"Fidel knew?"

"From the start. He let the plot roll to see who'd sign on. There's a reason the Comandante has survived this long."

"What happened to Isabel?"

"Her mother went crazy and fell under a bus. Isabel was raised by her aunt under another name, which was the only reason she was picked for dance school. Cuban ballet is like Cuban sports, a miracle until you find out how it's done. They search the country for little prospects and she was a star at twelve. The uproar when they figured out she was Lazaro Lindo's little girl? Now, they point to her and say, 'See how we let the children of enemies of the people rejoin society.' What they're not going to do is promote the name Isabel Lindo on the bill as a prima ballerina, and they're never going to let her tour."

"Is her father still alive?"

"Died in jail. Somebody dropped a rock on him. What I'm saying is, this is no ordinary message Isabel wants from Russia. It might have all sorts of names and accusations and the messenger may be very sorry that he helped stir things up. She won't tell you that, but I will."

"I appreciate it."

"She's difficult, I know. You can help."

"How?"

"Don't get her hopes up."

"Did Pribluda get her hopes up?"

"Sergei was going to work for me."

"As what?"

"Security."

"Security? What kind of security can a Russian offer in Cuba? Is the Russian Mafia here?"

"Close. In Antigua, the Caymans, Miami. Not in Havana, not yet. Actually, what I worry about now is Luna. Have you seen the sergeant today?"

"Not yet. Luna said I would see him again, and I don't think he's a man of idle threats. I doubt Sergeant Luna knows what an idle threat is."

Walls went around to the passenger side and opened the dashboard. Nested on chamois cloth was a huge handgun with a slot trigger.» A Colt .45 automatic, a classic, Fidel's favorite. Luna has been useful. He has a lot of interesting connections. But you saw last night how he's just getting out of control. I have to disengage and it might be easier with someone watching my back. Maybe you'd be interested."

Arkady had to smile. Not much had amused him lately, but this offer did.» Right now I'm watching my own back."

"You don't look it. You have a 'fuck you' quality in an understated way. You could do general security, too."

"I don't speak Spanish."

"You'd learn."

"Actually, I prefer safer work."

"It's absolutely safe. The truth is, Arkady, I live in this tropical paradise on sufferance. There are people who would seize any opportunity, any embarrassment and say, 'Screw George Washington Walls, he's yesterday's news; if the Americans still want him, send him back.' In my situation, the quieter the better."

"Well, that's interesting, but I'm only in Cuba a few days."

"People say that. People say they're just coming through Havana, but you'd be surprised how often they stay. Someone conies around the world to a place like this, it's not pure chance. There's a reason."

Chapter Twelve

Arkady expected that any minute Luna would drop from a street sign or pop up from a manhole cover and make good on his promise to "fuck him up." Fucking up and killing were close but not the same. There was that added sexual charge, the suggestion of rough mating, as if a missing eye or ear were a reasonable token of intercourse. Killing was clean. Fucking up sounded messy.

Strangely enough, though, Arkady felt revitalized. Not exactly happy, but fueled by the search for the photograph and the small license it gave him to ask questions about Pribluda. Amused also, in a time of depression, by the implausible offer of employment providing security for an American radical like George Washington Walls. Perhaps because Havana was so unreal to him Arkady felt slightly invulnerable, like a man aware he is only having a nightmare. Luna was a nightmare figure. Luna was perfect.

When he got back to Pribluda's flat he propped the front door shut and carried a bottle of chilled water to the office, where he turned on the computer and, when the machine demanded a password, entered gordo. The machine chirped and the screen blinked and offered icons: programs, startup, accessories, main, printer. Twenty-five years in the KGB and an agent used a turtle's name as his password. Lenin wept.

Still interested in Pribluda's last day, Arkady went through accessories to calendar. Hours, days, months rolled backward without appointments, but what curious comfort to take, he thought. He couldn't speak Spanish, but he could navigate the universal PC desktop. CUMIN was the Cuban Ministry of Sugar and charts, RUSMIN the Russian Ministry of Trade, SUG-FUT the futures prices of Cuban, Brazilian and Indian sugar as they competed in commodities pits. Meanwhile, a downstairs din of drums and maracas suggested that Erasmo the car mechanic was at work. Arkady intended to talk to Mongo and find a photograph of Pribluda, but first things first, while he had the inspiration.

He opened sughab, which divided Havana into 150 sugar mills. The last file saved was comcfueg.

Commune Camilo Cienfuegos is the former Hershey sugar mill east of Havana. Visits to the field uncover poor Cuban maintenance of antiquated equipment. However, we must also frankly acknowledge that Russian ships carrying spare parts have failed to materialize, the latest being a freighter which was expected to make Havana by last week. It is suspected that the ship's captain has diverted it to another port along the South American coast and sold its cargo for a better price. Regrettably, this makes negotiations with the Ministry of Sugar more difficult.

Arkady supposed the Cubans would be testy about that. He started a search for the Havana Yacht Club. Nothing. Rufo Pinero. Nothing. Sergeant Luna and, for good measure, Captain Arcos. Nothing. Opened the E-mail outbox and inbox. Empty.

A document labeled azupanama caught his eye because Vice Consul Bugai had mentioned successful negotiations between Russia and Cuba thanks to a Panamanian sugar broker of that name, and Arkady thought it might be interesting to see what role the commercial attache Sergei Pribluda had played in that. He hit retrieve, and from its grave sprang a short, one-sided correspondence.

serk@dit.com/IntelWeb/ru Wed Aug 5 1996 A.I. Serkov, Manager Diamond International Trading 1123 Smolenskaya Ploshad, Rm. 167 Moscow

Dear Serkov,

Greetings from the land of mambo kings. I am just now getting used to sending mail through the internet so I hope you are all well, etc. The weather is agreeable, thank you. Let me know if this reaches you safely. Yours, S.S. Pribluda

It was like watching someone learn to ride a bicycle.

A.I. Serkov

Diamond International Trading

Dear Serkov,

Progress.

Yours,

S.S. Pribluda

Arkady liked the sound of that. Progress! Russian and to the point. Also interesting in that it had no E-mail address or time sent, suggesting that it was a note for a real message to be sent from an encrypted machine at the embassy.

serk@dir.com/IntelWeb/ru Mon Oct 1 1996

Serkov,

The Chinese contact has borne fruit. I think you will see that the fox is flushed! A fox and a wolf!

Pribluda

What a wordsmith. Pribluda had obviously been flushed with victory.» Success!" was all an agent need say.» Chinese contact" seemed far too much, not that Arkady was aware of any part of China abutting

Havana.

According to the spreadsheet, Pribluda's finances were straightforward, so much allotted each month for food, laundry, personal items, gasoline and car repair. The only unexplained expenditure was a hundred dollars paid every Thursday. If the item was sex, Arkady thought, Pribluda would have hidden it; as an unreconstructed Communist, Pribluda had a skewed but ironbound morality. No, the item could be for his Chinese contact. Or karate lessons. According to little Carmen, Pribluda did carry a black belt in his briefcase.