She stayed silent, then said, “You can go to Cayo Guillermo if you want. And when you get there, you can either wait for me, or you, Jack, and Felipe can sail off with my transportation home.”
Well, whatever was driving her was too powerful to stop with logic, facts, or even fear. “All right . . . you’ve shamed me into keeping my promise.”
“This will go well.” She took my hand. “I feel safe with you.”
I wish I could say the same.
She pointed up the avenue. “Over there is the Museum of the Ministry of the Interior, which is on our tour. The museum pokes fun at all the CIA’s attempts to kill Castro.”
“I’m surprised the exploding cigars didn’t work.”
“The history of American intervention in Cuba is a history of failure.”
I had the same thought back in Key West.
“But we—you and I—are going to turn that around.”
“Right. Taxi?”
She nodded.
I stepped into the street and hailed a passing cab, a nice late-model Toyota that didn’t smell like bleu cheese.
I said to the driver, “Hotel Parque Central.”
Sara said something to him and they had a brief conversation in Spanish. She said into my ear, “I asked him to take us to a casa particular in Vedado—a private house that rents rooms, usually with no questions asked.” She added, “We don’t want to risk a knock on the door tonight. And I don’t want an early visit from Antonio.” She took my hand. “We’ll go back to the hotel in the morning and join the group. Then, after the group dinner, we retrieve my backpack and go to Camagüey.”
“Okay.”
The driver took the tunnel that went under the Río Almendares and drove into Vedado. Sara exchanged a few words with him, then said to me, “I told him—Tomás—that we were Canadian Embassy staff, married to other people, and we needed a very discreet casa that didn’t ask for passports.”
“I think you’ve done this before.”
Well, to look the part, Sara put her arms around me and we started making out like caribou in heat. I glanced at Tomás, who was adjusting his rearview mirror. He didn’t know Canadians were so hot.
Within a few minutes we pulled up to a small stucco house, nearly hidden by vegetation. Tomás got out and knocked on the door. The way our luck was running, this was probably Antonio’s house.
An elderly lady came to the door, and she and Tomás exchanged words, then Tomás motioned for us to join them. We got out of the taxi and Sara and the old lady—Camila—chatted for a minute, and Sara said to me, “This is good. Give him a twenty.”
I gave Tomás a month’s pay, and he gave me a wink and wished us buenas noches. Camila didn’t ask about luggage or passports and she invited us inside as she scanned the block, then closed the door and locked it.
The casa’s front room was small and shabby, but neat and clean. On the wall was a nice black-and-white photograph of a young Fidel Castro. Camila showed us the baño and the small kitchen where, said Sara, we could have coffee in the morning, no charge. The price for the room was five CUCs, up front, and I gave Camila a ten, which made her happy, and she offered us some leftover rice and beans if we were hungry.
“Ask her if she has any Canadian Club.”
Sara said something to her, and Camila poured us two glasses of rum, compliments of the house.
Camila showed us to our room, a tiny space filled with a double bed and a wooden bench. A small barred window let hot, humid air into the room. On the wall facing the bed—where the flat-screen TV should be—was a crucifix.
Camila smiled and wished us buenas noches and I bolted the door behind our hostess.
I asked, “Are we safe here?”
She motioned toward the crucifix. “He’s watching over us.”
But look what happened to him.
We clinked glasses and sipped our rum. “What would you like to do?” I asked.
“Get out of my clothes and have sex.”
Just what I was thinking.
* * *
We lay in the dark room, naked and sweaty. “Aside from the money, what is it that we’re here for?”
“The deeds and titles to the stolen properties.”
“What else?”
“It’s something that you will understand as soon as you see it.”
“Is it worth risking our lives for?”
“Trust me, Mac.”
“I do.”
“Do you love me?”
“I came for money, but I’m staying for love.”
She rolled on top of me. “We’re going to have it all. Money, love, and . . . justice.”
And hopefully a long life to enjoy it all.
