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said tersely. “The goddamned fool would. He’s been involved with some underground paramilitary group for years. I looked into them once for Tía Pilar. I decided they were harmless enough, not like Alpha Sixty-six or
Comandos L.
”
    Molly recognized the names of two of the most active organizations reputed to carry out terrorist bombings and other clandestine operations against Castro and his supporters. She shuddered to think of the implications had he belonged to one of those. Another group she’d heard of, the one Michael hadn’t mentioned, was Brigade 2506, made up of men who had survived the ill-fated Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961. Revered by exiles, the Bay of Pigs veterans claimed to be no longer involved in commando raids, though one of its most prominent members continued to operate a training camp in the county.
    “Dammit,” Michael swore. “I thought that eventually he would see that there are better ways to end Castro’s dictatorship, especially with the fall of communism in the rest of the world.”
    “But why now, after all this time?” Molly said, unable to imagine the sheer folly of what Michael was suggesting. “You must be wrong. I’m sure he just got caught in a squall or something. He wouldn’t try to invade Cuba on his own, for heaven’s sakes.”
    “You don’t understand what it’s been like for him. You can’t. Not even I fully understand it. Cuba—the Cuba he remembers, anyway—is in his soul. It’s as if some vital part of him has been carved away. Whenever new exiles come, he always meets with them, soaking up their news of Cuba like a sponge. For days afterward, his melancholy deepens.”
    The sadness, Molly thought. That explained the sorrow that perpetually shadowed Tío Miguel’s eyes. And Michael was right. His heartache was something she had no way of fully comprehending. She had always lived in her homeland, and even though she no longer lived in Virginia where she’d grown up, she could go back anytime she wished.
    “Would he have gone alone, though?” she asked. “Wouldn’t there have been others?”
    “More than likely, though Raúl says he has heard nothing of such plans. Such men operate in secret, but there is almost always gossip.”
    As the boat churned through the choppy waters, they emerged beneath bluer skies. The wind settled into little more than a breeze that barely stirred the humid tropical air. But even with the improved weather, the tension didn’t lessen as the afternoon wore on.
    The one question Molly didn’t dare to ask was whether Raúl would risk carrying them all the way into Cuban waters. Nor was she sure she wanted to know whether Michael would allow him to do any less. Fortunately, with nothing but open water in all directions, Molly had no real sense of how close she might be to having both questions answered. Cuba was ninety-six miles from Key West, a hundred and fifty miles from Miami. Unused to nautical speed, she couldn’t even be sure how long it would take them to cover that distance.
    For all she knew there was little purpose to the zigzagging course they seemed to be on as the summer sun slipped below the horizon in a blaze of orange.
    “There!” Michael said eventually, gesturing to Raúl as he kept his binoculars pinned on some tiny speck in the dimming light of a July sunset.
    To Molly the boat in the distance was indistinguishable from dozens of others they had seen since leaving the marina. Only as they drew closer did she realize that the boat’s engine was still, that its movement was propelled by no more than the drifting currents.
    “Tío! Tío Miguel!”
    Michael’s shouts carried across the water as they pulled alongside the boat.
Niña Pilar
had been painted on the boat’s bow in neat, bright-blue letters, a jaunty tribute to a woman Molly couldn’t imagine Tío Miguel leaving behind.
    “Can you get any closer?” Michael asked Raúl.
    “S
í
,” he said, maneuvering until the boats were