Upstairs in the rental cottage, Gen. Rivera said to Ford, “He came to assassinate me with a Beretta? I, too, like Berettas. At least that shows some respect.”

Ford put the gelatin listening devices in the freezer and closed the door. “You need to pack up and get out of here, that’s what it shows. Where’s your suitcase?”

“You don’t understand. I was on the phone with . . . well, a person I trust. He warned me about something they might try to do to me. Radiation poisoning—a horrible thing. Your hair falls out, and you shit yourself to death.” At the window, Rivera opened the blinds to see where the Suburban had been parked. “You should have brought that puta to me. I know ways to make men talk.”

Hector had talked, but Ford hadn’t volunteered all that he’d learned. “Poison? Why?”

A shrug. “A microscopic grain of something, an isotope—already the name is gone. They jab you with a needle or slip it into food. From their rocket program. It’s the way that . . . the way they do things now.”

Jesus Christ. Rocket program—it had to be the Chinese or the Russians. No, it was the Russians. The overcomplicated, Cold War style left little doubt. Ford asked, “Are you sure?”

“Two of my contacts in Cuba are dead. I just found out. Another is in intensive care. A woman . . . quite beautiful”—Rivera sounded sad and a little wistful—“who has, over the period of a week, lost her beautiful hair. A bullet—I’d much prefer a soldier’s death. Shitting is no way for a man to die.”

An hour after sunset, they dropped the Mustang at Hertz. On the way to the airport, Ford turned the radio off and said, “General, I need to know what’s going on.”

The former dictator replied, “I can’t fly out until I’ve found Figuerito. How many times must I say this? That stadium sign we passed, why not stop and have a look?” They had already passed the Twins stadium, but the Red Sox complex was ahead, the lights of the practice fields aglow.

Ford seldom lost his temper but came close. “Goddamn it, Juan, I just saved your life. Enough with the bullshit. Why are they after you?”

Rivera stiffened but let it go. “The world has turned savage, old friend. I knew I was being followed, but I thought it was because of my new sports agency business.”

“Smuggling baseball players, you mean.”

“Phrase it how you like. What I’m telling you is, now I’m not so sure. I was cultivating a variety of businesses in Havana. At first, I thought the Mexican cartels, or the Cubans. That I might have stepped on the wrong toes. This American dream of yours can bite a man in the ass, which your propaganda fails to—”

Ford interrupted, “It has nothing to do with baseball. Russians don’t give a damn about Cuban ballplayers.” He had yet to allude to the contents of the briefcase but did now. “For the last decade, outsiders have been stealing collectibles from Cuba. Paintings, historic items. Suddenly, Russia and Cuba are allies again. You know what I’m asking you—the stuff you’ve been selling on the Internet.”

Rivera rode in silence until he realized the turn to Southwest Regional was before the Red Sox complex. He slapped the dash. “I have to find Figuerito! Must I write my orders on paper?”

“I didn’t enlist in your army, Juan. Tell me why the goddamn Russians are involved.”

“I didn’t say they were.”

Stubborn bastard. Ford drove and used the silence to put together a workable premise. Letters written by Fidel Castro between 1953 and 1963—a tumultuous period. Batista ousted, 1959. The botched Bay of Pigs invasion, 1961. Next came the Cuban Missile Crisis; the Berlin Wall was erected. The CIA attempted to foil the execution of three hundred anti-Castro operatives, and they had botched the first of several attempts to take out Fidel. Then 1963: JFK assassinated, November 22nd. Oswald killed; Jack Ruby dies. The whole time, a lot of backdoor nastiness between clandestine agencies worldwide. Riots and protests fired by the accelerant of KGB money. East Berlin, Saigon, Nicaragua, El Salvador—same thing but financed by American dollars.

The biggie, of course, was JFK. Conspiracy theories about Ruby, the Mafia, and Fidel’s orders to “Kill Kennedy” were still believed today.

But it was bullshit. Decades later, for professional reasons, Ford had studied details of the event. He had filled a folder with notes from investigations by the Warren Commission, the House Select Committee, and had even played a much later role in debunking Congress’s antiquated confidence in so-called sonic experts. They had insisted that a lone gunman could not have fired three rounds—or was it four?—from a bolt-action rifle in less than six seconds.

