Anatol Kostikov, leaving Marta’s house, watched flames in his rearview mirror and ruminated over a likely investigative tagline: Sex deviant sets fire to destroy evidence.

Workable if he pitched the theory to the right Cuban official. Someone sloppy enough not to bother with DNA, or interviews, or details that had more to do with arson than sex crimes. The key was killing Vernum first; make it look like self-defense, then planting evidence enough to stifle an investigation. To hell with what anyone else thought or said. He was a senior Russian agent, by god, and Cuba, once again, was in his country’s debt.

On the passenger seat was a bag. It contained all the evidence he needed. Under the seat was another pint of vodka. He needed that, too, plus a few more pills.

The vodka went down with a nice burn.

On the dashboard, the GPS tracker marked the location where Vernum’s phone had gone dead ten minutes earlier. The would-be spy was two kilometers away, if pursued on foot, five kilometers by road, but driving was still the only choice. Stupid to leave his Mercedes near a crime scene. Plus, along with stomach cramps, Anatol now had something else to worry about. He was bleeding. Not badly, but enough. A bullet had furrowed the fat on his left side when a pistol magically appeared in Marta’s hands. She’d shot him. Fired three times, eyes closed, before he’d slapped her to the ground.

The Russian gulped from the bottle and watched the scene repeat itself in his head. The obnoxious brat screaming when he grabbed her, teeth snapping like an animal. Then the mother was there, her face ashen in the headlights, bringing her hands up, up, up, which should have been warning enough, but he had been complacent in a country that didn’t allow even Party members to own guns.

It was his only excuse for what happened next. Those scenes, Anatol did not want to replay in his mind. Among the worst was later, when he tried to put a bullet in the woman’s skull, but the stolen Glock was loaded with dummies that wouldn’t fire because even cops weren’t trusted in this tropic shithole nation. The Latina and girls had bolted, while he rushed to pilfer a few bullets before they got to the trees. The scene had stayed with him, Marta’s expression of horror, and the burden of his own sloppiness.

Goddamn . . . disgraceful. In the same day, he had been robbed in a public restroom, then shot by a peasant female. Him, Anatol, the descendant of legendary Cossack warriors.

To spare his reputation, if nothing else, he had to find Vernum. This time, do every little thing right. Place the evidence just so and cover his tracks. Once that was done, he was free to turn his attention to Fidel’s letters, then the CIA agent. If he was methodical—and his luck changed—he might even ship home an antique Harley or three when his job was done.

Another gulp of vodka allowed him to linger on the lone masterstroke in this long, shitty day. After so many screwups, he had stepped back and rallied. The seasoned professional had asked himself a professional’s question: How would a sexual deviant kill three victims and cover his tracks?

The resulting finesse was a nice touch he would share with that worm Vernum.

The answer: burn them all alive.

•   •   •

ANATOL SKIRTED a cluster of trees, his eyes on the GPS tracker, while the house burned in the far, far distance. He was so intent on his quarry that had it not been for the scent of blood, he would have kept going up the hill, past a derelict chimney, then another sixty meters.

Metallic iodine and brass. Distinctive, that odor, if the sample was large enough. Some of his most satisfying achievements were linked to the smell of blood, but it could also signal danger.

He crouched and pocketed the tracker but not the pistol. Even though he had dimmed the LED screen, his vision required several seconds to adjust. Head tilted, he inhaled . . . moved a few steps; sniffed again, and followed his nose into the trees. A penlight came out and threw a red beam. On a blanket were cups, seashells, and a sunflower as if spread for a picnic. A couple of pumpkin-like vessels nearby. Then what looked like an empty garbage bag, but it wasn’t a bag—it was the goddamn stupid Santero.

I can make this work, Anatol told himself. He believed that until he was standing over Vernum and saw how the would-be spy had died.

Idiot. What brand of stupid sex deviant allowed himself to be wired to a tree so an even crazier sex deviant could cut off his cock? Closer inspection added to the puzzle. Vernum’s wrists showed abrasions, but his hands were free, and there were no defensive wounds. So . . . he had been unconscious during the assault, or—Anatol had to project himself into the mind of a sick deviant—or Vernum was such a masochist, he had welcomed his own mutilation.

Either way, it would be tough to convince authorities that the murderer of two cops and an old man had, while taking a breather, parted with his own cock willingly.

