On that subject, I admitted that like most veterans I was a better person for having served. My discharge papers, like Jack’s, said Honorable, which was true. What was not true, however, was that my Military Occupation Skill—infantry commander—had no related civilian skill. Turns out it does.
I looked over at Sara’s table. She was gone.
I asked Tina for another beer, but she gave me a note written on a paper napkin. It said: Get some sleep. Tomorrow is a long day. Signed: S.
Or, as I used to say to my men on the eve of a dangerous operation, “Tomorrow is going to be the longest or the shortest day of your life. It’s up to you.” And, of course, it was up to the enemy, and the gods of war, and fate.
CHAPTER 12
To get us into the spirit of adventure travel, the off-brand charter airline was flying an old MD-80 that had seen better days.
Sara was sitting about ten rows ahead of me in the window seat next to an older guy who appeared to be asleep, or maybe he’d died of fright during takeoff.
I was on the aisle, and the middle-aged guy next to me—who said he was with a people-to-people group called Friendly Planet—was staring out the window as I read about Cayo Guillermo in the travel guide that Carlos had given me. Cayo Guillermo, aside from being a fisherman’s paradise, was also one of Cuba’s seven certified entry ports, meaning customs, immigration, and security, including, I was sure, naval patrol boats.
I put down the book, yawned, and looked around. The Yale group of about thirty people were scattered throughout the cabin, which was full, and I could only imagine who these other people were, what groups they were with, or why they were going to Cuba.
The Yale group had assembled in the hotel lobby at 5:30 A.M., as per instructions, and we had been greeted by our group leaders, a young man named Tad and a young woman named Alison, both of whom were Yale faculty, but neither of whom inspired confidence in their organizational ability. Tad was maybe thirty, but he looked younger, a result no doubt of a cloistered life in academia. Tad needed three years in the Army. Alison was not bad-looking, though she seemed a bit severe, maybe even tight-assed. If I were alone on this trip, she would be my challenge. Anyway, Tad and Alison, according to the itinerary, would be giving lectures on Cuban culture, time and place TBA, which I think means To Be Avoided.
Sara had kept her distance from me during the group assembly, which was fine with me at 5:30 A.M. She was wearing black slacks, sandals, and a snug green Polo shirt. I wondered where she was hiding the three hundred thousand Cuban pesos.
My travel attire, like that of most of the men in the group, was casual—khakis, Polo shirt, and walking shoes. Also regarding attire, Carlos had said that Sara and I needed to look like hikers when we escaped to the countryside, so we had backpacks instead of carry-on luggage, and we’d leave our suitcases behind when we slipped out of our hotel in Havana, never to return.
After our group assembly and roll call we’d all gone to another concourse for what seemed like endless paperwork, passport and visa checks, and general bureaucratic bullshit. Finally, after we’d paid a twenty-five-dollar Cuban Departure Tax, we’d gotten our boarding passes for Wing-and-a-Prayer Charter Airlines, or whatever they were called.
It was during this drawn-out process that I checked out my fellow travelers. Most of the group were couples, and most of them were middle-aged, and many of them seemed like they were having second thoughts about their Cuban adventure. Me too. I also noticed seven or eight singles, including Sara and me, and a few older ladies of the type you always see traveling with groups, sometimes to exotic places where medical care is iffy. I give them credit, but I wouldn’t give them my amoxicillin.
More importantly, I didn’t see anyone in our group whom I’d consider suspicious—except Sara and me. Also, interestingly, Sara Ortega was the only person on the Yale roster with a Spanish surname. I hoped they didn’t single her out when we landed in Havana.
Also on the roster was a name I recognized—Richard Neville, a bestselling author. I’d read one or two of his novels, which weren’t too bad. I recalled his photograph on the book jacket and I spotted him standing away—or aloof—from the group. With him was a woman, Cindy Neville, according to the roster. She was young enough to be his daughter, but there was no physical resemblance, so she must be his wife. Cindy was a looker, and I wondered what she saw in him. Probably the bulge in his pants—the wallet, not the crotch.