Once again, bullshit. Yet, every twenty years or so, some esoteric government agency ordered that it be proven. Ford was not a gifted marksman, let alone a Marine Sharpshooter, but even he could put three rounds into a moving target from only fifty-nine yards away—and in less than six seconds. An FBI shooter, using a clone of Oswald’s rifle, had done it in only four.

But there was still one sensitive unknown out there. It had been overlooked even by fringe feeders like movie hack Oliver Stone and other conspiracy profiteers. The Castros didn’t kill JFK, nor did the CIA, the Soviets, or the Mafia. The only valid question was: Did Fidel and the Soviets know, six weeks before the assassination, that Lee Harvey Oswald had visited the Cuban embassy and vowed to do exactly what he did?

Love letters. Ford tried to imagine why the Castros would reveal sensitive information to a mistress. It seemed unlikely . . . So why, fifty years later, did the Russians care?

“Damn it, Juan. Uranium poisoning? I’m not stupid. Talk to me.”

Rivera set his jaw and glowered. That did it. Ford pulled off the road, his truck’s headlights showing weeds and a yellow sign that read Panther Crossing while traffic sped past. “Okay, I’ll try another approach. What’s so important about that shortstop? He’s too old to sign with a major league team—don’t lie to me. Why did you bring him to the States?”

“Lie to you?” Rivera’s temper bordered on the berserk. He was famous for it. He shifted his weight in the seat and glared. “You are calling me a liar?”

A stare-down, but it was the general who blinked when he realized what he’d just heard. “Wait . . . How do you know Figuerito’s age? All I said was that he has no birth certificate.”

“Tell me why it’s worth risking your life to find him. Then I’ll explain.”

A light came on in the general’s head. “By god . . . you know where he is.”

Ford nodded, listened to a series of threats, before he repeated, “Tell me the truth.”

It wasn’t a long story, but he parked again—this time, in the airport’s cell phone lot—to listen to Rivera conclude, “That’s why I trusted Figuerito to keep the briefcase, even though I could find no electronic device inside.”

“You still haven’t what’s in there.”

Rivera used his hands to say I’m not done. “The point is, I was still being followed. Now I’m worried they are following Figuerito, too. That they’ll stick him with a needle, like my beautiful friend who has lost her hair. That’s why I must find him, then return immediately to Cuba.”

“I’ll be damned. You actually care about the guy.” Ford didn’t pose this as a question.

“He is a simpleton, that shortstop, but very honest—also crazy, from what I’ve been told. Perhaps these Russians will be the lucky ones if I find him first.”

“You mean he’s dangerous?”

Rivera replied, “I think not, but who can say what is in a man’s head? My friend on the phone continues to warn me that Figuerito is a violent psychopath. Even the warden I bribed described him as a serial killer without conscience, so . . .” The former dictator lowered the window to watch a plane land, his mind slipping back in memory. A bemused smile formed. “Of course, as you know, there are people who say the same about me.”

•   •   •

A LITTLE BEFORE TEN, Ford got an NA beer and sat at the computer in his lab. Across the room, the dog opened one yellow eye to watch, seeing Ford’s familiar size, lighted water boxes and odors behind him, then heard the man’s familiar voice.

“That damn Tomlinson, not a word since his stupid text. So maybe there’s an email . . . if he wasn’t too blitzed to find an Internet café.”

Sailing south on a righteous mission . . . don’t worry the text had read.

Ford used two fingers to rap at the keyboard, his wire glasses silver beneath a gooseneck lamp, while he spoke to the retriever: “If there’s nothing to worry about, why the hell doesn’t he call? At least have the courtesy to give me an update. Oh . . . I bet I know—a waterproof phone case is pointless if he doesn’t use the damn thing. Or, just thoughtless. Yeah, thoughtless, that’s him.”

More typing. The dog’s yellow eye closed; he returned to sleep while the alpha figure spoke, occasionally, in a tone that communicated nothing, but tilted his head when he heard “What the hell?”

