Havana Bay

"Not me. But why do it if you don't believe me about Luna?"

"Luna is not the one I worry about. Dr. Bias examined the syringe that you say Rufo attacked you with. The doctor wasn't supposed to, but he did, to look for signs of drugs."

"Were there?"

"No, only blood and brain tissue of Rufo's and traces of a different blood type altogether."

"Maybe he stabbed someone else."

"Did he? Where did Rufo get the syringe?"

"Dr. Bias said he stole it at the institute."

"Yes, that's what the doctor said. I have a different answer. Wasn't that Rufo's lighter you used?"

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"Light it."

He did as she asked and the flame became a resonating circle between them. Osorio reached into the light and pushed his coat and shirt sleeve up his forearm to show two dark bruises on the artery.

"That's why I came back."

Arkady regarded the marks with the expression of a man surprised to find himself tattooed.

"Rufo must have scratched me when we were struggling."

She ran her finger lightly along the vein.» These are punctures, not scratches. Why did you come to Havana?"

"I was asked, remember?"

He blew out the flame, but he felt her eyes still intent on him. He no longer knew why he had answered a summons he could have easily ignored, but exhuming the reason was more than he cared to do for the Policia Nacional de la Revolution. All the same, control of the situation had clearly passed to the hands of the detective.

Because of the heat they camped on the balcony in metal chairs. Streetlamps were still lit, and the balcony was a vantage point to see Luna if he returned on the ocean side of the Malecon. Osorio seemed to have a different concern, following Arkady's every move, as if he might suddenly execute a dive to the pavement. Perhaps candy-colored top and shorts were jinetera fashion-she'd given him a brief account of the surveillance-but as they only accentuated how fine-boned she was, with hair in rows of black curls and her eyes set under extravagant lashes, it was like being tended by a child. Why he was with her rather than pounding at the door of the Russian embassy for asylum he didn't know.

A wave collapsed along the wall, and he wondered whether the fishing lights farther out rode ebb or flow. He couldn't see the village of Casablanca across the bay, but the lighthouse cast and retrieved its beam. Osorio nudged him and he saw sitting on the seawall the girl who had been possessed at the santero's. Hedy appeared freshly cleaned and shined and had engaged the attention of a late-night stroller wearing the elegantly blousy shirt of a European male on vacation.

"Italian is the official language of jineteras." Ofelia had dropped her voice.

"So I've heard. It's Hedy, the girl from the santero's. At least she's on her feet again."

"Not for long." Osorio laid down the words like a bet.

There were times when Arkady thought Osorio spoke with the satisfaction of a hangman.» So, just what happened to her? She was possessed but the santero couldn't help her?"

"The drummers were Abakua."

"So?"

"Abakua is from the Congo and she was possessed by a Congo spirit. Santeros don't deal with Congo spirits."

"Is that so? That sounds awfully ... departmental."

Osorio narrowed her eyes on him.» We can believe in Santeria, Palo Monte, Abakua or Catholic. Or any combination. You think that's impossible?"

"No. It's amazing the things I believe in: evolution, gamma rays, vitamins, the poetry of Akhmatova, the speed of light. Most of which I take on faith."

"What did Pribluda believe in?"

Arkady thought for a moment because he liked the question.» He was hard as a barrel and did a hundred sit-ups every day, but he thought the key to health was garlic, black tea and Bulgarian tobacco. He distrusted redheads and people who were left-handed. He liked long train trips so he could wear pajamas day and night. He never picked a bad mushroom. He still called Lenin 'Ilyich.' He warned you never to say the devil's name because he might come. In the bathhouse he washed first, then steamed, which is more polite. He said vodka was water for the soul."

Hedy and her new friend walked out of view. Osorio stretched her feet out onto the balcony rail, ostensibly getting comfortable, though there was little comfort in deck chairs. Arkady noticed that the soles of her feet were a delicate pink.

Arkady said, "I know that Dr. Bias has determined that Pribluda had a heart attack and he has a point about the fishing gear seeming to be intact. But maybe there was more than fishing gear. If you told me Pribluda keeled over trying to run a marathon, I might believe it. Basking in the water, no. Let me ask, how well do you know Dr. Bias? Can you depend on his honesty?"

She took a moment to answer.» Bias is too vain to be wrong. If he says a heart attack, it was a heart attack. Have the body examined in Russia if you want, they'll tell you the same thing."

"There are other questions that can only be answered here."

"There will be no investigation," Osorio said.

"An investigation of Rufo?"

"No."

"Of Luna?"

"No."

"Of anything?"

"No." Her disdain would have flattened a man of any sensitivity.

A black swell moved under the beam of the lighthouse. There were times when he could almost feel the sea reach out to him like a wonderful, dreamless sleep. The balcony faced north toward familiar constellations. The truth was that he didn't believe in an expanding universe anymore; he believed in an imploding universe, a furious rushing together of everything down a celestial drain to a single point of absolute nothing. He sensed Osorio's eyes watching him.

"I have two daughters, Muriel and Marisol," she said.» Do you have children?"

"No."

"You're married?"

"No."

"Married to your work? Dedicated? Che was like that. He was married and had children, but he gave himself to the Revolution."

"More like divorced from my work. Not like Che, no."

"Because you have the same ..."

"Same what?"

"Nothing." After a space, she asked, "You like Cuban music? Everyone likes Cuban music."

"It has a certain beat."

"It has a beat?"

"Primarily."

There was a longer pause.

"You play chess, then?" Osorio tried.

Arkady lit a cigarette.» No."

"Sports?"

"No."

"Cuba invented baseball."

"What?"

"Cuba invented baseball. The Indians who lived here, the ones Columbus found, they used to play a game here with a ball and a bat."

"Oh."

"You never read that?"

"No, what I read in Moscow was that Russia invented baseball. There is an old Russian game with a ball and bat. The article said that Russian emigrants to the United States took the game with them."

"I'm sure one of us is right."

"The only difference is that Sergeant Luna used a steel bat."

"Aluminum."

"I stand corrected."

Osorio recrossed her legs. Arkady leaned back to release a long plume of smoke.

"If there were an investigation," she finally said, "what would you do?"

"Start with a chronology. Pribluda was seen first at eight in the morning by a neighbor, a dancer. He was seen last by a co-worker at the embassy between four and six in the afternoon. She said he was talking on the street here to a neumdtico, a black man. If I could speak Spanish I'd go up and down the Malecon with this picture until I found everyone who saw him that day."

"I suppose we can talk to the block CDR."

"I know who that is."

"Okay, we'll do that."

"And take another look where the body was found." "But we found it across the bay in Casablanca. You were there."

"Not in the daylight."

"This is not an investigation."

"No, absolutely not."

"You're not afraid of being attacked again?"

"I'll be with you."

Her eyes seemed get even darker.» Que idiota."

That seemed to be her name for him.

Finally, he fell asleep in the chair, although he was aware of her perfume, a faint scent of vanilla that tinged the air like ink in water.

Chapter Eleven

Predawn lent the Malecon an underwater light, as if the sea had covered the city overnight. Arkady and Osorio followed the faint glow of Abuelita having a morning cigar at her windowsill. She invited them into an apartment with walls as worn as old clothes, with layers of color, offered them cafe cubano in dark, heavy glasses and seated them by a statue of the Virgin that had a peacock feather at its back and at its feet a copper crown stuffed with sandalwood and dollars. Arkady felt fine, virtually rejuvenated by the fact that Luna had not returned in the middle of the night with a baseball bat or pick. Detective Osorio was back in her blue uniform and dark mood. Abuelita showed no burns from having juggled live coals the night before. In fact, she had the manner of a young girl only pretending to be old and at once was flirting with Arkady, thanking him for coming to her aid the night before, allowing him to relight her cigar, and although the smoke, the scent and golden hues were disorienting, he managed to explain to her that while there was no official investigation into Pribluda's death, there was curiosity about his life and asked whether she as a vigilant member of the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution could describe his routine.

"Boring. Sometimes your friend would be gone for weeks, daw, but when he was here it was always the same. He would leave at seven with his briefcase and come back about seven at night. Except Thursdays. Thursdays he would be back in the middle of the afternoon and out again and back again. Saturdays, he shopped at the Diplomercado, because he always found a little something for me. Chocolates or gin. A kind man. Sundays, he went fishing with Mongo off the seawall or tied inner tubes to the car to drive somewhere else."

"You're very observant."

"Is my duty. I am the CDR."

"Thursday was his busy day?"

"Oh, yes." Her eyes and her smile widened.

He was aware of missing an insinuation but he pressed on.

"Besides his extra trip, did anything else make his Thursdays different?"

"Well, he took the other briefcase."

"'Other'?"

"The nasty green plastic one. Cuban."

"Just that day?"

"Yes."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"I'd have to think. Hijo, let me think."

Arkady may have been confused but he was not stupid.» What is the money in the crown for?"

"Offerings from people who want spiritual advice, to cast the shells or read cards."

"I need advice about Pribluda." He added five dollars to the crown.» It doesn't have to be spiritual."

Abuelita concentrated.» Now that I think about it, maybe two Fridays ago was the last time? Yes. He left a little later than usual and came back a little earlier, around four."

"Four in the afternoon?"

"In the afternoon. Then he left again around six. I remember because he changed into shorts. He always wore shorts when he went out with Mongo on the bay. But Mongo wasn't with him."

Osorio was unable to contain herself.» See, everything points to Pribluda being the body."

"So far."

Arkady was pleased, too, because everybody had something. He had a version of Pribluda's final day. Osorio had her moment of triumph. Abuelita had five dollars.

Outside the day approached more as distinguishable shadow than as light. As Arkady and Osorio walked up the Malecon a huddled mass proved to be four PNRs stealing smokes. They approached Arkady out of curiosity until they registered Osorio's uniform and the detective gave them a heavy-lidded look that sent them stumbling in retreat. In her uniform and cap, heavy belt and holster, she constituted a small armored column, Arkady thought. Or a little tank with laser eyes.

In the entire harbor the only craft in motion was the Casablanca ferry approaching its Havana landing. The windows of the ferry burst into flame, and then, as the sun slid off, faces of morning commuters squinted through the glass. Churning through backwash the boat rubbed against a pier fendered in tires, and the instant a gangway was laid passengers emerged, some equipped with briefcases for a day at the office, others pushing bikes laden with sacks of coconuts and bananas, by a sign that asked distinguished users not to bring firearms on board and into the warming, yellowing day.

A countersurge of new riders pushed onto the boat, carrying Arkady and Osorio with them. The interior was set at pre-swelter, seats along the sides, bike riders to the rear, bars to hang from crisscrossing the ceiling. Arkady's coat drew stares. He didn't care.

"Do you love boats as much as I do?"

"No," Osorio said.

"Sailboats, fishing boats, rowboats?"

"No."

"Maybe it's a male characteristic. I think the appeal is the apparent irresponsibility of boats, the sense of floating anywhere, while the opposite is true. You have to work like a dog to keep from sinking." Osorio gave him no response.» What is it? What's bothering you?"

"It is contrary to revolutionary law for a tourist to rent rooms. Abuelita should have reported him. He was hiding among the people because he was a spy."

"If it's any comfort, I doubt that Pribluda ever passed as a Cuban. He wanted a view of the water. I can understand that."

The more Arkady saw of the harbor the more impressed he was by both its size and inactivity, a panorama of torpor: Havana's docks and cargo offices on one side and on the other Casablanca's verdant bluff with a pink weather station and a white statue of Christ. On the inner bay Arkady saw a few isolated freighters, a motionless herd of cargo cranes and the raw torch and smoke of refineries. Heading to sea was a black Cuban torpedo boat of humpback Russian design with automatic cannon on the rear deck. He noticed Osorio studying his head.

"How do I look?"

"Ripe. Your embassy should lock you up."

"I'm safe with you."

"The only reason I'm with you is because you want to go to Casablanca and you don't speak a word of Spanish. Viejo, I have other things to do."

"Well, I'm certainly enjoying myself."

The village of Casablanca looked as if it had started at the top of its hill at Christ's feet and then rolled down to the water's edge, piling shanties of cinder block and sheet steel on top of more dignified colonial houses. Scarlet bougainvillea tumbled over walls and the air warmed with the sticky smell of jasmine. From the ferry landing, Arkady and Osorio climbed up to a depot for trolleys equipped with cow catchers for rural duty. They walked a main street with shutters closed against the morning heat, including the closed door and boarded-up windows of a tiny PNR station, and down the remains of a circular stairway to a park of weeds, a cement curb, a panorama of the bay and the tar-black water and pilings, refuse and cans where the neumatico had been found three days before.

The scene was different in the daytime, without klieg lights, a crowd, music and Captain Arcos shouting urgent misdirections. The sun picked out the details of a waterfront row of elegant houses so gutted they looked like Greek temples gone to ruin, and defined just how flimsy was the dock that reached over the water to a half-dozen fishing boats. The craft all had long poles raised like antennae and "Casablanca" bravely painted on the stern in case they set out for the larger world.

"This is where he ended up, not where he started. There's nothing to find," Osorio said.

The dock disappeared behind a barricade to a shack Arkady hadn't noticed at all on his first visit. He went around to a back gate that opened to a yard that could have been on Devil's Island. An indiscriminate variety of wrecks and boats with patchwork hulls sat hauled up amid sleeping cats. A dog barked from a deck. Two men stripped to the waist straightened a propeller shaft while at their feet hens scratched for corn. Here was self-reliance, a boatyard that could run .up a stout little vessel out of flotsam and supply eggs, besides. The two men kept their faces turned away, but maybe that was the effect of Osorio's cast-iron glare, Arkady thought. The Noah of this yard emerged from the dark of the shack. His name was Andres; he wore a captain's cap tipped confidently forward, and he produced what sounded like florid explanations before they were trimmed by Osorio.

The boat being repaired, he said, was built in Spain, used as an auxiliary of a freighter, declared technologically obsolete and sold to Cuba for scrap. That was twenty years ago. Arkady suspected that suggestions of smuggling and storms at sea were lost in the translation. Osorio was different from other Cubans, who registered every emotion with a sweeping emotional needle. Oso-rio's needle never budged.

"Has Andres heard about the body found here?"

"He says that's all they talk about. He wonders why we came back."

"Did they find anything else in the water where the neumatico was found?"

"He says no."

"Does he have a chart of the bay?" Arkady picked his way to the dock around mounds of cans and bottles salvaged from the water and stinking of slime.

"I told you before, the body just floated here. We don't have anything like a scene of the crime."

"Actually, what I think we have is a very large scene of the crime."

Andres returned with a chart that revealed as a channel that flowed between Havana the city and Morro Castle and fed three separate inner bays: Atares, west and nearest to downtown Havana, Guana-bacoa in the middle and Casablanca east. Arkady followed with his finger the tracery of shipping lanes, ferry routes, depths, buoys, the very few hazards, and understood why the bay of Havana had been the great marshaling yard of Spain's American possessions. But it was all one "bag bay" to Andres.

"What floats in can float out, he says. Depending on the tide: in during high, out during low. Depending on the wind: northwest in, southeast out. Depending on the season: in winter winds were generally stronger, in summer hurricanes drew water out to sea. If everything is equal a body can spin forever in the middle of the bay, but usually the wind is steady from the northwest and drives bodies right to his boatyard, which was why you find live neumaticos in Havana and dead neumaticos in Casablanca."

Arkady tested the spindly dock and for some reason felt promise. Andres's own boat, El Pinguino, was a coquettish blue with room for two if they could shift around an engine box, floats, buckets, gaff and tiller. Forward, a sail was furled between outrigged fishing poles. Aft, rope and wire lay on a transom crosshatched from braining fish. No satellite uplink, sonar, fish finder, radar or radio.

Osorio followed.» Looks are deceiving, Andres says. It's enough boat, he claims, to reach Key West and get arrested for taking American marlin." As a note of her own she added, "In Havana the first Hemingway deep-sea fishing tournament was won by Fidel."

"Why am I not surprised?"

Drawn to the boat, Arkady crossed planks spaced widely enough for him to follow his reflection in the water. What he didn't understand were the floats, each numbered and skewered so that at least three meters of orange pole would stand free above the water.

"This," Andres explained through Osorio, "is the Cuban system." The fisherman turned the chart over and, with a pencil stub, drew a wavy surface of the water and then, at regular intervals, the poles floating upright. A "mother line" connected them in a long string of poles.» The problem with fish is that they swim at different depths at different times. At night with a full moon, the tuna feed deeper. At the same time, red snapper or grunts feed closer to the surface. And turtles, too, though you can only catch them while they're copulating, a season that only lasts a month. Of course, they're illegal, so he never would. But with the Cuban system you can fish for them all by hanging hooks from different sections of the mother line at different depths: forty meters, thirty meters, ten. Everybody sets out different lines and this way they comb the whole sea."

"Ask him about a current that would have carried a drifting neumatico from the Malecon into the bay."

"He says that is where boats concentrate because that's where fish are found, in the current. Boats don't fish the entire bay, just that corridor with mother lines and a gamut of hooks."

"Now ask him what they found, not here at the dock but out on the water. I don't mean fish."

Andres stopped for breath like a man outrun by his mouth. A Cuban who poached in Florida, after all, Arkady thought, was a man given to overreaching.

"He asks, something snagged in the bay? Around the time that poor man was found at the dock?" As if to aid recollection Andres glanced back toward the two men who had been working on the propeller shaft but his friends had vanished.» Trash maybe, hooked accidentally?"

"Exactly."

By now Osorio understood the drift, and when Andres retreated to his shack she went with him. They returned with a plastic bag and perhaps fifty sheets of what looked like lottery tickets that had obviously been soaked through and then set out to dry. In green on white, a barely legible pattern said "Montecristo, Habana Puro, Fabrica a Mano" over and over again.

"These are official state seals before they're gummed and cut for cigar boxes," Osorio said.» With these, ordinary cigars could have been labeled expensive Mon-tecristos. This is very serious." Andres became a torrent of explications.» He says the seals snagged on someone's line, he can't remember whose, a week or more before the body was found. The bag had leaked, the seals were ruined, besides that was when the weather changed, no one came to their boats and the seals were forgotten. He dried them but just to read them and see if they were worth reporting. He was about to himself."

Arkady was entertained by the idea of such valuable cigars. Sugar and cigars, the diamonds and gold of Cuba.

"Could you ask exactly where the bag was found?"

Andres marked the chart five hundred meters off the Malecon between the Hotel Riviera and Pribluda's flat.» He says only a lunatic would steal government seals, but he thinks a neumdtico is desperate to begin with. To sail on a ring of rubber and air? At night? The tide goes out or a current carries him to sea? One little puncture? Sharks? A man like that makes all fishermen look bad."

Osorio was disgusted with Casablanca. In the village's PNR station, so dark that a portrait of Che was an undusted ghost, the officers stirred just enough to take a signed statement from Andres and give a receipt for the seals to her.

Arkady was content, having done something remotely professional, and on the ferry ride back bought a paper flute of peanuts roasted in sugar that he induced Osorio to share.

Her attitude had changed a little.» That man Andres only showed us the cigar seals he found because he looked into your eyes. You knew he was hiding something. How did you do that?"

It was true that from the moment Arkady walked into the boatyard he felt guided to the flimsy dock and the spear-shaped floats of the "mother line." He could say it was the way the workmen avoided Osorio, but no, it was as if El Pinguino had called his name.

"A moment of clarity."

"More than that. You saw through him."

"I'm highly trained in suspicion. It's the Russian method."

Osorio gave him an opaque, humorless gaze. He had yet to figure the detective out. The fact that Luna had backed off when Osorio arrived in the santero's yard suggested as much that they were working together as on opposite sides. She could just be a smaller version of the man who had beaten Arkady with a bat. Yet there were moments when Arkady would spy an entirely different, unrevealed person stirring within her. The ferry engines reversed and threw the deck into vibrations as it coasted to the dock.

"Now we should go to a doctor," Osorio said.» I know a good one."

"Thanks, but I finally have a mission. Your Dr. Bias needs a better photograph of Sergei Pribluda. I volunteered to find it. At least, to try."

The address Isabel had given him the night before was an old town house that, like a dowager in a once fine but tattered dress, maintained an illusion of European culture. Wrought-iron railings guarded marble steps. Lunettes of stained glass cast red and blue light onto the floor of a reception room staffed with women sitting in white housecoats.

