The Cuban Affair

by Nelson DeMille

  “He was giving you the eye.”

  “He won’t come over here because I’m with you. But when I was here last year, if I strayed even twenty feet from the tour group, I got pestered by the police and every jinetero on the street.”

  “Every . . . ?”

  “Hustler. Gigolo. Asshole. Havana is full of them. Women are fair game here.”

  “I see now why you wanted me along.”

  “I can take care of myself. In Spanish and English. I just needed your boat.”

  “I also carry steamer trunks.”

  “The perfect man.”

  The BE guy seemed to be finished with his seltzer and señoritas and he headed for the door, then glanced back at Sara before he exited.

  Sara seemed happy he was gone, and so was I.

  She asked, “So tell me what happened with Jack.”

  “It went well. Are you ready for another?”

  “I am.”

  I signaled to the waiter and ordered another Daiquiri Rebelde for Sara. I switched to Bucanero.

  Sara also ordered two cheroots. “We have something to celebrate.” She said, “So I assume the fleet is sailing to Cayo Guillermo tomorrow.”

  “As of now. I told Jack to leave a message for me at the hotel either way.”

  “Good thinking. But let’s think positive.” She asked, “Did Jack say if there were any problems at the pier?”

  “Nothing that greenbacks couldn’t solve.”

  “Good . . . Was there any official welcoming ceremony in the plaza?”

  “Not exactly.” I related Jack’s description of what happened.

  Sara nodded and said, “The anti-American demonstrators were the BRR—the Brigadas de Respuesta Rápida. The Rapid Response Brigades.”

  “What do they rapidly respond to?”

  “To whatever the government tells them to respond to.” She explained, “They’re officially sanctioned civilian volunteers who are supposed to look like spontaneous demonstrators. But as I told you, nothing here is spontaneous.”

  “Except . . . love.”

  She smiled.

  I asked, “Does the BRR turnout mean that the government may cancel the tournament?”

  She thought about that, and replied, “The regime is like someone who agreed to host a house party, then changed their mind too late. And we’ll see more of that in the months ahead.” She added, “They’ve been isolated so long that they can’t make decisions. Also, there are pro- and anti-Thaw factions within the regime.”

  “So is that a yes or no?”

  “If they’re looking for an excuse to cancel the tournament, they’ll find one. But they may be satisfied with the propaganda value of the anti-American demonstration. And they may have another one planned for Cayo Guillermo.”

  “Right.” I asked, “How did all the pro-American Cubans know about the fleet’s arrival?”

  “Word of mouth, which is bigger than texting here. Or Radio Martí, broadcast from the States if it isn’t being jammed.”

  “So Antonio could have heard about Pescando Por la Paz from Radio Martí.”

  “Or from the Rapid Response Brigades, whose members include los vigilantes—the chivatos who in turn report to the PNR—the National Revolutionary Police.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “This is a police state, Mac. That’s all you have to remember.”

  “Right. Okay, we’ll find out tomorrow night where Antonio gets his information.”

  “You still want to meet him?”

  “When a local offers to sell you information, you never say no. Even bullshit has some Intel value.”

  “All right . . . What else did you learn from your unauthorized meeting with Jack?”

  Well, I’m glad you asked. Where do I start? With the gun? Or with Eduardo? I should save the gun for last. I said to her, “Eduardo has stowed away on the boat.” I looked at her.

  She kept eye contact and said, “I was afraid of that.”

  “Well, if you—or Carlos—knew that Eduardo might pull a fast one, you should have had someone sit on him in Miami.”

  She stayed silent, then explained, “Eduardo is . . . a powerful man.”

  “Right. He pays the bills.”

  “It goes beyond that. No one says no to Eduardo.”

  “So we’re talking about the Cuban godfather?”

  “Sort of.” She forced a smile. “But a nice godfather.”

  “Well, if I knew what Don Eduardo was up to, I damn sure wouldn’t have said yes to you about this trip.”

