Tedder yelled in his ear: “What the fuck did you think you were doing?”

“We killed an innocent man,” George said. “I thought he deserved a moment of respect.”

“He was working for the Communists!”

“He was the night watchman—he probably didn’t know Communism from cheesecake.”

“You’re a goddamn pussy.”

George looked back. The warehouse was now a giant bonfire. People were swarming around it, presumably trying to put out the blaze. He returned his gaze to the sea in front, and did not look back again.

When at last they reached Miami and stood on solid ground again, George said to Tedder: “While we were at sea, you called me a pussy.” He knew this was stupid, almost as stupid as going on the raid, but he was too proud to let it pass. “We’re on dry land, now, with no safety issues. Why don’t you say it again, here?”

Tedder stared at him. Tedder was taller than George, but not so broad. He must have had some kind of training in unarmed combat, and George could see him weighing the odds, while the Cubans looked on with neutral interest.

Tedder’s gaze flicked to George’s cauliflower ear and back again and he said: “I think we’ll just forget it.”

“I thought so,” said George.

On the plane back to Washington he drafted a short report for Bobby, saying that in his opinion Operation Mongoose was ineffective, as there was no sign that people in Cuba (as opposed to exiles) wanted to overthrow Castro. It was also a threat to the global prestige of the United States, as it would cause anti-American hostility if it ever became public. When he handed Bobby the report, he said succinctly: “Mongoose is useless, and it’s dangerous.”

“I know,” Bobby said. “But we have to do something.”

• • •

Dimka was seeing all women differently.

He and Valentin spent most weekends with Nina and Anna at the girls’ apartment, the couples taking turns to sleep in the bed or on the floor of the living room. In the course of a night he and Nina would have sex twice and even three times. He knew, in more detail than he had ever dreamed of, how a woman’s body looked and smelled and tasted.

Consequently he looked at other women in a new, more knowing way. He could imagine them naked, speculate how their breasts curved, visualize their body hair, imagine their faces when they made love. In a way he knew all women, knowing one.

He felt a little disloyal to Nina when he admired Natalya Smotrov on the beach at Pitsunda, wearing a canary-yellow swimsuit, with wet hair and sandy feet. Her trim figure was not as curvy as Nina’s, but it was no less delightful. Perhaps his interest was pardonable: he had been here on the Black Sea coast for two weeks with Khrushchev, living the life of a monk. Anyway, he was not seriously courting temptation, for Natalya wore a wedding ring.