Arkady followed strains of Tchaikovsky, bright and brittle notes from a badly tuned piano, into a sun-filled courtyard, where, through an open window, he saw a class in progress, dancers who balanced the upper bodies of starving waifs on a powerful musculature that started at the small of their backs, sculpted the haunches and flowed down through the legs. While Russian ballerinas tended to be doe-like and softly blonde, however, Cubans had whippet-thin faces trimmed in black hair and eyes and lit with the arrogance of flamenco dancers. In their leotards they combined poverty and chic, moving on point in stiffly elegant, birdlike steps in taped toe shoes across a wooden floor patched with squares of linoleum.

As a Russian, he took a moment to adjust. He had been brought up with the attitude that great dancers- Nijinsky, Nureyev, Makarova, Baryshnikov-were, per se, Russian, that they graduated from schools like the Vaganova Academy in St. Petersburg and that they danced with the Kirov or Bolshoi until they escaped. Even now, although they were free agents like ice-hockey players, the tradition was still Russian. Yet here was a room of dancers as exotic as hothouse orchids. Especially Isabel, who had the classic line, who made every move seem effortless, whose arabesques were infinitely smooth, whose grace even from the last row stole the eye until the mistress clapped her hands and dismissed the class, at which point Isabel gathered her sweatshirt and bag, joined Arkady and demanded in Russian, "Give me a cigarette."

They took a table in a corner of the courtyard, Isabel inhaling fiercely, looking Arkady up and down.» Eighty degrees and you're still in your coat. That's class."

"It's a style. I noticed that you're very good."

"It doesn't matter. I will never be more than corps de ballet no matter how good I am. If I weren't the best I wouldn't be in the company at all."

Arkady was struck again by the melancholy of her voice and the long line of her neck, with its nape of feathery black curls on milk-white skin. Also by her fingernails, which were bitten to the quick. She drew on her cigarette hungrily, as if it served for food.» I like that you're thin."

"There's that." Arkady lit a cigarette himself, celebrating an attribute he had been unaware of.

"You can see the conditions in which we have to work," Isabel said.

"It doesn't seem to stop you. Dancers dance no matter what, don't they?"

"They dance to eat. The ballet feeds us better than most Cubans see. Then there's the chance some infatuated Spaniard from Bilbao will set us up in an apartment in Miramar, and all we have to do is drop our pants whenever he's in town. The rest of the girls would say, 'Oh, Gloria, you're so lucky.' I would slit my throat rather than live like that. The others at least get to travel from Cuba and be seen while I rot here. Sergei was going to help."

"A ballerina who defects to Russia?"

"You're laughing?"

"It's a change. I was never aware of Pribluda's interest in the ballet."

"He was interested in me."

"That's different," Arkady conceded. Her selfabsorption was so complete she had yet to notice any scuff marks on him.» You were close?"

"On my part, strictly friends."

"He wanted to be closer?"

"I suppose so."

"Did he have any photographs of you?" Arkady thought of the frame in Pribluda's bureau, of Isabel's willowy pose in class.

"I believe so."

"Do you have any photographs of him?"

"No." She appeared to find the question ridiculous.

"Or the two of you together?"

"Please."

"Only asking."

"Sergei wanted a different relationship but he was so old, not the most handsome man in the world and not very cultured."

"He didn't know a plie from a ... whatever?"

"Exactly."

"But he was doing something for you."

"Sergei was communicating with Moscow for me, I told you. You're sure there was no E-mail or letter?"

"About what?"

"Getting out of this wretched country."

Arkady had the sensation that he was talking to a fairy-tale princess imprisoned in a tower.

"When did you last see Sergei?"

"Two weeks ago. It was the day of the first night of Cinderella. One of the principal dancers was ill, I was filling in as one of the ugly stepsisters and there was a problem with my wig, because here in Cuba the ugly stepsisters are blonde. So it was a Friday."

"What time?"

"In the morning, maybe eight. I knocked on his door on the way down. He came to the door with Gordo."

"Gordo?"

"His turtle. I named him. It means 'fat boy.'"

Arkady could see Pribluda opening the door. Had the colonel imagined himself a knight errant rescuing Isabel from her island prison?

"You lived right above Pribluda," Arkady said_r "did you ever notice who visited him?"

"Who would visit a Russian if they knew his home was watched?"

"Who is watching?"

She touched her chin as if such a delicate feature could sprout a beard.» He watches. He watches everything."

"The last time you saw Pribluda, did he mention what he was going to do that day?"

"No. He didn't boast like George, who always has big plans. But Sergei brought you."

"He didn't send for me, I just came." Arkady tried to get the conversation back on track.» Did you ever see Pribluda with a Sergeant Luna from the Ministry of the Interior?"

"I know who you mean. No." Isabel awarded him a smile.» You stood up to Luna last night. I saw you."

"In a feeble way." What Arkady remembered of the encounter was being saved by Detective Osorio's arrival.

"And you are going to save me." She placed her cool hand on his and said as if they'd reached an understanding, "When the letter comes from Moscow I will immediately need an invitation to Russia. Pues, that you must organize through some cultural entity, a dance company, a theater, anything. Do you see where Cubans are dancing now? New York, Paris, London. It doesn't have to be the Bolshoi at the start for me, if only I can get out."

Over Isabel's shoulder Arkady saw George Washington Walls almost trip and recover as he entered the courtyard from the street. His light complexion was even lighter for a moment before he regained momentum, the street stroll of an American slowed to a Cuban pace and an actor's self-consciously casual style: pressed blue jeans and a fastidiously white pullover over brown biceps. The man had to be fifty, Arkady thought, and Walls could almost play himself as a young man if there was a movie. Why not? As Arkady remembered, there had been the war protests, the march on Washington, the plane. As he crossed the courtyard he distributed a pat on the shoulder here, a smile there. The only one impervious to his charm was Isabel, who recoiled from a kiss. He sat and told Arkady, "Oh, oh, I am on the outs. Arkady, you seem to be the new boy in town."

"Comemierda" she leaned across the table to say, then twisted out her cigarette and marched back to the rehearsal room.

"Do you want me to translate that?" Walls asked Arkady.

"No."

"Good. She is as mean as she is lovely and she is a lovely lady." Walls sat and gave Arkady his full attention.» Are you interested in ballet? I contribute to the cause here, but I'm actually more of a fight fan myself. I go all the time. You?"

"Not too much."

"But sometimes." Walls eyed the repair work on Arkady's head.» So, what happened to you anyway?"

"I think it was baseball."

"Some game. Look, I wanted to thank you for stopping Luna last night."

"I think you helped."

"No, you did it and it was the right thing. The sergeant was out of line. These things happen in Cuba. Do you know who I am?"

"George Washington Walls."

"Yeah, that says it all, doesn't it? Here I am like a kid checking out everyone Isabel talks to. You surprised me, I admit it. Last night I didn't come on too well, either. The problem is, I'm the elder statesman of radicals on the run in Cuba but I'm like a kid when it comes to Isabel."

"That's all right." Arkady changed the subject, "What was it like to be 'on the run'?"

"Not bad. In East Germany, the old Democratic Republic, the blonde Hildas and Uses used to line up to serve under the black commander. I thought I was a god. Here I am trying to wring one little smile from Isabel's lips."

"You've been here a while."

"I've been here forever. I don't know what the fuck I had in mind. The truth is, I always let my mouth get away from me. My mouth said, 'I'm not going to war, I'm not going to let you push around my black brothers in the South, I'm hijacking this fucking plane.' And the rest of me's going, 'Jesus Christ, I didn't mean that, please don't hit me again.' I didn't really think they'd take me to Havana. But my eyes were popping, I was totally dosed on speed and waving a big cowboy gun in the cockpit, they must've thought I was one fucking dangerous dude. I got out of the plane here and one of the stewardesses hands me a little American flag. What was going on in her head? I don't know. Fuck, I burned it. What else? That picture was everywhere. Drove the FBI straight up the wall. They made me a Most Wanted and, at the same time, a hero to half the world. So that's what I've been for twenty-five years, a hero. At least, they tried. They thought they had a hardened revolutionary and they sent me to camps with Palestinians, Irish, Khmer Rouge, the scariest men on earth, and it turned out that I was really just a loudmouthed boy from Athens, Georgia, who could spout a lot of Mao and play a little ball and probably would have ended up with a Rhodes Scholarship at Oxford if I hadn't come to Cuba instead. Those guys were scary. Eat-the-snake scary. Know the type?"

"I'm trying to imagine."

"Don't. They finally gave up and brought me back to Havana and gave me a cushy job translating Spanish to English. It was a comedown, but I was still full of revolutionary zeal and I would translate thirty pages a day until my Cuban colleagues took me aside and said, 'Jorge, what the fuck is the matter with you? We're each translating three pages a day. You're upsetting the quota.' I think the day I heard those words I understood what Cuba was all about. The light dawned. Karl Marx had hit the beach and all the mother wanted was a cold daiquiri and a good cigar. You know, when the Soviet Union was paying, it was kind of a party here. The problem is, the party's over."

"Still..." Arkady tried to align the images of the world-shaker and investment hustler.

Walls caught the look.» I know, I was somebody. Look, so was Eldridge Cleaver and Stokely Carmichael. Brother Cleaver crawled back to the States to do time, and Stokely ended up in Africa mad as a bedbug, dressed up in his uniform and gun in Kissidougou waiting for the revolution to come knocking on his door. So tell me, did Isabel ask you to get her out of Cuba?"

"Yes."

"Well, she obsesses on this, she obsesses on men she thinks can help. And she's right, they'll never let her be a prima ballerina here and they'll never let her out. Do you love her?"

"I just met her."

"But I saw you two together. Men fall in love with her very fast, especially when they see her dance. Sometimes they fall all over themselves to offer to help."

"I would help if I could."

"Ah, that means you have no idea of the situation."

"I'm sure of that," Arkady admitted.» Do you know Sergei Pribluda?"

"I did. I heard they found him in the bay. Are you a spy too?"

"Prosecutor's investigator."

"But Sergei's friend?"

"Yes."

"Let's talk outside." Walls led Arkady past the reception desk and through the fronds of a small yard to the street where a sleekly molded white American convertible with a red leather interior sat at the curb. On rounded tail fins were silver rings and on the lid of the trunk the mere suggestion of a spare tire. As if he were introducing a person, Walls said, "'57 Chrysler Imperial. Three hundred twenty-five horsepower V-8, TorqueFlite transmission, Torsion Aire suspension. Ernest Hemingway's car."

"You mean, like Hemingway's car?"

Walls caressed the fender.» No, I mean Hemingway's car. It was Papa Hemingway's, now it's mine. What I wanted to talk about is this letter coming from Russia for Isabel. Did she tell you about her family?"

"A little."

"Her father?"

"No."

Walls dropped his voice.» I love Cubans, but they do trim the truth. Look, these people bankrupted Russia. At a certain point Russia was bound to say, 'Let's get somebody sane in charge.'"

Why? Arkady wondered. Russia never had anyone sane in charge. Why pick on Cuba? "What are you talking about?"

"Lazaro Lindo was number two in the Cuban Party, posted in Moscow, a logical choice. It was supposed to be a quiet coup, just a swift transfer of power and a comfortable house arrest for Fidel. Lindo came back from Moscow on a black plane and all the way he was told about troops mobilizing and tanks revving. You can imagine the scene when the poor son of a bitch gets off the plane and there's Fidel waiting at the bottom of the ramp. The same night the embassy in Moscow bundles Mrs. Lindo and Isabel, who's two years old, onto another plane for Havana."

"Fidel knew?"

"From the start. He let the plot roll to see who'd sign on. There's a reason the Comandante has survived this long."

"What happened to Isabel?"

"Her mother went crazy and fell under a bus. Isabel was raised by her aunt under another name, which was the only reason she was picked for dance school. Cuban ballet is like Cuban sports, a miracle until you find out how it's done. They search the country for little prospects and she was a star at twelve. The uproar when they figured out she was Lazaro Lindo's little girl? Now, they point to her and say, 'See how we let the children of enemies of the people rejoin society.' What they're not going to do is promote the name Isabel Lindo on the bill as a prima ballerina, and they're never going to let her tour."

"Is her father still alive?"

"Died in jail. Somebody dropped a rock on him. What I'm saying is, this is no ordinary message Isabel wants from Russia. It might have all sorts of names and accusations and the messenger may be very sorry that he helped stir things up. She won't tell you that, but I will."

"I appreciate it."

"She's difficult, I know. You can help."

"How?"

"Don't get her hopes up."

"Did Pribluda get her hopes up?"

"Sergei was going to work for me."

"As what?"

"Security."

"Security? What kind of security can a Russian offer in Cuba? Is the Russian Mafia here?"

"Close. In Antigua, the Caymans, Miami. Not in Havana, not yet. Actually, what I worry about now is Luna. Have you seen the sergeant today?"

"Not yet. Luna said I would see him again, and I don't think he's a man of idle threats. I doubt Sergeant Luna knows what an idle threat is."

Walls went around to the passenger side and opened the dashboard. Nested on chamois cloth was a huge handgun with a slot trigger.» A Colt .45 automatic, a classic, Fidel's favorite. Luna has been useful. He has a lot of interesting connections. But you saw last night how he's just getting out of control. I have to disengage and it might be easier with someone watching my back. Maybe you'd be interested."

Arkady had to smile. Not much had amused him lately, but this offer did.» Right now I'm watching my own back."

"You don't look it. You have a 'fuck you' quality in an understated way. You could do general security, too."

"I don't speak Spanish."

"You'd learn."

"Actually, I prefer safer work."

"It's absolutely safe. The truth is, Arkady, I live in this tropical paradise on sufferance. There are people who would seize any opportunity, any embarrassment and say, 'Screw George Washington Walls, he's yesterday's news; if the Americans still want him, send him back.' In my situation, the quieter the better."

"Well, that's interesting, but I'm only in Cuba a few days."

"People say that. People say they're just coming through Havana, but you'd be surprised how often they stay. Someone conies around the world to a place like this, it's not pure chance. There's a reason."

Chapter Twelve

Arkady expected that any minute Luna would drop from a street sign or pop up from a manhole cover and make good on his promise to "fuck him up." Fucking up and killing were close but not the same. There was that added sexual charge, the suggestion of rough mating, as if a missing eye or ear were a reasonable token of intercourse. Killing was clean. Fucking up sounded messy.

Strangely enough, though, Arkady felt revitalized. Not exactly happy, but fueled by the search for the photograph and the small license it gave him to ask questions about Pribluda. Amused also, in a time of depression, by the implausible offer of employment providing security for an American radical like George Washington Walls. Perhaps because Havana was so unreal to him Arkady felt slightly invulnerable, like a man aware he is only having a nightmare. Luna was a nightmare figure. Luna was perfect.

When he got back to Pribluda's flat he propped the front door shut and carried a bottle of chilled water to the office, where he turned on the computer and, when the machine demanded a password, entered gordo. The machine chirped and the screen blinked and offered icons: programs, startup, accessories, main, printer. Twenty-five years in the KGB and an agent used a turtle's name as his password. Lenin wept.

Still interested in Pribluda's last day, Arkady went through accessories to calendar. Hours, days, months rolled backward without appointments, but what curious comfort to take, he thought. He couldn't speak Spanish, but he could navigate the universal PC desktop. CUMIN was the Cuban Ministry of Sugar and charts, RUSMIN the Russian Ministry of Trade, SUG-FUT the futures prices of Cuban, Brazilian and Indian sugar as they competed in commodities pits. Meanwhile, a downstairs din of drums and maracas suggested that Erasmo the car mechanic was at work. Arkady intended to talk to Mongo and find a photograph of Pribluda, but first things first, while he had the inspiration.

He opened sughab, which divided Havana into 150 sugar mills. The last file saved was comcfueg.

Commune Camilo Cienfuegos is the former Hershey sugar mill east of Havana. Visits to the field uncover poor Cuban maintenance of antiquated equipment. However, we must also frankly acknowledge that Russian ships carrying spare parts have failed to materialize, the latest being a freighter which was expected to make Havana by last week. It is suspected that the ship's captain has diverted it to another port along the South American coast and sold its cargo for a better price. Regrettably, this makes negotiations with the Ministry of Sugar more difficult.

Arkady supposed the Cubans would be testy about that. He started a search for the Havana Yacht Club. Nothing. Rufo Pinero. Nothing. Sergeant Luna and, for good measure, Captain Arcos. Nothing. Opened the E-mail outbox and inbox. Empty.

A document labeled azupanama caught his eye because Vice Consul Bugai had mentioned successful negotiations between Russia and Cuba thanks to a Panamanian sugar broker of that name, and Arkady thought it might be interesting to see what role the commercial attache Sergei Pribluda had played in that. He hit retrieve, and from its grave sprang a short, one-sided correspondence.

serk@dit.com/IntelWeb/ru Wed Aug 5 1996 A.I. Serkov, Manager Diamond International Trading 1123 Smolenskaya Ploshad, Rm. 167 Moscow

Dear Serkov,

Greetings from the land of mambo kings. I am just now getting used to sending mail through the internet so I hope you are all well, etc. The weather is agreeable, thank you. Let me know if this reaches you safely. Yours, S.S. Pribluda

It was like watching someone learn to ride a bicycle.

A.I. Serkov

Diamond International Trading

Dear Serkov,

Progress.

Yours,

S.S. Pribluda

Arkady liked the sound of that. Progress! Russian and to the point. Also interesting in that it had no E-mail address or time sent, suggesting that it was a note for a real message to be sent from an encrypted machine at the embassy.

serk@dir.com/IntelWeb/ru Mon Oct 1 1996

Serkov,

The Chinese contact has borne fruit. I think you will see that the fox is flushed! A fox and a wolf!

Pribluda

What a wordsmith. Pribluda had obviously been flushed with victory.» Success!" was all an agent need say.» Chinese contact" seemed far too much, not that Arkady was aware of any part of China abutting

Havana.

According to the spreadsheet, Pribluda's finances were straightforward, so much allotted each month for food, laundry, personal items, gasoline and car repair. The only unexplained expenditure was a hundred dollars paid every Thursday. If the item was sex, Arkady thought, Pribluda would have hidden it; as an unreconstructed Communist, Pribluda had a skewed but ironbound morality. No, the item could be for his Chinese contact. Or karate lessons. According to little Carmen, Pribluda did carry a black belt in his briefcase.

The more immediate fact was that the colonel had much more money than was found with the body in the inner tube. Arkady shut down the computer and searched the apartment again, more his line of work. This time he emptied everything, including shoes and hatbands. In pants hanging in the closet he found two red ticket stubs. In the medicine cabinet he found, rolled with white pasteboard inside a white aspirin bottle, a couple of pills left for sound effects and $2,500 American.

Which didn't tell him much. All the same, Arkady was satisfied with finding anything. He picked up a knife in the kitchen and let the blue of the sea draw him to a balcony chair. One moment he was full of nervous energy, the next barely able to move his feet. Was it the six-hour time difference from Moscow? Fear? The breeze was soft, the weight of the knife across his stomach was reassuring and he fell asleep, cooled by the sweat on his face.

He awoke to the rising pitch of sirens. The sun had moved to the far end of the Malecon, and coming up the seawall boulevard was a high-speed vanguard of four motorcycles, their way cleared in advance by PNRs who had suddenly appeared ahead at every intersection to stop all other traffic and chase bikers and pedicabs out of the way. Behind the bikes came a smooth, silent convoy, and as it flashed by people on the sidewalk paused in midstep, eyes darting to each vehicle as it flew past, from boxy Land Rover to wide Humvee, to a little Minint Lada that ran like a lapdog in front of two black Mercedes 280s with tinted glass and the swaying ride of heavy armor, from radio van to ambulance, from trailing Land Rover to a rear guard of four more cycles, an energetic whirlwind that made the entire Malecon come to a stop like a population in a trance and then, with its passing, released them.

Arkady's name was being shouted, and down on the pavement he saw Erasmo tilted backward in his wheelchair.

"Bolo, did you see him?" Erasmo touched his beard to signify El Lider, El Comandante, Fidel himself.

"That was him?"

"In one of the Mercedes. Or his double. No one knows and the where or when of the presidential cavalcade is never announced ahead of time. In fact, it's the only surprise in Cuba." Erasmo grinned and swung the chair back and forth.» You said you wanted to talk to Mongo when he came to work. Well, he didn't come."

"Has he got a phone?"

"Very funny. Come down and we'll find him. Besides, it's too beautiful to be inside. I'll give you the Cuban perspective."

Arkady thought that unless a person had an armored car and entourage it might be beautiful outside, but with Luna outside it was probably safer in.» Look," Erasmo admitted, "I need a driver."

