He returned to the living room. To his surprise, Nina had her coat on.

“I thought I’d walk you to the Metro station,” she said.

Dimka was baffled. “Why?”

“I don’t think you know this neighborhood—I wouldn’t like you to get lost.”

“I mean, why do you want me to leave?”

“What else would you do?”

“I’d like to stay here and kiss you,” he said.

Nina laughed. “What you lack in sophistication, you make up for in enthusiasm.” She took off her coat and sat down.

Dimka sat beside her and kissed her hesitantly.

She kissed him back with reassuring enthusiasm. He realized with mounting excitement that she did not care if he was inexpert. Soon he was eagerly fumbling with the buttons of her shirtwaist. She had wonderfully large breasts. They were encased in a formidable utilitarian brassiere, but she took that off, then offered them to be kissed.

Things moved quickly after that.

When the big moment arrived, she lay on the couch with her head on the armrest and one foot on the floor, a position she assumed so readily that Dimka thought she must have done it before.

He hastily took out his condom and fumbled it out of the packet, but she said: “No need for that.”

He was startled. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t bear children. I’ve been told by doctors. It’s why my husband divorced me.”

He dropped the condom on the floor and lay on top of her.

“Easy does it,” she said, guiding him inside.

I’ve done it, Dimka thought; I’ve lost my virginity at last.

• • •

The speedboat was the kind once known as a rumrunner: long and narrow, extremely fast, and painfully uncomfortable to ride in. It crossed the Straits of Florida at eighty knots, hitting every wave with the impact of a car knocking down a wooden fence. The six men aboard were strapped in, the only way to be halfway safe in an open boat at such a speed. In the small cargo hold they had M3 submachine guns, pistols, and incendiary bombs. They were going to Cuba.

George Jakes really should not have been with them.

He stared across the moonlit water, feeling seasick. Four of the men were Cubans living in exile in Miami: George knew only their first names. They hated Communism, hated Castro, and hated everyone who did not agree with them. The sixth man was Tim Tedder.

It had started when Tedder walked into the office at the Justice Department. He was vaguely familiar, and George had placed him as a CIA man, although he was officially “retired” and working as a freelance security consultant.

George had been on his own in the room. “Help you?” he had said politely.

“I’m here for the Mongoose meeting.”

George had heard of Operation Mongoose, a project that the untrustworthy Dennis Wilson was involved in, but he did not know the full details. “Come in,” he had said, waving at a chair. Tedder had walked in with a cardboard folder under his arm. He was about ten years older than George, but looked as if he had got dressed in the 1940s: he wore a double-breasted suit and his wavy hair was brilliantined with a high side parting. George said: “Dennis will be back any second.”