“I surprise a lot of people. My mother was Cuban.”

“Really? Tú hablas español?” Do you speak Spanish?

“Sí. Lo aprendí cuando yo era un escurridero.” Yes, I learned it when I was a drainpipe.

She chuckled and said, “I think you meant, when you were a schoolboy.”

“What did I say?”

She was still smiling. “You said it exactly right. I wouldn’t change a word of it.”

He knew she was lying, and he felt the urge to redeem himself by telling her that he understood the language better than he spoke it. But he let it go.

Sofia said, “Funny, I voted against your old man in two gubernatorial elections. I don’t recall hearing anything about his being married to a Latina.”

“My mother passed away when I was young. Just a few hours old, actually.”

“Oh, how awful. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Obviously it was a long time ago.”

“Was she born in Cuba?”

“Yes. A little town called Bejucal.”

“I’ve heard of it. That’s actually not far from here.”

“I know. I checked the map before coming over.”

“You ever consider going there?”

“Every now and then. Only lately have I gotten serious about it.” Jack opened his carry-on bag and removed a photograph from inside a zipped pouch. “This is her,” he said as he offered it to Sofia.

“You brought a photograph?”

“I have a few keepsakes that my father and grandmother gave me. Not sure why I brought it. Coming to Cuba for the first time, it just seemed right to have her with me.”

“She’s beautiful. Just a teenager here, I would guess.”

“Yes. Seventeen. It was the last picture taken of her in Cuba.”

“Who’s that with her?”

“On the back it says ‘Celia Méndez.’ One look at the picture tells you they were best friends, but I don’t know anything more than that. My grandmother doesn’t seem to want to talk about Celia very much. I get the impression that she didn’t approve of the friendship.”

“Abuelas,” she said, smiling and shaking her head. “They all have their quirks, don’t they?”

“Some more than others,” said Jack.

A voice over the loudspeaker announced that their plane was finally boarding. Jack and Sofia rose and walked toward the gate with the other ticketed passengers. Twenty minutes later they were inside the plane and in their seats. A few passengers were trying to stuff luggage into the overhead compartments, but nearly everyone had settled in for the flight. Jack was just getting comfortable when he heard his name over the speaker. The message was in Spanish.

“Passengers Sofia Suarez and John Lawrence Swyteck, please identify yourselves by pushing the flight attendant call button.”

They looked at each other, not sure what to think. Then Jack reached up and pushed the button. The flight attendant came to them. “Please come with me,” she said in Spanish.

“Both of us?”

“Yes.”

They rose, but as they started up the aisle the flight attendant stopped and said, “Please, bring your carry-on luggage with you.”

“What’s this about?” asked Sofia.

“Please, gather your things and come with me.”

She was pleasant enough, but the vibes weren’t good. Heads turned with suspicion as they proceeded up the long, narrow aisle. The flight attendant led them completely off the plane, and they continued walking toward the gate.

“I told you not to hand out money to janitors,” Sofia muttered.

“Something tells me that’s not what this is about,” said Jack.

Three men dressed in military uniforms were waiting at the gate. Each was carrying an impressive large-caliber pistol in a black leather holster. The two younger men also bore automatic rifles. The flight attendant handed over the passengers to the leader, a more mature-looking man who appeared to be of some higher rank that Jack was unable to pinpoint. He asked to see their passports, which they presented. As he inspected their documents, the airplane backed out of the gate and started toward the runway. The soldier kept their passports and said, “This way, please.”

Evidently, they weren’t leaving Cuba anytime soon.

Jack and Sofia followed directly behind the older man, and the two younger soldiers flanked them on either side. They walked for several minutes through the busy airport, three pairs of military boot heels clicking on the tile floors. They exited the main terminal through a long and hot hallway, passing through several sets of doors along the way, the last of which bore a sign that read in Spanish, RESTRICTED AREA-AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The lead officer opened it with a key, and the group continued its journey with hardly a break in stride. There was another long hallway, and they walked straight to the door at the other end. The man knocked once and said, “Excuse me, Colonel. I have the Americans.”

The voice on the other side replied, “Enter.”

He opened the door and then immediately assumed the rigid pose of a military salute. A simple command from the man inside put him at ease, and he nudged the Americans forward.

Sofia shot Jack a look as if to say that “ladies first” was for lifeboats and cocktail parties. Jack entered, and she followed.

Jack’s eyes had to adjust to the lights, which were shining straight at his face. The room was windowless, but there was a large mirror built into the wall, undoubtedly a one-way gizmo that concealed the observers on the other side. The floors were unfinished concrete. The walls were cinder blocks that had been painted a bright white. Two uncomfortable wooden chairs were situated in the middle of the room, side by side, facing the lights. Even if he hadn’t been nervous, Jack would have been sweating. It was one of those interrogation rooms that could just as easily serve as a torture chamber, the kind of place from which you’d expect both screams and confessions to flow freely.

A man dressed in simple green combat fatigues stepped forward. His uniform was wholly unimpressive, yet he seemed to exude confidence as he spoke to the Americans in near-perfect English.

“Please, sit,” he said in a voice that sounded way too friendly to be sincere. “The people of Cuba are eager to speak to you about your case.”

Are those lights really necessary?” said Jack, shielding his eyes.

The colonel walked around the table and flipped a wall switch. The spotlights went out, and the sudden contrast from bright light to normal made the room seem much darker than it actually was. The colonel pulled a ten-inch cigar from his shirt pocket, and another man immediately stepped forward to light it. The man was so quick and obsequious that he could only have been the colonel’s personal aide. The colonel puffed hard on one end, rolling the other across a six-inch flame. Jack and Sofia were soon shrouded in a cloud of cigar smoke.

“My name is Colonel Raúl Jiménez,” he said as the thick smoke poured from his nostrils. “The people of Cuba thank you for coming.”

Jack glanced left, then right. “Funny, I don’t see them here.”

The colonel smiled, but it faded quickly. “You’re looking at them.”

With the wave of his hand, the armed soldiers left the room. The colonel’s aide remained at attention, standing off to the side.

“Gracias,” said Sofia.

At first Jack wasn’t sure why she was thanking him, but he too felt more comfortable with the automatic weapons out of the room.

“My purpose here is not to frighten you,” said the colonel. “I wish only to do you a favor.”

“Why do I doubt that?” said Jack.

“You are such a skeptic, Señor Swyteck.”

“I can’t help it. I’m a lawyer.”

“True, very true. Tell me. How did your interview with Lieutenant Johnson go this morning?”

Jack and Sofia looked at each other, not sure how he knew.

The colonel said, “You don’t think anything happens on that base that we don’t know about, do you?”