Ford’s neighbors Rhonda and JoAnn, who lived aboard an old Chris-Craft, Tiger Lilly, had sent an email, subject: Man of the Year. There were photos of Tomlinson, naked on a bed, posing with three topless women—two large-breasted blondes, the other dark-haired, younger and attractive, despite cat whiskers painted on her face. Little tufts of horns on her temples, too, which caused her to resemble a woodland creature with teeth.

Ford was no prude but closed the photo after reading Rhonda’s note:

Copied from Facebook just now before they took it down. 726 likes. Capt. Quirk went back to Key West?

Relief, is what he felt at first. A foursome negated the chances of radiation poisoning or a bullet. Yet, something about one of the blondes tugged at his subconscious. He opened the photo again . . . had to zoom in tight to avoid the distraction of her Teutonic breasts. Tomlinson’s boney thighs, thank god, vanished, too. Ford removed his glasses, cleaned them, and focused on a necklace the blonde wore: a silver shield transected by a tiny ornate sword. Atop the sword’s hilt was a star.

“Jesus H. Christ.” Ford pushed his chair back as the dog’s head bounced to attention.

“He has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. I’ll call Rhonda. It might help to know when this was posted.”

The dog didn’t bother to stretch, trotted to his side, while Ford, talking to himself, picked up the phone and muttered, “That woman, she’s with the goddamn KGB.”

Actually, the FSB—Russian Federal Security Service. No reason to explain to a dog that only the name had been changed.

•   •   •

MOORED BETWEEN PILINGS beneath the stilthouse was his boat: a 26-foot rigid hull inflatable purchased through friends at the Special Ops base in Tampa—a confiscated cocaine boat, supposedly, but he knew otherwise. It tugged at its lines on this night of calm and stars, no moon, no clouds, no wind or waves.

Weather blew through the tropics with the indifference of airplanes passing overhead.

Ford found the light switch. Mullet scattered; shadows of big fish drifted under the dock until the dog vaulted after them.

“Damn it. Now I’ll have to get a towel for the truck.”

Instead, he stepped aboard. The deck, mounted on hydraulic shocks, absorbed his weight without listing. Couldn’t hurt to check a few things, although he was a fastidious man who obsessed over his tools, from microscopes to fly rods, dive gear, and weapons.

Boats received special attention. This one was made by Brunswick Tactical in Edgewater, Florida. It had all the high-tech frills: a radar tower aft, a cavernous console, and an electronics suite above the wheel. The hull was Kevlar encircled by tubes of black carbon fiber that looked bulletproof—and maybe were, considering the agency that had commissioned it. To minimize radar signature, the boat was built low to the water with few right angles or vertical surfaces, and had a bow hood made of neoprene polymer sheeting that was radar-absorbent. When opened, the hood covered the bow like a tent.

For power: twin Merc 250s, top speed over sixty, a range of four hundred miles—almost to Cuba and back, or almost to the Yucatán.

Almost being the operative word.

Ford checked fuel, oil, and plugged in the charger even though all four batteries were new.

At Jensen’s Marina on Captiva he had stored a fifty-gallon gas bladder, thinking he would never need it. He told the dog, “Let’s hope I don’t.”

•   •   •

FROM HIS TRUCK, he phoned Scottsdale, Arizona, Colorado Springs, and an unnamed city in Maryland. The process was so complicated it resembled ceremony. Six calls, five recordings, and, finally, one human voice: Hal Harrington, an old associate who still owed Ford a big favor, but the conversation did not go well.

Harrington saying, “You dropped out. What do you want me to do?”

Irritating, the bland way he spoke. Before getting in his truck, Ford had sent the man an encrypted note, part of a text he had received from his pilot friend Dan Futch. Implicit was Ford’s request for help:

“Mexico such a shithole via Bahamas only safe route. Most likely San Andros, clear customs, use Bethells as residence. Approach from east at night, low altitude, fifty feet max, use mountains to obscure Fat Albert, and hope no boats in the area when we land.”

They were directions, a seaplane ingress that could be to only one place, Cuba, although the island wasn’t mentioned. Something else not mentioned was that the charter company, Tampa to Havana, would not accept firearms as baggage. Even if they did, the next flight wasn’t until Sunday. Neither option would get him to Cuba before Tomlinson arrived the next night or Friday morning, depending on the wind.