  “I don’t blame you for being angry. But I didn’t think he was going to—”

  “Well, he did. And if the police get hold of him, we could have a serious problem.”

  “He would never—”

  “I’ve seen the Afghan police reduce Taliban fighters to whimpering children.”

  She had no reply.

  “All right. If Eduardo wasn’t Felipe’s . . . whatever, I would have told Jack to throw him overboard.”

  “No you would not—”

  “I will protect this mission—and my life and yours and Jack’s—at any cost.”

  Sara did not look happy, but she looked convinced.

  “Meanwhile, Felipe is watching Eduardo on the boat.” I added, unnecessarily, “I don’t want him running around Havana.”

  “He . . . he wants to walk from Cayo Guillermo to his family home, through the countryside. And to visit the cemetery where his family is buried. On All Souls’ Day—the Day of the Dead. That’s what we do.” She looked at me. “Then he wants to die in Cuba.”

  Well, that should be easy. I softened a bit and said, “All right. I get it.”

  Thinking back to the sundowners on my boat, and my subsequent meetings with Carlos in Miami and Key West, I’d identified a number of things that could go wrong with this mission, and one of them was Eduardo coming along for the ride. Another was Sara coming to the attention of the authorities, and then there was the problem of me getting involved with Ms. Ortega. Well, that all happened. And now there were new problems, like Antonio, and also the gun, which was a problem only if I got caught with it. But if I followed Jack’s advice, the gun could solve the Antonio problem—though I saw no reason for that. Yet.

  To add to these concerns was the possibility that the tournament would be cancelled, and/or we wouldn’t meet our contact. But were those problems? Or safe passes home?

  Bottom line, we weren’t even out of Havana yet, and as my Scottish ancestors used to say, “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley,” meaning, “This shit’s not working.” Next was Camagüey, the cave, and Cayo, which were going to be a challenge—if we could get out of Havana.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “The road ahead.”

  “I’m feeling more confident about that.”

  It must be the daiquiris. I also told her, “I briefed Jack about Antonio and our possible problems with the authorities, and about Antonio mentioning Pescando Por la Paz.”

  “All right . . . and did that spook him?”

  “It raised his awareness. If it needed raising.”

  “I assume he’s still in.”

  “He’s in if I’m in.”

  “And you’re in.”

  “If you’re in.”

  “So we’re all in.”

  And all crazy. I finished my beer and she finished her daiquiri, then asked, “Did Jack say anything about Felipe?”

  “No . . . just that Felipe was not happy to find Eduardo under the bed.”

  “Felipe can handle his uncle.”

  “I hope you’re right. And does Felipe know anything about what’s going to happen in Cayo Guillermo that he’s supposed to pass on to Jack?”

  “I don’t know what Felipe knows,” she replied.

  “How about Eduardo?”

  “Eduardo did not want to know any of the operational details about the mission. His only mission is to go home.”

&
nbsp; “He’s going back to Miami on The Maine.”

  “Let him—”

  “Subject closed.”

  She called the waiter over, ordered another round, and asked for a light. I limit myself to a cigar a week in Key West. But here, as in Afghanistan, tobacco was not the primary health issue in terms of life expectancy.

  Three guitarists appeared and began strolling around the room, strumming and singing. I recognized a few of the songs from Tad’s lecture. I was really getting my money’s worth on this tour.

  Sara leaned toward me. “Are the guns onboard?”

  Well, three of them are. One was sitting on my fanny. But I didn’t want to upset her—or excite her—with that news until the right moment. I replied, “They are. And Jack also has four bulletproof vests onboard. Hopefully, we will not need them, or the guns.”

  She nodded.

  The strolling guitarists arrived at our table and asked for a request. Sara, who I noticed didn’t reveal her fluency in Spanish, said in English, “Please play ‘Dos Gardenias’ from the Buena Vista Social Club.”

  The three guitarists seemed happy with that and began playing and singing in Spanish. Not bad.