Driving a Jeep with the radio pounding and Erasmo half over the car door, calling to friends on the Malecon was a different view of life. To begin with, the mechanic gave the PNRs a rude salute.

"Professional hijos de puta," he explained to Arkady.» I'm a capitalino, someone from Havana. We despise police, who are all rubes from the countryside, and they don't like us. It's war."

"Okay."

Some houses were Spanish castles carved from pink limestone, office buildings showed ranks of shutters with cockeyed slats and the sun itself disintegrated into light. While Arkady watched for Luna, Erasmo identified oncoming traffic.» '50 Chevy Styleline, '52 Buick Roadmaster, '58 Plymouth Savoy, '57 Cadillac Fleet-wood. You're a lucky man to see one of those." He also had Arkady slow by every girl thumbing a ride. In their bright Lycra pedal pushers, halters and hair clips each girl resembled Madonna, the singer not the mother of God.

"Isn't it dangerous for girls to hitch rides?" asked Arkady. In Moscow the only females who dared were either prostitutes or women so old they were bulletproof.

"If buses aren't running, women must find rides some other way. Besides, Cuban men may be macho but they have a sense of honor." All the girls Arkady saw were fullbore pubescent, with bare midriffs or body suits painted on, their thumbs out ostensibly for eunuchs. Erasmo spotted a hitchhiker in hot orange.» When you see a girl like that, you should at least honk."

"Did Pribluda honk?"

"No. Russians know nothing about women."

"You think so?"

"Describe a woman to me."

"Intelligent, humorous, artistic."

"Is this your grandmother? I mean a woman. Like the kinds here. Criolla: very Spanish, very white. Like the dancer Isabel. Negra: African, black, which can be very forbidding or very sexy. In the middle, mulata: a caramel color, skin soft as cocoa, eyes like a gazelle. Like your friend the police detective."

"You saw her?"

"I noticed her."

"Why do men always describe women in edible terms?"

"Why not? And the best to most Cuban men, china: mulata with just a hint of Chinese, of the exotic. Now describe a woman."

"A knife in the heart."

They drove for a while.

"That's not bad," Erasmo said.

"When you called me on the street, you said 'Bolo.' What does that mean?"

"Bowling ball. That's what we call Russians. Bolos."

"For our...?"

"Physical grace." Erasmo unveiled a vicious grin. The mechanic had a broad, vigorous face, huge shoulders. Arkady realized that with legs the man would have been a Hercules.

"Speaking of Chinese," Arkady said, "are there Chinese events on Thursdays around Havana?"

"Chinese events? Wrong city, my friend."

Undeniably, Arkady thought.

They went past high rises that had the dinginess of fingered postcards, until the Malecon was swallowed by a tunnel. Emerging in Miramar, Erasmo directed Arkady along the water on a dreary, sun-washed street called First Avenue. They passed the Sierra Maestra, the apartment house, where Arkady had interviewed the photographer Mostovoi. Erasmo pointed out a film theater called the Teatro Karl Marx that had been the Teatro Charlie Chaplin, and if there was a better example of socialist humor Arkady couldn't think of it. Beyond was a line of beach houses in pastels (peeling), family crests (defaced) and patios with (new) cinder-block benches, where Erasmo had Arkady steer the Jeep up on the sidewalk and stop as if that were safer than the street.

"For the tires, at least," Erasmo said.» This is an island of cannibals. Remember A/ive? The plane crash? Fidel is our pilot, but he would call a crash a Special Period."

Erasmo's wheelchair was a folding model with bicycle tires and once it was pulled from the back of the car and he was seated, he let Arkady know not to even offer a push. He tacked recklessly around broken bottles to a series of pool-sized basins filled with brackish water and, only a step below them, a shelf of pocked coral and seawater of restless green. Concrete blocks like the stones of a pyramid had been set out as a breakwater and snorkelers floated between them and the coral.

"They're spearfishing for octopus," Erasmo said when Arkady caught up.» Before the Revolution you could swim here in a freshwater pool, a saltwater pool or the ocean. Parties all the time, American friends learning the mambo." He lifted his chin toward a house with a wooden pergola on the second floor where sheets billowed like eager sails.» My grandmother's. She wore a sable jacket and used a lorgnette instead of eyeglasses, women of a certain class did. I used to tear up and down here on a Schwinn tricycle with streamers on the handlebars. I suppose in a way I still do."

"Do you still have family here?"

"They left long ago. Flew out, sailed out, paddled out. And, of course, if you leave, you're officially a traitor, a gusano, a worm. You can't just disagree with Fidel, you are against Fidel, against the Revolution, a criminal, a faggot or a pimp. That way there's no one against Fidel except scum."

Arkady looked at the house. It was quite grand. Erasmo's hair and beard had gone a little wild in the breeze.

"You didn't want to live here?"

"I used to. I traded for rooms where a garage wouldn't be so obvious. Mongo lives here now."

"You're old friends?"

"Old friends. You know, he often misses work but up to now he always let me know."

They backed the chair up the steps and through a progression of dining room, sitting room, courtyard, second parlor all turned into separate apartments, the larger rooms divided by plywood and sheets into two apartments, so that the house was a pueblecito, as Erasmo called it, a little city. He knocked at a door in the rear. When there was no answer, he told Arkady to feel over the doorframe for a key.

"This was my bedroom whenever I slept here. Some things stay the same. I loved it. Here I was Captain Kidd."

The room afforded such a sweeping view of the water it had to be a theater of fantasy for a boy brought up on pirate tales of the Caribbean, Arkady thought. The accommodations were tight: cot, sea chest, desk and shelf of adventures like Don Quixote, Ivanhoe and Treasure Island, with the overlay of a CD player, a mirror trimmed in red velvet, coconuts and seashells on the windowsill, a plastic saint surrounded by paper flowers. A truck-sized inner tube suspended from the ceiling made a bumper and chandelier in one. Hung in fishnet bags around the walls were flippers, reels, candles, sticks, jars of hooks by size. Under the bed were a toolbox, cans of motor oil, drums and gourds. On a hook over the bed was what looked like a crossbow without the bow, a long wooden muzzle with a pistol grip and trigger and three round bands of heavy rubber hanging from the front end.

"Speargun," Erasmo said. He had Arkady take it down and showed him how to place the elongated back end against a hip to pull the bands with both hands to a cocked position. The spear itself was a steel bolt with, instead of barbs, two folding wings held down by a sliding collar behind the tip.» The Cuban fisherman meets his prey on all fronts."

Arkady was more interested in pictures of boxers on the wall.

"Kid Chocolate, Kid Gavilan, Teofilio Stevenson. Mongo's heroes," Erasmo said.

Under a newspaper photo of Fidel in a sparring pose with a tall, spindly fighter the caption read, "El Jefe con eljoven pugilista Ramon Bartelemy."

"You said his name is Mongo."

Erasmo shrugged as if it were self-evident.» Ramon, Mongo, same thing."

The picture of Cuban boxers in front of the Eiffel Tower was identical with the one Arkady had seen in Rufo's room, except now Arkady saw that next to Rufo was Ramon "Mongo" Bartelemy.

"If he's not here, where do you think he is?"

"I don't know. His tube is here. Arkady, do you mind if I ask about the PNR? There were two stationed across the street until the show at the santero's. I know they don't like Russians, but is there anything you want to tell me? After all, it's where I live too."

Arkady thought that was a reasonable request.» Sergeant Luna might have something to do with them."

"Luna. That Luna, the dark phase of the moon, unseen but there. Yes, a bad man to cross and a very bad man to embarrass before his friends. An exquisite choice of enemy. And now the PNRs are gone. You may want them in case he's coming back."

"That's occurred to me."

"You're so intent on finding Sergei?"

"Or what happened to him."

"You should start thinking about what's going to happen to you. You have no authority and you don't even pretend to speak the language, which is a relief. You can't investigate, all you can do is get involved."

"In what?"

"Cuba, which is very complicated. But simply, if you don't want your head in a bucket, stay away from Luna. I tell you that because I feel a little responsible for last night. I don't need any more regrets."

Arkady opened the shutter wider. Under a low sun, waves pressed against an offshore breeze and two neumaticos came into view riding the crown of a swell, each in turn sliding up the incoming brow, sinking from sight and reappearing on the next slope of water like riders on submerged horses.» So, if Mongo's tube is here, where is he?"

"He can still fish."

By the time Arkady and Erasmo returned outside the neumaticos were using short paddles to maneuver around the breakwater. Green aerated waves churned between the breakwater and rock. The fishermen had to come in on one rush as much as possible and the boulders struck Arkady as an excellent place to crack a head.

"When does Mongo go out?"

"You never know. Neumaticos go out day or night. They fish one stretch of the bay and then another. I think you have to call fishing from an inner tube a feat of improvisation. They can stay close to shore or go miles out, where the charter boats are hooking marlin. The boats don't like that, having a couple of poor Cubans mess with their tourists."

"The neumaticos try to catch marlin?"

"They could. They're like buoys, they just drag behind until a fish gets tired. A fish could tow them to Florida, who knows? But they've got to get the fish back, no? Would you like to land a marlin in an inner tube? No. Another problem is barracuda because they'll bite on anything. A barracuda on your lap isn't so much fun either. So, they take smaller fish. They do well, especially at night, but then you have to take flashlights and lamps, and at night the inner tubes attract sharks, that's the part I wouldn't like. That's why neumaticos go in pairs, for safety."

"Always in pairs?"

"Absolutely, in case one gets sick or loses his fins. Especially at night."

"Do they have radios?"

"No."

"And what exactly could a neumdtico do while his friend was being eaten by a shark?"

Erasmo let his eyebrows rise.» Well, we have a lot of religions in Cuba to choose from."

What appealed to Arkady was the marginal aspect of the fishermen, the way they folded into the motion of the sea, rose on the horizon and then slid from sight, their vanishing act. Lying back in their tubes, they removed their flippers and sat up, paddles lifted. A still space was followed by a trough sucking sand and then a set of three waves gathering strength. Both men chose the same climactic surge and stroked in deep pulls to ride it around the breakwater and up the rocks. The nearer spilled, clutching his tube with one hand and rocks with the other until he could scramble up on his belly. The second was an older man in a straw hat, and he timed his landing to let the wave's momentum smoothly lift him standing onto the coral, the brim of his hat trembling raggedly in the breeze, shirt and pants bleached, black shanks ending in feet gray with calluses. He found a tide pool in which to deposit his catch while he tucked his gear between the tube and the net that constituted his one-man craft. Despite the weight and dripping of the inner tube balanced on his head, he found a match to light the stub of a cigar in his mouth.

Arkady dug out the photograph of the Havana Yacht Club for Erasmo to show him. The fisherman put his finger on Mongo and pointed to the sky.

"Pe'cando con cotneta. Con cometa."

"It's what I thought." Erasmo pointed out to Arkady a dot in the sky.» You see that kite? The old man says maybe he saw Mongo fishing over there. Even from the air the industrious Cuban finds his fish."

Arkady thought of Pribluda's heart attack.» Could you ask him if he ever fishes in the rain?"

"He says,'Sure.'"

"When there's lightning?"

A solemn shake of the head.» No."

"When was the last time there was lightning on the bay?"

"He says,'A month.'"

They took the Jeep. Since the kite was too far over the water to keep track of from the street, Arkady stopped for another look. From a bathing stairway he saw about two hundred meters farther on a thin figure in a cap standing on steps and playing out a string rising with a delicate curve that disappeared into the air. Perhaps three hundred meters over the water a kite rode the offshore wind. The Jeep honked.

"Sorry, but you should have seen them," Erasmo explained when Arkady returned to the car. Arkady swiveled and saw a pair of long-legged blondes roller-blading away.» Jineteras on wheels, a mechanic's fantasy."

"We're looking for Mongo."

"Right. To fish with a kite you actually need two lines," Erasmo said when they started driving again.» One to the kite, one to the hook. The first line takes the second one out, and when the kite is far enough to reach the kind of fish you want, you jerk the second line and it falls into the water."

"What about the charter boats below?"

"Richly amusing. They're playing Hemingway and here's a hook dropping down from some poor Cuban bastard on the beach."

Even though Mongo was not in view of the street, once they were close the kite string led them to two lime-green beach houses attached like Siamese twins at the second floor. The windows were boarded and weeds grew on the roof. Arkady helped Erasmo into his chair, and they moved through the walkway that ran between the houses to rocks sparkling with fish scales. A long shovel stood, inserted by the blade between cement stairs that had split. Reels of kite and hook cord spun on the wooden shaft, feeding themselves so fast to the outbound kite that they hummed. A green baseball cap fluttered on the handle. Whether he had seen Mongo or the shovel, Arkady wasn't sure. The car horn hadn't helped.

"How could he disappear so quickly?" Arkady asked.

"He can be elusive. That's what they called him when he was in the ring, the Elusive Mongo."

"Why would he run?"

"You'd have to ask him, but people stay away from police investigations if they can."

"Would you know his cap?"

"Of course."

As Arkady reached for the cap a breeze flipped it onto the water, where it floated in and out until an undertow dragged it under. At the same time, the spools on the shaft ran out and kite and hook cords flew into the air and could have been strings to the sun for all the chance of retrieving them.

It was January. In Moscow, the water would have been frozen and he could have walked out and picked up the hat, Arkady told himself. In Moscow, kites didn't carry hooks, black dolls didn't run from house to house and people might fall under wheels but they didn't turn into shovels, that was another difference.

Chapter Thirteen

Ofelia found Renko at the Malecon apartment. After he placed a chair against the door he led her down the hall to the office, where the computer monitor told a tale that was sad but true.

American attempts on the life of the Cuban Head of State have included the use of exploding cigars, exploding seashells, poison pens, poison pills, poison diving suits, poison sugar, poison cigars, midget submarines, snipers, bounties. They have employed Cubans, Cuban-Americans, Venezuelans, Chileans, Angolans, American gangsters. Cuban Security has investigated 600 plots against the President's life. The CIA has tried to introduce hallucinogenic sprays into television studios where the President was broadcasting and depilatory powders to make his beard fall out. For these reasons, the President continues to make use of a number of secure residences and never announces his schedule in advance.

"You found Pribluda's password." "Wasn't that brilliant of me?" he said.» This was entered January 5, the next to last file Pribluda entered, and I have to ask myself, what has this got to do with sugar?"

"It's nothing that any Cuban doesn't know. The life of the Comandante is always at risk."

"The day before he disappears, maybe the day before he dies, Sergei Pribluda gets the urge to write a short history of assassination attempts?"

"Apparently. He was a spy. Why are you interested?"

"I'm fishing with the Cuban method, setting hooks everywhere."

Ofelia had showered at home and come in jeans, a shirt tied at the midriff, sensible sandals, floppy straw bag over her shoulder, but she maintained a professional attitude.» Did you find a photograph of Pribluda for Dr. Bias?"

"No."

"But you have been busy." New and old maps of Havana printed by the Ministry of Tourism, Rand McNally and Texaco covered the desk.

"A cultural visit to the ballet, a pleasant drive on the Malecon. You?"

"I have other cases, no?" She regarded Pribluda's computer.» This machine is on Cuban territory."

"Ah, but the memory of this machine, that is purely Russian." Like a virtuoso of the keyboard, he exited the file, shut off the computer and, as screen and room went dark, said, "Useless without the code."

"You don't have the authority, the language or background to investigate here."

"I'd hardly call what I'm doing investigating. But then, you're not either."

It was not easy to control her temper around this man. She opened the bag and brought out a screwdriver, screws and slide bolt. The screwdriver was hers, but it had taken her an hour at the flea market outside the Central Train Station to find the bolt and screws.

"I brought you this for the door."

"Thank you, that's very thoughtful. Let me pay."

"A gift from the Cuban people." She thrust them into his hands.

"I insist."

"I insist more."

"Then, thank you. I will sleep like a babe. Better than a babe, a bivalve."

Whatever that meant, she thought.

After screwing in the bolt and latch, Renko celebrated what he called his "heightened sense of security" by opening a bottle of Pribluda's rum and taking a tray of Pribluda's pickles, mushrooms and other Russian indi-gestibles on a tray out to the balcony. Sitting in an aluminum chair, she scanned the street for danger while he basked in a half-moon that balanced at the end of a silver path across the water. The beam from Morro Castle swept the air, and the occasional Lada rattled by like a drum set being delivered. Jineteras in all hues of spandex cruised the seawall. An old man sold carrots from a briefcase that Renko pointed out looked identical with Pribluda's plastic briefcase and Ofelia said was of Cuban manufacture. A neumdtico out for night fishing carried a huge, inflated inner tube, making his way like a two-legged snail bearing his shell. Bikers raced on the pavement, and she saw a boy swoop by a tourist and snatch the woman's handbag off her shoulder so neatly that she spun around searching the ground while he crossed the boulevard and darted up a side street. PNRs arrived to play out the drama, the tourist turned, disillusioned, to her hotel, and the equilibrium of the Malec6n reestablished itself. Night divers climbed up the rocks, flashlights in one hand and squid in the other. Small dogs fought over the carcasses of gulls. Men drank from paper bags. Couples tucked into the night shadows of the pillars of the wall.

From the portal below came a slow country son, a poem by Guillen adapted to a six-stringed guitar.» Maria Belen, Maria Belen, Maria Belen, watching your hips roll and sway from Camaguey to Santiago, from Santiago to Camaguey"

Renko lit a cigarette.» Actually, Sergeant Luna seems to have forgotten about me. He didn't seem the forgetful type. Good rum."

"Cuba is known for its rum. Did you know the computer password the first time I brought you here?"

"No."

Ofelia hadn't thought so, which meant that he had found it since he had moved into the apartment, although she herself had looked everywhere when she dusted the place for prints. She controlled the impulse to glance back at the apartment and was aware of him watching her do just that.

"I've been thinking. Maybe it would be safer if you went to the embassy and stayed there under guard."

"Ruin my Caribbean vacation? Oh, no."

Even in poor light she saw the scab and bandage at his hairline. She felt unaccountably responsible for his state of health and infuriated, as usual, by the way he twisted a conversation.

"But you still claim that the sergeant attacked you? You think there is a conspiracy against you?"

"Oh, no, that would be crazy. I would say, however, after Rufo and Luna, a hint of animosity."

"Rufo is one thing," she maintained.» The accusation that an officer would attack you is an effort to paint Cuba a backward country."

"Why? It could certainly happen in Russia. The Russian senate is full of Mafia. They regularly assault each other with clubs, chairs, guns."

"Not in Cuba. I think you imagined Luna."

"I imagined the sergeant wears Air Jordans?"

"Then why hasn't he come back?"

"I don't know. Maybe because of you."

She wasn't sure how to take that.

Renko said, "You told me Dr. Bias was honest, and if he said the heart muscle of the man you pulled from the bay shows signs of cardiac arrest, the doctor is telling the truth?"

"If he says so."

"Let's say I do believe him. What I don't believe is that a healthy man has a heart attack for no reason. If he was out on the water and hit by lightning, that would be a different matter. Shouldn't Bias examine the body for signs of a bolt?"

"Anything else?" She meant to be sarcastic.

"You could find who Rufo talked to between the time he let me off and when he came back to kill me. Check his telephone records."

"Rufo didn't have a telephone."

"He had a cell phone when he picked me up at the airport."

"He didn't when I searched him. In any case, there is no investigation."

The Cuban guitar was the sweetest guitar on earth, with notes that flickered the way light dappled the water. She watched him light another cigarette from the ember of the first.

"Have you ever stopped smoking?"

"Certainly." He inhaled.» But I know a doctor who says the optimum time to start smoking is in a person's forties, when a person can really use nicotine's effect to focus the mind and forestall senility. He says it generally takes about twenty years for the consequences-cancer, coronary problems, emphysema-to develop, and then you are ready to go anyway. Of course, he's a Russian doctor."

Although she regarded it as a filthy habit, Ofelia heard herself say, "There were times I wished I smoked.

My mother smokes cigars and watches Mexican telenovelas and shouts to the characters, 'Don't believe her, don't believe that bitch!'"

"Really?"

"My mother is light-skinned from a family of tobacco growers, and even though she married a black cane cutter, my father, she always maintains the cultural superiority of tobacco workers. 'When they roll cigars in the factory, there's someone reading aloud the great stories. Madame Bovary, Don Quixote. You think in the middle of the cane field there's someone reading Madame Bovary? "

"I imagine not."

