peasant who could be used as a mule or fall guy . . .
something
that now, sitting in Nassau, he was still ferreting out.
Kill Figueroa Casanova is what they wanted but didn’t admit. Said they wanted the little man detained and interrogated about a stolen briefcase (no mention of the letters) before he was sent back to Havana Psychiatric. A special drug, they had instructed Vernum, would provide the needed interrogation time.
That was another key to this puzzle. To store his new laptop, they’d given him a shoulder bag. Inside was a shiny silver Montblanc fountain pen.
Use it like a needle,
he’d been instructed.
Just a scratch is enough and the defector will be cooperative for a week, possibly ten days.
There had been no demonstration. In fact, the DGI agents had behaved as if even the shoulder bag was dangerous. Nor did they touch the pen, which was oddly heavy as if lined with lead and stored in a metal case.
It was something a dumb peasant wouldn’t have noticed.
Vernum Quick did.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, as he was aware. But success required that he make some behavioral changes. As village
Santero
, he had affected aloofness. He had spoken in parables and often began sentences by asking the blessings of Oggún, or hinting that a gift to the High Babalawo would impress the saints. Changó, his guardian saint, was a favorite topic.
But he had dropped all the theatrical bullshit the day he’d met the Russian.
The Russian . . . The man was now returning from the corridor, where tourists scattered to make way. Vernum closed the laptop, stored it, and decided to have fun with a little experiment. He stood and offered the bag to Kostikov, saying, “You mind holding this while I piss?”
“No talk now!” the man hissed, and stepped back—a familiar reaction.
Poison, yes, he’d been right about the fountain pen—a type of poison that required a lead case.
Vernum had researched that, too.
After using the men’s room, he ate some jerked pork and ruminated over a new puzzle: the saints had delivered Figuerito into his hands, no doubt. But how could he keep that little psycho alive long enough to get rich—and without getting killed himself?
• • •
T HEY FINALLY SPOKE on the government flight to Havana, safe now unless this shitty old Tupolev, with two propellers and a broken door, fell from the sky.
“Comrade, how you like that jerked pork?” Vernum asked. Interested because he’d added a few drops of special oil when he’d added more sauce.
“Ummm,” Kostikov grunted. “Ummm-huh.” The man chewed with his mouth open, red sauce all over his chin. “I tell you plan now.”
Vernum had been wondering about this return to Havana but preferred to look out the window while the man explained. Figuerito had escaped from Key West in a sailboat, the Russian told him. They knew the boat’s name:
No More
.
“No Más?”
The Russian nodded. “Scarecrow man we saw last night is captain. I still laugh the way he talk so tough. Hah! This hippie boy-girl threatening me,
Kostikov
.”
Maybe that really was the big guy’s name. It was painful to smile with thirty-three stitches, but Vernum managed. “Yeah, he’s nuts. That’s what I was thinking at the time. But if they’re in a boat, why didn’t we just rent a faster boat and catch them?”
“You question orders?”
Orders?
Vernum hadn’t heard any orders. “No, man,” he said, “just asking.”
“The scarecrow likes hear himself talk to women, tells them everything. Don’t worry, we have plan.” The Russian balled up his napkin and lobbed it forward, where a woman sat alone behind the pilot, one of the blondes Vernum recognized from last night. She was lighting a cigarette in a noisy plane that had a rattling door and wasn’t pressurized.
Vernum said, “I didn’t realize there was a connection, but—” He stopped himself before inquiring how the Russian had found time to locate her. At the ER,
something
that now, sitting in Nassau, he was still ferreting out.
Kill Figueroa Casanova is what they wanted but didn’t admit. Said they wanted the little man detained and interrogated about a stolen briefcase (no mention of the letters) before he was sent back to Havana Psychiatric. A special drug, they had instructed Vernum, would provide the needed interrogation time.
That was another key to this puzzle. To store his new laptop, they’d given him a shoulder bag. Inside was a shiny silver Montblanc fountain pen.
Use it like a needle,
he’d been instructed.
Just a scratch is enough and the defector will be cooperative for a week, possibly ten days.
There had been no demonstration. In fact, the DGI agents had behaved as if even the shoulder bag was dangerous. Nor did they touch the pen, which was oddly heavy as if lined with lead and stored in a metal case.
It was something a dumb peasant wouldn’t have noticed.
Vernum Quick did.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, as he was aware. But success required that he make some behavioral changes. As village
Santero
, he had affected aloofness. He had spoken in parables and often began sentences by asking the blessings of Oggún, or hinting that a gift to the High Babalawo would impress the saints. Changó, his guardian saint, was a favorite topic.
But he had dropped all the theatrical bullshit the day he’d met the Russian.
The Russian . . . The man was now returning from the corridor, where tourists scattered to make way. Vernum closed the laptop, stored it, and decided to have fun with a little experiment. He stood and offered the bag to Kostikov, saying, “You mind holding this while I piss?”
“No talk now!” the man hissed, and stepped back—a familiar reaction.
Poison, yes, he’d been right about the fountain pen—a type of poison that required a lead case.
Vernum had researched that, too.
After using the men’s room, he ate some jerked pork and ruminated over a new puzzle: the saints had delivered Figuerito into his hands, no doubt. But how could he keep that little psycho alive long enough to get rich—and without getting killed himself?
• • •
T HEY FINALLY SPOKE on the government flight to Havana, safe now unless this shitty old Tupolev, with two propellers and a broken door, fell from the sky.
“Comrade, how you like that jerked pork?” Vernum asked. Interested because he’d added a few drops of special oil when he’d added more sauce.
“Ummm,” Kostikov grunted. “Ummm-huh.” The man chewed with his mouth open, red sauce all over his chin. “I tell you plan now.”
Vernum had been wondering about this return to Havana but preferred to look out the window while the man explained. Figuerito had escaped from Key West in a sailboat, the Russian told him. They knew the boat’s name:
No More
.
“No Más?”
The Russian nodded. “Scarecrow man we saw last night is captain. I still laugh the way he talk so tough. Hah! This hippie boy-girl threatening me,
Kostikov
.”
Maybe that really was the big guy’s name. It was painful to smile with thirty-three stitches, but Vernum managed. “Yeah, he’s nuts. That’s what I was thinking at the time. But if they’re in a boat, why didn’t we just rent a faster boat and catch them?”
“You question orders?”
Orders?
Vernum hadn’t heard any orders. “No, man,” he said, “just asking.”
“The scarecrow likes hear himself talk to women, tells them everything. Don’t worry, we have plan.” The Russian balled up his napkin and lobbed it forward, where a woman sat alone behind the pilot, one of the blondes Vernum recognized from last night. She was lighting a cigarette in a noisy plane that had a rattling door and wasn’t pressurized.
Vernum said, “I didn’t realize there was a connection, but—” He stopped himself before inquiring how the Russian had found time to locate her. At the ER,
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