CHAPTER 37
We rose before dawn, got dressed, and slipped quietly out of Señora Camila’s four-star casa.
Sara said we weren’t far from the Plaza of the Revolution, and we walked there to look for a taxi. There weren’t many cars or people on the dark street, but a Policía Nacional Revolucionaria car slowed down, and the driver gave us the once-over. I was glad we didn’t have the Glock.
We walked into the plaza and I could see the building that sported the metallic outline of Che Guevara, lit with spotlights. HASTA LA VICTORIA SIEMPRE.
Sara said, “That’s the Ministry of the Interior—the ministry of torture and repression.” She told me, “That’s coming down when the regime falls. I’ve designed a beautiful building for that space.”
“Good. That one’s ugly.”
“Uglier on the inside. And if you ever see the inside of that place, you’ll never see the outside again.”
I didn’t doubt that. It seemed like a long time since my first day in Havana, when I’d had my picture taken in this plaza with Sara Ortega. If I’d known then what I know now . . . who knows?
Sara spotted a black Cadillac, maybe 1957, parked in the square, and we walked toward it.
I asked, “How do you want to handle Antonio’s offer?”
“I have about fifteen hundred American dollars in the hotel safe that I’ll give him this morning. I’ll agree to give him three hundred thousand pesos tonight when he assures me . . . in my room . . . that we can get on the ship to Barbados.” She added, “We just need to get through this day.”
Antonio must be very pleased with himself. Getting laid and getting paid.
The Caddy driver was asleep, and we woke him and he took us to the Parque Central.
* * *
The breakfast room wasn’t serving yet, but I snagged two cups of coffee and we took them up to my room.
There was no sign that the room had been entered or searched, and my travel guide and treasure map were still in my backpack.
Sara turned on the TV to Tele Rebelde and said, “I have a strong feeling that today is the day we meet our contact.”
“Well, it’s today or never.”
“And if we don’t . . . we have the map. That’s all we need.”
Well, a ride to Camagüey might help. But why mention it?
She finished her coffee. “I’ll meet you in the breakfast room.”
“Be nice to Antonio today.”
“He doesn’t expect me to be nice. He expects me to be good.”
She left and I undressed and got into the shower, which was warm today. A sign from God.
* * *
I sat in the breakfast room with my coffee, waiting for Sara. Antonio was not there, but Tad was, and he got up from his table and came over. “How are you feeling?”
“I wish that toilet on the bus was working.”
“We can stop at a farmacia and get you something.”
“I just need some gummy rice. But thanks.”
“Will Sara be joining us?”
“She will.”
Tad sat, uninvited. “May I be honest with you?”
“Sure.”
“You and Sara have missed a lot of this trip.”
You ain’t seen nothing yet.
“I n
eed to file a final report with the Office of Foreign Assets Control, and your and Sara’s absences, if they continue, can cause the Yale educational travel group—and both of you—some problems.”
“Sorry, Tad. I certainly don’t want any problems with the Office of Foreign Assets Control. But you understand that we’re having a . . . sort of romance, and she—we—want some time alone.”
“I understand that, but—”
“How are you doing with Alison?”
“But you’ve agreed to the conditions—”
“I promise that you won’t have to worry about us for the rest of the trip.”
“All right. Thank you.” He hesitated, then said, “Antonio has asked me and Alison about both of you.”
“Really?”
“Is there . . . any problem I should know about?”
“That’s very kind of you to ask.”
“Well . . . ?”
Well, this might be an opportunity to cover our tracks and also cover our asses. “This is Cuba, Tad. And Sara Ortega is anti-Castro, and Antonio is a chivato. Do you know what that is?”
“I do.”
“So next time he asks about us, tell him to go fuck himself.”
“I . . .”
I leaned toward him. “If Sara and I should fail to appear one morning, do us a favor and call the embassy.”
Tad seemed speechless. And a bit pale. Finally, he said, “Maybe you should leave the country.”
