Free Cuba Straits by Randy Wayne White Page A

yards away—and in less than six seconds. An FBI shooter, using a clone of Oswald’s rifle, had done it in only
four
.
    But there was still one sensitive unknown out there. It had been overlooked even by fringe feeders like movie hack Oliver Stone and other conspiracy profiteers. The Castros didn’t kill JFK, nor did the CIA, the Soviets, or the Mafia. The only valid question was: Did Fidel and the Soviets know, six weeks before the assassination, that Lee Harvey Oswald had visited the Cuban embassy and vowed to do exactly what he did?
    Love letters.
Ford tried to imagine why the Castros would reveal sensitive information to a mistress. It seemed unlikely . . . So why, fifty years later, did the Russians care?
    “Damn it, Juan. Uranium poisoning? I’m not stupid. Talk to me.”
    Rivera set his jaw and glowered. That did it. Ford pulled off the road, his truck’s headlights showing weeds and a yellow sign that read
Panther Crossing
while traffic sped past. “Okay, I’ll try another approach. What’s so important about that shortstop? He’s too old to sign with a major league team—don’t lie to me. Why did you bring him to the States?”
    “
Lie
to you?” Rivera’s temper bordered on the berserk. He was famous for it. He shifted his weight in the seat and glared. “You are calling me a liar?”
    A stare-down, but it was the general who blinked when he realized what he’d just heard. “Wait . . . How do you know Figuerito’s age? All I said was that he has no birth certificate.”
    “Tell me why it’s worth risking your life to find him. Then I’ll explain.”
    A light came on in the general’s head. “By god . . . you know where he is.”
    Ford nodded, listened to a series of threats, before he repeated, “Tell me the truth.”
    It wasn’t a long story, but he parked again—this time, in the airport’s cell phone lot—to listen to Rivera conclude, “That’s why I trusted Figuerito to keep the briefcase, even though I could find no electronic device inside.”
    “You still haven’t what’s in there.”
    Rivera used his hands to say
I’m not done.
“The point is, I was still being followed. Now I’m worried they are following Figuerito, too. That they’ll stick him with a needle, like my beautiful friend who has lost her hair. That’s why I must find him, then return immediately to Cuba.”
    “I’ll be damned. You actually care about the guy.” Ford didn’t pose this as a question.
    “He is a simpleton, that shortstop, but very honest—also crazy, from what I’ve been told. Perhaps these Russians will be the lucky ones if I find him first.”
    “You mean he’s dangerous?”
    Rivera replied, “I think not, but who can say what is in a man’s head? My friend on the phone continues to warn me that Figuerito is a violent psychopath. Even the warden I bribed described him as a serial killer without conscience, so . . .” The former dictator lowered the window to watch a plane land, his mind slipping back in memory. A bemused smile formed. “Of course, as you know, there are people who say the same about me.”
    •   •   •
    A LITTLE BEFORE TEN, Ford got an NA beer and sat at the computer in his lab. Across the room, the dog opened one yellow eye to watch, seeing Ford’s familiar size, lighted water boxes and odors behind him, then heard the man’s familiar voice.
    “That damn Tomlinson, not a word since his stupid text. So maybe there’s an email . . . if he wasn’t too blitzed to find an Internet café.”
    Sailing south on a righteous mission . . . don’t worry
the text had read.
    Ford used two fingers to rap at the keyboard, his wire glasses silver beneath a gooseneck lamp, while he spoke to the retriever: “If there’s nothing to worry about, why the hell doesn’t he call? At least have the courtesy to give me an update. Oh . . . I bet I know—a waterproof phone case is pointless if he doesn’t use the damn thing. Or, just thoughtless.