I picked up the magazine on the desk and got a little better acquainted with Ana Gloria Varona. She was a little bombshell type with a backside for cracking walnuts, and a large chest that was crying out for a child-sized sweater. When I had finished admiring her I tried to watch the baseball. But I figured it was one of those curious sports in which the history is obviously more important than the game. After a while I closed my eyes, which usually takes some doing in a police station.

Quevedo came back about twenty minutes later, alone and carrying a briefcase. He raised his eyebrows and looked at me expectantly. “Shall we go?”

I followed him downstairs.

Alfredo López was standing between two soldiers in the entrance hall, but only just. He was filthy and unshaven and had two black eyes, except that wasn’t the worst of it. Both his hands were freshly bandaged, which made the manacles on his wrists look pointless. Seeing me, he tried to smile, only the effort was probably too much for him and he almost fainted. The two soldiers grabbed him by the elbows and held him up like the accused at some sort of show trial.

I wanted to ask Quevedo about his hands and then changed my mind, anxious not to say or do anything that might prevent me from achieving what I had set out to do. But I had little doubt that López had been tortured.

Quevedo was still being pleasant. “Do you have a car?”

“It’s a gray Chevrolet Styline,” I said. “I’m parked just down the street. I’ll drive back here, and then you can follow me.”

Quevedo looked pleased. “Excellent. To El Calvario, you say?”

I nodded.

“Havana traffic being what it is, if we are separated, we shall meet at the local post office.”

“Very well.”

“One more thing.” The smile turned wintry. “If this is some kind of trap. If this has been an elaborate hoax to lure me out into the open and have me assassinated—”

“It’s not a trap,” I said.

“Then the first person to be shot will be our friend here.” He tapped the holster on his belt with meaning. “In any event, I shall shoot you both if the weapons cache is not where you say it is.”

“The weapons are there, all right,” I said. “And you’re not going to be assassinated, Lieutenant. People like you and me are never assassinated. We’re murdered, pure and simple. It’s the Batistas and Trumans and King Abdullahs of this world who get themselves assassinated. So take it easy. Relax. Because this is your lucky day. You’re about to do something that’ll make you a captain. So maybe you should ride that luck and buy a lottery ticket or a number on the bolita. If it comes to that, maybe we should both buy a number.”