Havana Bay

that led on to white sand and shallow water embraced by broad piers and, beyond, enough anchorage in bright blue water for a regatta. The only craft Arkady saw now were neumdticos, dots on the horizon, and the only figures on the beach were a dozen boys kicking a soccer ball back and forth.

Arkady couldn't resist the temptation. After he went back down the stairs he removed his shoes and socks to walk onto the beach and feel the warm fine-grained sand underfoot. The boys ignored him. He climbed the steps of a wide cement pier and walked fifty meters to its end. Havana had disappeared. The club dominated a hundred meters of waterfront, joined on the western side by the old dog track and toward the east by a white minaret rising over palms. Not a single person was on the beach before the Moorish tower, and although the sand ran to a point of wild scrub that could have been a desert island, it was familiar. From his shirt pocket Arkady brought out the photograph of Pribluda, Mongo and Erasmo with those same trees at the same size and angle in the background. He was standing where the picture had been taken. At the Havana Yacht Club.

The boys on the beach of the club waved, Arkady thought, at him and then he turned to the clapping of an inboard powerboat sweeping around a breakwater. It skimmed the waves, shooting rays off its windshield, then slowed with a skater's turns until Arkady could make out George Washington Walls in short sleeves and sunglasses. He swung the boat about and approached parallel to the pier, dropping the engine to a silken idle and keeping a safe distance from the pilings. The boat was low, long and angular, its hull and deck of gleaming, black mahogany, its bow sheathed in brass. In the cabin, black curtains were drawn. The dash had the glinting brightwork and deep patina that came only from age and infinite care. Fluttering from the transom pole was a pirate's pennant with crossed sabers.

'Hemingway's boat?' Arkady asked.

Walls shook his head.» Maybe Al Capone's. A seaplane tender turned rumrunner.'

'Capone was here?'

'He had a place.'

Once again, Arkady was impressed.» How did you know I was here?'

'The basic form of communication on this island is old women with phones. Why are you here?'

'Curiosity. I wanted to see the yacht club.'

'Doesn't exist.'

'I've always wanted to see someplace that didn't exist.'

'Cuba's the place,' Walls admitted. He looked at the club and back at Arkady and the shoes in Arkady's hand.» Yeah, you look like you're settling in. Do you have a couple of minutes? How would you like a cup of coffee with two men who have been on the FBI's Most Wanted List?'

'That sounds irresistible.' Arkady hesitated.» Has Luna been invited, too?'

'Not to this party. No drums, no dancing, no Luna. Hop in.'

Walls reversed and swung the stern to present the transom with the name 'Gavilan' on the stern. Arkady jumped without breaking a leg, and as he slipped into a leather seat the boat scooped him up and moved away from the dock.

The ride was brief, smoothly skimming the waves out of the cove to deeper, bluer water until Walls slowed as smoothly as a limousine driver to a stop, the sharp nose of the boat headed to the wind. Giving Arkady a sign to wait, he ducked down into the cabin and returned with a tray table that locked into the cockpit deck, ducked down and returned with a brass tray carrying a basket of sweet rolls, a pot of coffee and three china demitasses with 'Gavilan' written on the side. The cabin doors opened again for a small, silver-haired man in black pajamas and slippers, who climbed the steps and sat himself across from Arkady. He wore the smile of a man who was both magician and the rabbit in the hat.

Walls said, 'John, I want you to meet Arkady Renko. Arkady, John O'Brien.'

'A great pleasure.' O'Brien took Arkady's hand with both of his. He caught Arkady's glance at the pajamas.» Well, it's my boat and I dress as I please. Winston Churchill, you know, used to wander around in the altogether. I'll spare you that. And you wear this somewhat astonishing coat, George told me about that. I apologize for not coming up sooner, but when George winds up the Gavilan I stay below. Falling overboard would be fatal for my dignity. You like cafe cubano, I hope?'

Walls poured. O'Brien might have been close to seventy, Arkady guessed, but he had a youthful voice, engaging eyes and an oval face as lightly freckled as a shorebird's egg. He wore a wedding band on his hand, a silver Breitling on the wrist.

'How do you like Havana?' he asked Arkady.

'Beautiful, interesting, warm.'

'The women are unbelievable. My friend George here is smitten. I can't afford to fall in love because I still have family in New York, on Long Island, a very different island. I happen to be a faithful man and someday, God willing, I'll be home.'

'There are problems now?' Arkady broached the subject delicately.

O'Brien brushed a crumb from the table.» A legal hurdle or two. George and I have been fortunate enough to find a home away from home here in Cuba. By the way, I am sorry to hear about your friend Pribluda. The police think he's dead?'

'They do. Did you know him?'

'Of course, he was going to do some security work for us. A simple man, I would say. Not a very good spy, I'm afraid.'

'I'm not a judge of spies.'

'No, just a humble investigator, to be sure.' O'Brien added a touch of Irish brogue. He clapped his hands.» What a day! If you're going to be a fugitive from justice, where would you rather be?'

'Are you the only fugitives in Cuba?'

'Hardly. How many of us are there?' O'Brien cast a doting eye on Walls.

'Eighty-four.'

'Eighty-four Americans on the lam. Well, it's better than a life in a federal minimum-security prison, where you get lawyers, congressmen, dope dealers, the usual cross-section of America. Here you get genuine firebrands like George. For a businessman like me, it's an opportunity to meet entirely new people. I never would have had the chance to become so close to George in the States.'

'So you try to keep busy?'

'We try to stay alive,' O'Brien said.» Useful. Tell me, Arkady, what are you doing here?'

'The same.'

'By visiting the Havana Yacht Club? Explain to me, what has it got to do with a dead Russian?'

'A missing man at the place that doesn't exist anymore? That sounds perfect to me.'

'He's sort of careful,' Walls said to O'Brien.

'No, he's right,' O'Brien said and patted Arkady's knee.» Arkady's a man who's just sat down to play cards and doesn't know the rules of the game and doesn't know the value of his chips.'

O'Brien's black pajamas had pockets. He took out a large cigar that he rolled between his fingertips.

'You know the great Cuban chess champion Capablanca? He was a genius, thinking ten, eleven moves ahead. He smoked Cuban cigars, of course, while he played. One title match his opponent extracted a promise from Capablanca that he wouldn't smoke. All the same, Capablanca brought out his cigar, squeezed it, licked it, savored it, and his opponent went nuts, lost the match and said that not knowing Capablanca was going to light up was even worse than him smoking. I love Cuban cigars, too, although the joke's on me because the doctor says I'm not allowed to smoke anymore. Just tease myself, that's all. Anyway, what led you to the club, that's your cigar. We'll just have to wait for you to light it up. For the time being, we'll simply say you were curious.'

'Or amazed.'

'By what?' asked Walls.

'That the club survived the Revolution.'

'You're talking about the Havana Yacht Club now,' O'Brien said.» The French, you know, they beheaded Louis, but they didn't burn Versailles. What Fidel did was give the club, the grandest, most valuable single property in the entire country, to a construction union and charge Cubans, black or white, one peso to use the beach. Very democratic, communistic, admirable.'

Walls pointed toward the Moorish tower. 'La Concha, the casino on one side of the cove, they gave to the caterers' union and the greyhound track they turned into track and field.'