Текст книги "Cuba Straits"

Автор книги: Randy Wayne White

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If not for stomach cramps, Anatol Kostikov might have reacted differently when the Cuban cops forced him against the car and tried to cuff him. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation because he had been looking forward to following the hippie and the traitor into the cemetery. If Vernum Quick, the deviant worm, was right, they would lead him to a mausoleum where, locked inside, was something the Russian had wanted all his life.

Oh yeah—plus the letters. Official business came first. Afterward, he could enjoy his private time.

Anatol had been reminding himself of that when the stupid cops ordered him out of the Mercedes. Their timing could not have been worse. Later, no matter how he explained what happened to Cuba’s DGI, the only thought in his mind was If I’m cuffed, I won’t be able to wipe when I find a toilet.

The cramps had made a fool of him already. Like at the stadium that afternoon when someone—an American CIA agent, he suspected—had stripped off his pants and robbed him. Until now, money and his IDs were secondary. It was the loss of his top secret Vul pistol that worried him most.

Humiliating for a direct descendant of legendary Terek Cossack warriors. He’d stood there by the stadium urinals, hands cupping his genitals, while he tried to convince an army lieutenant to do an immediate lockdown before the Yankee bastard escaped.

This embarrassment could never be revealed to anyone, let alone explained to two Cuban cops. However, after getting out of the Mercedes, Anatol did offer them his satellite phone and say, “Call embassy. You get big promotion, I think, you help me catch traitor. Perhaps American spy, yes?”

Not these two hard-ass motorcycle bulls. Their big mistake was a knee in the kidney after berating him for having no passport, no ID. Then the talkative cop had revealed what this was really about: “What you got against Cuban baseball players, señor? That little man you after, he’s half your size. He’s a shortstop, not a traitor—already got a contract for the major leagues. Try saying the same shit to us, you dick-sucking bolá. Now, give me your goddamn hands and let me cuff you.”

A knee under the ribs ended all attempts at diplomacy. Anatol crouched, spun with his elbow extended, and crushed the cop’s nose. The key, as he’d taught hundreds of agents, was to move fluidly and continue the attack until the situation was stabilized. The second cop was reaching for his pistol, unprepared for an unarmed suspect to charge. Anatol shattered his knee with a side kick and caught him before he fell. Did a simple duck-under, then framed the cop’s head with forearms and hands that resembled a figure four.

“You lazy turd of shit.”

Those were the last words the Cuban heard. Anatol twisted so violently that, before he killed the talkative cop, the one with the busted nose, he looked at his hands: no blood. Good. No severed head there either. Even better.

It had happened to the Russian before.

Then he stepped back and felt something akin to horror when he realized what he’d done. As a senior intelligence agent with diplomatic immunity, he could get away with just about anything—except this. That’s why he had recruited that little worm Vernum Quick. Murder the traitor from the insane asylum, and the hippie, too, or anyone else who got in his way, until he had what he’d been sent to find—plus a few other items the Russian considered spoils of war.

A fall guy . . . He had to find Vernum.

Anatol didn’t linger over the bodies. Normally, he would have taken their IDs, their weapons, and pocketed whatever cash they had. Under different circumstances, he might have shipped home their shitty rice-burning Kawasakis, too, just for the fun of it.

Anatol was crazy about motorcycles.

Not this time.

He confirmed the talkative cop was dead—a man could survive a broken windpipe—then stripped off the Cuban’s duty belt: pistol, magazines, mace, and . . . handcuffs . . . Where the hell had the handcuffs gone?

Anatol retrieved them from the side of the road and hurried to his Mercedes. But try to find a public restroom in this third-world banana republic . . . Desperate, he kicked down the door of a house, ripped out the phone, and told an old man who had refused to let him enter, “Fool. Now must kill you.”

This time, he did a sloppier job. Vernum Quick, after all, was an amateur.

•   •   •

EARLIER, at a pharmacy, the Russian had bought two bottles of pink medicine that resembled Pepto-Bismol, and a packet of loperamide—Warning, the directions read, do not exceed two tablets daily. The pills had brought him a few hours of relief, so he tossed back four more, washed them down with half a pint of vodka, and refocused.

He knew where the hippie and the traitor would go next—Plobacho. Not much doubt about that. Russian intelligence had a large file on Imelda Casanova. For decades, the KGB had known about her love affair with the Castros. The agency was also aware that much of their correspondence was unaccounted for. While the brothers were alive, the old woman had remained an untouchable, politically speaking.

