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his neck was a gold medallion of the Virgin of Charity of El Cobre, the patron saint of Cuba, a good-luck charm of sorts that Cuban relatives in Miami often sent to their relatives in Cuba to keep them safe on their journey to freedom. He’d worn it on his own crossing of the straits in a rowboat, thirty years earlier.
    Sadly, he gave the medallion a kiss and headed home to Key West.

7
    I love this car,” said Theo.
    Jack glowered from the passenger seat. “It’s mine, and it’s not for sale.”
    Theo slammed it into gear, and the car nearly leapt from the pavement.
    It was a good four hours from Miami to Key West, three if Theo was driving, and he had insisted on it. Owning a thirty-year-old Mustang convertible had its drawbacks, but a drive through the Keys was something any car lover lived for. Mile after mile, U.S. 1 was a scenic ribbon of asphalt that connected one Florida Key to the next, slicing through turquoise waters and one-stoplight towns that seemed to sprout from the mangroves. Plenty of warm sunshine on your face, amazing blue skies, a sea breeze like velvet. The deal was that Theo would drive down and Jack would drive back. A fair compromise, Jack figured, if for nothing else than the sheer entertainment value of having Theo come along.
    “What did you say?” asked Jack. Theo’s mouth was moving, but it was drowned out by the rumble of the engine and whistle of the wind.
    Theo shouted, “If you won’t sell your wheels, at least leave ’em to me.”
    “What do you mean, ‘leave’?”
    “In your will, dude.”
    “I don’t even have a will.”
    “A lawyer with no will? That’s like a hooker with no condoms.”
    “What do I need a will for? I’m a single guy with no kids.”
    They exchanged glances, as if Jack’s mention of “no kids” suddenly had a footnote next to it.
    “Screw the will,” said Theo. “Take it with you. God would love this car.”
    Jack turned back to his reading. Before leaving Miami, he’d jumped on-line and pulled down some background information about the U.S. naval base at Guantánamo Bay, just enough to know what he was talking about when he interviewed Lindsey’s father-in-law. Theo left him alone until they reached the Stockton Bridge, about a mile from Key West International Airport.
    “So, you gonna have to go to Camp Geronimo?”
    “Guantánamo, not Geronimo. It’s a naval base, not an Indian burial ground.”
    “How is it we got a naval base in Cuba anyway?”
    Jack checked one of the web pages he’d printed. “Says here we lease it.”
    “Castro is our landlord?”
    “Technically, yes.”
    “Shit, what does a guy like Castro do if you’re late on the rent? Kill your entire family?”
    “Actually, he’s never cashed one of our rent checks. The lease was signed long before he came into power, and he refuses to recognize it as valid.”
    “Guess he’s not about to try and evict us.”
    “Not unless he wants a made-in-America boot up his communist ass.”
    “So we stay there for free. But for how long?”
    “The lease says we can stay there as long as we want.”
    “Damn. Whoever drafted that document must be in the lawyers’ hall of fame.”
    They entered the airport off Roosevelt Road and headed toward the general aviation hangars, following the instructions that Jack had gotten over the telephone. A security guard directed them to a fenced parking area. The Brothers for Freedom office was a little box at one of the end hangars that barely had enough room for a desk and two chairs. The man inside escorted them toward the tarmac. A flock of hungry seagulls followed them. Just three feet above sea level, Key West Internationalwas notorious for its birds, many of which met the aeronautical version of the Veg-O-Matic with the constant coming and going of prop planes. Jack and Theo passed several rows of private aircraft, everything from seaplanes to Learjets. Finally they spotted Alejandro Pintado tending to his reliable old Cessna. Jack