Also on the roster was a man named Barry Nalebuff, a Yale professor who, with Tad and Alison, would be giving lectures, TBA.
Anyway, after the third or fourth head count and some confusing instructions from Tad and Alison, we had time for a quick cup of coffee and what might be my last buttered bagel on earth. Then to the gate.
Now, forty minutes out of Miami, we were already beginning our descent into Havana—or hell, according to Eduardo and Carlos. I could imagine what this flight was like in the 1950s; high rollers, movie stars, mobsters, and thrill-seekers from New York and Miami, flying on luxurious airliners to sinful Havana—casinos, prostitutes, sex shows, pornography, and drugs, all of which were in short supply in 1950s America. Old Havana must have been a deliciously decadent town, and it was no wonder that the corrupt Batista government fell like a rotten mango. I recalled that Sara’s grandfather had gotten out on one of the last commercial flights from Havana to Miami. Now his granddaughter was back, and I hoped she shared his luck in getting out.
The Communists, like the radical Islamists I fought, are not fun-loving people, and when they take over, they become the fun police. I once told a captured Taliban fighter, through a translator, “Life is short, sonny. Get laid, have a few laughs and cocktails, and dance a little,” but he had his own agenda.
The guy sitting next to me got tired of the view and said, “It’s about time we normalized relations.”
“Right.”
“And end the trade embargo.”
“Good idea.”
“Our government has been lying to us.”
“Now you tell me.”
“Seriously, the Cuban people are like us. They want peace. And better relations.”
Actually, they wanted to escape to Miami, but I said, “That’s good.”
“I think we’re going to be pleasantly surprised.”
I heard a chime and said, “The captain just turned on the no talking sign.”
My companion turned back to the window, and I took the opportunity to fill out my customs declaration form. Was I carrying any firearms with me? I wish. Did I have any alcohol with me? Just what’s left in my brain.
The form also asked if I was carrying Cuban pesos, and if so, how much. My answer was No, though I wasn’t sure what Sara would decide to do. Honesty is the best policy, unless you could lie and get away with it.
I also had an immigration form to fill out. Was this my first time in Cuba? Yes. And last. Where was I staying in Cuba? The Parque Central Hotel in Havana. Should I mention the cave? No. As for my departure info, I wrote my return flight number and departure date—though I reserve the right to escape earlier by boat, under fire. I signed the form.
I looked up and saw Sara coming toward me. She didn’t make eye contact as she headed for the lavatories in the rear. On her way back, however, she brushed her hand on my shoulder. I was getting into this secret relationship. It was exciting.
* * *
As we descended, I could see Havana in the distance, a city of over two million people, built around a large harbor that gave access to the Straits of Florida and the world beyond—if you could get there.
We made our final approach into José Martí International Airport, and I saw a few passenger terminals next to mostly empty parking lots. I noticed that one end of the airport was military, and the Cuban Air Force seemed to consist of five vintage Soviet MiG fighters, a few Russian-made helicopters, and an antique American DC-3 with a red star painted on its tail. Hopefully the MiGs and choppers were grounded for parts and repairs and I wouldn�
��t see them overhead when I sailed out of Cuba.
I’d read in my guide book that José Martí Airport had been bombed by Cuban exile pilots in 1961, in preparation for the CIA-backed Bay of Pigs Invasion. The attack bombers were American-made, apparently provided by the CIA. I could see why the Castro regime might have some unresolved anger issues. Anyway, the airport looked okay now, but I was sure the memory lingered on.
The MD-80 touched down and I was in Cuba, a long ninety miles from the Green Parrot.
CHAPTER 13
We deplaned and walked in single file across the sweltering tarmac, under a blazing sun and the gaze of security police who carried Russian AK-47s. The last time I saw one of those, it was firing at me.