Things were different now.

Officially, Anatol’s orders had been to confiscate the woman’s personal effects in the interest of “preserving the history of the Socialist Party.” In fact, he’d been sent for political reasons, as he damn well knew after thirty years in the clandestine services. If he had to guess, his guess was this: Vladimir Putin feared the Castros had let an uncomfortable truth slip in one of their letters. There were many ugly secrets from those early years. Many? Hell, thousands. One dated back to 1963. Cuban intelligence had recorded Lee Harvey Oswald’s wild threats at their embassy in Mexico City six weeks before the assassination of JFK.

Even uglier secrets might have been revealed, but none had more cachet. Anatol turned west toward Plobacho and thought about that. If the truth came out, it wouldn’t cause an international firestorm, but there would be headlines. Headlines would cause more suspicion, more media surveillance. That might hamper Moscow’s plans. America’s right-wingers, of course, wouldn’t concede the obvious: embassies worldwide rejected crazy aspiring traitors on a daily basis. It was impossible to predict who would do what. If the rantings of every applicant were printed and shared, governments would choke on paper. That was as true now as it was in 1963.

Anatol, however, could admit to himself that Havana and Moscow should have taken a former Marine Sharpshooter a bit more seriously. If they’d dropped a friendly line, perhaps, to their comrades at the CIA, it might have changed history.

Funny. Pills and vodka had settled his stomach. Anatol, hunching over the steering wheel, laughed at his own joke.

He drove through Miramar into the embassy district, past his favorite restaurant, El Aljibe, which served the best pollo and black beans he’d ever had. Now, though, the odor of chickens roasting on a spit made him want to vomit. He burped and tasted the jerked sandwich he’d eaten on the plane.

Vernum, he remembered, had bought it for him.

That deviant freak. I will crush his head when I’m done here.

But not yet. First, he had to find the bastard.

On the passenger seat was a handheld GPS locator. The Russian had followed Vernum’s travels with mild indifference until a little after ten, when he’d received a suspicious text: Dropped phone in water. Messages garbled cannot call. Meet you where?

Seconds later, the Cuban’s transponder had gone dead. It was now ten fifty-eight and the screen still showed only Vernum’s last location. Or . . . maybe Vernum, the sex pervert, had switched off the transponder because he wanted privacy.

Anatol thought, I’ll teach you to hide from me, and hit Destination. The computer responded with estimated travel time to the pervert’s location: twenty-three minutes.

Eighteen minutes later, Anatol Kostikov drove up a dirt lane to a house where a woman—a very pretty Latina—and two screeching whelps ran from the porch to greet him, one of them in baggy pink-and-white pajamas who called, “Marion . . . I knew you’d come back!”

They’re expecting a female friend, he thought, then decided, No, a Cuban female couldn’t afford a Mercedes, but a CIA agent could. Marion . . . in America, it might be a name for a male pizda.

Kostikov got out.

The whelp in pajamas turned and fled, but the woman stood her ground.

•   •   •

KOSTIKOV, IN HIS best Spanish, said to the woman, “I am friends with Marion. How else I know sex deviant was here? Vernum Quick, that is sex deviant’s name. Marion, he is gringo. Tell me where is my friend and Vernum Quick.”

The woman, arms folded, backed away. “Describe what he looks like.”

“Sex deviant, he is puny. A Cuban—”

“No, tell me what the American looks like.”

Kostikov thought, Thank you, stupid woman. “Oh . . . you mean my good friend, Marion?” He laughed while he recalled what he’d been told after the bathroom incident. “He is strong man with glasses. Often, a green hat he wears on head. I have idea . . .” He watched her face carefully. “Tell me where Marion is found. You and me, I will drive. He will tell you we want the sex deviant arrested. Is good, no?”

The woman didn’t buy it, but her reaction confirmed she knew where the American was. Or, at least, knew more than she was willing to reveal. That was useful. Now that the cramps were gone, it was pleasurable to look at her standing in the headlights of the Mercedes, her body visible through a cheap cotton robe. All but her breasts, which were concealed by her arms. The Russian tried to change that by extending his hand. “I am Anatol. What are you called?”

Defiant bitch. She shook her head, arms still folded, and asked, “What is Marion’s last name?”

The Russian looked past her into the house. The youngest whelp was on the porch holding what might be a machete. That told him they were alone. Even so, he asked, “Where is husband?”

