“I see. But . . . ?”

“It took me a few years to recognize his problem, because he’s so good at hiding it.”

“Which is?”

“He’s a pure sociopath. But he’s not like the robot types we’ve both arrested before. He’s got a genuine warmth that people relate to. He’s more like a highly intelligent wolf than a shark. A thinking predator, if you get my meaning.”

Kaiser smiled strangely. “That’s basically the definition of a human being.”

This brought Mackiever up short. “Well . . . multiply that times ten, and maybe you’ll know what I’m trying to get across. Am I wrong about you wanting to nail Forrest?”

Kaiser closed the computer, slipped the flash drive into his pocket, and stood. “No, sir. You’re not. I’ve got a lot of evidence to process, but this could be the straw that breaks that bastard’s back. We’ve got to find the men in this video.”

“What do you want me to do?” Mackiever asked.

WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT, A steady knocking awakened Jordan from alcohol-induced sleep. When she got to the door in one of John’s T-shirts, she found a Cuban army officer standing in the hall. The captain was in no mood to be patient, but she forced him to take the time to convince her that the Cuban president was summoning her to his estate for a legitimate purpose, and not for some fantasy of a late-night booty call. After she dressed, Jordan carried her camera bag into the hall, but the officer shook his head and said she would have to rely on her memory. No recording devices of any kind would be allowed—not even a notebook and pen.

The car that carried her west past the Bay of Pigs was a black vintage Cadillac limousine with bulletproof glass. The captain did not once look into his rearview mirror to check Jordan out. She didn’t know whether this was out of fear of his commander in chief, or because he’d driven so many women to see Castro in this way that he no longer had any interest in the process.

Their destination proved to be a mansion on the beach with its own private marina, a palace guarded by at least a dozen soldiers and fully staffed by maids and a butler. This was an eye-opening experience, considering that the tenant was theoretically the leader of a Communist revolution.

The butler escorted her to a well-appointed study whose walls displayed dozens of framed photographs dating to the 1950s and ’60s. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Jordan walked slowly down the wall and tried to identify various African and Central American leaders. She recognized Patrice Lumumba, Thomas Sankara, Evo Morales, and of course the pale Soviet premiers grinning as they smoked cigars with Fidel. She was a little surprised to see Castro with his arm around Che Guevara, since she’d heard the Cuban president had been jealous of his more glamorous comrade-in-arms.

“Thank you for coming,” a voice behind her said in Spanish.

She whirled to find the president standing inside the door, watching her.

“I’m told you were sleeping,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m at the age where sleep has deserted me, at least as anything but a torment.”

Jordan elected the direct approach. “Why have you brought me here?”

Castro came farther into the room, then sat in a heavily padded chair and put his slippered feet on an ottoman. All she could think about was how frizzy his white beard looked beneath the pasty face. Gone was the virile, black-haired firebrand who had so impressed her twenty years ago.

“The things you asked me today started me thinking,” he said. “I found myself unable to stop. I finally decided that the time has come to pass on some information to the U.S. government. I will not do it officially, but . . .” The president looked up at her with a flash of his old intensity. “It’s my understanding that your husband may be working with some older men who remember the Kennedy years as clearly as I do. They call themselves the Working Group. Do you know anything about that?”

While Jordan considered how to respond, the president motioned for her to take the seat opposite him.

“Maybe,” she said. “I know he’s working with a retired agent named Dwight Stone.” She perched on the edge of the chair. “Stone’s very ill, and my husband wants to find out who was responsible for what happened in Dallas before time runs out for Stone.”

Castro gave her a tight smile. “Just so.”

“You obviously know more than you told me today, or in your note.”

“Oh, yes, the flower. How childish of me, yes?”

“It was beautiful.”

The president inclined his head. “So . . . let us speak of assassination. I myself have survived over six hundred attempts on my life since taking office.”

“Six hundred?”

“That I know of. Nearly a dozen of those were planned and carried out by the CIA at the direction of the Kennedy administration. Some of those were facilitated by what you call the Mafia. This is well documented, of course. Not news, as you say.”

“Yes, I’ve read about that.”

“Then let me tell you something about which you have not read.”

Jordan waited.

“In 1967, a man with a rifle tried to assassinate me in the Plaza de la Revolución. Had my security services not been warned by one of the man’s confederates, he probably would have succeeded. He was set up to shoot me from seven hundred yards away, and he had the skill to make such a shot.”

“What nationality was the shooter?”

“French Corsican.”

“I see. Was he killed?”

“Not immediately. He was wounded during his capture. Then he was questioned by the security services. He subsequently died during this process, but not before telling most of what he knew.”

Jordan had the feeling that the Corsican’s confession was what she had been brought here to hear.

“And?”

“The story he told was quite interesting. He had been hired to kill me by two American Mafia leaders. Santo Trafficante and Carlos Marcello.”

Jordan felt an unexpected thrill. “Have you confirmed that he was telling the truth?”

This time Castro’s smile had a reptilian quality to it. “He was telling the truth, you can believe me. But I wasn’t very interested in his story. The Mafia has wanted its casinos back ever since 1959. They will never get them. Sometime after I die, Cuba will revert to capitalism and the Walt Disney company will have Mickey Mouse running the damned casinos.”

For a moment Jordan wondered if the Cuban leader were drunk. In any case, he now seemed to be lost in his own memories. She decided the best thing to do was let him ramble.

“The story that interested me also involved Señor Marcello. By 1967, I had of course heard the craziest theories imaginable about who killed Kennedy. Like Robert Ludlum stories, you know?”

“Yes.”

“Justice Warren’s commission probed many of these theories. But one name that never appeared in the Warren Commission Report was Carlos Marcello. It was as though this man had been rendered invisible during the investigations. But the Corsican told me a very simple story. He said Robert Kennedy had been in the process of deporting Marcello permanently from the United States, and the only way Marcello could stop this was to neutralize the attorney general. To do this, he decided to kill the president. It was no Machiavellian stratagem by the CIA, the military, or corporate America. It was simply a matter of survival.”

“Did this Corsican claim to have been the shooter?”

“No. That was partly what convinced me he was telling the truth. He was not claiming to be the assassin and asking to be spared because of it. He was simply emptying his brain to spare himself further pain.”

Jordan shuddered at the thought of the agony concealed behind the clinical coldness of that phrase.

“He said the shooter was a man who had trained exiles in preparation for Playa Girón at camps in Louisiana. He was one of the white-robed racists, a KKK man. He was also a former U.S. marine, like Oswald. Unlike Oswald, however, he was supposedly a man of great competence.”