  I looked at my watch: 10:35. We had an hour to get to Dos Hermanos if we wanted to go there. Next stop, Key West.

  I looked at Sara smoking her cheroot and she saw me looking at her and winked. I tried to picture us together in Miami, or Key West, or even Maine. The picture looked better if we were in a red Porsche convertible.

  The guitarists finished, and I gave them a ten and they gave us a happy smile. So if anyone was watching us, we looked more like dumb tourists than enemies of the state.

  Floridita was getting more crowded and Sara said, “There’s a floor show later. Do you want to stay and drink sixteen double daiquiris?”

  Or do I want to go to Key West and drink sixteen Coronas? Sara didn’t know she had that option.

  “Mac?”

  I looked at her. “The crews and fishermen are meeting at a place called Dos Hermanos at eleven.”

  “That’s a famous old seafarers’ bar.”

  “Jack asked if we’d like to meet them there.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  I leaned toward her. “Jack says he can get us onboard The Maine tonight.”

  Sara looked at me.

  “The fleet sails for Cayo Guillermo at first light. The Maine will sail for Key West.”

  She stayed silent awhile, processing that, then asked, “What did you tell Jack?”

  “I told him not to expect us. But he said I should ask you. So I’m asking.”

  “I thought we made the decision to push on.”

  “We did.”

  “All right . . . what has changed?”

  “Someone offered us a ride home.”

  She seemed to be considering this and asked, “How do you know we can get on the boat?”

  I explained about the blank visitor passes. I added, “Sort of like the letters of transit that Bogie gave Bergman and her husband. Just fill in the names.”

  She nodded absently.

  I continued, “We have everything we need with us—passport, visa, and bribe money.” To give her all the info she needed to make a decision I also told her, “Jack gave me my Glock, which I’ll ditch before we go through security. And let me remind you that Eduardo is on the boat, and he needs to go back to Miami.” And finally, I reminded her, “If the tournament gets cancelled, the fleet will be heading home in the morning and we’ll be in Cuba without a boat.”

  The guitarists were serenading a young couple who were holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. I looked at my watch, then at Sara. “We need a decision.”

  “I’m . . . weighing the pros and cons.”

  “The reasons for scrubbing this mission far outweigh the reasons for going ahead. But that’s not how you’re going to make this decision.”

  “Call for the check.”

  I signaled the waiter for the check, paid in cash, and we left Little Florida, perhaps to go to Big Florida.

  She asked me, “Where is the gun?”

  “In a fanny pack around my waist.”

  “Is that why you wanted to meet Jack?”

  “No. But maybe it’s why he wanted to meet me. And maybe Eduardo being onboard is why you didn’t want me to meet Jack.”

  “I was as surprised as you were.”

  “Life is full of surprises.”

  “It is,” she agreed. “Some pleasant, some not.”

  “Indeed. Where are we going now?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Calle Obispo was a pedestrian street and we walked past her grandfather’s bank, where this all started fifty-five years ago, and came to the corner where a few cabs waited for tourists. We climbed into a Coco cab and the driver asked, “A dónde vas?”

  Good question.

  Sara replied, “Hotel Parque Central, por favor.”

  “Good decision,” I said.

  “And the right one.”

  That remained to be seen.

  CHAPTER 33

  Sunday was not a day of rest nor a day of worship unless you worship an air-conditioned Chinese bus.

  Our itinerary had us on a road trip to a city called Matanzas, a hundred kilometers east of Havana, and Sara and I sat together as the bus pulled away from the Parque Central, our home away from home.

  The morning had started off with two messages: a phone message from Jack, a.k.a. Cristo, saying, “My flight is on time,” and an announcement from Tad saying, “Antonio won’t be joining us today.”

  Regarding Jack’s message, Sara saw this as a sign that she’d made the right decision last night and that the mission was back on track. I wasn’t sure Jack would agree. In any case, I hope he got laid last night.

  Regarding the news that Antonio was AWOL today, Sara asked, rhetorically, “Where do you think he is?”

