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.