“He’s . . . asleep . . . And it’s none of your business anyway. He’s a soldier. My husband won’t like you being here.”

“Husband is fool and you are liar.” Kostikov pushed the woman aside when she tried to block his path, then pushed her again too hard and she sprawled sideways onto the ground—nice what the headlights revealed when her bathrobe flew open, but only for a second.

The Russian stared at her face, her legs, mindful he had packed condoms and a Viagra tablet somewhere, along with the name of an expensive prostitute. Damn . . . they were in his stolen wallet. But no reason not to strip off the Latina’s robe by pretending to help her up—a memory he could save for when he felt better. He smiled, leaned, and offered his hand . . . then stood abruptly, aware that the child was charging him, a kitchen knife, not a machete, in her hand.

The woman screamed, “Sabina, go in the house!” while the girl screamed something about a fascist gringo who would feed him to the sharks.

The Russian grinned, amused, while his hand located the pistol he’d taken from the Cuban cop. It was in his back pocket, a 9mm Glock with a magazine that held eighteen rounds. He waited until the whelp stopped beside her mother and looked up, threatening him with the knife. Hilarious—she was the size of a bee. “Who is this dangerous gringo?” he asked the girl. “Is my good friend Marion?”

“Leave my mother alone,” the girl hollered, then realized what she’d just heard. “Do you . . . you really know him?”

The woman, getting to her feet, told the girl to hush, but the girl kept talking. “I don’t believe you. If you don’t go away and leave us alone, he’ll do anything I tell him to do.

“Go in the house,” the woman ordered. “Don’t say another word.”

Yes, the girl also knew where to find the American. Kostikov used his gentlest voice. “Is important I find our friend Marion. Tell me, then we will all laugh before he feeds me to . . . did you say ‘sharks’?”

“If that’s what I want,” the girl said. She yanked her arm away from her mother. “He has the fastest boat in Cuba and it’s invisible. I’ll tell him to tie you up and throw you in the sea if you don’t leave right now.” She lunged with the knife. The Russian, still grinning, held up his hands in surrender and backed a step. Didn’t protest when the mother took the knife from the brat and herded her back to the house. Yet, something about the way the woman moved bothered him—so purposeful and suddenly in a hurry.

He let it go, thinking, An American with an invisible boat? It was a fairy tale no one would believe. But Kostikov, after thirty years in the clandestine services, was convinced, CIA.

Worse, the son of a whore had his silent pistol.

From inside the Mercedes gonged a persistent chiming. The satellite phone. He reached in and had a look. It was a text from Vernum, but just a string of garbled letters. Maddening . . . But wait . . . that meant the man’s phone had been switched on. This was confirmed by the GPS locator, which he held up for better satellite reception. The sex deviant—his phone, at least—was nearby, somewhere to the northeast. He zoomed in so that Google Earth showed the roads and terrain. Cross-country, only two kilometers, near what appeared to be the ruins of a collapsed building. By car, due to Cuba’s terrible roads, five times the distance and over two bridges.

Better to walk; quieter, and he wouldn’t have to cross the river—but how long would he be free of the stomach cramps?

That goddamn chicken sandwich.

No, he would have to drive. On the way, he’d take more pills and finish the vodka.

Kostikov tossed both handsets into the car and, when he turned to check the house, reached for the pistol in his back pocket. Couldn’t help himself. The mouthy little girl, in the glare of headlights, was on the porch, taunting him with her middle fingers, both jabbing at him, while she stuck out her tongue and made grotesque faces. One of Santa’s elves dressed in pink-and-white—she reminded him of that. Inside, he could see the mother rushing from window to window as if searching for something—a weapon better than a knife, he guessed.

Kostikov took a breath and sought a reason to stay and punish the whelp for her insolence. Easily done. Finding Vernum was important—he needed a scapegoat—but so was recovering his stolen pistol. The girl knew more about the American than she had admitted. Same with the mother, if it came to that.

Kostikov started toward the porch. He despised children. He had never killed one, but it was exactly the sort of thing a sex deviant like Vernum Quick would do.

When Vernum heard a car backfiring in the distance, he collapsed in the bushes, fearing the gringo had spotted him and started shooting. After several seconds, though, and two bang-bangs rapid-fire, he realized the reports came from some faraway road.

