“Is it successful propaganda?”

“Probably not. I suspect that family groups parade through, then say something like, ‘That was nice, now let’s ride on the Minirail.’ It’s hard to measure the effect of such intangibles.”

I was sort of lost. I was still trying to get used to the idea that he was sending me, not to Havana, but to Montreal. Montreal, I kept thinking, was 400 miles north of New York. North. It was almost certain to be cooler in Montreal. And Minna had been badgering me to take her there anyway. And there wouldn’t be any race riots there, or any cab strikes or social worker strikes, and my landlord wouldn’t be there, and-

“I’m not sure I understand,” I said. “You don’t want me to blow up the Cuban Pavilion-”

“Heavens, no!”

“Or organize demonstrations around it, or anything?”

“No.”

“Then what? I mean, Havana spends three-quarters of its time launching anti-American propaganda of one sort or another. This seems like one of their less effective ways to do it, since ninety-five percent of the people exposed to it will be Americans or Canadians. I don’t-”

“No one’s worried about the propaganda aspect, Tanner.”

“What is it, then?”

He closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them and said, “I wish to hell I knew.” He cleared his throat. “I keep losing track of things today. It’s this damned heat. It’s nearly as bad as Washington.”

“It’s this bad in Washington?”

“Worse, far worse.” He cleared his throat again. “The Cuban Pavilion. We’ve been receiving strange reports about their whole operation there. They seem to be using the pavilion as a base for some sort of secret operation. One story has it that they’re using it as an infiltration point for agents who then make their way into the States masquerading as American tourists. Another report suggests that they plan a big push in U.