We filed into Terminal Two, a dark, unwelcoming structure, built, according to my travel guide, during the days of the Cuban-Soviet alliance, specifically to accommodate—or segregate—Americans arriving on charter flights. I looked for a sign saying WELCOME AMERICANS! but it must have been in the shop for repairs. Also, the air-conditioning was not working or nonexistent, but there were floor fans.
Tad was holding up a Yale sign and the group congregated around him. I also saw raised signs for cultural institutions and art museums, and signs for other college alum groups. Apparently Cuba was the hot new destination.
Tad was urging the Yale group to get closer, and I thought he was going to lead us in “The Whiffenpoof Song,” but he shouted, “Please stay together!” Sara wound up next to me, and she looked a bit tense, which was understandable, so to buck her up I said, “Hi. I’m Dan MacCormick. What’s your name?”
She gave me a quick glance. “Sara.”
“First time here?”
“No.”
“Do you know where I can buy cigars?”
“In a cigar store.”
“Right. Are you traveling alone?”
She didn’t reply but I saw a smile flicker across her lips, and I gave her a reassuring pat on her arm.
Alison had found a uniformed official who directed the Yale group to an immigration officer sitting in a booth behind a tall counter.
We formed a queue and Sara was several people ahead of me. She looked totally composed now, but somewhere on her body or in her luggage were three hundred thousand Cuban pesos that would need some explaining if she was searched. Also, she had a hand-drawn hiking map that might arouse suspicion if a sharp security officer asked to see the Yale itinerary.
The immigration officer motioned for the first person on line—who happened to be one of Sara’s Mexican restaurant companions—to step forward into the booth.
The robotic officer took her immigration form, then matched her face to her passport and her name to a list that he had on a clipboard. He asked her a few questions that I couldn’t hear, then asked her to step back, remove her glasses, and look at the camera mounted over the counter. I really didn’t want my picture taken but I didn’t think this was optional.
The immigration officer stamped the lady’s visa, kept one half, then stamped her passport. He pressed a buzzer and motioned for her to go through a door and exit the left side of the booth. I wondered if we’d ever see her again.
The officer motioned for the next Americana, Alison, to step forward, and the process was repeated.
The line moved slowly, and at one point a couple approached the booth together and the immigration officer had a little shit fit and yelled out, “Uno! Uno!” like he didn’t get the memo about the Cuban Thaw.
It was Sara’s turn and she walked into the booth like she owned it.
The immigration officer took special note of Señorita Ortega, and I could see that they weren’t getting along. She stepped back to have her picture taken, then collected her visa and passport and disappeared through the door.
The guy picked up a phone and spoke to someone, then motioned for the next person in line. I hoped he was calling about getting more ink for his stamp, and not about Sara Ortega.
After about fifteen minutes, it was my turn, and I walked into the booth.
The immigration officer stared at me with his dead eyes. I gave him my passport, my immigration form, and my visa tarjeta del turista.
He looked at my passport photo and flipped through the pages, discovering that I hadn’t been out of the U.S. since I’d sailed The Maine to the Cayman Islands two years ago.
He asked in a heavy accent, “You travel with someone?”
“No.” But I’m trying to screw that lady who pissed you off.
I was ready for my close-up, but he kept staring at my passport, and I wondered if I’d given him my Conch Republic passport by mistake.
Finally he said, “Step back, look to camera. No smile.”
I stepped back, frowned, and had my picture taken for the secret police. The guy stamped my passport and visa, kept his half, and pushed the buzzer to unlock the door, which probably led to a hole in the floor.
I exited into the customs area where dogs were sniffing people and luggage, and I passed through a scanner as my backpack was X-rayed. The customs guy opened my backpack and examined my binoculars, which I thought would come in handy on our way to the cave and to Cayo Guillermo. He also found my Swiss Army knife and waved it at me. “Why you have?”
“To open my beer. Cerveza.”
“No legal. Tax. Ten dollar.”
I think he meant a fine, which was actually a shakedown, but I gave him a ten and he gave me my knife and said, “Okay. Go.”