Vernum was as shaky as he was suggestible. Except for air force training, he had never heard gunshots in Cuba. Only police and the military had weapons, and, as he knew, very few policemen were issued live ammunition. The Fidelistas stayed in power by limiting venues of power, and even their opponents could not criticize the country’s remarkably low crime rate. A senior Russian agent, however, could pack any damn weapon he wanted.

Kostikov, Vernum thought. He got my text and figured it out.

That would explain the gunshots, but where was the giant Russian? And why fire a gun from a distance . . . if it was a gun.

A signal, he realized.

He’s searching for me.

Vernum’s wrists were raw, hands shackled behind him. He rolled to his side and felt around for the satellite phone. Blindly, he thumbed letters on the keypad, then rolled away, looked at the glowing screen, and memorized the control buttons. He wiggled until he felt the phone under his back and pressed Send.

Zoom. A second message of gibberish to the Russian, but it would confirm his location and, hopefully, communicate the shitty situation he was in.

Vernum lay still and listened. Risking those few seconds to grab the phone while the American was wedged in the chimney had been the smartest thing he’d done after a long day of stupid mistakes. Make another mistake, he knew, the gringo would kill him with the indifference of stepping on a bug or snuffing out a candle.

Something is missing inside that man, he thought—and not for the first time. Kostikov at least takes pleasure in his work. The American is Desamorado.

Desamorado—“coldhearted”—Vernum capitalized the word when he thought of the man.

For ten minutes, perhaps longer, the American had been conducting a methodical search. That’s what Vernum’s ears told him. The man moved quietly through the bushes, stopped often and abruptly as if to trick him into running a few more yards. Then he would arc away as if following a grid. That’s when Vernum would put more distance between them, but slowly, choosing every careful step. At first, of course, he had run like hell toward the tree line that marked the river. Now, though, he was circling back toward the chimney and the dirt road three hundred meters beyond it. His old car, the Lada, was there. Vernum didn’t have the keys—they hadn’t been with the gringo’s wallet or the phone—but it wouldn’t matter when the Russian finally appeared in his Mercedes.

Kostikov.

A frightening thought popped into his mind. What if that Russian replied to his text? The phone’s chimes would give away his position.

Changó, damn you.

He flopped onto his stomach and pecked at the power switch with his nose, then tried with his chin. No good. So he wiggled the phone beneath his belly and forced his weight down to muffle it like a hen incubating eggs. As he waited, he listened for footsteps.

Not a sound. Nor did the Russian reply.

After another minute, he was on his feet and struggling to secure the phone in his pocket, but he dropped it. Rather than get to his knees, he squatted to retrieve the thing but lost his balance and fell back on his butt. Only then, seeing the handcuffs so near his ankles, did he realize what was obvious to anyone not scared out of their wits. He lifted his knees to his chin, threaded his feet through his arms, and brought his hands up in front of him. Free—almost. It was easy now to get to his feet and pocket the phone.

Vernum decided to run while he could. He stayed in the trees by the river for fifty meters, then angled out along an old fence where bushes grew tall. To his left, the chimney spired skyward. Ahead were more trees, then the road. Vernum sprinted across an open space into trees, where he stopped in the shadows. No movement behind him, just frogs screaming from the river. No roar of a Mercedes either, but that was understandable. It would happen soon enough. For the first time, he felt confidence returning. All that stood between him and freedom were two hundred meters of open ground and that goddamn American killer—Desamorado.

A text to Kostikov would solve the problem.

As he took out the phone, Vernum’s eyes strayed. On the ground not far away he noticed what might have been the rim of a barrel . . . or, possibly, a coil of wire. To his left, near the ruins of the building, a flicker of movement drew his attention. He hunkered low and watched. For an instant—only an instant—he saw, or imagined he saw, a willowy figure draped in white . . . or a pool of mist about the size of a young girl. Then it was gone.

Jesus Christ. Vernum, staring, reached for his necklace and whispered a welcome message to the dead as required of a Santero: “Bienvenido espíritu santo . . .”

For long seconds, he crouched there, the phone in his hand, yet he saw nothing more. Thank the gods. No matter what his brain told him about Santería, in his heart he believed. This place terrified him. Only the demon that lived in his head was comfortable here and that demon was undependable—unless hungry.

The phone. Vernum braced it against his thigh and typed: Come with gun. Handcuffed by U.S. agent but have escaped. Will wait for you . . .

Nearby, a twig snapped. Before he could turn, a deep voice asked, “Why did you do what you did to those girls, Vernum? What was going through your head at the time?” The words seemed to flow down from trees that created an awning above, only a few stars visible when he peered up, then spun around. Nothing there.

