikov. Never had he experienced such a streak of bad luck.

To hell with it. Vernum had to be the fall guy. There was no other way. If a senior Russian intelligence agent couldn’t fool these Caribbean hicks, who could?

He stretched on surgical gloves. Then did a slow recon of the area in darkness. Insects and frogs cloaked the sound of his weight. He moved from tree to tree, knelt for long seconds in the weeds. In the distance, the saffron flicker of Marta’s house was useful. With only four bullets in his gun, a brighter backdrop made for better target acquisition.

There was no target. Even so, Anatol returned to the corpse, thinking, Someone is out there.

It was more than intuition. Vernum’s body was still warm.

He popped the last of the wire bindings and went to work. The scenario was this: he had surprised the Cuban, who was with another sex deviant. They had bragged about assaulting some local girls and their mother. Because of his status with the embassy, Anatol had an obligation to Cuban law. They had argued. Vernum had shot him. As to how the idiot got his cock cut off, why ask a respected Russian agent? No goddamn idea—that must have happened after he’d left to seek medical attention.

Into Vernum’s hand went the little Sig Sauer pistol taken from Marta. Fingerprints would register on the barrel even though the dead hand failed to grip it. Three brass casings were scattered nearby. He added subtle touches: a bit of hair from Marta’s brush, hair from the two girls. Then a swatch of cloth from the obnoxious brat’s pink-and-white pajamas, and a robe he had torn off the mother—this was just before the goddamn Glock had misfired. He spattered each with Vernum’s blood—just a little—then smeared footprints.

Enough.

He took out the GPS tracker and went up the hill. Stopped twice to grimace and clutch his side. The bullet wound was insignificant. The cramps had returned.

•   •   •

A BOMB SHELTER . . .

Anatol recognized the construction immediately. A Type 4, Level 1-A Complete, designed by Russian engineers, then reassembled in Cuba. He wasn’t old enough to have served during that period, but he was old enough to remember, and to appreciate, similar shelters he had seen on the island and in what was becoming the New Soviet Union.

Who knew? Maybe bomb shelters would be needed again.

He started down the ramp, then dropped to a knee and waited, pistol ready. Someone was following him. He felt sure, even though he hadn’t seen or heard anything. On a night as dark as this, there were two possible explanations: he was either paranoid or there was someone out there wearing night vision. Not the cheap third-generation stuff either. CIA-quality.

Yeah. To a thirty-year vet of clandestine services, the explanation felt right.

Under any other circumstances, he would have called his contact at Cuban intelligence. The DGI could have a chopper here with an ops team hanging out the doors before the American escaped. But he couldn’t risk that. Not now, with Vernum lying out there, dead and dickless, and Marta’s house ablaze.

A better idea was to drop everything and turn the tables. Hunt the hunter. He was, after all, the expert who had taught the world’s elite to track and kill. In his soul, in his marrow, that’s what he wanted to do. But there was another problem: the stomach cramps were worsening. The last time Vernum’s phone had pinged a signal was twenty-eight minutes ago. The ping had originated from here, the entrance of the shelter, but there was no guarantee the phone was somewhere inside.

Vernum certainly was not.

To hell with the phone. A Type 4 shelter contained everything four or fewer people needed to survive a nuclear attack. That included food, storage, sleeping cells, a kitchenette with woodstove—which was not a requirement in Cuba—and, of course, a chemical toilet with a septic tank.

That’s what Anatol required, a toilet, and he required it soon.

Three minutes he stood guard, which was less than protocol demanded, then slipped inside—but, first, removed the padlock and chain to reduce the risk of being trapped within. Clearing a room couldn’t be rushed, especially a room already lit by a kerosene lantern. Someone had been here, or was still here—Vernum’s killer or killers, judging from footprints. Bloody smudges suggested a person with small shoes had been accompanied by a man with feet almost thirty centimeters long. He peered around a concrete portal, then followed his pistol into an office area crammed with old military furniture and hardware.

Fidel, he thought, or Raúl. This was one of their hideouts.

It made sense. Their mistress Imelda Casanova lived nearby.

Check under desk and table. Stop, listen, sniff the air. All clear, and the door to the next room was open wide. He repeated the process and entered the kitchenette, where the woodstove was still burning. But why on a balmy November night?

Burning evidence, he decided.

The stove could wait. The cramps could not.

He carried the lantern to the next door and placed his ear against it. These prefab shelters were little more than sewage culverts designed to be dropped into three trenches that intersected. When the trenches were covered, occupants enjoyed the illusion of spaciousness because the tunnels branched into wings that could be sealed as private rooms. He had yet to reach one of those terminals. A moment later, he did. To his right, behind a vinyl curtain, was a cramped bathing area with a hand pump. In an adjoining stall was a Russian-made commode that resembled a wedding cake.

Thank god.

Training, though, demanded that the entire shelter first be secured. There were two doors here, both made of steel. One sealed an intersecting branch. The other continued along the length of the tunnel. He placed the lantern on the floor and chose the tangent branch. It opened into a dead-end room that was damp and smelled of mold. He thought it was empty until he retrieved the lamp. Inside was a religious shrine: sunflower and cane stalks tied into bundles, beads and cowrie shells, a statuette of the Virgin Mary on a ledge streaked with candy-colored wax from a thousand spent candles.

On a lower ledge were bottles of rum that had evaporated and cigars rotted to dust. Except for one bottle that was full, recently uncorked. A fresh cigar was balanced on the bottle’s lip. They sat apart above three loaves of concrete that appeared structural until he moved closer.