“But …?” asked Rostnikov.
Sanchez shrugged.
“I lacked ambition,” he said. “To be ambitious in Cuba is to risk the enmity of others who are ambitious. It is difficult enough to survive without creating enemies.”
“But you are a major,” said Elena.
“At my age and with my education, I should be at least a colonel,” said Sanchez.
“So,” said Rostnikov, “we are not to take your assignment to us as a sign of great respect for our mission.”
Sanchez laughed again.
“Precisely,” he said, looking at Elena in the mirror. “Before Yeltsin you would have merited at least a colonel. Now you get an unambitious, overage major. There. On the right. That used to be a Catholic girls’ school. Then it was a school for your people. Now it is empty.”
Rostnikov caught a glimpse of the two-story white house with brown trim and barred windows.
“We would like to see Shemenkov in the morning,” Rostnikov said.
“When you wish,” said Sanchez. “I am at your service.”
Rostnikov smelled the sea. Past Sanchez he could see moonlight on the water as they crossed a small bridge.
“From this point on, the Malecón,” explained Sanchez. “Walkway along the sea. Runs the length of the city. You’ll be at the El Presidente, a short walk to the old stadium, where there’s a complete workout facility. I’ll bring you there tomorrow.”
Rostnikov did not bother to ask how Sanchez knew of his weight-lifting habits. The man obviously delighted in surprises, and Rostnikov had no reason to deny this pleasure to his host.
“That is most kind of you,” said Rostnikov.
“It is both my duty and my pleasure to be gracious,” said Sanchez. “It is also my curse to be honest, so I tell you that he did it.”
“He?” asked Elena from the darkness of the back seat.
“Shemenkov,” said Rostnikov.
“I have a copy of the report in the trunk,” said Sanchez. “In Russian. More detailed than the one we sent to Moscow. We have discovered more. Your engineer is guilty. There were three witnesses. I suggest you talk to him, interview the witnesses, see Havana, sit by the pool for a few days, relax, allow me to entertain you, and go home.”
Sanchez’s eyes met Elena’s in the rearview mirror. She had started to turn away when the Lada came to a sudden halt that threw her awkwardly forward. Rostnikov kept himself from cracking his head into the windshield by pushing against the dashboard.
“Are you all right?” asked Sanchez.
“Yes,” said Elena, sitting back.
Rostnikov nodded and looked out the window at the swiftly moving motorcade of five dark cars that had cut them off and caused Sanchez’s sudden stop. Men wearing fatigue uniforms and carrying weapons looked out of the windows of the cars. In the middle car, the back seat window facing the Lada rolled down and a man with a flowing gray beard looked out, his eyes finding and meeting those of Rostnikov. The two men looked at each other for the beat of a heart and then the window slowly closed as the caravan moved forward and out of sight down a dark street.
“Fidel,” said Sanchez. “He has a house not far from here. No one is supposed to know where it is, but … He has houses everywhere.”
Sanchez drove two blocks along a divided boulevard with empty pedestals on the median strip.
“This is the Avenue of the Presidents. Each of those pedestals held the statue of a Cuban president. They were all torn down after the revolution.”
“We have some fresh empty pedestals in Moscow,” said Rostnikov, as Sanchez turned down a narrow street of three-story homes, made a right, and then another right to pull up in front of a hotel. Three taxis and a bus were parked in front of the hotel and a few people were seated on white plastic chairs beyond a low stone balustrade.
“The food is adequate, the rooms sufficient, the plumbing bad, and the toilet paper scarce,” said Sanchez. “One of the better hotels in Havana.”
“We appreciate your choice of accommodations,” said Rostnikov.
“There was another reason for putting you into this hotel,” said Sanchez, his smile now gone. “Maria Fernandez worked here. But your countryman had the minimal good taste to murder her in an apartment on the other side of the city. Your Russian stabbed her fourteen times, including three rather deep thrusts in the right eye. I have managed through persuasion and what little influence I have to get you the very room where Señorita Fernandez sometimes entertained visitors from a variety of countries dealing in hard currency. Señorita Timofeyeva, usted tiene la cuadra próxima, trescientos cuarenta y cinco.”
“Muchas gracias,” Elena responded as Sanchez got out of the car.
“You speak Spanish like an American,” he said, opening the door for her as Rostnikov struggled out of the passenger side.
“I learned in New York,” she said.
Across the top of the Lada, Rostnikov watched as Sanchez held on to Elena’s hand, smiled, and said, “I have always had an attraction to Russian women.”
“You must learn to control it,” she answered, removing her hand. “In the long run it will lead you to disaster.”
“Qué lástima,” he said with a sigh.
“Sin vergüenza, es verdad,” she said.
While Sanchez moved to the trunk of the car and opened it, Rostnikov surveyed what appeared to be a giant rat on one of the three stone steps leading up to the patio in front of the hotel. A second look told him that it was a small, diseased dog.
“Many dogs in the city,” said Sanchez, handing Rostnikov his suitcase. “Not much food. You have hard currency?”
“No,” said Rostnikov. “Only rubles.”
“Worth nothing,” said Sanchez, handing Elena her suitcase. “I’ll get you Canadian dollars in the morning. They’ll take them at the restaurant, and the café, and the shop near the pool.”
He slammed the trunk shut and held out his hand toward the hotel entrance.
“There are American movies on the television every night,” he said, leading the way. “New movies. We don’t pay the Americans. What can they do, sue us?”
The lobby of the El Presidente resembled the lobby of a small hotel in Yalta in which Rostnikov had stayed less than a year before. The furniture was imitation eighteenth-century French, and the walls were papered. The lobby was bright, and a handful of people were at a small bar in the far corner laughing and talking in German.
There were two clerks at the desk, both in blue uniforms. One was a young woman with red hair, the other a young man with blond hair and blue eyes. Neither spoke Russian.
“They speak some English,” Sanchez said in English. “I understand your English is very respectable, Inspector.”
“It has been adequate in the past,” Rostnikov replied in English.
Sanchez smiled once more, handed each of them a key he had received from the blond desk clerk, and said, “The elevators are right there. Slow, but …”
“We shall be comfortable,” said Rostnikov.
“Shall I meet you in the restaurant for breakfast?” Sanchez asked.
“Late lunch would be better,” replied Rostnikov.
“Perhaps …?” Sanchez said, turning to Elena.
“Late lunch will be fine,” she said.
Sanchez shrugged and handed Rostnikov a brown folder stuffed with paper. Rostnikov took it, shook his host’s hand, and said, “Two o’clock in the restaurant.”
“As you wish,” Sanchez said. “Welcome to Havana and have a good night’s sleep. The television movie tonight is Scent of a Woman. Al Pacino. Magnificent performance.”
“We appreciate your hospitality, Major Sanchez, and your movie review,” said Rostnikov.
In the mirror over the check-in desk Elena watched the door of the hotel open and the thin KGB man from the airplane enter. The thin man paid no attention to the Cuban in the blue uniform and no attention to Rostnikov or Elena. He crossed the lobby, suitcase in hand, and moved immediately toward the bar.