Cuba Straits

Marion Ford, who had survived jungles and violence, was a stickler for small concessions to safety. Among them, talking while driving. Past the toll station, where gravel and mangroves edged the bay, he pulled close to the water and parked. “Okay . . . go over that one more time. What’s this about a gun?”

“I found Figuerito. He’s with me. Dude’s got a freakish arm; a true magician. And has this child-like quality. Plus, he’s a full-on stoner—but, with him, it’s more of a metabolism thing. Anyway, I had to get him out of Dodge, so I did, which gave me time to think. Thing is, Doc, if you’re already committed to the generalissimo’s deal, I can’t tell you much more. This wasn’t an easy decision, hermano. Just keep in mind, Rivera’s the problem. Not you. Oh, by the way—how’d your run go this morning?”

Assembling order from a scattergun conversation with Tomlinson required patience. “You’re at a baseball game. I can hear that much. But are you really—”

“Yeah, Key West. Seven hours on the road, and we saw some Roy Hobbs players at the Arby’s on Cudjoe Key. There’s a wood bat tournament; the finals are today, so why not? Their team hasn’t talked money yet, but it won’t be a problem the way my man Figgy is picking it clean. The manager, this team from Indiana, he wants to adopt him—or give him a job at his Cadillac dealership.”

Ford knew Tomlinson’s sailboat was in Key West—an obvious link—but played it loose, saying, “And it’ll be seven hours back. You are coming back?”

“Not through Hialeah. A black SUV tailed us clear to Homestead, so I took the back way to Key Largo and lost them in a convoy of bikers. That’s why I turned my phone off—there’s no ru

“Hold on. Why would anyone follow you? If you’re worried it was Rivera, it wasn’t. I’m on my way to meet him now. If this is paranoia, fine, but try to avoid the fantasy riffs. You’re confusing me.”

Ford heard the ting of an aluminum bat and more whistling. Had to wait awhile before Tomlinson replied, “Meeting the generalissimo, huh?” He sounded wary.

“You knew that. He’s in a rental cottage near the Sky Bridge to Fort Myers Beach. He called about an hour ago.”

More silence. “Doc, we’ve been friends a long time, and I want you to promise me something. Promise you won’t tell that traitor fascist where we are.”

“Okay. What should I tell him?”

“Nada, man. Rivera has played Figgy like a rube. First of all, the little guy’s age, he’s closer to forty than thirty, so no major league team’s going to sign him—especially without a birth certificate. Did you know that? No passport either.”

“How does that prove the general’s a traitor?”

“He’s an asshole, too. In Figgy’s mind, no birth certificate means he’s ageless, but why get the guy’s hopes up? Mostly, I’m pissed because of the briefcase. Rivera stuck him with it for a reason, almost got the dude killed. He’ll get me killed, too, if he knows where we are.”

What’s in the briefcase? Ford wanted to ask, but held off. Through the mangroves, he watched fishermen wade the sandbar and a lone woman paddleboarding. Tomlinson had his quirks but also a gift for reading people accurately. Stoned or straight, his IQ was off the charts. If this wasn’t paranoia, it was serious.

He waited for background noise to quiet. “I warned you about Rivera, remember? So whatever you say, sure. If you want, I’ll help you pull some kind of switch, or just play dumb. Tell me what to do, I’ll do it.”

Tomlinson, reading Ford’s mind, said, “After I tell you what’s in the briefcase, you mean?”

•   •   •

WATCHING THE WOMAN PADDLEBOARDER, he left a message for a friend who owned Tampa–Havana air charters, then left another for his seaplane pilot pal, Dan Futch. If Tomlinson panicked and turned his phone off, no contact, so Ford might need to fly out tonight, Thursday at the latest. A narrow window. Even in a clunky old Morgan sailboat, Key West to Cuba was only a full day’s sail, two if the wind was wrong.

It all depended on Tomlinson . . . and if Juan Rivera would talk.

At McGregor Boulevard, he turned right toward Fort Myers Beach, still unsure if his pal was in danger or just reacting to THC and systemic guilt. The contents of the briefcase, albeit valuable, weren’t as dangerous as he’d feared. It contained love letters to a young girl, nearly a hundred, written between 1953 and 1963 by two men who even then were the equivalent of Cuban rock stars.

Fidel Castro and his younger brother, Raúl.

Hearing those names, Ford had muttered, “Bastards,” which Tomlinson assumed referred to Gen. Rivera.

Stand back, though, view the big picture: Having the briefcase wasn’t that bad. They were personal letters, not political documents, according to Tomlinson. Never mind the brothers were writing to the same girl. Their mistress had saved them, plus snippets of poetry and a lock of Castro’s hair, in a binder decorated with hearts and dried wildflowers. It was a totem of adolescence, Tomlinson had reasoned, from a girl besotted by two older, famous men.

The letters would bring cash from collectors, no doubt, but weren’t worth killing for, although Tomlinson disagreed—not that a man who didn’t speak Spanish could be relied upon to judge. He’d only had time to leaf through the folder, fearing his van was being followed.

Figueroa Casanova was no help. He’d refused to participate due to a moral conflict, some childhood vow to never lie.

No matter. One thing Ford had learned after years of dealing with international intrigue types, power players such as Gen. Juan Simón Rivera: everything was potentially dangerous, nothing was what it appeared to be.

For Ford, it felt like arriving home without leaving Sanibel.

The generalissimo had called around five from a blocked number. He’d sounded subdued; didn’t mention the missing shortstop, but did say, “Make sure you’re not followed.” That meshed with Tomlinson’s claims. So at the Sky Bridge, Ford checked mirrors before turning left onto Main Street, which wasn’t much of a street, just a long asphalt lane. For a mile, it separated the shrimp docks from a geometry of mobile homes fenced and spaced in rows, in contrast to weeds and Elvis-era rentals on the other side.

Rivera was, indeed, traveling incognito. Perhaps that’s why he had provided directions, not an address.

Ford slowed, looking for a dirt road, and noticed a black Suburban behind him. He waved the vehicle around, used a pencil to jot the license number, and watched the SUV drive several blocks, then turn. Rivera’s cottage was bayside, fifty meters past a house with dogs chained in back, and the first drive after a sign that read Weekly Rates. As described, a white Mustang from Hertz was in the drive.

Ford didn’t pull in. Using his phone, he photographed the house, then drove to the end of the street before looping back and parking under a banyan tree. More photos. He sca

A training exercise, that’s what this felt like. One of those hide-and-seek games at Langley or at the Blackwater facility across the Virginia line in Moyock, North Carolina. Evolutions, they were called, a new game for every day of the week. As demanding as the courses were, key elements couldn’t be simulated, such as fear of the crosshairs, or an adrenaline spike that, in the real world, caused some men to vomit, others to freeze.

The cottage was faded wood on pilings. Ford was still in practice mode when he approached the front steps—then everything changed. The side door to the garage was open, but the main doors were closed. A small detail that seemed all wrong in this neighborhood.