Ofelia opened her bag, laid the Makarov on her knees and placed a necklace of white and yellow beads around her neck.

"Very pretty," Renko said.

Bias would have disapproved. Yellow was for Oshun, the goddess of fresh water and sweet things, the color of honey and gold and Oshun's mulata glow. Ofelia was comfortable wearing it around the Russian because he was ignorant.

"Just beads," she said.» Does the music bother you?"

A song lingered in the arcade under the balcony. Havana being so crowded, there was a problem of privacy. Sometimes lovers chose the dark of the Male-con portal to consummate what they couldn't find room for anywhere else. The song said, "Eros, blind man, let me show you the way. I crave your strong hands, your body hot as flames, spreading me like the petals of a rose."

"No," Arkady said.

"You don't understand any Spanish?"

"Honey and absinthe pour from your veins, into my burning furrow and making me insane." Along with the song came murmuring and rustling from below. Couples on the seawall moved closer.

"Not a word."

"You know," Ofelia said, "there are differences between rumba, mambo, son, songo, salsa."

"I'm sure."

"But everything is based on drums, for dancing."

"Well, I'm not much of a dancer."

Not everyone had to be a dancer, Ofelia thought. Not that she found him attractive. As her mother would say, will he live through the day? Ofelia's first husband, Humberto, was black as a domino, a baseball player, a fantastic dancer. The second, a musician, was the sort everyone called chino, not only because he was such a handsome mix but because everybody liked him. He played bongos, which demanded an outgoing personality. Until he finally went out completely. But an even better dancer than Humberto. Her mother despised them both and simply called them Primero and Segundo, leaving lots of room for additions. Compared with them, wrapped in his black coat in spite of the heat, Renko looked like an invalid.

"That's how spirits communicate," she explained.» They're in the drums. Unless you dance the spirits can't come out."

"Like they came out for Hedy?"

"Yes."

"Then it's safer not to dance."

"Then you're already dead."

"Good point. Abakua is a version of Santeria?"

"They couldn't be more different. Santeria is from Nigeria, Abakua is from the Congo." It was like confusing Germany and Sicily.

"Bias said they used to run smuggling."

Ofelia was starting to learn how Renko hid behind the most innocent expressions ready to pounce. She wasn't going to get into the fact there were two Abak-uas, a public one with sincere devotees who could be university professors or Party members and a secret criminal Abakua that had risen from its grave. This second Abakua was, needless to say, for men only and had a thieves' morality. Murder of an outsider was allowed, while informing on another Abakua was the ultimate sin. And Cubans believed the Abakua could reach anywhere. Ofelia knew an informer who got himself assigned to a post in Finland to escape Havana. He died falling through the ice and people said, "Abakua!" The police had not penetrated the Abakua. In fact, more police-black and white-were becoming members. Anyway, the last thing she needed was this sort of conversation with a Russian.

"We don't have to talk about it," Arkady said.

"It was the way you asked."

"I sounded smug? It's just my ignorance. I apologize."

"We will not talk about religions."

"God knows."

From the radio in the portal rose the deep beat of a drum that Ofelia knew had to be a tall iya with a dark red center on the skin, accompanied by the grinding rhythm of a belly-shaped gourd. A single horn insinuated itself, the way a man asked a woman to dance.

"Anyway, it's not a bad thing to be possessed," Ofelia said.

"Well, I have an unimaginative Russian mind, I don't think it's going to happen to me. What is it like?"

"Theoretically?" She watched him for the slightest hint of condescension.

"Theoretically."

"As a child, you must have spread your arms and put your head back and danced in the rain. You are drenched and clean and dizzy. If you are possessed, it's like that."

"Afterward?"

"Your mind still spins."

An abwe, the poor man's triangle, joined in from below. It was nothing more than a hoe blade played with a stick of iron, but an abwe could sound like the ticking in the mind when a man's strong hand reached around your waist. As the saxophone tried to wrap around it, the gourd trembled, the drum stopped and started like a heart. These were the snares set for silly girls who lingered in shadows. Not Ofelia. She visualized a clear mind.

She looked toward his arm, the one she had found the bruises on.» You're sounding better. You were not in a healthy mood when you came here."

"I am now. I'm curious about Pribluda and Rufo and Luna. I have a new purpose in life, so to speak."

"But why did you want to hurt yourself?"

She half expected contemptuous dismissal, but Renko said, "You have it backwards."

Ofelia sensed the next question so strongly she asked before she checked herself, "Did you lose someone? Not here. In Moscow?"

"I lose people all the time." He lit one cigarette from the other.» Most boats that go on the rocks really don't intend to go there. It's not a mood, it's just exhaustion. Exhaustion from self-pity." He added, "You're with someone and for some reason with them you feel more alive, on another level. Taste has taste and color has color. You both think the same thing at the same time and you're doubly alive. And if you manage to lose them in some gruesomely irrevocable way, then strange things happen. You wander around looking for a car to hit you so you won't have to go home in the evening. So this incident with Rufo is interesting to me because I don't mind a car hitting me, but I do mind a driver trying to hit me. A fine distinction, but there you are."

In the night Ofelia awoke to find lovers gone, the moon becalmed. In the very lack of breeze she detected a faint scent, a perfume she traced to Renko's soft black coat, to the sleeve of a man who claimed he'd never been possessed.

Chapter Fourteen

Osorio left before dawn, and as soon as she was gone Arkady expected Luna to climb up the front of the building or crawl through the air shaft. It wasn't so much that Arkady didn't trust Osorio as that he didn't understand her. Why she would spend the night in a metal chair with the island's least popular Russian was a mystery to him, unless she was working with Luna and only insinuating herself into the apartment. If that was the case, all the locks in the world wouldn't help.

By eight o'clock the Malecon stretched like a floodlit stage. Boys crouched in the blue shadow of the seawall to spool loose fishing line. Men opened cases of homemade hooks and weights for sale. Bikes rolled by with a father on the pedals, a boy on the handlebars, mother and baby on a plank over the rear wheel, an entire family rolling by. Still no Sergeant Luna.

Arkady went downstairs, but instead of going out on the street he knocked on Erasmo's door, deliberately pounding out of rhythm with the music from the garage's radio until Tico answered and let him into Erasmo's private area with the cut-down bed and table.

"Erasmo's not here." Tico was in his coveralls, with an inner tube over his shoulder and a Tropicola can in his hand.

Arkady shouted over the radio.» You speak Russian."

"I speak Russian." Tico sounded as if he'd just realized it. He was the same age as his friend Erasmo, but time seemed to have left his hair dark and thick as fur, no wrinkles or lines of care to mark his smooth, trusting visage, a boy's face on a middle-aged man.

"Do you mind if I go out through the garage?"

"I don't mind. You can go but you can't come back. The garage is closed."

Arkady pushed through the beaded curtain. Tico told the truth. The doors of the garage were closed, the Jeeps inside parked bumper to bumper.

Tico said, "The garage is closed because Erasmo doesn't want me selling any cars while he's gone."

"I won't bother you, I just want to go out the back way." And avoid any eyes out front, Arkady thought.

"Erasmo's with the Chinese. He's with the Chinese."

"He is? What Chinese?"

"The dead Chinese. But he'll be there all day and I'm not supposed to sell any cars. He said, 'Radio silence!' I'm not supposed to talk to anyone."

"Where are the dead Chinese?"

"Radio silence!"

"Ah."

"I wasn't supposed to answer the door."

"No, you were being polite." Arkady dug a pencil from his coat and spread a piece of paper over a hood.» Can you write it?"

"I can write as well as anyone."

"Don't tell me, but write where I can find Erasmo and the Chinese."

"They're dead, that's a clue."

"Good." As Tico bent over the paper and printed in block letters, Arkady threw in, on the off-chance, "Do you know where Mongo is?"

"No."

"Do you know what happened to Sergei?"

"No." Tico returned the pencil with an anxious expression.» Are you going to see Erasmo now? If you see him right away he'll know it was me."

"Not right away."

Tico brightened.» Where are you going?"

"The Havana Yacht Club."

"Where is that?"

Arkady held up a map.» In the past."

He went out the garage doors and walked the back street half a dozen blocks before returning to the Male-con. The boulevard had become familiar in a matter of days, the coughing of trucks, boys casting nets from the seawall, scruffy dogs chewing on a flattened carcass of a gull. A PNR at a corner gave all his attention to a bicycle cart weighted with teenage girls. No Luna at all.

In Arkady's hand was Sergei Pribluda's forty-year-old Texaco map, a foldout map that located the Presidential Palace and American embassy, Cuban-American Jockey Club and racetrack, Woolworth's and Biltmore Country Club of a vanished Havana. Not that the city wasn't still surreal. Houses on the Malecon were fantasies: Greek pediments on Moorish columns and crumbling walls with fleurs-de-lis in faded pinks and blues. Venice had merely the threat of sinking. Havana looked sunken and raised.

What surprised Arkady was how much Havana was the same as on a forty-year-old map. He walked by the colossal Hotel Nacional and the angled glass tower of the Hotel Riviera, both "popular with vacationing Americans" according to the key of the map. Neumdti-cos rilled inner tubes with air at a former Texaco gas station "with Fire Chief service!"

It took Arkady ninety minutes to walk the Malecon, cross the Almendares River with its small boatyards and sewer stench, and stroll westward the length of Mira-mar, past Erasmo's family house and the steps where Mongo disappeared. He could have taken a taxi at any point, and he knew by now that half the cars on the road were happy to be flagged down to earn a few American dollars. He didn't want to drive into the past, he wanted to sink into it step by step.

At Miramar's very end he approached a traffic circle with an at-one-time Texaco station, a stadium that had been the Havana greyhound track and, according to Pribluda's map, the Havana Yacht Club.

It wasn't the sort of place people just stumbled onto. There were no other pedestrians. Cars hurtled around the circle and spun away. Only someone looking for it would have noticed a driveway curving along a screen of royal palms and around a lawn to a classical mansion in white with heavy columns, twin grand staircases and broad colonnades. Over it lay the ghostly silence of a colonial governor's palace abandoned in a coup, occupants decamped, the first signs of decay visible in the split reflection of a broken window and a red tile missing from the hip of the roof. Carved above the pediment of a central porch was the design of a ship's wheel on a pennant. In the entire scene there was no movement at all except for the sway of palm fronds. It was easy to imagine Havana's social elite posing on the steps because he'd already seen it, in the photograph of Erasmo's family.

He climbed a stairway and walked through open mahogany doors into a hall of white walls and limestone floors. Under a wrought-iron chandelier an elderly black woman in an aluminum chair stared up at him through thick glasses as if he'd dropped from a spaceship. A red telephone sat at her side, and the sight of a visitor prompted her to call and talk to someone in slurred Spanish while Arkady went on through tall French doors to an empty hall. A line of reception rooms connected like a bright and airy tomb, and the sound of his footsteps preceded him in the direction of a bar with a dark, curving counter stripped of stools, chairs, bottles. A portrait of Che hung by an empty glass case that must at one time have displayed race trophies, sailing ladders, models. All that was left of a nautical theme were wall medallions of a ship's wheel. The bar opened to an outdoor area with a stage ready for a Cuban band that could teach even Americans the mambo.

He returned inside and climbed to the second floor. At the top of the stairway was a tall admiral's chair of black mahogany. Everything else had been carted away and nothing added except more metal chairs of the Revolution. He stepped out onto a porch facing the ocean for a view of a private cove.

A brick promenade as large as a city plaza spread out to a row of thatched umbrellas and fan-shaped palms that led on to white sand and shallow water embraced by broad piers and, beyond, enough anchorage in bright blue water for a regatta. The only craft Arkady saw now were neumdticos, dots on the horizon, and the only figures on the beach were a dozen boys kicking a soccer ball back and forth.

Arkady couldn't resist the temptation. After he went back down the stairs he removed his shoes and socks to walk onto the beach and feel the warm fine-grained sand underfoot. The boys ignored him. He climbed the steps of a wide cement pier and walked fifty meters to its end. Havana had disappeared. The club dominated a hundred meters of waterfront, joined on the western side by the old dog track and toward the east by a white minaret rising over palms. Not a single person was on the beach before the Moorish tower, and although the sand ran to a point of wild scrub that could have been a desert island, it was familiar. From his shirt pocket Arkady brought out the photograph of Pribluda, Mongo and Erasmo with those same trees at the same size and angle in the background. He was standing where the picture had been taken. At the Havana Yacht Club.

The boys on the beach of the club waved, Arkady thought, at him and then he turned to the clapping of an inboard powerboat sweeping around a breakwater. It skimmed the waves, shooting rays off its windshield, then slowed with a skater's turns until Arkady could make out George Washington Walls in short sleeves and sunglasses. He swung the boat about and approached parallel to the pier, dropping the engine to a silken idle and keeping a safe distance from the pilings. The boat was low, long and angular, its hull and deck of gleaming, black mahogany, its bow sheathed in brass. In the cabin, black curtains were drawn. The dash had the glinting brightwork and deep patina that came only from age and infinite care. Fluttering from the transom pole was a pirate's pennant with crossed sabers.

"Hemingway's boat?" Arkady asked.

Walls shook his head.» Maybe Al Capone's. A seaplane tender turned rumrunner."

"Capone was here?"

"He had a place."

Once again, Arkady was impressed.» How did you know I was here?"

"The basic form of communication on this island is old women with phones. Why are you here?"

"Curiosity. I wanted to see the yacht club."

"Doesn't exist."

"I've always wanted to see someplace that didn't exist."

"Cuba's the place," Walls admitted. He looked at the club and back at Arkady and the shoes in Arkady's hand.» Yeah, you look like you're settling in. Do you have a couple of minutes? How would you like a cup of coffee with two men who have been on the FBI's Most Wanted List?"

"That sounds irresistible." Arkady hesitated.» Has Luna been invited, too?"

"Not to this party. No drums, no dancing, no Luna. Hop in."

Walls reversed and swung the stern to present the transom with the name "Gavilan" on the stern. Arkady jumped without breaking a leg, and as he slipped into a leather seat the boat scooped him up and moved away from the dock.

The ride was brief, smoothly skimming the waves out of the cove to deeper, bluer water until Walls slowed as smoothly as a limousine driver to a stop, the sharp nose of the boat headed to the wind. Giving Arkady a sign to wait, he ducked down into the cabin and returned with a tray table that locked into the cockpit deck, ducked down and returned with a brass tray carrying a basket of sweet rolls, a pot of coffee and three china demitasses with "Gavilan" written on the side. The cabin doors opened again for a small, silver-haired man in black pajamas and slippers, who climbed the steps and sat himself across from Arkady. He wore the smile of a man who was both magician and the rabbit in the hat.

Walls said, "John, I want you to meet Arkady Renko. Arkady, John O'Brien."

"A great pleasure." O'Brien took Arkady's hand with both of his. He caught Arkady's glance at the pajamas.» Well, it's my boat and I dress as I please. Winston Churchill, you know, used to wander around in the altogether. I'll spare you that. And you wear this somewhat astonishing coat, George told me about that. I apologize for not coming up sooner, but when George winds up the Gavilan I stay below. Falling overboard would be fatal for my dignity. You like cafe cubano, I hope?"

Walls poured. O'Brien might have been close to seventy, Arkady guessed, but he had a youthful voice, engaging eyes and an oval face as lightly freckled as a shorebird's egg. He wore a wedding band on his hand, a silver Breitling on the wrist.

"How do you like Havana?" he asked Arkady.

"Beautiful, interesting, warm."

"The women are unbelievable. My friend George here is smitten. I can't afford to fall in love because I still have family in New York, on Long Island, a very different island. I happen to be a faithful man and someday, God willing, I'll be home."

"There are problems now?" Arkady broached the subject delicately.

O'Brien brushed a crumb from the table.» A legal hurdle or two. George and I have been fortunate enough to find a home away from home here in Cuba. By the way, I am sorry to hear about your friend Pribluda. The police think he's dead?"

"They do. Did you know him?"

"Of course, he was going to do some security work for us. A simple man, I would say. Not a very good spy, I'm afraid."

"I'm not a judge of spies."

"No, just a humble investigator, to be sure." O'Brien added a touch of Irish brogue. He clapped his hands.» What a day! If you're going to be a fugitive from justice, where would you rather be?"

"Are you the only fugitives in Cuba?"

"Hardly. How many of us are there?" O'Brien cast a doting eye on Walls.

"Eighty-four."

"Eighty-four Americans on the lam. Well, it's better than a life in a federal minimum-security prison, where you get lawyers, congressmen, dope dealers, the usual cross-section of America. Here you get genuine firebrands like George. For a businessman like me, it's an opportunity to meet entirely new people. I never would have had the chance to become so close to George in the States."

"So you try to keep busy?"

"We try to stay alive," O'Brien said.» Useful. Tell me, Arkady, what are you doing here?"

"The same."

"By visiting the Havana Yacht Club? Explain to me, what has it got to do with a dead Russian?"

"A missing man at the place that doesn't exist anymore? That sounds perfect to me."

"He's sort of careful," Walls said to O'Brien.

"No, he's right," O'Brien said and patted Arkady's knee.» Arkady's a man who's just sat down to play cards and doesn't know the rules of the game and doesn't know the value of his chips."

O'Brien's black pajamas had pockets. He took out a large cigar that he rolled between his fingertips.

"You know the great Cuban chess champion Capablanca? He was a genius, thinking ten, eleven moves ahead. He smoked Cuban cigars, of course, while he played. One title match his opponent extracted a promise from Capablanca that he wouldn't smoke. All the same, Capablanca brought out his cigar, squeezed it, licked it, savored it, and his opponent went nuts, lost the match and said that not knowing Capablanca was going to light up was even worse than him smoking. I love Cuban cigars, too, although the joke's on me because the doctor says I'm not allowed to smoke anymore. Just tease myself, that's all. Anyway, what led you to the club, that's your cigar. We'll just have to wait for you to light it up. For the time being, we'll simply say you were curious."

"Or amazed."

"By what?" asked Walls.

"That the club survived the Revolution."

"You're talking about the Havana Yacht Club now," O'Brien said.» The French, you know, they beheaded Louis, but they didn't burn Versailles. What Fidel did was give the club, the grandest, most valuable single property in the entire country, to a construction union and charge Cubans, black or white, one peso to use the beach. Very democratic, communistic, admirable."

Walls pointed toward the Moorish tower. "La Concha, the casino on one side of the cove, they gave to the caterers' union and the greyhound track they turned into track and field."

"God knows, I respect idealism," O'Brien said, "but let me put it this way, as a result these properties have not been developed to their maximum. There's an opportunity here to create something of enormous value for the Cuban people."

"Is that where you come in?"

"I hope so. Arkady, I was a developer. Still am. George can tell you I'm not sneaky. Disney's sneaky. When they start buying up land they form a little corporation that sounds like your neighbors trying a little preservation, buying an acre here, an acre there and then you wake up one morning and there's a two-hundred-foot mouse outside your window. I'm up front. Every developer wants one great landmark development, his own Eiffel Tower or Disneyland. I want to make the Havana Yacht Club once again the center of the Caribbean, bigger and better than ever."

Walls took over.» See, the government developed Varadero Beach and Cayo Largo because they wanted to keep tourists as far from Cubans as possible. But tourists want Havana. They want the girls at the Tropi-cana and strolling in Havana Vieja and dancing all night at the Palacio de la Salsa. The government's finally getting the right idea, restoring the Malecon, rebuilding old hotels, because what tourists want is style. Fortunately, by a miracle, the Havana Yacht Club is in great condition."

"Its upkeep drains the state of half a million pesos a year. George, tell him it could be making the state thirty million dollars a year."

"It could," Walls said.

O'Brien pointed to the club and beach.» That's conference center, restaurant, nightclub, twenty suites, twenty rooms, time shares or condo that can be explored. Plus spa, berthing for boats, you want luxury cruisers. What I'm describing to you, Arkady, is a gold mine waiting for someone to pick up a shovel."

Arkady couldn't help wondering why two well-placed American fugitives would share their aspirations with him, although he sensed that O'Brien was the sort of salesman who enjoyed his own performance, like an actor who could deliver the most outrageous lines while he winked at the audience. Since Arkady's construction experience had been in Siberia, he felt at a loss at luxury cost projections.» To make the club into a hotel might be expensive."

"Twenty million," Walls took over.» We'd find the money and the Cuban government wouldn't put up a single peso or dollar."

"A lot of people," O'Brien said modestly, "would call that a gift."

"And what do you want in return?" Arkady asked.

O'Brien said, "Guess."