“We’re thinking about it.”
“All right . . . can I help?”
Tad was really okay. And I knew he’d call the embassy when Sara and I didn’t show up tomorrow morning. And the embassy would call the Ministry of the Interior, who would deny having us in their custody—which might be true, but maybe not. In any case, I think I covered most of the bases, and gave Tad two plausible reasons for our disappearance—prisoners of love or prisoners of the state.
“Maybe you should visit the embassy today,” he suggested.
That wasn’t possible if Antonio was telling the truth about Sara and me being on a watch list, and in any case the embassy was only a Hail Mary option. Camagüey was the next stop. I said, “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”
“Well . . . this is Cuba . . .”
“Right. Do me a favor and don’t mention this to anyone. You and I and Sara can talk tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“I hope my and Sara’s problems don’t get the group kicked out of the country.”
He seemed distraught.
“I’m going to get some gummy rice. Would you like some?”
He looked at me. “No . . .” He stood. “I’m sorry about all this.”
“Not your fault. And by the way, Lope is also a chivato and he understands English.”
Tad looked a bit paler. He nodded and went back to his table and sat with Alison. I really didn’t understand why he hadn’t nailed her yet. Maybe he lacked self-confidence.
Sara came into the breakfast room, looking refreshed and pretty in tight white jeans, a blue Polo shirt, and a baseball cap—the same outfit she’d worn when she stepped onto my boat a million years ago. I recalled thinking how great it would be if we had sex.
She sat. “I’m starving.”
“Let’s get some gummy rice.”
“Some . . . what?”
“Tad asked how we were feeling.”
“Oh.”
I filled her in about my conversation with Tad. I concluded, “Tad is aware that because of your bad attitude toward the regime, you and I may be in the crosshairs of the police.”
“I’m not sure you should have told him that.”
“When we don’t show up for roll call tomorrow morning, he’ll contact the embassy and tell them what I just told him.”
“I like the original plan of leaving him a note saying we went to the beach and we’ll be back in time for the return flight.”
“That’s Plan A. Plan B covers the possibility that we might become guests of the Ministry of the Interior.”
She stayed silent awhile, then said, “You’re either very smart, or . . . you’re outsmarting yourself.”
“I know the answer to that.”
“You need to consult me before you change the plan.”
“Tactics and strategy need to change in quick response to battlefield realities. That’s why you hired me.”
She nodded.
“Did you leave an envelope for Antonio?”
“I did. My last dollars.”
“I know where there’s more.”
She stood. “Are you getting breakfast?”
“Just bring me some gummy rice. And get some for yourself.”
Sara went to the buffet.
I sipped my coffee. In the civilian world, we say that life is about choices. In the military, we use the word “decisions,” which seem to have more weight, and more consequences, than choices. In the case of choices, the right ones will eventually make you healthy, wealthy, and happy. With decisions, the wrong ones have a way of being instantly unforgiving.
Well, if I was going to die here, it wouldn’t be because I got blindsided by some asshole with a rocket-propelled grenade; it would be because I made a few bad decisions, the first being to let Sara Ortega make bad choices.
And yet . . . Sara had that one thing that was indispensable for success in life and in battle—self-confidence. And also a belief that God and justice were on her side. So how could I go wrong following her to the end of the rainbow, where sixty million dollars sat in a cave waiting for us? Teamwork makes the dream work.
CHAPTER 38
Sara and I sat in the middle of the bus. José was our driver again, and Antonio hopped aboard with a new spring in his step and six years’ pay in his pocket, with visions of more in his head. Not to mention his date with the insolent and beautiful Sara Ortega. He’d show the Miami Beach Bitch who was boss.
“Today,” said Antonio, “we go to the Forbidden Zone.” He explained, “Vedado means ‘Forbidden Zone,’ and in the old days Vedado was a hunting preserve outside the city walls of Havana, reserved exclusively for the upper classes.”
Who gives a shit?
