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“Uno.”
    â€œPile in the back,” Seng ordered his team. “I’ll ride in front.” He opened the passenger door and slid onto the seat. There was no conversation as the driver crunched the worn-out transmission into gear and drove off the dock into the city streets. Every other light on the boulevard running along the bay was dark, either because the bulbs had burned out and had never been replaced or to conserve energy. After a few blocks the driver turned onto a main street and headed up a slight grade toward San Juan Hill.
    Cuba’s second largest city, Santiago was in Oriente Province and had been the island’s capital in the seventeenth century. Surrounded by hills with coffee and sugarcane plantations, the city was a maze of narrow streets, with small plazas and buildings of Spanish colonial architecture bearing hanging balconies.
    Seng remained silent, concentrating on scanning the side streets and studying the numbers on his portable GPS to make certain the driver was heading in the right direction. The streets were mostly empty of traffic, except for fifty-year-old cars parked along the curbs, and the sidewalks were filled with people simply out for an after dinner stroll or sitting in bars that reverberated with loud strains of the Cuban beat. Many of the stores and apartments above had paint that was faded and chipped, while others were coated in vivid pastel colors. The gutters and sidewalks were clean, but the windows looked like they had rarely seen a cleaner and a squeegee. For the most part, the people looked happy. There was much laughter and occasional singing. No one gave the truck a second look as it passed slowly through the main downtown section of the city.
    Seng spotted a few men in uniform, but they seemed more interested in talking with women than watching for a foreign intrusion. The driver lit up another foul-smelling cigarette. Seng had never smoked, and he leaned further against his door and turned his face through the open window, lifting his nose in disgust.
    Ten minutes later the truck reached the front gate of the fortress prison. The driver pulled past and stopped fifty yards down the road. “I will wait here,” he said, in almost perfect English. They were the first words he had spoken since the dock.
    Seng read him like a book. “Educator or doctor?”
    â€œI teach history at the university.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œDon’t be long. The truck will look suspicious if it sits here past midnight.”
    â€œWe should be out before then,” Seng assured him.
    Seng climbed out of the truck cab and peered up and down the street cautiously. It was empty. He rapped softly on the cargo doors. They opened and his team dropped out and joined him on the brick-surfaced street. Together they marched as a unit up to the front gate and pulled the bell cord. A ringing could be heard in the guard’s office behind the gate. In a few minutes, a guard came wandering out, rubbing his eyes and temples. He had obviously been asleep on duty. He was about to tell the intruders to go away when he recognized Seng’s uniform and insignia as a colonel’s and he feverishly opened the gate, stood back and saluted.
    â€œSir, what brings you to the fortress this time of night?”
    â€œColonel Antonio Yarayo. I was sent by the Ministry of State Security with this team to interrogate one of the prisoners. A new investigation has turned up a suspected United States spy operation. We believe they have information which could prove useful.”
    â€œPardon me, sir, but I must ask you for the proper papers.”
    â€œAs a good soldier, Sergeant,” said Seng officiously, “well you should.” He handed the guard an envelope. “Why aren’t there more guards on duty?”
    â€œThere is one other who watches the prisoners’ cells.”
    â€œHmm. Well, I see no reason to stand out here all night. Take me to your