"I don't have the faintest idea."

O'Brien leaned forward as if sharing a secret.» Last year an Indian casino in Connecticut, in the-excuse my language-fucking north woods, with no sex, no style, no sun, cleared one hundred million dollars. What do you think a casino set among palm trees and cruise ships and million-dollar yachts and the famous, reborn Havana Yacht Club might possibly take in? I don't know, but I'd love to find out."

"We're asking for a twenty-five-year lease of the old La Concha casino and an even split of profits with the Cuban government," Walls said.» It's a no-risk situation for them, but there's a political problem in that they made such a big deal about closing casinos after the Revolution."

"Closing casinos and closing the Mafia," O'Brien said.» Which was why, with the CIA, the Mafia tried to kill the President."

"Castro, he means," Walls said.» And it's not easy to get Cubans to reverse direction. It would stop us cold if there was even a hint any Mafia, American or Russian, was involved. Our casino has to be absolutely clean."

"Any project at an early point," said O'Brien, "is like a bubble, anything can burst it. Your friend Pribluda was going to be our protection from the sort of Russians who are, I assure you, swarming into the Caribbean like the Visigoths. The wrong people showing up at the wrong time can burst the bubble. Which is why I told George we should take the boat and get a certain Russian investigator off the Yacht Club dock before anyone else heard you were there."

"And brings us back to the question," Walls reminded Arkady.» Why were you at the club?"

Arkady felt like a can between two expert can openers. The photograph of the Havana Yacht Club was in his pocket. However, he wasn't in the mood to offer to strangers what he had kept at some cost in blood from the sergeant.

"In four more days I'll be back in Moscow and it won't matter why I went to the club."

"Why go back?" O'Brien asked.» Stay here."

Walls said, "Pribluda's gone. I hate to put it this way, but there is an opening now."

Arkady took a moment to understand the new direction of the conversation.» An opening for me?"

"Maybe," O'Brien stressed.» You don't mind if we got to know you a little better before we offered you a position?"

"A position?" Arkady asked.» That sounds even better than work. You don't know me at all."

"Oh, I don't?" O'Brien said.» Let me guess. In your forties, right? Disappointed in your work. It's evident you're bright but you're still just an investigator? A little reckless, working too close to the edge, inviting disaster. Except for the coat, cheap clothes, cheap shoes, signs of an honest man. But the way things are in Moscow now you must feel like a fool. And personal life? I'm taking a stab in the dark, but I'd say you don't have one. No wife, maybe not even kids. Zero, dead end. And that's what you can't wait to get back to in only four more days? I'm not trying to suck you into a criminal endeavor, I'm opening you a door on the ground floor of the biggest project in the Caribbean Basin. Maybe you'd rather soak up vodka and freeze to some fucking miserable death in Moscow, I don't know. All I can do is offer you an opportunity for a second chance at life."

"Not a bad guess."

O'Brien smiled in a not unkind way.» Ask yourself this, Arkady, will you be missed in Moscow? Is there anyone you can't say good-bye to on the phone? Is there anyone you'll miss?"

"Yes," Arkady said, a second late.

"Sure. Let me tell you about the saddest picture in the world. The saddest picture in the world is in the Prado Museum in Spain, it was painted by Goya and it's a picture of a dog in the water. You just see its head and muddy water swirling around and the dog's big eyes looking up. The dog could be taking a swim, except that the title Goya gave it is Drowning Dog. I look at you and I see those eyes. You're drowning, and I'm trying to give you a hand out of the water. Have you got the nerve to take it?"

"And the money?" Arkady asked, just to play the fantasy out.

"Forget the money. Yes, you'd be rich, have a Cuban villa, car, boat, girls, whatever, that's not the point. The point is you'd have a life and you'd be enjoying it."

"How would I do that?"

"Your visa can be changed," Walls took over.» We have friends who can extend your visa and you can stay as long as you like."

"You wouldn't worry then about me being at the Havana Yacht Club?"

"Not if you were on the team," Walls said.

"We're not offering a free ride," O'Brien said, "but you'd be part of something big, something to be proud of. All we're asking in return is one miserable token of trust from you. Why were you at the Havana Yacht Club? How did you get the idea?"

Before Arkady could answer, the boat was surrounded by upwelling light. He looked over the side, and in the water a thousand spoons reflected the sun.

"Bonito," O'Brien said.

"They always go east to west?" Arkady asked.

"Against the current," Walls said.» Tuna go against the current, so do the marlin, and eventually the boats do, too."

"A strong current?"

"The Gulf Stream, sure."

"Going towards the bay?"

"Yes."

First one and then by the dozens the fish exploded from the water. Iridescent, glassy arcs surrounded the Gavilan and salt spray rained. In seconds the entire school had scattered, replaced by a long dark shape with blue pectoral wings.

"Marlin," Walls said.

Without apparent effort the big fish kept pace within the shadow of the boat, a faint veil of pink trailing behind him.

"He's taking his time," Arkady said.

"Hiding," said Walls.» He's an assassin, that's the way he operates. He'll slice up a whole school of tuna and then come back to feed."

"Do you fish?"

"Spearfish. Evens the odds."

"Do you?" Arkady asked O'Brien.

"Hardly."

From above, the marlin's sword was thin as a draftsman's line, unsheathed yet almost invisible. The men were transfixed until the marlin sank into deeper water, blue into blue.

They took Arkady not back to the Yacht Club but through fishing boats along the western shore. On the outer dock of the Marina Hemingway a trio of Frontier Guards in fatigues lazily waved the boat in. The Gavilan steered to the inner dock, where a hook for weighing fish stood among the thatched parasols of a cantina and disco stage, the smell of grilled chicken and blare of amplified Beatles. An empty swimming area was defined by floats, but snorkelers had gathered along the canal where Walls started veering toward an open berth. Not Hemingway, but an old man in a hat with a band of miniature beer cans waved Walls away and shouted angrily at swimmers, "Peligroso! Peltgroso!"

Steering wide of the snorkelers, Walls continued down the canal to a turnaround. Fishing boats with rod racks and flying bridges slid by, speedboats as low and colorful as sun visors, and power yachts with sun lounges and Jet Ski launches, oceangoing palaces of affluence and indolence sculpted in white fiberglass. The shouts from a volleyball court were pure American.

"Texans," Walls said.» Cruising people from the Gulf, they leave their boats here year round."

Along the canal people washed out lockers, carried baskets of food and plastic bags of laundry, pushed trucks of bottled gas. Walls eased to a stop at the inner end of the canal, where a market sold CopperTone and Johnnie Walker Red. Outside, a Cuban girl in a Nike shirt sat with a blond boy. His shirt had a portrait of Che.

O'Brien shook Arkady's hand again in an enthusiastic double grasp.» You're staying next to the santero, I understand. We'll talk tomorrow."

"About a 'position'? I don't think I'm qualified. I know nothing about casinos."

"The way you handled Sergeant Luna you sound eminently qualified to me. As for casinos, we'll give you the grand tour of all the famous sin spots of Havana. Right, George?"

Walls said, "You could have your own boat right here, Arkady. Girls come at night, knock on the side of the boats. They'll cook and clean, too, just to stay on board."

Arkady glanced around at his putative yachting neighbors.» What are the Americans like?"

Walls tried half a smile.» Some are free spirits and some are the same rednecks I tried to leave thirty years ago. One son of a bitch from Alabama wanted me to autograph my wanted poster. He said it was a collectible. I was ready to slice and collect his fucking nuts."

"Ah, well," O'Brien said, "to be a souvenir, that has to be a form of death. Arkady, you'll consider the offer?"

"It's an unbelievable offer."

"Seriously, think about it," O'Brien said.» I understand, it's tough to leap even from a sinking ship."

Chapter Fifteen

There was death and death. Leaving by the marina's traffic gate, Arkady encountered a fisherman staggering under the weight of a marlin mounted on an enormous wooden plaque. The fish was caught in midflight, dorsal fin fanned, spear challenging the sky, the entire animal a metallic blue so unreal it could have been a small submarine, and Arkady remembered once walking with Pribluda in Moscow, following the river to the Church of the Redeemer. It was spring, and where the river sluiced in turgid, rubbery folds under the Alexander Bridge men fished with long, whiplike poles. Pribluda asked, "What man in his right mind would eat a fish caught in Moscow. Such a fish would have to be tougher than a boot. Renko, if you ever see me with a fishing pole in the middle of Moscow, do me a favor. Shoot me."

Ofelia reached the pool at the Casa de Amor and heard Los Van Van on the radio in a room overhead singing "Muevete!"-Move it!-and it was as if wooden claves were dancing down her spine and she thought, not for the first time, how she distrusted music. So it had been a shock for her to put her fingers on the Russian's vein and feel the rhythm of his pulse.» Don't mess unless you want to be messed with" was one of her mother's favorite sayings. Along with "Don't move your ass unless you're advertising." Sometimes she thought, Moving your ass, that was the Cuban Method. That was why life was such a mess, because at the worst times and with the worst of men some signal would trickle down from her brain and say, "Muevete!" On the street in the shade of ceiba tree sat a '57 Dodge Coronet with private plates she had been allotted for surveillance work. Its front bumper hung on wires from too many collisions. She knew the feeling.

Since the shore on this stretch of Miramar was stone flats and coral rubble, the Casa de Amor was built around a pool area, empty except for two boys playing table tennis. Early afternoon was the time when most jineteras and their new friends from abroad would be riding rickshas around Old Havana, sipping mojitos in the Bodeguita del Medio or listening to romantic music in the Plaza de la Catedral. Later, boutique hopping and dinner in a paladar, where a plate of rice and beans could cost a Cuban's weekly salary, back to the Casa de Amor for a little sex and then the long evening out at the dance clubs.

When Cuban couples came to the Casa de Amor to consummate their passion, no rooms were ever available. But for "love couples" ofjineteras and tourists, yes, there was always a room with fresh sheets, towels and a vase with a long-stemmed rose. Ofelia had discovered that complaints to the police had gone nowhere, which merely meant that the police themselves were protecting the motel. At the room rate of $90 a night, the cost of first-class accommodations at the Hotel Nacional, there was reason to protect such a gold mine, even if the gold was mined with the sweat of Cuban girls.

A heavyset woman in coveralls swept the street with a branch besom at a steady six strokes a minute. Ofelia stationed herself by an ice machine under the stairs to the second floor and listened to the music and occasional footfall from the rooms overhead. Only the middle two units were occupied-just as well, since her manpower and time were so limited. The boys at the Ping-Pong table finished one game and started another.

The Russian, she had decided, was a disaster to be avoided. Just the light in his eyes was like the ember of a banked fire warning, "Don't stir." It was bad enough he was a danger to himself; his story about Luna was insanity. Here was a man who threw Luna halfway up a wall and then acted modestly surprised when the sergeant's head split open. How Renko had banged up his head, she didn't know. Maybe there was something to his story about the bat. In her opinion, though, Renko was a goat whose brilliant idea of catching a tiger was to stake himself down. He would bring the tiger, might bring all the tigers in the jungle, what then? Which was a shame because he wasn't a bad investigator. To return with him to Casablanca and watch him draw out the fisherman Andres was an instruction in police work. He wasn't dumb, just crazy, and at this point she was afraid to be with him and afraid to leave him on his own.

The street sweeper dropped her broom in a can. Over Ofelia's head a door closed, and two pairs of footsteps made their way the length of the balcony, Ofelia keeping pace below. She placed herself under the stairs as they came down. It wasn't until the couple stepped down to pool level that they were aware of the convergence on them of Ofelia, holding herself as tall as she could in her PNR gray and blue, and the street sweeper, who dropped her broom to show her own uniform and gun.

The tourist was a redheaded man in a shirt, shorts, sandals, a Prada bag around his thick neck, his arm draped like a freckled sausage over the girl's shoulder. He said, "Scheisse."

Ofelia recognized Teresa Guiteras. The girl was black, smaller than Ofelia with a mop of curls and a yellow dress that barely reached her thighs. Teresa protested, "This time it's love."

During a public-works frenzy in the thirties, Cuba had built police stations in the style of Sahara forts. The one on the west end of the Malecon was particularly sun-blasted, white paint peeling off battlements, a radio mast on the roof, a guard sheltering in the shade of the door. Air-conditioning had never been introduced and the interior stifled, with historic scents of piss and blood. The police regularly mounted campaigns against jineteras, cleaning up the Malecon and Plaza de Armas. The next night the same girls would be back, but paying a little more to the police for protection. Because Ofelia's minor operation was directed at corrupt officers of the PNR rather than at the girls, she was not popular with the other detectives, all male, who shared her office. When she returned with the girl, she found the wall behind her desk newly decorated with a poster of Sharon Stone straddling a chair, and taped in the center of the poster the regulations concerning premature discharge of a weapon. Ofelia stuffed the poster into a wastebasket and set a tape machine with two radio-style microphones on the desk. The third person in the room was Dora, the patrol sergeant who had been the watch by the pool, an older woman with a face mournful from experience.

Teresa Guiteras Marin was fourteen, a tenth-grade student from the country town of Ciego de Avila, although she had already been warned before by Ofelia about soliciting tourists near the Marina Hemingway. Ofelia asked how and where Teresa had met her friend (by chance on the Malecon), what money or rewards had been offered or given (none except for a Swatch, a friendship token), whose idea was the Casa de Amor (his), who paid at the reception desk and how much (he did, she didn't know how much, but he also bought her a rose that she would like to go back to the room for). Finally, Ofelia asked whether she had seen or paid or communicated in any fashion with any member of the PNR. No, Teresa swore she hadn't.

"You understand that if you do not cooperate, you will be fined a hundred pesos and entered in the register of prostitutes. At fourteen."

Teresa slipped her feet from her platform sandals and drew her legs up onto the chair. She had all the mannerisms of a child, the pouty lip and downcast eyes.

"I'm not a prostitute."

"You are. He paid you two hundred dollars to be with him for a week."

"A hundred and fifty."

"You sell yourself too cheaply."

"At least I can sell myself." Teresa played with a curl, wrapping it around a finger.» That's more than you ever see."

"Maybe. But you had to buy false residence papers to stay in Havana. You had to pay a room illegally to sleep in, then pay the Casa de Amor to screw in. Most of all, you have to pay the police."

This was a doublethink that drove Ofelia crazy. Teresa didn't consider herself a prostitute, no. Jineteras were students, teachers, secretaries merely making extra money. Some parents were proud of how their little Teresas helped to support the family; in fact, some regular visitors to Cuba didn't dare arrive without presents for their favorite chica's mother, father, little brother. The problem was AIDS, which was like throwing young girls into the maws of a dragon. Only you didn't have to throw them, they lined up to dive.

"So now you work two places," Ofelia said.» Days you're at the Casa de Amor, nights you're at the boats. Is that the kind of life you want to lead?"

Teresa's eyes shone through her hair.» It's better than school."

"Better than the hospital? Did you check this German friend of yours?"

"He was clean."

"Oh, you have a laboratory?"

It was like arguing with children. They would never be infected, they took vitamins, anise, vinegar. The men refused to wear condoms because they hadn't come around the world to smoke half a cigar.

"Hija, listen. Unless you give me the name of police who take money from you I will enter your name in the register of prostitutes. Whenever there is a sweep of prostitutes you will be dragged away. And if you are ever caught again you will be sent to a reeducation farm for two years minimum. That's a nice place to grow up."

Teresa pulled up her knees and glowered. Her pout was exactly like Muriel's. She was three years older.

Herr Lohmann had been waiting in an interrogation room. He folded his arms and tilted back in his chair as Ofelia examined his visa. He spoke lederhose Spanish.» So I have one room at the Hotel Capri and another at the Casa de Amor? I paid for both. Twice the money for Cuba."

"How did you even know about the Casa de Amor?"

"The girl told me. She's not exactly a virgin, you know."

"To be clear," Ofelia said.» You are forty-nine. You are having sex with a fourteen-year-old girl, a student. You did this regardless of the laws of Cuba for the protection of children. Are you aware that you could be spending six years in a Cuban jail?"

"I doubt that very much."

"So you are not afraid."

"No."

She opened his passport and flipped through stamped pages.» You travel quite a lot."

"I have business to attend to."

"In Thailand, the Philippines?"

"I'm a salesman."

"Based?"

"In Hamburg."

His passport photo was a head and shoulders of a respectable burgher in dark suit and tie.

"Married?"

"Yes."

"Children?"

No answer.

"Here for?"

"Business."

"Not for pleasure?"

"No. Although I enjoy other cultures." He had teeth like a horse.» I was at the bar at the Hotel Riviera and this girl asked if I could buy her a cola."

"To enter the lobby of the Riviera she had to be with a man. Who was it?"

"I don't know. In Havana I am approached by a lot of men who want to know do I need a car, a cigar, whatever?"

"Were there any police in the lobby?"

"I don't know."

"You are aware that it is against Cuban law for Cuban citizens to visit a hotel room."

"Is that so? Sometimes I stay at hotels in the countryside run by the Cuban army. When I bring a girl I just pay double. You're the first one to make a fuss."

"You left the Riviera and went to the Casa de Amor, you and Teresa. According to the guest register at the Casa de Amor you signed in as her husband, Sr. Guiteras."

"Teresa took care of that. I never went in the office."

Ofelia looked at notes she had taken of a phone call.» According to the Riviera, you arrived there at the beginning of your visit with a friend, an Italian."

"A male friend."

"Named Mossa. He took the room next to you?"

"So?"

"Wasn't he also in the room next to you at the Casa de Amor?"

"So?"

"The two of you met Teresa and her friend together?"

"Wrong. I found Teresa and he connected on his own."

"You found her?"

"Or she found me. It makes no fucking difference. Girls develop faster here." He smoothed his hair back.» Look, I have always been a supporter of the Cuban Revolution. You can't arrest me for being attracted to Cuban girls. They're very attractive."

"Did you use a condom?"

"I think so."

"We looked in the wastebaskets."

"Okay, no."

"I think for your own sake we will have you examined by doctors and send a medical report to your embassy."

His smile sealed. As he pressed against the table his shirt opened to a gold chain, body heat, the smell of stale cologne. He whispered, "You know, you're even better looking than Teresa."

At that moment Ofelia suffered the fantasy that Renko was with her and that he picked up the German the way he had picked up Luna and rammed the German into the wall.

"The doctor will make a thorough examination," Ofelia said and left the room.

The detective room wasn't as empty when she went back. The Sharon Stone poster was back on the wall, and Teresa looked sideways at the plainclothes detectives, Soto and Tey, sharply dressed men who bent over the paperwork on their desks and exchanged smirks. If Ofelia had any other place to question the girl she would have used it.

Teresa announced, "Singa tu madre. I'm not saying anything against my friends."

"Good girl," Soto said.» With the right friends you don't have to say nothing."

"Osorio has confused sex and crime," said Tey.» She's against both."

"It's been so long, right?" said Soto.

"I'd be happy to help her remember," offered Tey.

"You can't touch me," Teresa told Ofelia.» I don't have to tell you nothing."

"Don't listen to them." Ofelia felt her neck get hot.

"Don't listen to them? They're not on my ass, you are. You're the bitch, not them. I make ten times what you make. Why would I listen to you?"

"Congratulations, I am putting you on the official list of whores. You will be examined by a doctor and sent out of Havana."

"You can't."

"It's done."

But when she went into the hall with Dora, all Ofelia could think of were her own daughters and she didn't have the heart to order Teresa's name onto the register.

"Tell her I did, though," she said.» And have the doctor look at her. And have the doctor examine our tourist all over and draw some blood and make it painful."

"So what is the point of what we're doing if we let her go?" Dora was sick of sweeping streets.

"I'm not after girls, I am after corrupt police."

"Then you're after men, and in the PNR there are a couple of us and thousands of them. From the top down, everybody winks. They think you're a fanatic and you know what the real problem is? You're not."

Ofelia returned to the Casa de Amor because although she might have lost Teresa it was just possible that Lohmann's Italian friend and his girl hadn't yet left the motel. This time, she decided, she would question them right in the room, not even go close to the station house. If that was against procedure, well, procedure guaranteed humiliation and failure. She didn't need Dora along, she didn't need anyone. This was on her own.

When Ofelia was angry she took steps two at a time. The rooms were set back between dividers for privacy's sake and hanging on the doorknob of the unit next to Lohmann's was a plastic tag that said do not disturb.

