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managed to display authority. Very much a cop’s eyes, Devlin decided.
    He felt a familiar tension as the man reached into a pocket. Normally, the appearance of a badge would have relieved that tension. This time it remained as the man displayed the credentials of a major in the national police. The first storm trooper? Devlin gave the man a quick once-over. He had thinning hair and a deeply weathered face that seemed as worn and weary as his eyes. Yet the badge he carried looked almost new. It glittered in the fluorescent light, in sharp contrast to the man’s aging suit coat and slightly frayed sport shirt.
    “My name is Martínez. Major Arnaldo Martínez. And I would very much like to speak with you.” The major directed his words at Adrianna, offering Devlin only a faint smile. “Perhaps I could drive you both to your hotel, and we could speak on the way.” The smile became stronger. “It is much cheaper than a taxi.”
    “I recognize your voice,” Adrianna said.
    Martínez nodded. “We spoke yesterday. Forgive me for not identifying myself.” He offered Adrianna a small shrug. “As I said then, sometimes it is not wise to do so on our telephones. If you’ll wait until we are in my car, I will explain.”
    “Do we have a choice about going with you?” Devlin asked.
    “Of course you have a choice, Inspector Devlin.”
    “You know my rank, I see.”
    “Yes, Inspector Devlin. I know who you are.”
    The major’s car was a battered 1957 Chevrolet. Devlin had last ridden in one in high school. That car had been a ten-year-oldrelic owned by a teenage friend. This one was an ancient, rusting hulk that only a collector could love. Definitely not a police car.
    “This your personal car, Major?”
    Martínez smiled. “Yes, it is.”
    “Are you restoring it?” Devlin asked.
    “Restoring?” Martínez seemed puzzled at first, then began to laugh. “Señor, I have been restoring this car for thirty years. Every week it needs some new restoration.”
    As Martínez opened the rear door, Devlin placed a hand on his arm. “Major, that tin you flashed back there, it looked a little shiny. You mind if I take another look at it?”
    Martínez seemed confused. “Tin? Shiny?” The light-bulb went on and he smiled again. He took out his credential case and handed it to Devlin. “You are right, Señor Devlin. The badge is new. I was just recently promoted.” He retrieved the credential case and returned it to his pocket. “You see, in Cuba, until just a few years ago there were no ranks above captain. Fidel was commandante—which is equivalent to a major—and everyone else held a rank below that. Now”—he shrugged—“things have changed. Now we even have generals. Luckily, the new promotions finally made their way down to me. Here in Cuba, these things come more slowly for people who are not high in the government.”
    They drove out of the airport and onto a main thoroughfare which seemed to have more people hitchhiking or riding bicycles, than cars. It was nine P.M., when traffic in any large city would still be moderately heavy. Yet cars were scarce, and most were not unlike the antiquated wreck Martínez drove.
    “Lot of old cars here,” Devlin said.
    Martínez nodded. “Yes, many. Your country’s embargo has been in place since 1963, señor. The only new cars you will see all belong to car rental companies. Only the touristsdrive them. Oh, you will see some newer than mine, of course—some that are only ten years old—but they are mostly Russian, and they are garbage. They break down more than the old cars do.” He patted the steering wheel as if assuring his own car that the words were intended as a compliment. “But we can’t get parts for the old ones, or even the not-so-old ones, so it doesn’t make much difference. It is why Cubans are the best mechanics in the world. It is a gift of the embargo. Give a Cuban some chewing gum and wire and he can make anything run—at least for a day or