Havana Bay

and striped. The Italian looked almost gilled from machete wounds. Arkady didn't know him, but he did recognize Hedy even if her head balanced precariously on her shoulders. At first Arkady thought that Mostovoi had gotten hold of police photographs, but of course these pictures had just been developed and none of the usual evidence markers had been laid, no shoe tips of detectives trying to stay out of the camera's way, and the darkness of the shadows themselves suggested that no other source of illumination had been on. The photographer had worked alone in a dark room the night before Ofelia arrived, and real skill must have been required just to estimate the focus. He'd only chanced four shots or only developed four from a roll. A single shot of the Italian as he dragged himself, still alive, toward the door. More thought had gone into the pictures of Hedy. A low shot from between her legs up to her head. A second that framed her head between deflated breasts. A third just of Hedy's face, surprise still fresh in her eyes. The man with the camera had been unable to resist marking the moment, thrusting his tubular white wrist and hand into the sheen of her curls to improve the pose.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

By eight o'clock the Marina Hemingway had the social hum of a small village at night. Younger crew, an international set with stringy blond hair, spread out in front of the market or carried bags from the ice bunker. From the far end came the amplified pulse of a disco, glitter and sound reflected in the canals. Overhead an edge of the moon burned through the electric haze of the marina. He didn't see Ofelia but she tended to be fanatically good to her word.

The Alabama Baron was gone, replaced by a launch so new it smelled of plastic. Already ensconced in its cabin was a jinetera mixing rum and Coke. Ahead, George Washington Walls and John O'Brien were having beers in the cockpit of the Gavilan, firebrand and financier at their ease. The new lead from the power box snaked smoothly down to the water and up the dark flank of the seaplane tender.

'You're here.' Walls looked up at Arkady.

'Right on time, too,' O'Brien said.» Wonderful. Back into your cashmere coat, I see. Join us.'

'I have a plane to catch. You said we were going to talk about Pribluda.'

'A plane to catch?' O'Brien said.» That is sad. This means you are turning down the chance to be part of our endeavor? I have always counted myself as fairly persuasive. Apparently with you I've failed.'

'The man is a disappointment,' Walls said.» That's what Isabel says.'

'Arkady, I was hoping to persuade you because I sincerely thought it was for your own good. I had looked forward to working with you. Come on, have a drink for God's sake. We'll have an Irish good-bye. Your plane's at midnight?'

'Yes.'

Walls said, 'You've got hours.'

Arkady stepped out of the light and down into the boat, settling against a cockpit cushion. Instantly a cold can of beer was in his hand. At night the boat seemed to ride even lower, the polished mahogany dark as the water.

O'Brien said, 'You're taking back the body of your friend Pribluda? That means you've positively identified him?'

'No.'

'Because you don't need to anymore, you already know.'

'I think so.'

'Well, that's a comfort. Your decision to go is final? What we can do'-O'Brien tapped Arkady's knee-'is give you a return ticket. Take a week in Moscow, in that miserable ice chest you call home, and if you change your mind come back. Is that fair?'

'More than fair, but I think I've made up my mind.'

'Why?' Walls asked.

O'Brien said, 'Because he found what he came for, I suppose. Is that it, Arkady?'

'Pretty much.'

'To a single-minded man.' O'Brien raised his beer.» To the man in the coat.'

The beer was good, far better than Russian. On the dock a line of jineteras slipped quietly as mice toward the disco, lamplight haloing their hair. It was Saturday night, after all. The salsa accelerated. Walls balanced on the captain's chair in a black pullover that reminded Arkady of the sleek young radical who had stepped out of a plane with a gun and a burning flag. O'Brien wore his black jumpsuit. Pirate colors. He unwrapped a cigar and turned its tip over a flame, drawing it in. The boats in their slips sighed as a ripple of water lifted them.

O'Brien said, 'You know what happened to Pribluda, but you don't know why? And I'm the only one who hasn't had a say?'

'You say a lot, but it's different every time.'

'Then I won't tell you, I'll show you. See that sea-bag?'

Although the cabin was dark, Arkady saw one end of a canvas bag in the light at the bottom of the steps.

'Sergei's,' Walls said.

Arkady was nearest. He put down the beer and went down the cabin stairs. As he picked up the bag the door shut and locked behind him. The inboard engine started in the space ahead, producing a reverberation like being inside a double bass. Overhead, feet nimbly stepped fore and aft, releasing lines and gathering fenders. The Gavilan backed, swung and eased forward. As the boat passed the disco, laughter and strobe lights flickered on the curtains. Canal echo dropped behind, and Arkady heard Walls talking on the radio. Arkady beat on the door more for form than conviction; a boat as classic as this was built of hardwood. He moved around a galley table to an engine-room door that was locked as well. He pulled aside a porthole curtain just in time to see the guardia dock slide by with no sign yet that Ofelia had raised an alarm. Past the dock the brass bow of the Gavilan sliced its way so smoothly Arkady felt no more than the faintest rise and fall, headed directly to sea by the evenness of wave slap.

Along Fifth Avenue were the first signs of a major event: brigada trucks of huddled Interior troops parked in the night dark of side streets, motorcycle policemen in white helmets and spurred boots straddling their bikes, K9 units sniffing the crowd that filed up the driveway of the Construction Union House, the former Havana Yacht Club. Ofelia's PNR badge didn't work, but Mos-tovoi somehow produced a pass that let them through. There were telltale signs that the Noche Folklorica was a more important event than she had expected. A feature of national security was that no one ever knew which of his residences the Comandante would sleep in, let alone what functions he would attend. However, when he did appear certain precautions were always taken. Tracks led on the lawn to seven armored Mercedes, an ambulance, a radio command truck, a media van, two dog vans, a circle of soldiers and a cordon of men in shirts and windbreakers holding newspapers folded over cell phones and radios and standing around for no apparent purpose until a guest deviated from the driveway. The house's two grand stairways met at a central porch. From there, under the molding of a ship's wheel on a pennant, soldiers scanned the crowd, although this was not, to Ofelia, a group that was likely to get out of hand. Some officially approved Santeria priests were on hand, but mostly she saw stiff ministry and military types and their spouses following the designated route around the mansion to the oceanfront side. The occasional man was patted down or a woman stopped to have her purse searched, but Mostovoi and Ofelia were waved through, and despite his camera bag the photographer pushed so quickly through the crowd she could barely keep up.

'Why would Arkady want to meet here?' Ofelia demanded.» How would he even get in?'

'He's been here before,' Mostovoi said.» He gets around.'

The Noche Folklorica was an event Arkady had asked about, Ofelia knew. If he had changed his mind about talking to O'Brien and Walls, that was just as well. She saw the colors of dancers sequestered behind spiky palms: blue for Yemaya, yellow for Oshun. Spaced along the beach were soldiers. Tied to the end of the dock was a black patrol boat. All the light and all the sound was concentrated on an outdoor stage facing the water.

The Noche Folklorica had already begun, and from the clubhouse balconies men in plain clothes scanned the crowd. Most people stood on the patio around the stage, but there was also a reviewing stand with five tiers of special guests. She knew only the figure in the middle of the front row, a man with a flat, nearly Greek profile set in wiry gray hair and beard, the face that was the second sun of her lifetime. Beside him was an empty chair.