The two boys were playing their endless table tennis, but otherwise no one was around. Maybe she was in luck. Maybe she was stupid. She certainly wasn't going to be appreciated, not if the girl was anything like Teresa. What poor Cuban girl wouldn't think she was in heaven at a motel like this? Then shopping at a boutique for a swimsuit that would show off her cute bottom? Or trying on cat-eyed Ray-Bans or a Gucci scarf?

She knocked on the door.» Housekeeping."

The radio still played. The pool was a blue lens. The boys played, the sound popping off their paddles. A breeze tugged on the lazy fronds. Ofelia took a deep breath and caught the faint smells of barnyard and butcher. There was no answer to her knock.

"Police," she said.

The door was unlocked but blocked and she had to use all her strength to enter, and since someone had turned the air-conditioner off and the temperature was in the eighties, it was like gaining admission to an oven of ripe smells of blood and body waste. In opening the door she had rolled a body to the side, and she tried to pick her way across a floor covered with a fallen chair, emptied bureau drawers, clothes and sheets to the drapes on the other side. She drew them open and all the light in the world flooded in.

The body she had stepped over was a naked male, a dark-haired European with arms, back, flanks and scalp slashed. Ofelia had once seen the body of a man who had fallen into the blades of a combine, been chewed and spat out, which was what this man looked like, except that the wounds' individual lengths and curves were the unmistakable work of a machete. Lying on the bed was a naked female, arms and legs splayed, her head twisted like a dummy's and half sliced off. Bed and carpet were dark red as if someone had poured blood by the pail. A corona of blood spattered the wall above the headboard. But there was no broken furniture, no bloody smears of struggle on the walls.

To be first at an undisturbed homicide, Dr. Bias always lectured, was a gift. If you were not a willing investigator, if you could not take advantage of the unique opportunity of being first on the scene, if you were not able to engage sensorially and intelligently, if your eyes or your mind closed even a little to the fading, ineffable shadow of a murderer, then you should not open the door. You should raise children, drive a bus, roll tobacco leaves, anything but steal that gift from men and women with the discipline and stomach for the job.

Both bodies were hard with rigor mortis, thirty-six hours dead at least in Havana heat. The man's wounds looked defensive, administered while he crawled across the floor. If he was conscious enough to do that, why hadn't he cried out? Who had died first? Blood outlined the girl's legs. The hair of her head and pubis were the same honey color, and although her face was angled into the pillow, Ofelia recognized her as a smudged version of Hedy, the beautiful girl who had been possessed and danced through coals.

Having done as much as she could without rubber gloves, Ofelia went to the bathroom, stepping around blood scuffs on the floor, and threw up in the toilet bowl. When she flushed the water swirled and backed up, a rising gorge of vomit on pink water. Before it overflowed she thrust her hand into the toilet throat as far as she could reach and freed a blood-soaked ball of toilet paper from the trap. Between dry heaves she laid what she found on a towel: a wadded Italian passport for a Franco Leo Mossa, 43, of Milan, and Cuban papers for a Hedy Dolores Infante, 25, of Havana. Also half of a photograph torn badly. The picture must have been taken on impulse at an airport curb amid a blur of taxis and suitcases and harried Russian faces. The subject was Renko, wearing a rueful smile and his black coat. Ofelia didn't know why, but her instinct was to put the photograph in her pocket before she staggered out to the bedroom, to the fresh air of the oceanside balcony and a view of neumaticos plying the sea.

Chapter Sixteen

A pair of Chihuahuas led Arkady down the path, rolling soulful eyes at him, prancing around a poinsettia here, sniffing a headstone there, like a pair of tiny landlords until they led him under the hanging pods of a tamarind tree where three Chinese, stripped to the waist, were scrubbing a marble lid they had lifted off a sarcophagus. Erasmo perched inside the tomb with a sack of tools.

"There aren't a lot of jobs where having no legs is an advantage," Erasmo said.» Working in a coffin happens to be one. You don't look happy."

Arkady said, "I've just come from the Havana Yacht Club. You told me the Havana Yacht Club was a joke, just a few fishermen, you, Mongo and Pribluda. But the picture was taken at the Yacht Club and you never mentioned that the club actually existed."

Erasmo frowned, dug his hand into his beard and scratched.» It does and it doesn't. The building is there, the beach is there, but it's hardly a club anymore. It's complicated."

"Like Cuba?"

"Like you. Why didn't you tell me you killed Rufo Pinero? I had to hear it on the street."

"It was an accident."

"An accident?"

"Of a sort."

"Yes, that's like saying Russian roulette is a game of a sort. So we do the same things in different ways. Anyway, I didn't lie to you. We did call ourselves the Havana Yacht Club as a joke. It was funny at the time."

"Some club. Pribluda may be dead, Mongo may be missing and you may be the last living member."

"I admit, it's not funny when you say it."

"Unless there are others. Are there any other members you haven't told me about?"

"No."

"Rufo?"

"No."

"Luna?"

"No. The three of us, that's all. You know, you're pissing me off and you're making my friends very uneasy."

The Chinese followed the conversation with an anxiety matched by their lack of comprehension. Erasmo coolly introduced Arkady to them, brothers named Liu with spiky black hair and cigarettes gripped between their teeth. Arkady took in the cemetery's quiet anarchy, a marble cross leaning on a Buddhist altar, tablets inscribed with Chinese characters and wrapped in morning glory, headstone photographs of the departed that peered through scummy ovals of glass. A nice place to die, Arkady thought, quiet, cool, picturesque.

"So this is the Chinese Cemetery?"

"Yes, it is," Erasmo said.» I told the Lius you were an expert on fighting crime. That's why you're so angry. It makes them feel much better."

"There's a lot of crime in a cemetery?"

"In this one, yes."

Now that Arkady noticed, many of the tombs were cracked and reinforced with cement seams and steel bands. Some of the disrepair had occurred over time and under the pressure of spreading roots, but there were also signs of vandalism, marble replaced by cinder blocks or a padlock on a vault's brass door, probably not to keep the dead in, Arkady realized.

"Cubans don't like the Chinese?"

"Cubans love the Chinese, that's the problem. And some Cubans need lucky bones."

"For what?"

"Ceremonies. If they want money they dig up the bones of a banker, if they want to get well they dig up the bones of a doctor."

"That makes sense."

"Unfortunately for the Chinese, their bones are supposed to be the luckiest. So this is where certain people come with their crowbars and shovels, which is very upsetting to Chinese families that revere their ancestors. Dead or alive, they want granddad in one piece. Little did I know that demolition expertise would prove so useful in civilian life. How did you know where to find me?"

"Tico maintained radio silence but I got him to write it out." Arkady looked down at the coffin, where Erasmo had laid a drill, bell, welder's goggles and surgical mask on a towel. From an athletic bag Erasmo took a vial of something fine-grained and black.» Gunpowder?"

"Just a touch. Life would be boring without it." Taking a break, the brothers Liu sliced up a papaya and sat down between tombstones to eat. The Chihuahuas curled up with the lions. Was this the "Chinese contact" that Pribluda had been talking about, a place to come for lucky bones?

The problem was that he seemed to be going in reverse, knowing less all the time rather than more. He didn't know how or where Pribluda died, let alone why. The circle of Pribluda's acquaintances constantly expanded, but none of them had anything to do with the price of sugar, supposedly what the colonel had been investigating. Arkady had never before encountered such a variety of pristinely unrelated people and events: men in inner tubes, Americans on the run, a madman from Oriente, a ballerina, now Chinese bones and Chihuahuas. The truth was, Arkady thought, that apart from grave-robbing there was no suggestion of any crime at all, except for the attacks on him, and that was an error in timing; all they'd had to do was wait. Now? His head was clearing, the bruises on his legs had passed from blue to hopeful green, and the very shapelessness of evidence was interesting. He needed it to be interesting because while he was engaged he was like a man walking on deep black water. He needed to keep going.

Erasmo pulled the mask over his nose and goggles over his eyes before lifting a can with a plastic lid.

"More gunpowder?" Arkady asked.

"A different explosive." Erasmo lifted the lid and shut it at once, as if taking a peek at plutonium.» Ground habaneros, the hottest chilies on earth. I defused all sorts of bombs in Africa. Bombs that looked like doorknobs, alarm clocks, toilet seats, toy planes, dolls. You have to be creative." He upended the empty can between his thighs and drilled through its bottom. Erasmo poured in gunpowder and tamped it down.

"In your room I saw some pictures of you with ..." Arkady tried out the gesture of the make-believe beard for the Name That Could Not Be Uttered just to feel Cuban.

"Fidel," Erasmo said warily.

"And another officer in glasses."

"Our commander in Angola."

"You won a lot of military decorations."

"The ribbons? Oh, yes. Well, what would I rather have, the ribbons or my legs? I'll let you guess. I used to be so proud. Fidel said we would go to Africa and I saluted and said, 'At your orders, Comandante!' I didn't know he would be giving orders after we got there. Fidel was here in Havana looking at a map of Angola. We were in hills and rivers that didn't exist on Fidel's map, but it didn't matter, he gave orders to set up our forces wherever his finger landed. Sometimes we had to ignore him. When he found out he was furious. There was one little village, a speck that must have been on his map. He said we had to take it and use it as a battalion command post. We said it was just a couple of huts, a garage and a well. We could go around it and come back whenever we wanted, but Fidel said that unless the village was taken in twenty-four hours every battalion officer would be charged with treason. So, Tico and Luna and a boy named Richard and I went in to clear the way. Maybe this is a boring story?"

"No."

"Very well. The village was strung like a Christmas tree. Little plastic mines to pop through your foot. Bouncing Betties to cut you off at the waist. Claymores with trip wires to something as insignificant as an empty can you'd kick out of your way. There was a car in the garage, not with the key, that would have been too obvious. A '54 Ford station wagon with real wooden panels. You can't imagine how valuable a vehicle was in country like that. But just stepping into the garage meant digging up a whole daisy chain of little mines. Then to look underneath the car first with a mirror and then on your back. To pop the hood with a wire from a distance, to inspect the engine and make sure every wire's automotive, open the glove compartment, the trunk, power windows, seats, hubcaps. It was in beautiful condition. We cleared everyone else out of the garage so I could cross the wires. It started right off. It ran out of gas right away, but the battery was good and everything seemed fine until Richard kicked a tire. That was one place I hadn't looked, in the tire." Erasmo pushed a cardboard disk over the gunpowder.

"That was the end of Richard. Plus, the bumper flew off spinning like a helicopter rotor and caught Tico. We radioed for the ambulance. On the way it hit a hole where we had dug out a mine and drove right into the minefield. Somehow it didn't touch a mine but that's where the ambulance was stuck while Tico was bleeding to death until Luna picked him up and ran right through the mines to the ambulance. And that's how we liberated a pisshole in Angola on special orders from the Comandante."

"And how Tico became careful about tires."

"He's very careful about tires."

Erasmo dropped the can and Arkady retrieved it.

"Can I help?"

"No, thanks," Erasmo said.» Do you know the largest minefield in the world? The American base here at Guantanamo, thanks to the U.S. Marines and, especially, our Russian friends, who designed our side of the minefield and then took the plans home. No more help, please." He opened the can of chilies and poured them into the larger can.» Aha! When a grave robber opens this, there will be a deadly cloud awaiting him. Coughing, crying, sneezing, temporary blindness is, I think, a very humane way of dealing with grave robbers. As/, a Cuban solution to a Cuban problem."

"Luna saving Tico is a different picture of the sergeant."

"No, it's not. It's just the other side. People here have two sides, what you see and the opposite."

"It's complicated?"

"It's real. You don't understand. Cuba was something. We had idealism, and we stood up to the most powerful, most vindictive country on earth. Fidel was great. But Cuba isn't a big enough country for him, and the rest of us can't be heroes forever. Stop asking questions, Arkady. For your own sake, go home."

The Lius looked up expectantly; they may not have understood the words but they could tell when a conversation had wound to an end. The Chihuahuas blinked their marble-sized eyes, then tore after a lizard. They chased it up a bougainvillea vine to the peak of a waist-high pagoda and when the youngest Liu laughed and performed a karate kick, Arkady was reminded of something else.

"Are there any martial arts dojos in Havana?"

Erasmo said, "Chinatown."

You had to block things out, Ofelia thought. She ignored the technicians collecting their small evidence first-clots, hairs, night bag, glasses, bottles of Havana Club-working their way up to plastic bags for bed-sheets and clothes. She paid no attention to the photographers working around the female sprawled in bed like a Naked Maja. All her focus was on Dr. Bias. His hands in waxy rubber gloves, he bent over the body by the door to show her why, although the male was painted in his own blood and the track on the carpet showed his agonizing, futile progress to the door, the dying man didn't cry for help.

"The radio was on. People who take these rooms, as you told me, tend to make noise, and who knows how much alcohol they consumed? His carotid and peroneal arteries were both cut-however, he was alive enough to try to cover up while he was hacked by the machete. He was alive enough to make it to the door, probably after his assailant left. But he never called out. Why? It wasn't because of the radio." With the tip of a pencil he probed a dark spot under the dead man's Adam's apple and slid the pencil halfway in.» A hole in the trachea. With a hole in your windpipe you cannot say a word. There is no such wound on the neck of the female, she had her throat cut pure and simple. But the first blow to the male, I am sure, was this puncture."

"Not made by a machete."

"No, the wound is perfectly round. Still, this sort of mess is typical of the 'crime of passion.' You did well to keep the hotel calm, and you were lucky to find the documents the way you did."

Which was Bias's sly way of saying he knew she had been ill in the toilet. The doctor was at ease with death in a way she, it was becoming clear, never would be. A body that had been cut up was a flower in bloom, releasing a smell that lodged like beads of blood in the sinuses and a taste that coated the tongue. All the same, she had made a sketch and notes to hand over to whomever the Ministry of the Interior sent over; this was no longer a case of prostitution, and the ministry didn't generally leave violent crimes involving foreign visitors to mere detectives of the PNR.

Bias said, "I'll examine the sexual aspect, too. She was a prostitute."

Ofelia looked at the bed. For a girl with her head half sliced off Hedy looked remarkably serene, neatly edged in blood, sheets hardly rumpled.» The killer didn't have sex with her."

"You kill a girl in bed, that's sexual to me."

A little insight there, Ofelia thought.

"I saw the female last night at a Santeria ceremony."

"What is the matter with you? You have so much potential, why do you indulge in such mumbo jumbo?"

"The girl was possessed."

"Ridiculous."

"You've never been possessed?"

Bias wiped his pencil.» Of course not."

"It happened to me once. They had to tell me later." The entire night had remained a blank to her.

"Was this Italian at the ceremony?"

"No."

"Fine. Then she came somewhere else later and picked him up here. If I were you I wouldn't get into Santeria unless there is a very good reason. We are at a hotel that, wrongly or rightly, specializes in tourists. Should we tell everyone there are religious fanatics going from room to room killing people?"

"What do you think the Russian will say?"

"Renko? Why should he say anything?"

"He was at the ceremony last night. He saw the girl."

"He'll still say nothing because we won't tell him. Do you think the Russians would inform us of every murder?" Bias ran the waxy fingers of his gloved hand down the back of the Italian's legs, hamstrung so that the dead man had to drag them as he crawled.» Renko is not our colleague. We don't know really what he is. The fact that an investigator would come to Havana is a sign of something else going on. A better photograph of Pribluda is all I want from him."

The photograph of Renko at the airport resided in her pocket. With all the confusion in the room there was still time to rediscover it.

She asked, "Did Sergeant Luna ever show you a picture of Renko?"

"No." Bias ran his hand up the dead man's arms.» Right-handed by the musculature. Lovely fingernails."

A chevron of deep cuts down the dead man's back indicated that the attacker had stood over him and hacked right and left. Ofelia considered mentioning the two round bruises she'd found on Renko's arm, but it seemed somehow a breach of trust.

"Perhaps we should reexamine the dead Russian. Is it possible he was struck by lightning? It did rain that week."

"Only there was no lightning on the bay. I'm ahead of you. I checked the meteorological record for lightning and the body for burns. Don't worry about Renko." Bias pinched the arm for stiffness.» I have dealt with Russians. Every one, including women with whom I was intimate, was a spy. Each was the exact opposite of what he or she claimed to be." He tucked a smile into his beard, and at that moment looked to Ofelia like a man too fond of his memories.» What does Renko claim to be?"

"A fool."

"His case may be an exception."

Bias turned the body onto its back. Loss of blood ended in stupefaction, and although his hair twisted in matted strips, the expression on the Italian's face was of someone yielding to sleep. Ofelia brushed hair from an oblong scab at the hairline.

"It looks like he bumped his head a few days ago," Bias said.» The least of his problems now."

"Who does he remind you of?"

"No one."

"How would you describe him?"

Bias cocked his head like a carpenter delivering an estimate.» European, forty to fifty, medium height, hair black, eyes brown, high forehead, incipient widow's peak."

"Renko?"

"Now that you mention it."

They had to shift the body from the door as an investigating team from the ministry arrived, led by Captain Arcos and Sergeant Luna. Arcos gawked at the body on the floor. Luna went to the foot of the bed and stared down at Hedy. His skin went gray, and as his lips spread he breathed through his teeth while Ofelia delivered her statement. She wanted to ask, Where is your ice pick? Instead she slipped away while Bias took over.

The Casa de Amor had emptied. At the sight of PNR Ladas and an IML forensics van with scales of justice painted on the door the Casa's guests returned just long enough to grab their overnight bags and run. At the bottom of the stairs Ofelia found a hose and washed first the soles of her shoes and then her face and hands.

The criminal laboratory of the Ministry of the Interior was in the Antiguo Hotel Via Blanca, a nineteenth-century brownstone palace erected in an erroneous burst of Spain's imperial confidence just before the first Cuban Revolution. A somber Iberian mood still resided in the building's dark walls and narrow windows.

While Bias's Institute de Medicina Legal carried out autopsies the laboratories of Minint analyzed drugs and arson, ballistics and explosives, fingerprints, documents and currency. The work was done for the PNR, but the uniform was military fatigues.

"Fidel loves uniforms," her mother always claimed.» Put someone in uniform and you've created an idiot who watches his neighbors and says, 'How did he get that dollar? How did she get those chickens?'" Her mother would laugh so hard she'd have to waddle to the water closet.» 'Socialismo o Muerte?' Please inform Fidel it's not 'either-or.'"

In the evidence room, weapons were labeled and kept on shelving that on the underside still bore stencils of the FBI. The rifles were farmers' shotguns; anything military was recirculated back to the army or militia. Enough machetes to clear a cane field, axes and knives and homemade curiosities: a mortar barrel made from bamboo, sugarcane shaved into spears. On opposite shelves lay incidental evidence: bagged clothes, envelopes of rings and earrings, centavos in jars, shoes, sandals, a freshly tagged black swimming flipper and an inner tube.

Someone had rinsed the flipper, and when Ofelia held it to the light she saw the faintest charring inside the strap, which could have been her imagination or Renko's influence. She replaced the flipper carefully, as if putting off a question.

She went to the records room, where a haze of paper dander hung under fluorescent lights. The two working computers at the table were being used, but in a carrel behind stacks of volumes tied with faded ribbon she found a third, where she pulled up the file on her friend i Maria.

Maria Luz Romero Holmes, age: 22, address: Vapor 224, Vedado, La Habana, charged with solicitation outside that address. Jose Romero Gomez, 22, same address, charged with assault. There was more: marital and educational status, employment, and the statement of the witness.

I was walking up Vapor to the university when this woman (indicating Maria Romero) came out her door and asked the time. Then she asked where I was -igoing and placed her hand on my member. I said, to the university. When she tried to arouse me I said no, I wasn't interested, I didn't have the time. That's ' when she began screaming and this man (indicating JosЈ Romero) rushed out of the house, cursing and swinging a lead pipe at me. I defended myself until the police came along.

Signed,

Rufo Pinero Perez

It was Rufo Pinero's name that had prodded her memory. A former boxer innocently headed to the university. For a lecture on poetry? Ofelia wondered. Nuclear science?

The police photograph of Maria showed her wet with tears but defiant. In his photograph her husband's eyes were dark slits, his nose split, his jaw swollen large as a gourd.

The statement of the witness is corroborated by this arresting officer, who was also threatened and assaulted by the Romero couple in the course of his duty.

Signed,

Sergeant Facundo Luna, PNR

Ofelia remembered how Maria had said a plastic sheet had been placed over the rear seat of the police car because Luna knew he would be transporting people covered in blood, and how Rufo had taken cigars out of the police car's glove compartment, cigars he had put in beforehand so they wouldn't be damaged during the scuffle. Luna and Rufo planned ahead.

