The Cuban Affair

by Nelson DeMille

  I had to show him my passport and visa, and I signed in as “Dan MacDick,” which was either a Freudian slip or good tradecraft. He handed over a big brass key whose tag said: 232, Tarzan. That’s me.

  I returned to the terrace, where Sara was downing another daiquiri. I asked, “Do you need a few more to do this?”

  “It relaxes me.”

  I put an American fifty on the cocktail table. “Ready?”

  She nodded and stood.

  We walked into the lobby and got on the elevator, neither of us saying anything.

  On the second floor, we followed the hall sign to 232. The brass plaque on the door read: JOHNNY WEISSMULLER, TARZAN.

  Sara either didn’t notice or had no comment. I unlocked the door and we went into the room. I turned on a light, which revealed a big space whose décor was sort of eclectic, with a few tacky touches such as the leopard skin on the floor and the tiger-striped bedspread. Maybe I should have asked for the Walt Disney room.

  Anyway, there was a bar, thank God, and I said, “What would you like to drink?”

  Sara seemed to have zoned out and was staring out at the water.

  I opened the bar fridge and found a split of Moët and popped the cork, then filled two flutes and handed one to her.

  She took it and stared at the bubbles.

  I’m not pushy, but Major Johnson was in command now, so I had to strike the right balance between romance and sex. I turned on the radio and found some soft Son guitar music, which was sort of romantic.

  Sara seemed to come out of her zone and I raised my glass. “To us.”

  We clinked and drank. I asked her to dance, and we danced to the rhythmic guitars. Her body felt good against mine.

  She said softly, “I don’t just jump into bed with any man.”

  “Me neither.”

  Anyway, the clothes came off as we danced and drank champagne, and we wound up in the shower together. I saw that Sara had a bikini cut and she sunbathed topless. You can learn a lot about people in the shower.

  She ran her finger over the scars on my chest. “This makes me sad.”

  “Could have been worse.”

  She explored further, one hand cupping my bolas and the other wrapped around my pepino.

  “It’s all there,” I assured her.

  “Put it in a safe place.”

  I grasped her buttocks and slid inside her.

  She put her hands on my shoulders then arched her back, and the water ran over her face and breasts as I got into the slow, rhythmic beat of “Chan Chan” coming from the radio.

  Olé!

  * * *

  Later, in bed, Sara wrapped her arms and legs around me and whispered, “I’m happy, but now I’m also . . . frightened.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Last week, I lived for the day I could return to Cuba and steal the money from under their ugly noses . . . Now, I have . . . maybe something else to live for.”

  “I had the same thought.”

  “Were you frightened when you were there?”

  “Every day.”

  She stayed quiet awhile, then said, “I don’t want them to capture me.”

  “I understand.” Same in Afghanistan. If you fell into the hands of the Taliban, you’d wish you were dead. I also remembered what Carlos had said about Villa Marista prison, and I was sure conditions there hadn’t improved much.

  She cuddled up to me. “It would be nice to be rich in Miami with you. But it would also be nice to just be in Miami with you.”

  “That would be nice.”

  She rolled out of bed, went to the bar, and poured two more glasses of champagne. She noticed the key on the bar and asked, “Why is this called the Tarzan room?”

  “Come here and I’ll show you.”

  CHAPTER 24

  If you fell into the hands of the Taliban, you’d wish you were dead.

  They’d cut off your balls, then slice off your face with razor knives. And they’d hold your head and make you look in a mirror at your own faceless red skull. And you couldn’t close your eyes, because you’d have no eyelids. And then they’d make you watch the dogs eat your face and your balls. Then they’d give you a pat on the back and let you go.

  And that was why you’d blow your brains out before you let yourself get captured by them.

  It was my first tour, before I got promoted to captain, and I was leading my motorized platoon, about forty men from the 5th Stryker Brigade Combat Team in Maiwand, operating out of FOB Ramrod, into a moonscape of dust, dirt, and rocks, under a blazing sun.

  The lead vehicle, a Bradley recon, got hit by an IED, then all hell broke loose and we were taking RPGs and automatic weapons fire from the piles of rock on both sides of the road. We dismounted quickly and moved away from the vehicles that were getting hit. I took a round in my body armor but kept moving, and we got flat and began returning fire.

  There was very little cover or concealment, and it took me about ten seconds to realize we’d been caught in a well-planned ambush by a large enemy force, and there was the distinct possibility that we were all going to die. Kill the wounded first, then yourself.

  Half our eight armored vehicles and Humvees were ablaze, and one exploded and I could feel the heat on my back.

  They tell you in tactics class that the only way out of an ambush is to charge into the ambush. This is bullshit.

  I got on the horn and ordered the platoon to move north along the road and begin flanking the ambush.

  The Taliban are tough and sometimes fearless, but rarely smart, and never very good marksmen. They fire their AK-47s on full automatic like kids playing with toy guns. Their hits are lucky, but hits are hits, and a few of my men went down, but the medic reported light wounds.