Antonio prattled on as the bus made its way along the Malecón into the Vedado district. Now and then he would try to make eye contact with me, maybe to assure himself that we had a deal. Or maybe to let me know that when he was fucking Sara, he was also fucking me. He barely looked at Sara. Asshole.
Tad sat quietly and seemed to be still distraught. He glanced at Antonio a few times, seeing him in a different light. Tad had discovered Cuba for himself—and it wasn’t all about the rhumba.
Sara took my hand. “We’re halfway home.”
So was Amelia Earhart.
We drove past the Monument to the Victims of The Maine, and Antonio said, “After the failed Bay of Pigs Invasion, the people of Havana ripped the American eagle from the monument, and there is now a plaque there that reads: ‘To the victims of The Maine, who were sacrificed by imperialist greed in its eagerness to seize the island of Cuba.’ ”
Must be something lost in the translation.
We passed by the Plaza of Dignity, which included the Anti-Imperialist Forum, and this inspired Antonio to go into an anti-imperialist spiel.
Antonio, as I always suspected, was a Commie for convenience, an opportunistic chivato, an enthusiastic scammer, and a full-time amoral pig. I would have no problem putting a bullet in his head.
We drove past the American Embassy and I noticed the Cuban police who were posted outside the gates. Quite possibly they had my and Sara’s names on a list, and our photos from the airport. We weren’t exactly on the lam yet, or on the most wanted list, but if we believed Antonio, we weren’t getting into our embassy—or out of this country—without his help.
“And now,” said Antonio, “on your right you will see the statue of Lenin,” which turned out to be John Lennon, not Vladimir Lenin. The Yalies laughed and Antonio smiled. He was in a g
ood mood this morning.
The bus zigzagged through the streets of Vedado so that we could see and appreciate the accomplishments of Cuban socialism, and we stopped at a memorial to the American Communist spies Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, which I had always wanted to see.
The bus drove through the gates of a huge cemetery, the Necrópolis Cristóbal Colón, a.k.a. Christopher Columbus, which held, said Antonio, over five hundred major mausoleums, chapels, vaults, and galleries, and thousands of tombstones. If I had my Glock, this would be a good place to whack Antonio. Not that it would solve any problems. But it would make me feel good.
“The rich and famous, the colonial aristocrats, the war heroes, the merchants, the artists and writers—they all rest here alongside the martyrs of the revolution,” said Antonio as though he were trying to sell us a plot. “In the end, death is the great equalizer.”
Indeed it is.
The bus continued slowly through the vast marble orchard, past Greco-Roman temples, miniature castles, and mausoleums embellished with cherubs and angels, and even an Egyptian pyramid. It occurred to me that the dead of Havana had better housing than the living.
The bus stopped in a plaza near a Byzantine-styled church, and we all got off.
Antonio gave us his cemetery lecture, peppered with Marxist observations about the extravagance of the rich, even in death. Turns out you can take it with you.
Antonio said, “You may explore on your own. Please be back on the bus in thirty minutes.” He added, “Miss Ortega, I don’t want to come looking for you.” He smiled, and a few of the Yalies laughed.
Sara did not reply to Antonio, but said to me, “I’d actually like to meet him in my room tonight.”
I pictured Antonio in Sara’s bed with the lamp cord wrapped around his nuts and the other end plugged into the socket. I said, “The best revenge is leaving him standing at your door with a deflated ego and an inflated pepino.”
She smiled.
The Yale group separated into smaller groups and began wandering through the cemetery, which was laid out in a grid with wide avenidas, calles, and plazas, the city of the dead.
Sara took my arm and led me past an imposing mausoleum of the Spanish royal family to a smaller burial vault whose inscription read: AMELIA GOYRI DE LA HOZ. Carved in marble was the figure of a woman with a baby in her arms. About a dozen people stood or knelt around the tomb, which was piled with hundreds of fresh flowers.
The Cuban Affair Page 23