She thought she knew what had happened at the Casa de Amor. Bias had suggested a crime of passion, a Cuban boyfriend who killed the Italian and the Cuban girl in a fit of uncontrollable anger. But what Ofelia saw in her mind was Franco Mossa and Hedy drinking in the dark, dancing to the radio, laughing. It wasn't likely Hedy spoke much Italian, but how much did she need? She retired to the bathroom, emerged undressed, a busty honey-colored girl. She slipped into bed, and as he took his turn in the bathroom she slipped right out again and opened the balcony door for a friend. The Italian turned off the bathroom light and, half blind, walked into the darkened bedroom. Hedy couldn't have seen much. She'd have heard the sucking sound of the ice pick as it was pulled from the Italian's neck, though. What had Hedy thought they were up to? Extortion was the usual game with tourists. She would have been silent and surprised when the machete whistled out of the dark and cut her head half off her shoulders. The killer must have been as bloody as a slaughterhouse wall when he was done. The question was, Why the photograph of the Russian? Who had carried it, Hedy or her friend? Was there a moment when he turned on the bathroom light and saw to his own surprise that he had butchered an Italian named Franco, not a Russian named Renko? Since she was on the machine already, she ran a search for other connections between Rufo Pinero and Facundo Luna. Besides Maria's case, two files showed up. Four years earlier a group of criminals had gathered to distribute drugs under the pretense of organizing a political opposition. When members of the community became aware of this plan, they burst into the ringleader's house and demanded he surrender the drugs. In a scuffle provoked by the ringleader and his family, two patriots who had to defend themselves were Rufo Pinero and Facundo Luna. More recently a cell of so-called democrats had staged a rally with the true intent of releasing infectious diseases, only to be physically barred by vigilant citizens, including the alert Luna and Pinero.

Ofelia felt that Cubans should be allowed to fight their enemies because the gangsters in Miami would stop at nothing: assassination, bombing, propaganda. For Cuba to even exist took vigilance. However, the role of Rufo and Facundo in these cases made Ofelia uneasy. She turned off the computer half wishing she hadn't turned it on in the first place.

On her way out, she discovered the officers who had been working at the table were gone. Sitting alone was Sergeant Luna. She was surprised he had left the Casa de Amor already. His arms were crossed, stretching his shirt across his chest. His face hung in the shadow of his cap as he worked his jaw from side to side. His chair was turned, half blocking the way to the door.

Suddenly she was back in Hershey, in the cattle fields where the egrets came from their roosts along the river. The birds were as white as shavings of soap, and as they crossed the carbon-black smoke that lifted from the chimneys of the sugar mill her anxiety was for the egrets' purity. Nevertheless they would float in and stalk the cattle fields, impervious to dirt. She was so busy watching them that she didn't notice that the bull had been let into the field, and the person who had led the bull in hadn't seen her. The bull saw her, though.

The bull was the largest animal she'd ever seen. Milky white with downward twisting horns, creamy curls between the horns, shoulders bloated with muscle, a pink sac down to his knees, eyes red with the indolent torpor of a violent king. Not dumb, however, not in this situation. Because he ruled. And he waited for her to make her move.

But something distracted it. Ofelia turned her head and saw a figure in black that had jumped the fence and was waving and hopping from foot to foot. It was the town priest, a pale man who had always seemed so sad. His cassock flapped around him as he laughed and goaded the bull, ran in a circle around it and threw clods until it charged. Lifting his cassock, the priest took the longest strides Ofelia had ever seen. He dived over the fence ahead of the bull, which drove a deep-rooted post half over and went on savaging the wood in frustration while Ofelia raced to the part of the fence nearest her. She remembered her first gulp of air from the safety of the other side and how she didn't stop running until she was home.

Luna said, "Captain Arcos asked if you gave us all the evidence you found in the motel?"

"Yes."

Luna shifted so that his bulk blocked her even more and let his thick arm hang slack.

"Everything?"

"Yes."

"You told us everything you know about this?"

"Yes."

The sergeant looked toward the carrel.

"What were you looking for?"

"Nothing."

"Maybe something I can help you with?"

"No."

The sergeant didn't move. He made her press by his arm as if it were a line that would define just where she stood.

Chapter Seventeen

Arkady's route to Chinatown passed by the aquarium stillness of deserted department stores, a perfumeria window with nothing to display but a can of mosquito repellent, the staff of a jewelry store with elbows glued to empty cases, but around the corner of Calle Rayo, life: red lanterns, a roasted whole pig, fried plantain and fried batter, mounds of oranges, lemons, coral peppers, black tubers cut to white flesh, green tomatoes in papery cowls, avocados and tropical fruit for which Arkady had no name, although he understood by the dollar signs that this market in the very center of Central Havana was for private vendors. Flies spun dizzily in sweet smells of ripening pineapple and banana. Salsa from a hanging radio vied with tapes of wistful Cantonese five-tone scale and customers with obscured but still-discernible Chinese features drilled vendors with Cuban Spanish. At a corner stall a butcher chopped a cow skull open, and a cotton-candy vendor with her hair festooned in blue, sugary wisps that rose from a tub read Arkady's note and pointed to a walk-up with the sign

KARATE CUBANO.

Arkady had come in a rush. He had gone from the Chinese Cemetery to Pribluda's flat and from there to Chinatown because his mind was finally functioning.

Abuelita, the eyes of the CDR, had said that on Thursday afternoons Pribluda left the Malecon with his ugly plastic Cuban briefcase. The girl Carmen had claimed that Thursdays were when Uncle Sergei practiced karate. According to his own spreadsheet, Thursday was the day of Pribluda's unexplained hundred-dollar expenditure. Didn't it all fit together? Wasn't it possible that every Thursday, carrying in a common Cuban briefcase not a black belt but an envelope stuffed with money, the spy Sergei Pribluda had met his "Chinese contact" at a karate dojo in Havana's Chinatown? Most likely the colonel kept a sweatsuit or karate gear in a dojo locker, reason enough for him to stop in the changing room, where, as Arkady imagined it, not a word to the contact had to be said, not if he had a similar briefcase. The two briefcases could be switched in a moment, and the anonymous contact would be headed down the stairs before Pribluda untied his shoes to practice those deadly kicks he showed to Carmen. The entire business would be swift, silent and professional. Arkady had the briefcase and this was Thursday.

The only problem was that when Arkady ran gasping up the stairs the door where the dojo was supposed to be now read evita-el salon nuevo de belleza. Inside, two women wearing masks of blue mud reposed in barber chairs even as workmen bolted a third chair to the floor. Arkady retreated to the market and went through the process with the same piece of paper and received the same misinformation.

At a Chinese restaurant where no one was Chinese and egg rolls came with a dab of ketchup Arkady found a waiter who spoke enough English to say that there were no more dojos in Chinatown, although there were maybe twenty in the city. Four more days. He should call Pribluda's son in case the boy wanted to meet the plane, assuming the boy could leave his pizza ovens for a few hours. Then Arkady had no plans. He had run out. He had the clear eye of a man who had no plans at all.

Well, there was the picture of Pribluda he was supposed to be finding, but for a moment Arkady had thought he'd caught sight of Pribluda's ghost slipping between bright mounds of exotic fruit. The walls of the restaurant were bordello red and had the usual picture of Che Guevara looking so much like Christ in a beret it was unearthly. Arkady had noticed simply while walking through the streets and passing open windows that people hung more portraits of Che than of Fidel, although Che's very martyrdom seemed to validate Fidel. But martyrs had the advantage of staying romantically young, whereas Fidel, the survivor, came framed in two ages: the passionate revolutionary with index finger stabbing each oratorical point and the graybeard lost in haunted reflection.

Arkady felt haunted by stupidity. It had been exciting for a moment to believe in his revived powers of deduction, like finding an old steam engine in a derelict factory and thinking that a match held under the boiler would bring the pistons back to life. No churning pistons here, he thought. Thank God, Detective Osorio hadn't been around to witness the fiasco.

On his way from the restaurant he pushed through the market and skirted a group of boys pummeling one another outside a theater. It was a shabby corner cinema painted Chinese red with pagoda-style eaves and a poster that showed a karate master in midair. The title of the film was in Chinese and Spanish, and in parentheses at the bottom of the poster in English, "Fists of Fear!". Arkady remembered the ticket stub in Pribluda's pants. That was what Carmen had been trying to ask him, not "Did you see? Fists of fear!" but "Did you see Fists of Fear!?' He joined the line at the box office, paid four pesos for a ticket and climbed the red steps into the dark.

The interior was aromatic of cigarettes, joss sticks, beer. The seats were bald and taped. Arkady sat in the last row, the better to see the rest of the audience, rows of heads that bobbed and howled appreciatively for a film that had already started and seemed to involve a studious young monk defending his sister from Hong Kong gangsters. The dialogue was Chinese with subtitles in another form of Chinese, not even Spanish; the laughing of the actors was hideous, and every kick sounded like a melon being split. Arkady had barely stood the briefcase on his lap before he was joined in the next seat by a small, sharp-nosed man with glasses and a similar briefcase.

A whisper in Russian.» Are you from Sergei?"

"Yes."

"Where have you been? Where has he been? I was here all day last week and I've seen this film once already today."

"How long has this film been playing here?"

"A month."

"Sorry."

"I would think so. I'm the one who's taking all the chances. And this film is for cretins. It's bad enough I'm doing this, but to treat me this way."

"It's not right."

"It's debasing. You can pass that on to Sergei."

"Whose idea was it?"

"To meet here? It was my idea, but I didn't intend to pass whole days here. They must think I'm a pervert." On the screen the gangster chief pulled on a glove equipped with a power drill and demonstrated it on a luckless henchman.» Actually, in the old days this was the best porno theater in Havana."

"What happened when they switched to karate films?"

"We brought our girlfriends and screwed. The Chinese never paid attention to what we did."

It was dark, and Arkady didn't want to examine his companion too obviously, but what he could see sideways was a bureaucrat in his sixties with a gray mustache, eyes bright as a bird's.

"So you have spent a lot of time here."

"I suffer from a certain personal history. Surprised to see Chinese in Cuba?"

"Yes."

"Brought in when the slave trade closed. There's no smoking," the man said to explain why he was cupping his cigarette. He switched briefcases and, using the cigarette as a little lamp, dipped his head into the one he'd taken from Arkady to count the money, the same hundred-dollar expenditure Pribluda had paid every week.» You understand, I am under extraordinary pressure. If I had known what buying a car would entail, I never would have agreed to any of this."

"You can buy a car?"

"Used, of course. '55 Chevrolet. Original leather." On the screen, gangsters marched into a studio where the girl had just finished sculpting a dove in white marble. As they broke off the statue's wings her brother flew through the studio window on a motor scooter.» Where is Sergei?"

"Not feeling well," Arkady said, "but I'll tell him you wished him a quick recovery."

The monk was a whirlwind, dispatching hoodlums with a variety of leaps and kicks. With every blood-spraying kick Arkady's head throbbed, and when the gangster chief pulled on his glove Arkady stood.

"Aren't you staving?" his friend said.» This is the good part."

Ofelia was late for the meeting with Muriel's teacher.

She rushed because she was convinced that the Italian with Hedy was slaughtered simply because he resembled Renko. She had gone to the medical clinic in time to find Lohmann, the salesman from Hamburg, still being examined and he truculently answered yes, his friend Franco had bumped his head a few days earlier on one of those stupid low doorways in Havana Vieja. Poor Hedy had not been too bright to begin with, and place, time, looks, names, a simple scrape on the Italian's head, everything had conspired against her.

Also Ofelia wanted to shower. She felt death lying like a film on her skin. If other people couldn't smell it, she could.

A footbridge led from the Quinta de Molina to the school, modern and airy with pastel walls covered with self-portraits of students in their maroon uniforms, skirts for girls and shorts for boys, and murals on the theme of "Resistance!" featuring children with rifles downing hapless American jets.

Muriel's class had recently visited a banana plantation, and the classroom walls were decorated with paper bananas. Ofelia wondered where they got the paper. The school had one book for every three students, no new books in the library for three years, no chemicals for chemistry.» They learn in the abstract," as her mother put it caustically; nevertheless the school was clean and orderly. Ofelia made profuse apologies to Miss Garcia, Muriel's teacher, an older woman with eyebrows as thin as spider legs.

"I'd almost given up on you." The brows lifted to indicate exasperation.

"I'm so sorry." Was there anything more self-abased than a parent meeting with a teacher? Ofelia wondered.» Is there something special you wanted to talk about?"

"Of course. Why would I have asked you in?"

"There's a problem, no?"

"Yes. A great problem."

"Muriel has not been turning in homework?"

"She turns in her homework."

"It's good?"

"Adequate."

"She misbehaves in school?"

"She behaves normally. That was the reason she was allowed to go on the trip. But deep in her, in the soul of this little girl, is something rotten."

"Rotten?"

"Festering."

"She hit someone, she lied?"

"No, no, no, no. Don't try to get off easy. Deep in her heart is a worm."

"What did she do?"

"She violated my trust. I took only my best students to the farm. To learn of the struggle in the countryside. Instead, she revealed herself as an anti-revolutionary and a thief." Miss Garcia set a paper bag on her desk.» On the way back on the bus this fell out of her shirt. I heard it fall."

Ofelia looked inside the bag.» A banana."

"Stolen goods. Stolen by a daughter of an officer of the PNR. This is not going to end here."

"Actually, a banana skin, no?" Ofelia lifted it from the bag by its unpeeled end. The skin was brown and blotchy, ripeness on the edge of rotting.

"Banana or banana skin, it makes no difference."

"She had eaten it or not?"

"That doesn't matter."

"You heard it fall. It's not likely you would hear an empty banana skin fall on a moving bus."

"That's not the point."

"Whose custody has it been in? There could be more than one person involved, there might be a whole ring involved with this banana. I will test it for fingerprints inside and out. We can do that. I'm glad you brought this to my attention. Don't worry, we'll get them all, each and every one. Do you want me to?"

"Well." Miss Garcia sat back, and her tongue dabbed at the corner of her mouth.» It was in my custody, of course. I don't know how it got eaten."

"We can investigate. We can make sure the perpetrators never show their faces in this school again. Is that what you want?"

Miss Garcia looked aside, the eyebrows settled, and she said in an entirely different voice, "I suppose I was hungry."

Now Ofelia felt even worse. There was no pleasure to be had in cowing a teacher who didn't even recognize she was slowly starving. Miss Garcia's problem was her revolutionary purity, she had to be the only person Ofelia knew who didn't have some small enterprise on the side. Next the poor woman would start hallucinating and see Che wandering the halls. Ofelia was so ashamed she couldn't wait to get her hands on Muriel.

Arkady opened the briefcase and laid the contents on Pribluda's desk, photocopies that were in Spanish, naturally, every word. If he'd only studied Spanish at school instead of English and German, which were only good for sciences, medicine, philosophy, international business, Shakespeare and Goethe. For sugar, Spanish seemed to be the key. Arkady tried anyway:

A document with the title "Negociacion Russo-Cubano" with lists of names, Russian for the "Ministerio de Commercio Exterior de Rusia" (Bykov, Plotnikov, Chenigovskii), Cubans for the Cuban "Ministerio de Azucar" (Mesa, Herrera, Suarez) and a third of Pana manian mediators from AzuPanama (Ramos, Pico, Arenas).

A "Certificado del Registro Publico Panameno" for AzuPanama, S.A., including a list of "directores" with the same names as the mediators, Sres. Ramos, Pico, Arenas.

A "Referenda Bancaria" for AzuPanama from the Bank for Creative Investments, S.A., "Zona Libre de Col6n," signed by the bank's "Director General," lohn O'Brien.

Face pages of Cuban passports for Ramos, Pico and Arenas.

Cubana airline tickets from Havana to Panama for Ramos, Pico and Arenas.

Room vouchers for Ramos, Pico and Arenas from the Hotel Lincoln, Zona Libre, Colon, billed to the Cuban Ministry of Sugar.

A long list of Russian commitments in funds and cash equivalents totaling $252 million for Cuban sugar.

A revised list after mediation by AzuPanama for $272 million.

A deposit slip of $5,000 in the name of Vitaly Bugai at the Bank for Creative Investments, S.A., Zona Libre, Colon, Republica de Panama.

In other words, the mediators Ramos, Pico and Arenas were Cuban, and the neutral AzuPanama was a creation of the Cuban Ministry of Sugar and the Bank for Creative Investment. Arkady's Spanish was nonexistent, but his math was fair. He understood that Cuba had defrauded Russia of an extra $20 million, one beggar stealing from the other. He also understood that the .Cubans' silent partner in crime was the pirate who owned Capone's boat.

Close up, Muriel's dark eyes had irises like solar flares, frightening glimpses of the eleven-year-old soul. Her interrogation was brief because she admitted to worse than her teacher claimed. She had bought the banana.

"The workers at the farm were selling them. I had a

dollar from Grandmother. We bought a bunch." "A bunch? Miss Garcia found only one banana." "Everyone in class hid a banana. She only found

mine."

Ofelia's mother ticked on her rocker.» We got all the others, don't worry."

"That's not the point," Ofelia said.» You've turned my daughters into profiteers."

"A lesson in capitalism."

"They're not supposed to sell bananas at a state farm like that."

"A lesson in communism."

Marisol, the younger sister, said, "My class is going to see baseballs made. I can get baseballs."

Ofelia's mother said, "Good, maybe we can cook them."

In her mind Ofelia saw the militant Miss Garcia looming over her two beautiful daughters, and her mother defending them like a hen in a housedress, the family universe embattled within and without.

"I'm taking a shower."

"Then what?" her mother asked.

"I have to go out."

"To see that man?"

"He's not a man, he's a Russian."

Arkady found that he had been expecting the detective, with her inquisitor's glare, informal shorts and pullover, straw bag and gun. All the AzuPanama documents were out of sight, and Osorio could swing her gaze all she wanted.

"Did you find a picture of Pribluda today?"

"No."

"Well, I found a picture of you." It was plain she relished the surprise.» Do you remember Hedy?"

"How could I forget Hedy?"

Osorio told him about the two bodies at the Casa de Amor, Hedy Infante and an Italian national named Franco Leo Mossa. She described the condition of the room, positions of the bodies, nature of the wounds, time of death.

"Machetes?" Arkady asked.

"How did you guess?"

"Statistics. There was no outcry?"

"No. The murderer also used something round and sharp to puncture the Italian's throat so he couldn't call out."

"Like an ice pick?"

"Yes. At first, I thought of an extortion turned violent. Sometimes a jinetera goes with a tourist and when his pants are down a so-called boyfriend shows up and they rob him."

"We know who her boyfriend is."

"Then I thought the dead man looked like you."

"There's a compliment you don't get every day. Was he the man we saw her with on the street the other night?"

"I'm pretty sure. Did you dance with Hedy?"

"No. We were only introduced. By Sergeant Luna."

"You talked to her?"

"Not really. She wasn't completely sober, and later, of course, she was-possessed."

"After the santero's, Hedy cleaned herself up and returned here. We saw her, you and I. At the time I wondered why. I mean, everything was over. The sergeant was gone and this was not the usual place she picked up tourists. I think the reason she was here was you."

"I'd only met her."

"Maybe she wanted to meet you again."

"She would have known the difference between a well-dressed Italian and me. Why even think of me?"

"This was in the room." She showed him the picture.

A camera had the photographer's eye and it was always odd to see yourself as others imagined you. If they were dead, Arkady thought, that lent a certain finality to what had been a simple snapshot. Arkady saw cars, baggage, heavy coats, a Russian herd at Shereme-tyevo Airport. Only he was in focus. He had delivered the colonel a farewell smile but no embrace sprinkled with vodka and tears, their history was too complicated for that. Perhaps what Pribluda wanted, finally, Arkady thought, was someone who knew him that well and would still see him off. The photograph reminded him of the empty frame he had found in Pribluda's bureau drawer.

"Pribluda took this when I dropped him off at the airport. He said he'd use it for target practice for old times' sake. This was in the room?"

"Hedy was not a mental giant. She was probably still in a daze from the santero's. I think maybe someone gave her that to help her pick you out."

"You think the man in this picture could pass as Italian?"

"In the dark some people are hard to tell apart. Did I tell you that the dead man's name was Franco?"

"Yes."

"If a European called Franco looked like Renko, his name sounded like Renko, she met him outside Renko's apartment and his head had a cut the same as Renko's, he was probably Renko enough for Hedy. I think it's possible the murder of this Italian was a second attempt on your life."