  Well, hopefully he got run over by a Coco cab. Or shot by a jealous boyfriend, thereby saving me the trouble. On the other hand, be careful what you wish for. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to meeting Antonio tonight, but neither did I want him dead before I heard what he had to say.

  Sara, however, said, “I don’t think we should go to that bar tonight.”

  Well, if we were on The Maine now, heading to Key West, she wouldn’t have to worry about that.

  “Mac?”

  “That’s how we left it with him.”

  “I’m wondering why he didn’t tell us he had today off.”

  “Ask him when you see him.”

  “I think tonight is a trap and he didn’t want to . . . interact with us today.”

  “Interesting logic. But you could make the opposite case. If tonight is a trap, Antonio would be on this bus reminding us about cocktails at seven.”

  She had no reply.

  In fact, though, she could be right. Antonio seemed like a guy who didn’t have the cojones to look you in the eye before he gave you the kiss of death. Judas had more balls.

  Also missing today was José, our driver, and a guy named Lope was subbing for him. If I were paranoid, I’d say Lope was actually subbing for Antonio. Another week in this place and I’ll start to think my dick is reporting to the police.

  The bus rolled through the quiet Sunday streets of Havana and Sara put her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes.

  We’d slept together in my room, and this morning I gave her a quick tutorial on how to fire the Glock. Pull the trigger. The Army women I’d dated considered a gun a fashion accessory, but with most civilian women it was best to keep the gun out of sight when you dressed or undressed. Sara, however, was happy that I was armed, though she understood that the gun totally blew our cover as innocent tourists.

  There was no safe place to stash the Glock except on my person—or Sara’s—so I had it with me now in Jack’s fanny pack along with the three loaded magazines. Hopefully, there’d be no occasion today for the policía to inquire about the conten
ts of my butt bag.

  Sara had advised me last night, “You can’t take the gun to our meeting with Antonio. If it’s a trap, the gun is all the evidence the police need to turn us over to a military tribunal.”

  Right. You can bullshit your way out of a lot of things, but getting caught with a gun wasn’t one of them in Cuba.

  Also last night, while we were discussing evidence of our crimes against the state, Sara explained to me the alterations she’d made to the treasure map. They were fairly simple, basically reversing a few double-digit numbers, and as a former infantry officer well-trained in map reading, I was sure that I—if I was on my own—could follow this map to where X marked the cave.

  We were on the coastal road now, heading east toward Matanzas. The countryside was very pristine—no gas stations or outlet malls, no motels, and no billboards advertising a pick-your-own-mango farm. Also, the countryside seemed sparsely populated and many of the farm houses appeared abandoned, as were the fields around them. Off in the distance I saw a field being plowed by a farmer with two oxen.

  Antonio wasn’t onboard to tell us about the new five-year agriculture plan, so Tad stood and gave the group some uncensored info, telling us that agriculture in Cuba had regressed to the nineteenth century, validating my opinion that the organic farm we’d visited was a pile of bullshit.

  Professor Nalebuff was onboard, and he offered more subversive information. “Cuba’s last financial lifeline was Venezuela, whose socialist government kept Cuba afloat with oil money. But the price of oil has fallen, and Venezuela, like Cuba, is an economic basket case.” He added, “Ironically, Cuba’s last real hope is U.S. tourism and trade.”

  Don’t forget fishing tournaments.

  Tad and Alison, who’d been holding back on their criticism of the regime, thought they could speak freely without Antonio around, but Lope, who said he spoke no English, seemed to be listening.

  The highway ran close to the coast and I gazed out at the Straits of Florida. Somewhere out there, running on a parallel course with us, was the tournament fleet, and The Maine, which, if we’d gotten aboard last night, would now be heading for Key West. As Yogi Berra wisely said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

  * * *

  As we reached the outskirts of Matanzas, Alison told us, “Before the revolution, Matanzas was home to a large number of artists, writers, musicians, and intellectuals, and was called the Athens of Cuba.”