  The desert wind was from the south and we fired and maneuvered north, under the cover of black diesel smoke and smoke marker grenades until we were about a hundred meters out of the kill zone. Then we began flanking the ambush positions, moving from rock pile to rock pile, getting around them until they realized we’d turned the tables on them.

  The crews of the undamaged Bradley Fighting Vehicles had remounted and were providing supporting fire with their 7.62mm machine guns and 25mm rapid-fire cannons.

  The Taliban began withdrawing, dashing among the rock piles. I could see that they outnumbered us, but I ordered the platoon to pursue, though I knew that the turned-around ambush could easily turn into a secondary ambush, a.k.a. a trap. It’s a game. No rules, but lots of strategy. Offense is the best defense, so we pushed on across the desert valley into thickening piles of rock that had rolled down from the nearby mountains.

  My platoon sergeant strongly suggested we break off the pursuit and wait for the helicopter gunships to even the odds. But I was full of adrenaline and all pissed off, and I’d led a charge into the rock field, totally oblivious to the horseshoe-shaped ambush that awaited us.

  The Taliban took the higher ground at the base of the mountain, and they’d also taken up positions in two parallel wadis to complete the horseshoe that we’d run into.

  We formed a tight perimeter and returned the fire while the Bradleys continued supporting fire from the road about four hundred meters away.

  The bad guys had the manpower, but we had the firepower, and it was sort of a standoff until a group of Taliban moved out of one of the brush-filled wadis and turned the horseshoe into a box. We were surrounded and starting to run low on ammunition.

  My sergeant, a big black guy named Simpson, said to me, “You make life interesting, Lieutenant.”

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  The closest wadi was about a hundred meters to our west, and the Taliban were strung out in the dry streambed, popping off bursts of AK-47 fire that mostly ricocheted off the rockfalls around us.

  We were trapped, but relatively safe where we were, and we could have waited for the gunships, but in a situation like this, the Taliban sometimes start moving and maneuvering close to you, so th
e gunships can’t fire their stuff without the risk of hitting friendlies.

  So, when your ass is in a sling, you do the unexpected. I got on the horn and ordered the Bradleys to direct all their fire on the wadi to the west, then lift their fire after three minutes, and shift it to targets of opportunity.

  I assembled the two squads that were with me, waited out the barrage on the wadi, then charged toward it just as the Bradleys lifted their fire.

  We reached the dry streambed within a minute and found it unoccupied except for a dozen dead and wounded Taliban lying in the dried mud.

  Their dead are often booby-trapped, and the wounded are ready to pull the pin on a grenade or pull a gun as soon as you come near them. So Sergeant Simpson and I drew our Glocks and did the dirty work while the rest of the men took up defensive positions.

  The last wounded Taliban I came to was staring at me, his eyes following me as I moved closer to him. His legs were chewed up, like a 25mm round had exploded at his feet. He never looked at the gun in my hand, but kept staring into my eyes. I kept eye contact with him, and I hesitated, because maybe it would be good to take a prisoner for Intel. The wounded guy raised his arms and clasped his hands in prayer. In the distance I heard the sound of choppers coming toward us.

  I lowered my gun and moved toward the Taliban, who suddenly reached out and grabbed my ankle. I didn’t know if it was a sign of thanks, or an act of aggression, and I fired a 9mm round into his face. I still don’t know what he was trying to tell me.

  * * *

  I was awakened by a foot rubbing against mine, and someone was saying, “Good morning.”

  I felt sweat on my face. It was still dark outside. She asked, “Did you sleep well?”

  “No.” I asked, “Would you like coffee?”

  She yawned. “Let’s get back to our hotel.”

  But we lay there, then she said, “I promised Carlos I wouldn’t get emotionally involved with you . . . wouldn’t have sex with you. And now we’ve had sex three times.”

  “Three?”

  “You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?”

  Funny. I got on top of her and we made love again.

  Afterward, we lay side by side, and she took my hand. “I have a confession to make.”

  “There’s a church down the street.”

  “Listen. I do have a . . . sort of boyfriend . . . but . . .”

  That didn’t completely surprise me. “That’s for you to work out.”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “I have more pressing issues to worry about.”

  “I think you’re angry.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “No. Do you think he’d be jealous?”

  “He’s Cuban. They get jealous.”

  “Just explain that it was part of the job.”

  “I’ll . . . just explain that it’s over.”

  “That’s your call.”

  “Can you at least give me some encouragement?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  She didn’t reply, so I said, “I like you very much.”

  “And I like you very much.” She squeezed my hand.

  Well, nobody was using the four-letter L-word. But it was out there. And I knew from the Army that hurried wartime romances lead to what seems like love, and half the men and women I knew in the Army who returned to duty from a pre-deployment leave had gotten married—or engaged, as I did. Then when you returned from overseas, reality set in.

  Sara asked, “Do you have a confession to make?”

  “I’m unattached, as I said.”

  “But you have women.”

  “Not for awhile.”

  “Why have you never married?”

  I sat up in bed and glanced at the bedside clock: 5:34.

  “Mac?”

  “I’ve had a complicated life.”