“Jefe . . . where are you? Man, I never said I did it. Just because I happen to know where some crazy peasant hid their bodies? That don’t mean nothing.”

Silence. He did a slow pan, expecting to see one glowing eye but didn’t. “Jefe . . . they were just stupid chicas. What do you care?”

A shadow moved, bushes rustled with a sudden breeze. He strained to isolate details, but all he could hear was his heart pounding and the screaming frogs.

The voice said, “You turned on your phone, I see. When does your buddy Kostikov arrive?”

“He’s not,” Vernum insisted, “but that’s exactly what I was doing. Really. We’re going to kill him, right? I think he suspects something because he didn’t answer me.” Vernum’s chuckle resembled a sob. “But don’t worry. I know where he stays in Havana. Plus, that other thing I told you about—the cemetery. I bet he’s there right now with that crazy fool Figuerito—”

“Drop the phone,” the voice said, “or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Click-click. Distinctive—the hammer of a pistol.

Vernum let the phone fall from his hand—but, first, he hit Send. Risky. Blood thumping in his ears made it difficult to speak. “There. See? I’m cooperating. Jefe, I thought the goddamn chimney was gonna fall. It scared me, you know? That’s why I—”

“Shut up and put your hands behind your head. Do it. Now face the river.”

“What?”

“Return to something familiar, or maybe there’s a key hidden in your car. Either way, I knew. Behavioral patterns are predictable. It’s what people like you do to imitate sanity.”

Vernum was thinking: Run, he can’t catch me and he knows it. That’s why he won’t show himself.

“The river, Vernum. Turn around. Or tell the truth about Kostikov. Do you want to go for another boat ride?”

Slowly, Vernum contorted his hands behind his neck and pivoted toward the tree line, brick ruins and the chimney on his right. Where was that goddamn Russian? He had to do something to stall for time. “You’re right,” he said. “There were more than five. Girls. I already explained why.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit about purification. I saw what you did to them.”

“Huh? That wasn’t me. If what you found, if certain bones were missing, what do you expect out here?” With his head, Vernum motioned to the vastness of the sky but was also deciding which way to run. “There are starving dogs. Rats, man, you saw all those rats. Don’t blame me for—”

Distant gunshots stopped him—ker-WHACK . . . ker-WHACK—two, the reports sharper, heavier, than a car backfiring, but still far enough away to echo through the valley.

“What the hell?” The gringo sounded confused at first, but then put it together. “You son of a bitch. That came from the direction of Marta’s house.”

Vernum was just as confused. Why had Kostikov, still kilometers away, fired a gun to acknowledge his text? Then he put it together. “Whoa! You’ve got this wrong, man. I never mentioned Marta Esteban—”

“If he hurt those girls”—a light flashed on, blindingly bright—“no one will ever find your body.”

That was enough. Vernum ducked his head and sprinted . . . made it four quick strides before he hit a trip wire strung at thigh level. He was struggling to get up when a hand snapped his head back, then sought his jugular.

•   •   •

A WILLOW’S MIST floated a candle toward the Santero. She materialized from the earth beyond the chimney. Female, translucent as ice.

Vernum smiled in a dreamy way. The child-like ease with which she moved triggered the first carnal stirrings within him. Comparisons sparked through his brain. A ballerina on tiptoes, a flame carried on butterfly wings. A prima dancer not yet soiled by the inevitable—adolescence, confidence, contempt. A girl who possessed fire in her fingertips.

Vernum tried to focus, anticipating the child’s beauty. But it was the flame that hammered through his eyelids, a searing, thumping pain. The pain radiated, scalded his arms, his wrists, his head, until he lifted his head, finally conscious.

What happened?

His eyes did a slow inventory. He was strapped to a tree, his hands cuffed behind him. No . . . wired to a tree. He tried to speak, attempted to force his tongue through the stench of epoxy—his lips, once again, sealed with glue.

He gagged and coughed through his nose. His nose couldn’t pump air fast enough to stem the terror building inside.

Don’t leave me alone.

In his mind, Vernum called out to the gringo, or the Russian, anyone who might hear, but the sound that exited his nose resembled a howl. He inhaled to try again but caught himself.

Don’t frighten the child. Another howl might send her running. The child was his only hope—if she was real.