"This happened two nights ago?"

"Yes."

Luna had said he would be back to fuck him up, Arkady remembered, and the libidinous Franco Mossa sounded as thoroughly fucked as a man could get.

"Does Sergeant Luna know about the correct identification of the body?"

"He does now. He and Arcos took over the investigation."

Luna would be back again. The days of grace were over.

Arkady asked, "Why kill Hedy?"

"I don't know."

"Why leave the photograph on her?"

"He didn't, he flushed it down the toilet."

"Then how did you get it?"

"The picture was trapped with toilet paper." She described the deeply petaled slashes, the blood-smeared sheets and blood-soaked air that had been baking in the sun for a day and a half, and confessed to her nausea.» It was unprofessional of me."

"No, it's an occupational disease," Arkady said.» The reason I left the autopsy was to be sick. See, we share a common weakness. I feel like smoking just hearing about it."

"Dr. Bias has never been sick."

"I'm sure."

"Dr. Bias says we should welcome smell as infor mation. A body's fruity bouquet might indicate amyl nitrate. The hint of garlic can be arsenic." ^

"He'd be a delightful man to have dinner with."

"Anyway, I've showered."

"Showered and took the time to paint your toenails. A lot of detectives wouldn't bother to do that. You took a chance."

More than taken a chance, he thought; by removing the picture the detective had altered the crime scene, tacitly admitting that she suspected Luna as much as he did. Sharing the picture was the first real step forward on her part, painted toes and all. Now it was his turn, that was the etiquette. He could hold on to his scraps of information until he was safely back in Moscow, where the contents of the briefcase he had picked up at the Chinese theater might mean the hook for Bugai and an exchange of red-faced accusations between the Russian Ministry for Foreign Trade and the Cuban Ministry of Sugar. Over money, of course. Once back in Moscow, though, he'd never find out what happened to Pribluda.

"Have you ever heard of a Panamanian sugar company called AzuPanama?"

"I've read about it." Her eyes cooled.» In Granma, the Party newspaper. There's a problem with the Russians over the sugar contract and AzuPanama is supposed to help."

"Mediate?"

"So I understand."

"Because AzuPanama is neutral."

"Yes."

"Panamanian?"

"Of course."

He led her to the office, opened the green briefcase and emptied its contents item by item on the desk.

"Copies of participants' lists from Russia, Cuba and AzuPanama. A list of company directors for AzuPanama and, for those same names, Cuban passports, Cubana tickets and hotel receipts. Plus a Panamanian bank reference from John O'Brien, residing in Cuba, and a deposit slip from the bank for Vice Consul Bugai, also here."

It seemed to be going well, Arkady thought. Next he could introduce the concept of O'Brien and George Washington Walls, then their involvement with Luna and Pribluda. Osorio cleared her throat and sorted the items more neatly, touching them the way a person did when handling fire.

"I thought you were getting a picture of Pribluda for Dr. Bias," she said.

"Oh, I am. I happened to come across these first."

"Where did they come from?"

"Why don't you look to see what they are?"

A slight hiss developed in Osorio's Russian.» I can see what they are. What they are is very evident. Documents manufactured to embarrass Cuba."

"You can see by comparing names on this certificate of registration with the passports that AzuPanama isn't really Panamanian at all. AzuPanama was set up in Panama by Cuba with the help of a bank controlled by the American fugitive O'Brien. That's what Pribluda was after when he died. So far, AzuPanama has cost Russia an extra $20 million. Men have died for less."

"Of a heart attack?"

"No."

"Dr. Bias says so."

"Anyway," Arkady went on, "we can make a positive match of the names from AzuPanama with a roster from the Ministry of Sugar. That's what Pribluda would have done next."

"We are not doing anything." Osorio stepped back.» You lied to me."

"Here are the documents."

"I'm looking at you. What I see is a man who claims to look for a picture of his dead friend while he gathers all sorts of anti-Cuban materials. I come to help you and you throw these papers, which you don't tell me where they came from, in my face. I won't touch them."

This was not going the way Arkady hoped.

"You can check them."

"I'm not helping you. I don't really know anything about you. It's your word and a picture that you're Pribluda's friend, that's all I know. Just your word."

"No, that's not true." Her words crystallized what had been vague before. What had bothered Arkady was how his picture got from Pribluda's fiat to Hedy.» Did you give Pribluda's picture of me to Luna?"

"How can you ask a question like that?"

"Because it makes sense. Let me guess. After the autopsy you came here to dust for fingerprints and found the picture of this miserable Russian who had just arrived. You naturally called Luna, who told you to bring the picture to him."

"Never."

"Who gave it to poor Hedy. Have you been helping Luna all along?"

"Not in that way."

"Do all Cuban police carry an ice pick and a baseball bat?"

"When you see Luna with a machete, bolo, that's the time to be afraid. You should have stayed in Moscow. If you had, more people would be alive."

"There you're right."

Osorio snatched up her bag. She was out the door before he could consider whether he had really handled the issue of AzuPanama as well as possible. But why would a Cuban be impressed by mere evidence? This was Havana, after all, a place where sugar attaches floated in the dark, where a Havana Yacht Club did, didn't, might exist, where a girl could lose her head two nights in a row. Osorio's lie about the picture had simply been one absurdity too many. All the same there had been a nasty edge to his words that he regretted.

When she reached the street, Ofelia realized that, apart from a bolt on his door, Renko had no protection if Luna came back. What she had not told the Russian was how Luna looked when he stood over Hedy's body at the love motel, how his eyes reddened and the muscles of his face worked like a twitching fist. Or how the sergeant had later sat in the archive room, and how simply moving by him was like walking in the shadow of a volcano.

Traffic on the Malecon-always thin at night-had as good as disappeared. Even the couples who usually courted on the seawall were gone. If Ofelia was angry with Renko, she was furious with herself. She had removed the picture of him from the crime scene. She had broken the law. For what, so he could accuse her of taking the same picture from Pribluda's? She knew by now his taste for frivolous minutiae and then the diagonal question that cut across the board. As for the documents he pulled from the briefcase she was not surprised by the lengths Russians would go to to discredit Cuba. All she needed, Ofelia told herself, was to keep Renko alive until his plane left for Moscow. She wanted a clear conscience.

Determined not to be baited again, she went back in the house. Halfway up the stairs Ofelia heard steps above and a soft knocking at Renko's door. When he opened the door the light of his room fell on an extraordinarily fair woman with braided black hair in a Mexican dress and bare feet. She was a rose on a long stem, a glamorous white flower tinged with blue. Ofelia recognized her from the Santeria ceremony, the friend of George Washington Walls, the dancer.

Ofelia watched Isabel lift her face and kiss Renko. Before they saw her, she retreated down into the dark of the stairs, getting smaller and smaller until she reached the street again.

Chapter Eighteen

"You're making a mistake," Arkady told Isabel.

"No mistake."

She guided his hand between her legs so that he could feel her through the cotton of the dress, then kissed him and slipped into the sitting room. Maybe this was a test for signs of life, he thought. The dress was thin to show the slimness of her body and the dark caps of her breasts, and if he were a normal man he would feel healthy lust. The truth was he did feel a first stirring, feeling her breath on his neck, taking in the almond scent of her hair braided like long black silk. Her pale skin made her lips all the more red.

"No mistake," Isabel said.» I asked you to do something for me. Fair trade. Gordo keeps the rum over the sink."

"I thought Gordo was the name for the turtle."

"For both. Sergei, turtle."

"What do you call George Washington Walls?"

"I call him done with. I have a new boyfriend, no?"

"Well, I can't imagine who that is."

Isabel touched the coat hung on the back of the chair, and when he pulled her hand away she said, "Relax. Such a strange man, but I like you." She found the rum herself and rinsed two glasses.» I like strong men."

"That's not me."

"Let me be the judge." She handed him a glass.» I know you've heard about my father."

"I heard there was a conspiracy."

"True. There's always a conspiracy. Everyone complains, and He ..."-she pointed to her chin-"He lets them, as long as they don't do anything. As long as they don't organize. All the same, every year there's a conspiracy, and it's always a mix of conspirators and informers. That's Cuban democracy at work, that's how we will finally vote, when even the informers decide enough is enough and they keep their mouths shut and this country is delivered." She brushed Arkady's cheek.» But not yet, I don't think. This is the first place where time does not exist. People have been born and died, yes, but time has not passed because time demands fresh paint, new cars, new clothes. Or maybe war, one or the other. But not this, which is not dead or alive, which is neither. You're not drinking."

"No." The last thing he needed was Isabel and alcohol.

"Do you mind?" She took a cigarette.

"No."

"The reason my father agreed to the coup in the first place was the assurances from his Russian friends that he would have their complete support. It wasn't his idea."

"He should have known better."

“I think I'm choosing more wisely." She inhaled as if the smoke would travel the length of her body, exhaled and spun, her arms spread, so that the dress clung to her and smoke trailed behind.» I think we're the best. English dancers are too stiff, the Russians are too serious. We have the elevation and technique, but we are also born with music. There is no limit once I'm out, once I have my letter and my ticket."

"The letter hasn't come."

"It will. It has to. I told George we were looking into going back to Moscow together."

"You and I?"

"Yes, wouldn't that be the simplest way?" Isabel came to rest against the coat and an ember from her cigarette spilled on the sleeve.» Are you married?"

Arkady brushed the ember off and took Isabel by the wrist. It was a slim wrist, an elegant wrist, but he led her to the door.» It's late. If something comes for you I promise I'll let you know."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm saying good night."

"I'm not done."

"I'm done."

He pushed her out and only had a glimpse of her in the hallway crushed as a moth before he shut the door.

"You son of a bitch," she shouted through it.» You prick, cono. Just like your friend Sergei. All he wanted to do was talk about that stupid plot that got my father killed. You're just the same, another maricon. El bollo de tu madre."

Arkady shot the bolt. "I'm sorry. I don't speak Spanish."

His way with women was astonishing, he thought. What a charmer. He wrapped himself in the coat and shivered. Why was everyone in Cuba warm except him?

It was midnight, and dark had overwhelmed the city when Arkady wasn't looking. A power outage arranged by Luna, or was his imagination expanding in the dark? There were no streetlamps on the Malecon, only a couple of faint headlights like the sort on luminescent fish found in an ocean trench. Although he latched the shutters closed and lit a candle, darkness continued to seep into the room with a solid, tarry quality.

A car horn woke him. The horn blared until he opened the balcony doors and saw that the morning had started hours before. The sea was a brilliant mirror to a huge sky, the sun high and shadows reduced to mere spots of ink. Across the Malecon a boy flipped small, silvery bait out of a net up to a partner standing on the seawall with a pole. Another boy gutted his fish on the sidewalk and threw the entrails up to a hovering gull. Directly below the balcony was a streamlined cloud of chrome and white, Hemingway's Chrysler Imperial convertible with George Washington Walls at the wheel and John O'Brien in a golf cap and Hawaiian shirt.

"Remember, we were going to talk about possible employment," Walls called up.» And show you some famous sin spots."

"You can't just tell me?"

"Think of us as your guides," O'Brien said.» Think of it as a Grand Tour."

Arkady looked to Walls for any sign that Isabel had reported her midnight visit and he looked to O'Brien for an indication that word of the AzuPanama papers reached him via Osorio, but all he saw shining up from the car were bright smiles and dark glasses. Employment in Havana? That had to be a joke. But how could he dare to miss learning more about AzuPanama and John O'Brien? Besides, he thought, what could happen in Hemingway's car?

"Give me a minute."

The desk drawer had envelopes. Into one Arkady fit all his worldly evidence: Rufo's house key, Pribluda's car key, AzuPanama documents and the photo of the Havana Yacht Club. Arkady taped the envelope to the small of his back, put on his shirt and coat, a man equipped for all climates and occasions.

The car even rode like a cloud, the warm upholstery adhesive to the touch. Arkady noticed even from the backseat the push-button transmission, how could anyone miss that? They breezed along the Malecon while Walls gossiped about other famous cars, Fidel's penchant for Oldsmobiles and Che's '60 Chevrolet Impala. Arkady looked around.» Have you seen Luna?"

"The sergeant is no longer associated with us," Walls said.

"I think the man's unhinged," said O'Brien.

Walls said, "Luna is one funky dude." He dipped his glasses from his blue eyes.» When are you going to dump the coat?"

O'Brien said, "It's like driving around with Abe-Fucking-Lincoln. It is."

"When I get warm."

"You read Hemingway in Russia?" Walls asked.

"He's very popular there. Jack London, John Steinbeck and Hemingway."

"When writers were bruisers," said O'Brien.» I'd have to say I think of The Old Man and the Sea every time I see the fishing boats go out. I loved the book and the film. Spencer Tracy was magnificent. A better Irishman than Cuban, but magnificent."

"John reads everything," Walls said.

"I love movies too. When I get homesick I put on a video. I have America on videotapes. Capra, Ford, Minnelli."

Arkady thought of Vice Consul Bugai and the $5,000 deposit in Bugai's name at O'Brien's Panama bank.

"Do you have any Russian friends here?"

"There aren't that many. But to be honest I have to say I steer clear, as a precautionary measure."

"Pariahs," said Walls.

"The Russian Mafia would love to get in here. They're already in Miami, Antigua, Caymans, they're in the neighborhood, but Russians are such a sore subject with Fidel there's no point in being associated with them. But more than that, they're stupid, Arkady. No offense."

"None taken."

"A Russian wants money, he says, I'll kidnap someone rich, bury him up to his neck and demand a ransom. Maybe his family will pay and maybe they won't. A short-term proposition either way. An American wants money, he says, I'll do a mass mailing and offer an investment with an irresistible rate of return. Maybe the investment pays off or maybe it doesn't, but as long as I have lawyers those people will be paying me for the rest of their lives. After they're dead I'll put a lien on their estate. They'll wish I had buried them up to their necks."

"That's what you did?" Arkady said.

"I'm not saying that's what I did, I'm saying what's done in the States." He raised his hand and his biggest grin.» Not lying. I have testified in district court in Florida and Georgia, federal court in New York and Washington and I have never lied."

"That's a lot of courts to tell the truth in," Arkady said.

"The fact is," said O'Brien, "I prefer happy investors. I'm too old to be stalked by unshaven, angry men or have to duck subpoenas from men who can stand outside a door for the rest of their miserable lives. Hey, we're here!"

Walls swung across oncoming traffic to the curb of an airy high-rise hotel, an angled tower of blue balconies that nestled at its base the separate dome in mottled colors. Arkady had passed the hotel before without fully registering how its architecture was pure American fifties. And they'd arrived in the perfect car, gliding to a stop under a cantilevered entrance by a statue of, perhaps, a seahorse and siren carved from the largest of all whale bones. John O'Brien had visited before, judging by the doormen's zeal.

"The Riviera," O'Brien explained in a hush to Arkady, as if they were about to enter the Vatican.» The American Mafia built other hotels here, but the jewel was the Riviera."

Arkady asked, "What does this have to do with me?"

"A little patience, please. It all fits."

O'Brien removed his cap as a mark of respect before they climbed the stairs and entered glass doors to a low lobby of white marble under inset ceiling lights spaced as irregularly as stars. Sofas as long as boxcars reached across the floor toward a skylit grotto of elephant-ear ferns. Along one side was the tidal murmur of a bar, at the far end a staircase suspended on wires wound around a stabile of black stone, and a bright haze that was plate glass leading to a pool. O'Brien glided at a reverent pace across the lobby, tassels of his shoes flopping.» Everything deluxe. Kitchen like a cruise ship, beautifully appointed rooms. And the casino?"

One step ahead of O'Brien, Walls opened the brass doors to a convention hall emblazoned with the colorful, forceful logos of Spanish, Venezuelan, Mexican banks. Knockdown displays and charts on easels forecast Caribbean economic trends. Business cards and four-color brochures littered the carpet. O'Brien stopped at a particularly outsized booth with a row of chairs facing a giant monitor.

"It's pathetic," O'Brien said.» Market projections, rates of interest, capital protection, all languages spoken. Look at this." He tried to turn on the monitor at the screen.» Hell, it doesn't even work."

"Maybe this does." Arkady picked up a remote control from the booth counter and pushed on. At once, images of serious men and women in expensive suits marched across the screen. Dollars, pesetas, deutsche-marks flowed from them like lines of electricity.

"Right," O'Brien said.» They know how to put your money to work for your benefit around the world, sure they do. The only trouble, this isn't the world. This is Cuba. You know what Fidel says about capitalists. First, all they want is the tip of your little finger, then the finger, then the hand, then your arm and piece by piece all the rest of you. He's made up his mind. So the banks didn't come all this way to make their presentations to Fidel, think about that. Thank you, Arkady."

Arkady turned the remote off.

"Anyway," O'Brien said, "the banks have it backwards. Nowadays people are not interested in a slow accrual of assets. What they want is a jackpot, the lottery, payday. Look around, you can still see it." He called Arkady's attention to walls of baroque cream and gold, pointing out how the dropped ceiling hid the dome overhead. They were in the painted dome they had seen from outside. If the Riviera was the Vatican, this was the Sistine Chapel. As O'Brien removed his dark glasses and made a slow, complete turn a small miracle happened, the lines on his fine-as-an-eggshell forehead seemed to smooth away and Arkady saw a hint of the redhead O'Brien once had been.» The Gold Leaf Casino. You have to imagine the way it was, Arkady. Four roulette tables, two seven-eleven, one baccarat, four tables for blackjack with mahogany rails, the nap brushed twice a day. Not an ash. Pit manager on a bishop's chair. It was a meeting of two classes, the rich and the mob. The French have a word for it: frisson. A little charge and, by God, it sparkled. Chandeliers lit like bubbling champagne glasses. Women wearing diamonds from Harry Winston, I mean rocks. Movie stars, Rockefellers, you name it."

"No Cubans?"

"Cubans worked here. They hired Cuban accountants and made them into croupiers and dealers. Taught them grooming, bought them suits, paid them well to keep them honest. Of course, they were still vacuumed for chips at the end of the day."

Arkady had seen casinos. There were casinos in Moscow. The Russian Mafia loved to strap leather jackets over uncomfortable holsters so they could belly up to a table and lose money loud and big.

"Mind, there was always gambling in Havana," O'Brien said.» The Mafia just made it honest, with a fair split for President Batista. Batista and his wife got the machines, the Mafia got the tables and there was no more honest operation in the world. Plus, biggest names in entertainment, Sinatra, Nat King Cole. Beautiful beaches, best deep-sea fishing and the women were unbelievable. Still are."

"It's hard to believe there was a revolution." "You can't please everyone," O'Brien said.» Let me show you my personal favorite, though. Smaller but more historical. America's last stand."

On the way, as soon as they left the Riviera, they drove by picturesquely rotting houses, the sort Arkady might have expected to find in a mangrove swamp, the pavement rolling over banyan roots.

Arkady asked, "So, what kind of business have you been doing here? Investing?"

"Investing, consulting, whatever," O'Brien said.» We solve problems."

"For example?"

Walls and O'Brien glanced at each other, and Walls said, "For example, Cuban trucks here need spare parts because the Russian factory that used to produce them is turning out Swiss Army knives now instead. What John and I did was find a Russian truck factory in Mexico, and buy the whole thing just for the parts."

"What did you get out of that?"

"Finder's fee, costs. You know, I used to think because I was a Marxist that I understood capitalism. I didn't know anything. John plays it like a game."

O'Brien said, "I have always noticed that people from the socialist camp take money far too seriously. You should have fun."

"It's like a second college education being with John."

"Yes?" Arkady was ready to be educated.

"Like boots," said Walls.» The Cubans ran out of boots. We found out that the U.S. was getting rid of surplus boots at a dollar a pair. We bought all of them, which is why the Cuban army is marching in American combat boots."

"You must be appreciated here."

"I'd like to think that George and I are," said O'Brien.

"But how do you do that from Cuba? I would think you'd need a third party."

"In a third country, of course."

"In Mexico, Panama?"

O'Brien twisted in his seat.» Arkady, you've got to stop being such a cop. Over the years, I have helped a lot of police in your situation, but it's a matter of give and take. you want to know this and you want to know that, but you have yet to give me a believable explanation how you came to stand on the dock of the Havana Yacht Club."

"I was just visiting places where Pribluda might have been."

"What made you think he might have been there?"

"There was a map in his apartment and the club was circled." Which was true, although not as true as the photograph.» It was an old map."