Shit.

Profanity was better in Russian. He stomped away from the body, hissing, “Der’mo. Der’mo. Der’mo!” Then the finale: “Eto pizdets!”

Total screwed-up madness. This sort of crap didn’t happen to Anatol Kostikov. Never had he experienced such a streak of bad luck.

To hell with it. Vernum had to be the fall guy. There was no other way. If a senior Russian intelligence agent couldn’t fool these Caribbean hicks, who could?

He stretched on surgical gloves. Then did a slow recon of the area in darkness. Insects and frogs cloaked the sound of his weight. He moved from tree to tree, knelt for long seconds in the weeds. In the distance, the saffron flicker of Marta’s house was useful. With only four bullets in his gun, a brighter backdrop made for better target acquisition.

There was no target. Even so, Anatol returned to the corpse, thinking, Someone is out there.

It was more than intuition. Vernum’s body was still warm.

He popped the last of the wire bindings and went to work. The scenario was this: he had surprised the Cuban, who was with another sex deviant. They had bragged about assaulting some local girls and their mother. Because of his status with the embassy, Anatol had an obligation to Cuban law. They had argued. Vernum had shot him. As to how the idiot got his cock cut off, why ask a respected Russian agent? No goddamn idea—that must have happened after he’d left to seek medical attention.

Into Vernum’s hand went the little Sig Sauer pistol taken from Marta. Fingerprints would register on the barrel even though the dead hand failed to grip it. Three brass casings were scattered nearby. He added subtle touches: a bit of hair from Marta’s brush, hair from the two girls. Then a swatch of cloth from the obnoxious brat’s pink-and-white pajamas, and a robe he had torn off the mother—this was just before the goddamn Glock had misfired. He spattered each with Vernum’s blood—just a little—then smeared footprints.

Enough.

He took out the GPS tracker and went up the hill. Stopped twice to grimace and clutch his side. The bullet wound was insignificant. The cramps had returned.

•   •   •

A BOMB SHELTER . . .

Anatol recognized the construction immediately. A Type 4, Level 1-A Complete, designed by Russian engineers, then reassembled in Cuba. He wasn’t old enough to have served during that period, but he was old enough to remember, and to appreciate, similar shelters he had seen on the island and in what was becoming the New Soviet Union.

Who knew? Maybe bomb shelters would be needed again.

He started down the ramp, then dropped to a knee and waited, pistol ready. Someone was following him. He felt sure, even though he hadn’t seen or heard anything. On a night as dark as this, there were two possible explanations: he was either paranoid or there was someone out there wearing night vision. Not the cheap third-generation stuff either. CIA-quality.

Yeah. To a thirty-year vet of clandestine services, the explanation felt right.

Under any other circumstances, he would have called his contact at Cuban intelligence. The DGI could have a chopper here with an ops team hanging out the doors before the American escaped. But he couldn’t risk that. Not now, with Vernum lying out there, dead and dickless, and Marta’s house ablaze.

A better idea was to drop everything and turn the tables. Hunt the hunter. He was, after all, the expert who had taught the world’s elite to track and kill. In his soul, in his marrow, that’s what he wanted to do. But there was another problem: the stomach cramps were worsening. The last time Vernum’s phone had pinged a signal was twenty-eight minutes ago. The ping had originated from here, the entrance of the shelter, but there was no guarantee the phone was somewhere inside.

Vernum certainly was not.

To hell with the phone. A Type 4 shelter contained everything four or fewer people needed to survive a nuclear attack. That included food, storage, sleeping cells, a kitchenette with woodstove—which was not a requirement in Cuba—and, of course, a chemical toilet with a septic tank.

That’s what Anatol required, a toilet, and he required it soon.

Three minutes he stood guard, which was less than protocol demanded, then slipped inside—but, first, removed the padlock and chain to reduce the risk of being trapped within. Clearing a room couldn’t be rushed, especially a room already lit by a kerosene lantern. Someone had been here, or was still here—Vernum’s killer or killers, judging from footprints. Bloody smudges suggested a person with small shoes had been accompanied by a man with feet almost thirty centimeters long. He peered around a concrete portal, then followed his pistol into an office area crammed with old military furniture and hardware.

Fidel, he thought, or Raúl. This was one of their hideouts.

