“Don’t turn around,” the man said.

Jack froze. He started to put his hands in the air, but the man’s gruff voice stopped him. “Don’t make a move. Don’t do anything.”

“What do you want?” said Jack.

“I’m not a robber. I’m not going to hurt you. I work for the government of Cuba.”

A Cuban operative in Miami? Pretty good reason not to let anyone see your face. “What’s this about?”

“Coronel Jiménez sent me. I have a message for you.”

It took an extra moment for Jack to process that thought. It almost seemed too bizarre, but if the guy knew about Colonel Jiménez, he had to be for real. “Tell me.”

“He wants you to know that he has something for you. He says you’ll be pleased.”

“Fine. How does Colonel Jiménez intend to get this ‘whatever it is’ to me?”

“He doesn’t. If you want it, you come to Cuba and get it.”

“When?”

“Your plane leaves tonight for Cancun. From there you fly to Havana.”

Jack scoffed. “You expect me to get on a plane and fly illegally to Cuba just because some guy who claims to work for the Cuban government tells me to?”

“It’s your choice. If you go, it’s your client who benefits. If you don’t go, it’s your relatives back in Cuba who suffer.”

Jack felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. “How do you know I even have relatives in Cuba?”

“Your father was the governor of Florida. We have a long file on you, Mr. Swyteck.”

Jack didn’t want to play into his hands, but his curiosity was getting the best of him. Could this man possibly know about his half sibling? Or was he talking about second and third cousins twice removed? “Exactly what relatives are you talking about?”

“Get on the plane, and Colonel Jiménez will be glad to tell you. Or don’t get on the plane, and live with the knowledge that every last one of your relatives in Cuba will be treated as gusanos.”

Gusanos. Worms. It was the label Castro used for the “traitors” who fled to Miami or otherwise betrayed the government. The backlash was never pretty. Food rations were cut. Employment was impossible. Their own neighbors might spit on them in the street.

Jack swallowed hard, but if this man had planned to hurt him, Jack would have been facedown on the pavement by now. There was a big potential upside in going. Having just visited Cuba and seen its hardships-and with the possibility of a half sibling living there-the downside of not going was too much to bear.

“All right,” said Jack. “I’ll go.”

“I’ll leave your plane tickets on the ground behind you. Count to twenty, then turn around and pick them up. I’ll be long gone. You understand?”

Not even remotely. “Sure,” he said, his head spinning, “I understand perfectly.”

Morning came quickly. Jack was dressed and ready to go when he answered the knock at the cottage door.

“Coronel Jiménez will see you now,” said the man, standing in the open doorway.

Jack checked his watch. A driver had met him at the airport the previous night and told him to be ready at eight o’clock. It was closer to nine now, but Jack had lived in Miami long enough to know all about Cuban time.

“Right on schedule,” said Jack.

Jack wasn’t sure of his exact location, except that he knew he was in Havana and that this wasn’t a hotel. His driver had taken him to a relatively quiet neighborhood in the Vedado section, west of central Havana, and Jack spent the night in a one-room cottage behind a main house. His room had no television, no radio, and no telephone. He’d had no time to pack before leaving Miami, just time enough to grab his passport and go. But the cottage came with a toiletry kit and a clean pair of socks and underwear, compliments of the Cuban government. He assumed he was staying in another casa particular, undoubtedly owned by someone loyal to the regime. He’d conducted himself under the assumption that he was under constant surveillance, which basically meant that he went to the bathroom in the dark.

His escort this morning was dressed in the civilian clothes of a house servant. He led Jack down a cobblestone walkway to the main house. It was an old neoclassical mansion, not so grand in design as old Havana’s decaying three-story gems, but undoubtedly one of the many prerevolution homes that had been taken from Havana’s wealthy, its owner either shot dead on the front steps or sent fleeing to Miami-perhaps someone Jack had even met. The grounds were small but well maintained. Tiny pink and purple flowers gathered like butterflies on the tangled vines of bougainvillea, and tall hibiscus hedges bore larger blossoms of bright red and yellow. The walkway led to a central courtyard, a traditional nineteenth-century layout where all rooms exited to the outdoors. Some windows still had original stained glass, which was not only beautiful but helped to filter the punishing tropical sun. It had been well after midnight when Jack arrived from Havana airport, so he hadn’t noticed how charming the place was. He also hadn’t noticed the armed soldiers posted at each corner of the walled-in property.

“Who lives here?” Jack asked in Spanish.

“Coronel Jiménez, of course.”

A guest of the colonel, himself. Communism suited him well, Jack thought.

Jack followed the man along a covered walkway, then upstairs to the second floor. At the end of the hall was a pair of massive wooden doors, each one carved elaborately and adorned with large brass knockers. The grand entrance seemed to trumpet the fact that someone important was waiting inside, an impression that was reinforced by the armed soldiers standing like pillars on either side of the doorway. Without a word, and with all the personality of the Queen’s Guard at Buckingham Palace, the soldier on the left turned, knocked, and announced Jack’s arrival.

“Send him in,” came the reply. Jack recognized the voice as the colonel’s.

The soldier opened the door and escorted Jack into a spacious, dark-paneled library. With a click of his heels the soldier retreated, leaving Jack alone with the colonel, who rose, smiled pleasantly, and offered Jack a seat. The colonel seemed to have learned from their previous meeting that Jack had no interest in shaking his hand.

“Café?” asked the colonel.

“No, gracias.”

The colonel shifted to English, which was exactly what most Spanish speakers did as soon as they heard Jack massacre their language.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Sure. Thanks for threatening my Cuban relatives.”

The colonel offered a strained show of sympathy. “Aye, did he really do that to you? I swear, I send my men to Miami, and they become so rude. What is it about that city?”

Jack dodged the small talk. “Your messenger said you have something for me.”

“Yes, I do. I think you are going to be very pleased.”

“That’s what I used to tell my clients when their execution date got moved from Monday to Thursday.”

“You’re a very funny man,” he said, but his smile seemed insincere.

“Whattaya got, Colonel?”

The colonel picked up the phone, punched a few buttons, then spoke in very abrupt Spanish. Just seconds after he hung up, a side door opened, one that Jack hadn’t even noticed because of the way it blended into the paneled walls. Two soldiers entered, only one of them armed. The one without a gun took a seat facing the colonel, his body angled toward Jack. The armed soldier left the room.

The colonel said, “This is Private Felipe Castillo.”

Castillo nodded once toward Jack, who returned the gesture.

The colonel said, “Private Castillo is part of the surveillance team at Guantánamo Bay. He is one of many soldiers on Cuban soil whose primary responsibility is to monitor activity at the U.S. naval base. We have towers posted all along-well, I’m not going to tell you how many or where they are. Not that it’s a secret. Both sides are constantly watching each other down there.”