Vernum braced his head against the tree to steady his vision. And there she was, a willowy creature clothed in white—Santería white, a virgin initiate—tiny, fluid in her movements. Yes . . . and dancing, but with an invisible partner, a lantern in one hand, her partner’s hand in the other. They did a slow waltz: one, two, three . . . step . . . one, two, three . . . glide . . .

His eyes widened. Exquisite, the hope this girl aroused in him. But when she lifted the lantern higher, he saw her face, and the light went out of Vernum’s world. It wasn’t a girl and she wasn’t dancing. It was an old woman, shuffling toward him, using a cane.

One, two, three . . . the woman stabbed at the ground for support. One, two, three . . . stab . . . Then she dragged her back foot.

Over and over she repeated the process until she was close enough to crane her head and look up. In a voice tinted with lavender and decay, she said, “Who are you? You have no right to be here.” She looked him up and down. “Fool. Do you have any idea who I am?”

Vernum made a mewling sound of apology. The Castilian accent of Cuba’s noble class had gone extinct after the Revolution. Just from her voice, he would have known, even though he had never actually seen the woman. Few in the village had. Just a glimpse or two, a silhouette through the mansion windows. At night, sometimes, music from a phonograph. Duke Ellington, tunes too aged to recognize. Old vinyl records scratched from use that popped and snapped like meat sizzling or a broken clock.

The rumors about Imelda Casanova were known to all who could hear or whisper. Only the Dowager lived alone in a mansion while most Cubans lived jammed together in tenements. Only Señorita Casanova was permitted to have maids and a housekeeper, while, even in Havana, neurosurgeons and attorneys competed for bartending jobs to make a little extra money.

Señorita Casanova. On the streets, gossipers stressed that maidenly prefix in a biting way because she had never married, yet the woman had raised a retarded cane cutter and handyman who claimed to be her grandson.

The most dangerous rumors concerned a child—or was it two or three?—who had been aborted during her trips abroad. Others said she had given the newborns away before returning to Cuba. Or worse.

The most dangerous rumor of all was a truth no one doubted. This withered old woman peering up at him had been Fidel’s mistress. And she still lived under the protection of Fidel’s ghost.

Only a powerful woman could have saved that simpleton Figuerito from a death sentence. Vernum despised the Dowager for that. Despised her even before the incident in the cane field. For years, he had been searching for a way to topple the bitch from a station so lofty that even a Santero had reason to fear her.

Now here she was, but it was Vernum who was at her mercy.

The lantern was a tin box with glass, a candle in the middle. She raised it high as if curious about the stitches in his face, then placed it at her feet. Tiny leather shoes . . . legs of onionskin within a robe that suggested the body of a much younger woman.

I’m hallucinating, he thought. She’s an Egun, the spirit essence of a young girl that I . . .

Murdered.

Rather than complete the thought, he turned away and closed his eyes.

“You,” she said. “You’re the filthy Santero who had my maid’s bastard child arrested. I know you. I’ve seen you before. Had him arrested for murder, didn’t you? Yet, it was you who killed those irritating peasant girls.”

Vernum made a groaning sound of helplessness—a play for sympathy—but cut it short. The maid’s bastard? Was she talking about Figuerito? Yes, because then she said, “Thanks to you, they took him away to the insane asylum.”

Thanks to you? My god . . . it sounded as if she actually meant it. Was that possible? He opened his eyes. The woman’s face was a mosaic of shadows and candlelight, her hair a rope of woven silver. A cameo seen out of focus. Real but not real. Like some women shrunken by age, she had regressed to the dimensions of childhood. Slowly, phonetically, Vernum moaned through sealed lips, “I . . . am . . . sorry.” He blinked with remorse to hide the frail hope he felt.

She understood. “I bet you are.”

Her inflection told him nothing. “Very . . . very . . . sorry,” he repeated.

Beside the lantern was a bag. Much too nimbly for a woman her age, she knelt and spread a cloth on the ground, then began removing objects and arranging them as if preparing a picnic.

That frightened him. An Egun, as the essence of a child who had died too young, possessed the power to inhabit a youthful body, but only for short periods of time. Something else: she hadn’t mentioned the American killer who had vanished. Surely she had seen him from her hiding place.

The woman kept her head down as she worked. Paused only once to look at something lying at the base of the tree—his satellite phone. The American had left it behind for some reason. He couldn’t deal with what that meant, not while he was staked out like a sacrificial goat.

The old woman . . . He still hadn’t gotten a clear look at her face. Vernum waited, hoping the truth would be revealed by her eyes.