It made sense. Their mistress Imelda Casanova lived nearby.

Check under desk and table. Stop, listen, sniff the air. All clear, and the door to the next room was open wide. He repeated the process and entered the kitchenette, where the woodstove was still burning. But why on a balmy November night?

Burning evidence, he decided.

The stove could wait. The cramps could not.

He carried the lantern to the next door and placed his ear against it. These prefab shelters were little more than sewage culverts designed to be dropped into three trenches that intersected. When the trenches were covered, occupants enjoyed the illusion of spaciousness because the tunnels branched into wings that could be sealed as private rooms. He had yet to reach one of those terminals. A moment later, he did. To his right, behind a vinyl curtain, was a cramped bathing area with a hand pump. In an adjoining stall was a Russian-made commode that resembled a wedding cake.

Thank god.

Training, though, demanded that the entire shelter first be secured. There were two doors here, both made of steel. One sealed an intersecting branch. The other continued along the length of the tunnel. He placed the lantern on the floor and chose the tangent branch. It opened into a dead-end room that was damp and smelled of mold. He thought it was empty until he retrieved the lamp. Inside was a religious shrine: sunflower and cane stalks tied into bundles, beads and cowrie shells, a statuette of the Virgin Mary on a ledge streaked with candy-colored wax from a thousand spent candles.

On a lower ledge were bottles of rum that had evaporated and cigars rotted to dust. Except for one bottle that was full, recently uncorked. A fresh cigar was balanced on the bottle’s lip. They sat apart above three loaves of concrete that appeared structural until he moved closer.

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

Perfect. Fingerprints would validate his story.

Santería. It fit with the murder of a Santero.

•   •   •

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

Fidel’s mistress?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No . . . it was another goddamn cramp.

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

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

Running was risky, so he hurried through the tunnel, taking short, fast steps, until he was close to the commode and out of danger. His belt buckle required both hands. He placed the lantern, then the pistol, on the floor and closed the curtain. Once he was seated, stomach cramps took charge. Finally, when he was comfortable enough to retrieve the pistol, he had to snake an arm under the curtain to find the damn pistol.

It wasn’t there.

What? The pistol had to be there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lantern. Anatol lifted it, as if to show he was done, while his eyes were fixed, waiting for a hand or the American’s shoes to appear.

“Your Spanish sucks, but the signature looks familiar. Yeah . . . I’ve seen that signature before. For some reason, I hoped you were smarter. Weird, huh? Two grown men and we’re still playing the same goddamn stupid game. Fool’s Mate.”

Where the hell was that voice coming from? Tunnels echo. Anatol’s ears tried to zero in . . . until he realized what the American meant. Another stupid error. The name he’d used was on a false ID in the wallet the American had stolen.

“I left your emergency money,” the voice said. “Think of it as professional courtesy. Now sign the goddamn paper again. Your real name . . . Anatol.”

“But I did—” A searing contraction cut off his air. “I did, but you haven’t looked at it closely.” Sweat beaded, slid down his cheeks, as he nudged the logbook another inch into the hall. “I’m sick. You speak of professionalism. You, whose head I own when DGI comes, but I would not give you to fools of DGI. A deal we will make, huh?” His knuckles whitened on the lantern handle. “You are calling General Anatol Kostikov a liar?”

The voice replied, “Stand up, and I’ll make it quick.”

Click-click. The metallic latching of a pistol hammer always, always signaled an end to negotiations. Anatol winced but wasn’t afraid. Training took over. When cornered, attack. In Ukraine, the ancient land of Cossacks, soldiers entered battle with the same ancient war cry. A guttural howl. That howl carried Anatol into the hall, lantern slashing, but the goddamn curtain came with him, draped over his head like a shroud.

Snap-Snap. Snap. Three plastic-on-plastic reports. The Russian heard the sounds, but they held no meaning except that each coincided with sudden hammering blows that stabbed him twice in the thigh and once in the kneecap.

Anatol tumbled forward onto the floor, aware in numb consciousness that he was bleeding . . . and that the curtain he could not shed from his body was on fire.

My silent pistol, he realized. Bastard shot me with my own weapon.

The humiliation was enough to rally the giant to his feet. “You want fight Kostikov?” He slapped at flames in his hair and roared. “Come, you pizda! Like men!”