Shift: A Novel

Matanzas Province, Cuba

November 22, 1963

Giancana’d provided four men with the boat, and Ivelitsch made them row the last mile to shore. The coastline was free of settlement as far as the eye could see, but Ivelitsch wasn’t taking any chances that someone might hear the motor.

Garza was waiting for them on the dock, his cane in his left hand, a shuttered lantern in his right.

“Comrade. It’s nice to meet you again.”

“Again?” Ivelitsch squinted in the moonlight. “It was you? In Camagüey? I take it the medicine worked.”

Garza smiled. “Sorry to send you on a wild-goose chase.”

“Water over the bridge, as the Americans say. Well, let’s do this. The sun will be up soon.”

“The fishing boats will be out before that.” Garza flashed his light behind him, illuminating an old pickup that seemed more rust than metal. “It’s in the back.”

Even with five men—Garza’s hip wasn’t strong enough to support that kind of weight—it was still almost an hour before the half-ton bomb was in the boat. Dawn glimmered on the horizon, and a bird had started to sing a loud, tuneless solo.

“I understand you have something for me,” Garza said when they were done.

Ivelitsch went below, came out a moment later with Naz’s unconscious body draped over his shoulder. He laid her on the dock, then handed Garza a brown glass bottle with an eyedropper built into the lid.

“Keep her out until you get to the safe house. Trust me, you’ll have a much easier time of it.”

“Uh, sure,” Garza said, looking at the wisp of a girl lying on the dock. “Is that all?”

“I think I can handle this last thing myself,” Ivelitsch said, pulling an automatic pistol from his jacket.

“Wha—” Garza said, but Ivelitsch was already firing. Ten seconds later, all four of Giancana’s men were dead. Ivelitsch got back in the boat. Garza expected him to toss the bodies overboard, but all he did was kick away the man slumped over the wheel.

“You’ve joined a very select group, Mr. Garza,” Ivelitsch said, starting the boat. He gunned the motor—something about having a nuclear bomb in the hold had apparently made him unconcerned about detection. “I’d advise you to remember just what the price of admission is. I’ll dump the bodies in the Straits,” he added. “Save you the trouble of having to bury them.”

“Uh, thanks. I must’ve missed that entry in Miss Manners.” Garza nudged the girl on the pier with his left foot. “Any other instructions?”

Ivelitsch was backing the boat from the dock. “Keep her alive. What happens to the kid is up to you.”

“The kid?”

Ivelitsch didn’t bother to look back. “Apparently she’s knocked up.”

The boat’s nose pointed seaward now; Ivelitsch opened the throttle and it roared out of the lagoon. When it was gone, Garza looked down at the beautiful sleeping face of the girl on the dock. Only then did he realize the Russian hadn’t told him her name. So much for Miss Manners.

He reached down for her—it was going to be awkward dragging her to the truck with his bum leg—but just as his hand touched hers, the girl’s eyes fluttered open. Despite himself, Garza jumped back.

The girl looked neither right nor left, but stared straight into Garza’s eyes.

“Where am I?”

The girl’s eyes seemed as deep as a lagoon as well, and the longer Garza stared into them, the deeper he fell. He suddenly realized he didn’t know if the girl had spoken to him in English or Spanish.

“Eres en Cuba,” he said quietly, then added, “Miss Haverman.” It occurred to him again that Ivelitsch had never told him the girl’s name, but really, what else could it be?

Still Naz stared straight into his eyes. She didn’t speak—at any rate he didn’t see her lips move—but even so, Garza was sure she’d asked him a question. Requested a favor. There was only one answer possible.

“No te preocupadas, Miss Haverman,” he said, his voice more sincere than it had ever been in his life. He dropped his cane and hoisted her into his arms; if his leg hurt him, he didn’t feel it. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”