  “Engaged?”

  “Once. How about you?”

  She sat up. “I’ve never found the right man.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Would you like to change the subject?”

  “I would.”

  She turned on the lamp. “What would you like to talk about?”

  Coffee. But there was something else on my mind. “While we’re being honest with each other, I want you to tell me if there’s more to this trip to Cuba than I’ve been told.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “More than the money.”

  She hesitated a second, then replied, “There is.” She added, “You’re very smart.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “And I will tell you when you need to know.”

  “I need to know now.”

  “The less you know now, the better.”

  “No, the more I know—”

  “What you don’t know you can’t reveal under torture.”

  That was a little jarring at 5:30. I almost wanted to return to the subject of love. “Okay, but—”

  “I’ll tell you this—you’ll be very pleased with the other reason we’re here. And that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Okay . . . breakfast in bed?”

  “We need to get back to our hotel.” She got out of bed, went to the bar, and opened her shoulder bag, pulling out a wad of pesos.

  I said, “That’s okay. No charge.”

  She smiled and took out a piece of paper and gave it to me. “I made a photocopy of the map in the hotel business office.” She looked at me. “If anything happens to me, you should be able to follow that to the cave.”

  I turned on my lamp and glanced at the map, which was like a child’s drawing of a pirate treasure map. But the directions written on the bottom in English seemed clear if you started in the right place. The map was titled, “A great hike through the Camagüey Mountains.”

  “As I told you, I’ve altered it slightly, and I’ll explain it to you later.”

  “Okay.”

  “Also, our Havana contact will give us a good road map for Camagüey. I assume that as a former infantry officer, you have good map skills.”

  “That’s what I got paid for.”

  “Good. I trust you, Mac. I know you’ll do the right thing, even without me.”

  I looked at her, standing naked in the lamplight. “I will do my best.”

  I got out of bed, went to the window, and looked out at the starlit Straits of Florida. Sara came up behind me, wrapped her arms around my chest, and put her chin on my shoulder. She said, “Just as I saw the green flash, I can also see our boat, sailing across the water, with Jack and Felipe in the cabin, and you and I sitting on the bow, looking at the horizon as Key West comes into sight. The sun is coming up. Can you see that?”

  I could, and I couldn’t. But I said, “Yes, I can see that.”

  “Our mission is blessed. You are blessed. Just as you returned twice from Afghanistan, you will return home from Cuba.”

  Unless God was getting tired of covering my ass.

  * * *

  Sara ran a comb through her damp hair and put on a little lip gloss. Low maintenance. We got dressed, left the room, and rode down in the elevator. I dropped the key off at the desk, and the same clerk glanced at Sara, then asked me, “How was your stay, señor?”

  Should I beat my chest? Or let out a Tarzan scream? “Fine.”

  “Breakfast is being served in the Veranda.”

  “Thank you, I’ve eaten.”

  Sara and I left the hotel. The sun was up and the air was already steamy. I suggested we walk to our hotel—or swing from tree to tree—but Sara said it was more than a mile to the Parque Central, and we should take a taxi so we’d get there before our group started coming down for breakfast.

  “But I want everyone to see us staggering into the hotel together.”

  “I’m sure you do.” She said to the doorman, “Taxi, por favor.”

  The only transportation available was a Coco cab, an open, three-wheeled Lambretta-type vehicle that
reminded me of the ones in Kabul. We got into the rear seat, and off we went through the quiet streets of Havana. Sara said, “This is romantic.”

  I could see the pavement through the rusted floorboards.

  There wasn’t much traffic on this Saturday morning, but there were a lot of people walking, and the city looked spectral in the morning mist. This place totally sucked, but it was starting to grow on me.

  Sara put her arm through mine and said, “I’m sorry I lied to you about the boyfriend. But I’ll never lie to you again.”

  “And don’t lie to him.”

  “I’ll try to call him from the hotel phone.”

  “It can wait until you get back to Miami.”

  “I want to do it now . . . in case I don’t get back.”

  “In that case, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes . . . but . . . it’s the right thing to do. Even if you cheat, you shouldn’t lie.”

  Really? I thought lying and cheating went together. But maybe Catholics needed to confess. “Let’s decide tomorrow.”

  We got to the Parque Central and entered together. The breakfast room was just opening, but I didn’t see anyone from our group. “Coffee?”

  “No. I don’t want to be seen with you wearing the same dress I wore last night.”

  “Who cares?”

  “I do. And you need to change.”

  “I need coffee.”

  “I’ll see you later.” She went to the elevators.

  I walked into the breakfast room and ran into Antonio at the coffee bar. “Buenos días,” he said. “I was looking for you and Miss Ortega last night in Floridita.”

  Really? Why? “We took your advice and walked on the Malecón.”

  “Ah, good. Did you enjoy that?”

  “I did.” I scanned the tables and saw an empty one near a sunny window. “See you later.”

  “Yes, for the walking tour. But you don’t need a sports jacket.”

  “Actually, we just got back to the hotel.”

  “Yes, I saw you come in. I hope your evening was beautiful.”