“You went to Cuba? In your boat?”
“I wish to hell I’d taken you,” he’d said. “Last night off Naples, I almost fell asleep at the wheel. I can’t think of anyone I trust more.”
The remark, although sincere, had received a frosty response. “It’s nice you hold my boating skills in such high regard, but I’m prone to pickiness when it comes to breaking federal maritime laws. Hypothetically, of course. How can I help you . . . Marion?”
He had hoped to discuss dinner, or a boat ride beneath the stars, but heard himself shift to objective mode: two professionals discussing options and legalities. “Cubans who enter the country illegally are treated differently than those from other countries. It’s not favoritism, it’s law—the Cuban Adjustment Act from back in the days of the Cold War. Immediate political asylum is guaranteed the moment their feet hit dry ground. Even so, I wouldn’t bring in someone I didn’t trust. Now I’d like to expedite the legal process. Or smooth it out, at least. Some of your clients are wealthy power players. And your family has been in Florida forever. So I . . .” By then, Ford was thinking, Just shut the hell up before you make it worse. Or, at least, tell her the whole truth. But he had stumbled along into an elaborate network of bullshit that included a list of possible names.
Hannah had taken the high ground, of course. “Harney Chatham, yes. Former lieutenant governor. He’s a client—and a good friend, I’d like to think. Nobody knows the system better than Mr. Chatham, and he’s on a cell phone basis with every important official in the state. I have his number. Or would you rather I call him?”
Amazing. The woman had single-handedly elevated his deception into an unexpected opportunity. But, first, he’d had to admit, “Hannah, there’s a bunch I left out,” to which she replied, “Why am I not surprised?”
After that, a full explanation was required.
• • •
OVER THE NEXT HALF HOUR, the woman’s empathy and interest had warmed to the problem, but her coolness toward Ford hadn’t changed. “Traumatized, of course, by the boat ride and everything else. Then to be put on a bus and driven to some holding facility in Miami and asked a bunch of questions by people in uniform. Personally, I’d need more than a few days in a quiet place to decompress. I understand why you did what you did.”
Ford’s response: “Thanks. I’d like to believe I’m not always an insensitive jerk.”
Not the faintest wisp of a smile did that earn him.
Beyond a crop of sea oats, framed by palms, Maggie—if that was her real name—had closed the trunk and was returning to give her vacation hideaway one last look.
Ford drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Left hand only because he’d bruised, or broken, his right hand on Anatol Kostikov’s head.
Should he get out and say good-bye to the lady as required of a gentleman?
No . . . it was too late for that.
I wish you all good things, he thought as he watched her. Your husband, too.
Ford, when Maggie was safely inside, started the truck and drove to Jensen’s Twin Palm Marina and Cottages, which was bayside, Captiva Island. The next morning, that’s where he was, on the porch of Cabin 8, when Hannah and the former lieutenant governor arrived in a limo. Sitting beside Ford were Marta and Maribel Esteban. In his arms, still crabby from lack of sleep, Sabina lifted her head from his shoulder and said, “My god, Marion. Now what have you done?”
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Cuba Straits Page 27