Cuba Straits

No . . . they were tiny crypts, infant-sized. Long ago, names had been scrawled in wet cement. Anatol didn’t care. He was more interested in what lay at the foot of the graves: a stainless fillet knife streaked with fresh blood.

Perfect. Fingerprints would validate his story.

Santería. It fit with the murder of a Santero.

•   •   •

THE LAST ROOM he cleared was the largest. It was a double concrete cell, where an old woman gowned in white lay sleeping, he thought at first, but then realized she was dead. Candles, burning in sets of three, sat on abutting nightstands.

Fidel’s mistress?

On the walls, photos in ornate frames proved that, at the end at least, Raúl was the only Castro she had cared about.

Good riddance, he thought. All of you. Burn in hell.

The room stunk of lavender and old age. Woodsmoke added an acidic edge. His stomach churned. All he wanted to do was use the commode, complete his search for the letters, then get the hell out. Protocol, however, demanded the basics. He’d already checked the bed and behind curtains that served as closet space. All that was left was a grated bulkhead that, he guessed, housed pipes, pumps, and conduit required for survival underground.

He took a last look at the old woman. Attractive, possibly . . . for a Cuban—six decades ago. Dusty sheets, no splattering of blood visible. This dried-up crone hadn’t killed the Santero, but details of her condition might be useful. He didn’t touch the corpse. He used his nose and eyes. Body fluids stain. Decomposition starts when the heart stops.

Convinced, he hurried to the steel grating that was flanged like a door, but wider and lower. It was locked.

Strange . . . No lock was visible. He rattled the bars and raised the lantern. Yellow light spangled the floor within. Anatol squatted. He pressed an eye to an open square . . . and, for the first time that day, he gri

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “So very, very . . . oh my god. You are mine.”

Hypnotic, the graceful lines that greeted him: a duo of Harley-Davidson Sportsters from 1957 . . . possibly ’58. The year was unimportant. Same with the patinas of dust. Same with his mild, fleeting disappointment when he saw there were only two, not three, motorcycles. Otherwise, it was better than finding gold. Step back half a century and these machines were fresh from the showroom floor. Tires were flat, of course, but, my god, even the rubber looked pretty good.

Dazed, he stood. Had someone been maintaining these fine machines? Apparently so. Vernum had lied to him from the start, the freak. After all, the Harleys were here, not hidden in the cemetery west of Havana. Either that or the old woman’s grandson had lied to everyone. That made sense. Figueroa Casanova, as a traitor, would be a shameless liar. Details were unimportant now. The Harleys were his—or would be after he snuck them aboard a troop transport disguised as a cruise liner.

Anatol couldn’t take his eyes off those sweet, sweet classic lines. Pristine, the motorcycles leaned on kickstands with a gangster swagger. Spoke wheels, Sportster in italics cast in steel. Chrome everywhere: hydraulic forks and drums, swooping handlebars and headlamps. Fenders and fuel pod on the nearest bike were brilliant jet-stream blue. The other Sportster was red—candy-apple red of a hue that pained his heart and knotted his stomach.

No . . . it was another goddamn cramp.

He grunted, clutched his side, and groaned. Kostikov wasn’t a garrulous man. It was unlike him to speak to leather motorcycle upholstery, but he did, saying, “You would be ruined. I’ll get you out of here before she starts to stink.”

Imelda Casanova had been dead for at least two days, probably longer. He had seen enough corpses to know.

Ru

It wasn’t there.

What? The pistol had to be there.

His fingers probed until they finally made contact, but what they found wasn’t a Glock 9mm. He snatched the object anyway and held it up to see . . . his stolen wallet.

Shock—rare in KGB veterans, yet his thoughts mired as a voice said in Spanish, “You’re a big target, Kostikov. If you have other weapons, slide them under the curtain. Slowly. I can see you just fine from here.”

The lantern. Because of the damn lantern, Anatol realized, his silhouette was visible from any angle, yet he was blinded from seeing anything but the curtain. Well . . . that and his own shoes where pants were piled around his ankles. Never had he discussed such a predicament with aspiring agents. Bluffing, congenial manipulation, however, were part of daily fieldcraft. Even he could decipher the accent of an American speaking Spanish.

“Ah,” he said, “how are my friends at Langley? Forgive, I am expecting you, but have—how you say?—a case of shits bad.”

The lantern. He stared at the thing while he hurried to clean himself. Molotov cocktails, homemade incendiaries. He considered the curtain’s fabric: waxed cotton, material used for military tents before noninflammables became popular. A natural accelerant.

The American said, “You don’t have the shits. It’s uranium poisoning.”

Kostikov stiffened for an instant, eyes wide as he listened.

“Vernum Quick, he put a few drops on a sandwich he gave you. He told me all about it. Jerked chicken. Remember what you ate in Jamaica?”

Nauseating, the bile that hiccupped into Anatol’s throat. Whether from the sandwich or the possibility it was true could not be distinguished. “Is lie,” he said. “You think I not know symptoms? What you expect if you torture such a liar as Vernum? Torture”—he used a scolding tone—“is illegal from Geneva Convention. Too bad if international headlines you are in. But only I see body out there, huh? Is possible I might forget. You understand?”

The voice replied, “Guilt has killed better men than Vernum Quick. Cooperate, maybe you’ll live long enough to get to a hospital. Last chance, Kostikov—if you have a weapon, slide it under the curtain.”

Anatol crouched, hoping for movement, a sound. Several seconds passed. “See?” he said. “Is okay. Only my phone I have here. Is how I know Cuban military is on way.” His hand moved to the wall, then down the wall, where he slipped his fingers around the lantern’s wire handle. “Me, I have much time. You, my friend, not so much. Unless a deal we strike, perhaps. Would you like see phone as proof?”

“Reception fifteen feet underground?” The American found that amusing. “Here’s the only deal you’ll get.” An old logbook fell from somewhere and slapped the concrete at Anatol’s feet. A ballpoint pen rolled free from the pages. “You’re going to write a confession. Marta Esteban and her daughters, Sabina and Maribel. You set their house on fire. You killed them. Write it down, then sign it. In Spanish, not Russian. Or English, if it’s any better. What happened to the KGB? You used to be big on language skills.”

The woman and her brats were dead? Finally, some good news. It was something he could work with, but then another cramp caused Anatol to lose focus. Recovery time, a moment to think, was needed. He snatched up the book, asking, “How are names spelled?” Then scribbled them down before adding Yo mató estas mujeres—“I killed these females.”

He signed with a false name that was close enough to fool an American and pushed the book under the curtain—but only halfway. As he did, he slipped one foot clear of his pants, then the other. He was free, ready to move.