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Granma
, the official newspaper. These would be the airport police that Eddie had warned him about.
    Holliday handed over the blue-covered Canadian passport identifying him as John Leeson, smiling pleasantly.
    “You are Canadian?”
    “Yes.”
    “You have traveled to a great many places, senor,” said the customs official, flipping through the pages. Holliday had been very specific to Hartog the forger about the stamps he wanted, including five countries with UNESCO Preservation sites, among them India, Japan, Peru and New Zealand.
    “So I have,” said Holliday, keeping his tone genial.
    “You are here on business or pleasure, senor?”
    “A bit of both, mostly business.” He handed over the business card he’d made at the Hyatt in Toronto.
    “You pay to fix our great buildings, yes?”
    “I just take the pictures for the bosses. All of us have our bosses, right?”
    “That is correct,
sí.
” The customs official smiled. “We all have our bosses. Please, senor, put your suitcases on the counter and open them.”
    Holliday did as he was told. Once the cases were on the counter, he unlocked them and pulled themopen. The customs official rummaged through the clothes, felt the sides, bottom and back, then indicated that Holliday could close the first up. The customs man checked the second suitcase.
    “A lot of camera equipment,” commented the official. At some invisible signal the two men reading newspapers stood up and stood beside the suitcase. As well as the camera case, there were round slots for thirty metal film containers. The taller of the two security men opened a few of the film containers at random while the other watched for a reaction from Holliday. There was none. The tall security man then told Holliday to take out the hard foam insert. Holliday handed it to the man, who checked the bottom before setting it aside; if things could be inserted into the foam from above, it was logical that they could be inserted from below. He turned his attention to the red nylon lining, poking at it with a long finger.
    “It is…soft,” said the taller man in the dark glasses. “Why is this?”
    “I put a foam pad behind the lining as more protection for the camera equipment.”
    “Show me,” said the man.
    Holliday did so, pulling aside a four-inch section of the nylon lining that he’d left loose after gluing the section of yoga mat into the suitcase. It was the mark of an experienced traveler who had to explain thesame thing to other customs and security people at airports all over the world.
    “Why do you not use one of those aluminum suitcases, the square one?”
    “That’s the best way I know to get your equipment stolen. The only people who use Halliburton cases do so because they’ve got valuable stuff inside or because they’re trying to look cool. I prefer any old suitcase myself.”
    The security man gave Holliday a long look, then nodded to himself. “What hotel are you staying at, senor?”
    “The Nacional,” answered Holliday. “Where else?”
    “Of course,” said the security man. “You may close the suitcases now, senor. Welcome to Cuba.”
    And that was that. He closed the suitcases, found his way to the exit and stepped outside into the blistering heat to wait for Eddie. He spotted half a dozen taxis, including a 1949 Ford Victoria, a ’41 Dodge four-door sedan in powder blue and a Cadillac El Dorado convertible in bright pink. There was even a ’31 Ford Model A in two tones of green with cream-colored wheels, whitewall tires and a steel luggage rack at the back.
    “They have friends in Miami who send them the money to fix them up,” said Eddie, his voice quiet. He stared right ahead. “And remember—half the drivers work for secret police.”
    Holliday chose the ’49 Dodge—his uncle Henry had driven one all through Holliday’s childhood and his early adolescence. It reminded him of the smell of rubber on a hot day and egg salad sandwiches when he and Henry