Havana Bay by Martin Cruz Smith

children, but they demand Santa Claus and a Christmas party."
    In the photograph two girls with bows in their hair sat on the lap of a bearded man in a plush red suit, a round figure with cheeks rouged to a cheery glow. Presents ringed a tinsel tree. Behind the children spread a buffet line of adults balancing plates of cheeses and Christmas cakes and glasses of sweet champagne. At the far end someone who might have been Sergei Pribluda shoved his whole hand into his mouth.
    "The heat in that suit was unbelievable."
    "You wore it?" Arkady took a closer look at the picture.» You don't look well."
    "Congestive heart failure. A bad valve." Kneading his arm, Bugai went around his desk and rooted through drawers.» Pictures. I'll make a list of possible names and addresses. Mostovoi is the embassy photographer, then there is Olga."
    "You should be in Moscow."
    "No, I angled for Cuba. They may not have enough drugs here but they have excellent doctors, more doc tors per person than anywhere else in the world, and they'll operate on anyone, a general, a farmer, some little man who rolls cigars, it doesn't matter. Moscow? Unless you're a millionaire you wait two years at least. I'd be dead." Bugai blinked through a film of sweat.» I can't leave Cuba."
     
    Elmar Mostovoi had a monkey's round mug and curved fingernails and a hairpiece of frizzled orange that sat on his head like a souvenir. He was in his mid-fifties, Arkady guessed, but still in good shape, the sort who did push-ups on his fingertips, wore his shirt open and rolled up his pants to show off a shaved chest and shins as smooth as tubes. He lived in Miramar, the same area as the embassy, in an oceanfront hotel named the Sierra Maestra, which offered many of the features of a sinking freighter: listing balconies, rusted railings, a view of the water. The furnishings of Mostovoi's apartment were quite plush, however, with a sofa and chairs covered in vanilla leather sitting on a deep shag rug.
    "They put Poles, Germans and Russians here. They call it the Sierra Maestra, I call it Central Europe." Mostovoi inserted a Marlboro into an ivory cigarette holder.» Did you see the popcorn machine in the lobby? Very Hollywood."
    Mostovoi's apartment was decorated with movie posters (Lolita, East of Eden), the photographs of an expatriate (Paris bistro, sailing, someone waving at the Tower of London), books (Graham Greene, Lewis Car roll, Nabokov), souvenirs (dusty campaign cap, bronze bells, ivory phalluses in ascending size).
    "Are you interested in photographs?" Mostovoi asked.
    "Yes."
    "An appreciator?"
    "In my way."
    "Do you like nature?" It was very natural. Mostovoi had boxes of eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs of young female nudes half hidden by fronds, romping through waves, peeking through bamboo.» A cross between Lewis Carroll and Helmut Newton."
    "Do you have any photographs of your colleagues at the embassy?"
    "Bugai is always after me to take pictures of his so- called cultural events. I can't be bothered. You can't get Russians to pose like this. You can't even get them to take their clothes off."
    "The climate, perhaps."
    "No, even here." Mostovoi pondered the photograph of a Cuban girl lightly breaded in sand.» Somehow, the people here manage to balance socialism with naivete. And by mixing with the Cubans I don't live with the paranoia that has gripped the rest of our dwindling community."
    "What paranoia is that?"
    "Ignorant paranoia. When an intelligence agent like Pribluda floats around the harbor in the middle of the night, what is he doing but spying? We never change. It's disgusting. It's what happens to Europeans in Para dise, we kill ourselves and blame the natives. I hoped Pribluda had more sense. You know, the KGB used to produce very civilized people. I said something in French to Pribluda once and he looked at me as if I were speaking Chinese."
    Mostovoi opened another box. On top, a girl squeezed a volleyball.» My sports series."
    "More of