The bandito just made half a month’s pay, but I was happy to see that official corruption existed in the People’s Republic. It could come in handy.
I proceeded to baggage claim, which was a long counter piled haphazardly with luggage. I looked for Sara but didn’t see her. I did, however, see Alison, who was directing everyone who’d gotten through customs to an exit.
I found my suitcase and wheeled it toward a customs agent who was collecting the declaration forms. Some people ahead of me had chalk marks on their bags, and they were directed to a counter where agents were searching the marked luggage. Another opportunity to levy a tax. Or be taken away to be searched. I was worried about Sara. I would have asked Alison if she’d seen her, but I wasn’t supposed to know Sara Ortega.
My suitcase wasn’t marked, and I gave the customs agent my Nothing to Declare form and headed out the door into the bright sunshine. There was a line of coach buses parked outside, each one with a sign, and I headed toward the Yale bus. Tad was standing near the bus, checking names off his list while a Cuban porter was loading bags into the luggage compartment.
I said to Tad, “MacCormick.”
He found my name and checked me off. “You can give this gentleman your bag and hop aboard.”
I turned his roster toward me and saw that most names had been checked off, but not Sara Ortega. I left my suitcase on the curb and headed back to the terminal. An armed guard at the door made it clear that I wasn’t allowed to reenter the terminal, so I stood there, peering inside.
I had my cell phone, but it showed no service, and even if it did I didn’t have Sara’s number. We were supposed to exchange phone numbers sometime after we landed, on the off chance we had service in Havana.
A few people whom I recognized from our group came out of the terminal, but not Sara.
Just as I was thinking of reporting Sara’s disappearance to clueless Tad, out came Alison and Sara, wheeling their suitcases and chatting away. Sara gave me a quick nod and Alison, who recognized me from the group, said, “We’re all here. You can board the bus.”
Sara hung back as Alison hurried to the bus.
Though I didn’t know Sara Ortega, I offered to carry her backpack as any single gentleman would do for a pretty lady who had caught his eye. She accepted my offer, and as we walked toward the bus, I asked, “What happened?”
“I was escorted into a back room and had my luggage searched. Got patted down and answered some questions.”
“Do you think it was random?”
&nbs
p; “Nothing here is random. Here, it’s profiling. And paranoia. They have a problem with Cuban American tourists.”
“Okay . . . the money? The map?”
“You should never try to hide anything. The map is stuck in my guide book and they barely noticed it. The pesos are in my backpack, mixed with American dollars, which is what I did last time I was here. The customs agent asked why I was bringing pesos into the country.”
I was sure she had a good answer, or she wouldn’t be walking with me.
“I reminded him it was not illegal for me to possess pesos, it was only illegal for me to spend them, and I pointed out that I had declared the pesos. I showed him my receipt for the pesos that I’d bought from a Canadian bank and told him that I was giving the money to various Cuban charities—which is actually done by American aid groups and it’s legal.”
“Apparently he believed your b.s.”
“He believed he’d made a good score.” She explained, “Cuban customs is a gold mine for the customs officials. If they bust you, the government becomes their partner. If you pay them a fine, they pocket it.”
“I got clipped for ten bucks.”
“You got off easy. Cost me two hundred.”
“We’re in the wrong business.” Señorita Ortega was a cool customer. I said, “It looked like you got off to a bad start with the passport.”
“He was being obnoxious, asking why the Americana was coming back to Cuba for a second time, and how could I afford to stay at the Parque Central. He practically suggested I was a prostitute, and I said I was going to report him.”
“I think he reported you to customs.”
“Probably.” She added, “I hate them.”
“Right.” It’s usually my mouth that gets me in trouble. Now I had another mouth to worry about.
Tad and Alison looked impatient as we approached, and Sara took her backpack and moved ahead of me. Tad checked her off, the porter loaded her bag, and she boarded the bus.
Tad must have thought I was going to grab his roster again, so he held it to his chest.
The Cuban Affair Page 8