Ford attempted patience with his former boss. “I sent you something fifteen minutes ago. Maybe you didn’t get it.”

“Really? Guess not.”

Harrington was lying.

Ford said, “Didn’t we learn a technique called communiqué by omission? I’m reluctant to spell it out. Hal?”—he tried to soften this into a request—“Don’t make me.”

“Is that a threat?”

“You know better. Maybe if you check your emails again? In the note’s first line, there’s a mention of Mexico.”

After a couple of seconds, Harrington said, “I’ll be damned. A little confusing the way it’s worded, but it helps. You should have referenced this in the first place.”

“I’m a little rusty, I guess.” The dog, with his nose out the window, ears flapping in the wind, sneezed.

“Gesundheit,” Harrington said.

“Thank you,” Ford replied. “I wouldn’t jump the ladder if I didn’t think this was serious.”

“Does that mean you’re interested in coming back?”

Ford resorted to a lie. “It’s that obvious? I never thought I’d get tired of sitting on my butt in air-conditioning, but, yeah, I sort of miss the old days.”

“You’ve always been a sentimental guy, Doc.” A hint of sarcasm there. “Well . . . I guess I could do some checking around. As a friend—not as a contracted deal, of course. Keep that in mind. What I’m still unclear about is—”

Ford pushed the phone away from his ear, thinking, I might as well hang up right now. That happened a few minutes later when he lost patience and said, “I don’t give a damn, Hal, if it’s protocol or not.”

Harrington was a trigger-puller, the real deal, but, through necessity, had developed the polish of a politician. “I know,” the man replied. “Any wonder your special phone doesn’t ring anymore?”

•   •   •

FORD HAD INTENDED to buy extra dog food at the 7-Eleven. Instead, he headed for Jensen’s Twin Palm on Captiva, which was across Blind Pass Bridge. Impossible not to slow at Castaways and check the cottage windows. Maggie was there, the same cheap rental in the drive.

“I don’t know what’s got into me,” he said to the dog, thinking the words but sometimes speaking aloud. “This one-night stand bullshit, it’s symptomatic of something. Totally out of character.”

The dog wasn’t interested.

“If she’s awake, I’ve got a built-in excuse. Those papers stolen from Castro’s estate? Didn’t find a single damn article. She wasn’t lying. Why would she make that up? That tells me something about her possible occupation. Reason enough, I think, to sneak a look at her phone. Now I’m glad I did.” Ford noticed car lights behind him and pulled into the grocery parking lot, the store and Sunset Café closed, but the Flamingo still open if he was hungry.

Maybe later.

“On the other hand, if I ask, she might have to reveal something about herself. Next, we’d be trading numbers and I don’t want that. Know why?” With the truck running, he focused on Maggie’s cottage, hoping the screen door would open, also hoping it wouldn’t.

It didn’t.

On the road again, he finally admitted, Because Maggie’s married, that’s why. Pissed at himself because he’d known from the start. You can remove a ring, but not a tan line. Breaking a personal rule was taboo, but lying to himself was worse.

That wasn’t his only lie.

At Jensen’s Marina, by the docks, palm trees framed a vast darkness where navigation lights blinked, red, white, and green. Ford let the dog out, walked to the bait tanks, and stared. To the northeast, across six miles of water and muted by mangroves, a milky dot marked the fishing village of Sulphur Wells. A woman lived there. An unusually good woman; smart, independent, and solid. Captain Hannah Smith was also a first-rate fishing guide.

They had dated, but it was more that; now they were done.

Ford touched the phone in his pocket . . . hesitated, still staring, and sent a telepathic message: I’ll call you when I get back.

The fifty-gallon fuel bladder, stored beside the office, was empty, so it was easy enough to load. It took longer to unlock the fuel pump at Dinkin’s Bay, where Mack complained, “Working the graveyard shift now, are we? What’s up?” It was almost midnight.

Ford contrived a story about Ridley turtles and camping on Shark River, south of Naples.

Hours later, in darkness, with engines synched, he threaded the cutoff Lighthouse Beach and pointed his boat toward Key West.