The Cuban Affair

by Nelson DeMille

  Sara said, “This is the tomb of La Milagrosa—the Miraculous One.”

  “Right.”

  “She died in childbirth on May 3, 1901, and was buried here with her stillborn child at her feet. For many years after her death her grieving husband visited the grave several times a day. He would always take hold of one of those brass rings on the tomb and knock when he arrived, then back away as he left so he could see her resting place for as long as possible.”

  In fact, a number of people who approached the tomb were doing just that.

  Sara stood silently, looking at the tomb, then said, “After her husband died, Amelia’s sarcophagus was opened and her body was found to be incorrupt—a sign of sanctity in the Catholic faith. And the baby that had been laid at her feet was now found cradled in her arms.”

  Okay.

  “Since then, she has been called La Milagrosa, and if you pray to her for a miracle, it will be granted.”

  We should have come here sooner.

  Sara approached the tomb, knocked three times with the brass ring, then knelt with a dozen others, mostly women. She prayed, made the sign of the cross, then stood and walked away backward, still facing the tomb.

  She took my arm and we strolled down a tree-shaded lane between the tombs and statues. She said, “Many childless women pray at Señora Goyri’s tomb for a pregnancy.”

  “Excuse me, but that’s not a miracle I would have prayed for.”

  She smiled. “Relax. I prayed for a successful mission and a safe journey home.”

  That would be a miracle.

  We wandered around the necropolis, which was filled with tour groups, and every time we passed some of our Yale group, I said to Sara, “I see dead people.”

  She didn’t think that was funny, but she seemed in a better mood than last night after Antonio’s proposition. In fact, she said, “I’m happy to put Havana behind us and get on the road to Camagüey.”

  “Assuming we don’t meet our Havana contact in the next few hours, how do we get to Camagüey?”

  “Carlos had a contingency plan.”

  “Which is?”

  “A livery service in Miramar used by foreign business people that will take us anywhere we want to go in Cuba. Cash, no questions asked, and no record of the trip.”

  I wish I’d known this last night, when I was trying to talk her into taking a taxi to Cayo Guillermo.

  Sara added, “When we get to Camagüey, we become backpackers—and cave explorers.”

  “Okay. And how do we get the dozen steamer trunks to Cayo Guillermo?”

  “You steal a truck.”

  “Right.”

  “From Camagüey to Cayo is about a hundred and eighty miles. We can make that in three or four hours.”

  “And what do we do when we get to Cayo Guillermo?”

  She stayed silent a moment, then replied, “We go to a resort hotel called the Melia and sit in the lobby bar.”

  Well, I knew that someone must know what Sara and I were supposed to do in Cayo Guillermo. Turns out it’s Sara.

  “At seven P.M. each day, starting last night, there will be someone in the lobby bar who knows what we look like and who will approach us.”

  “ID phrase?”

  “He—or she—will say, ‘It’s good to see you here.’ ”

  Indeed it would be.

  “He or she will tell us the plan to get the goods onboard The Maine.”

  “Okay.”

  Sara continued, “The Melia Hotel’s clientele are mostly European and Canadian tourists, so we’ll fit in.”

  “And where do we park the truck with sixty million dollars while we’re having a drink?”

  “I’m told we can see the hotel parking area from the lobby bar. Or you can stay in the truck with your gun.”

  “Can I get a roadie?”

  “We’ll play this by ear when we get to the hotel.”

  I had more questions, but she’d told me enough—the last piece of this plan—to carry on without her, which was why she was telling me this. “Okay. I get it.”

  She took my hand and we continued through the quiet cemetery, then turned back toward where the bus was parked.

  Aside from the tomb of La Milagrosa, there weren’t many locals visiting graves on this Monday morning, and we were alone on the path except for a guy in a black shirt coming toward us. He was about thirty, tall and lean, and he wore wraparound sunglasses. I said to Sara, “I saw that guy near the bus.”

  She looked at him as he approached, then let go of my hand and we slowed our pace.

  As the guy got within ten feet of us, he looked around, then stopped.

  Well, I didn’t want my back to this guy, so we, too, stopped, about five feet from him. The three of us stood there, then Sara said to him, “Buenos días.”

  He returned the greeting, then said to her in English, “Are you interested in Cuban pottery?”

  CHAPTER 39

  As the bus made its way from the cemetery to the Parque Central, Tad reminded us that our afternoon was on our own—for meaningful independent cultural experiences—until our 5 P.M. lecture given by Professor Nalebuff. Then to dinner at 6:30 at Mama Inés.

  “Chef Erasmo,” said Antonio, “has cooked for Fidel Castro and Hugo Chávez. Also Jane Fonda, Jack Nicholson, and Jimmy Carter.”

  All of whom got the senior citizen discount.

  Well, our much-anticipated meeting with our man in Havana wasn’t as interesting as Sara’s meeting with Marcelo on the Malecón. Our guy just handed Sara a flyer advertising a nightclub called Cabaret Las Vegas. This is the kind of thing you toss in the next trash can, but the man said the magic words, so Sara scanned the flyer as we walked toward the bus, then handed it to me.

  Written in pencil on the flyer was an address: Calle 37 No 570, El Vedado. And a time, 22 h, which five years in the Army taught me meant 10 P.M.

  Sara said that this would be where we would meet our Havana contact, who would give us our instructions for meeting our contact in Camagüey, and provide our means of transportation.

  Or sell us pottery. I asked, “Should we thank La Milagrosa for this timely miracle?”

  “I already have.”

  “Right.”

  We committed the address to memory and Sara made confetti out of the flyer and dropped it into a storm drain on our way to the bus. As we boarded, Antonio said to Sara and me, “We will meet in the rear of the lobby.”

  My dance card was filling up.

  * * *

  Our tour bus pulled up to the Hotel Parque Central and Alison advised, “Dress at Mama Inés is casual.”

  Which was good, because we’d be living and sleeping in the same clothes for awhile.

  We filed off the bus and Sara and I walked to the rear of the lobby, where Antonio joined us. Tad noticed, and he hesitated before he got on the elevator. I was sure this was going to be his last trip to Cuba. Mine, too.

  Antonio looked at Sara. “Thank you for the envelope.” He patted the side pocket of his tight black pants. “And I have good news for you. I made calls last night and you will be expected at the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal tomorrow morning at seven.” He glanced around and said in a conspiratorial voice, “A man named Ramón will meet you at the entrance and walk you through passport control and onto the British cruise ship The Braemar, which sails at nine for Bridgetown in Barbados.” He looked at Sara. “I assume you wish to be on that ship?”

  She nodded. “We do.”

  “Good. You will be ticketed onboard and pay for your passage with a credit card.” He smiled. “I am your travel agent. And your guardian angel who will give Ramón a thousand dollars to pay people who will get you through security.”

  The only possible response to all that bullshit was, “Muchas gracias.”

  “De nada.” He continued, “It’s a two-day cruise to Bridgetown, and when you arrive there”—he smiled again—“you can continue your Caribbean holiday in Barbados.”

  Nothing could
top my Cuba vacation.

  He advised us, “You should leave a message for Tad and Alison tomorrow morning that you are not feeling well and will remain in your rooms.”

  “We know that.”

  “Also, it would not be good for you to be seen leaving the hotel with your luggage, so you will leave it in your rooms, as though you are going out for a morning walk.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “You can buy what you need on the ship.”

  Actually, we’ll be on our way to Camagüey Province to find sixty million dollars. And Antonio would be explaining to his police pals that the two Americanos disappeared during the night. Maybe they’d beat him up.

  “Ramón has a description of you both. He is a short man, about sixty years old, and he will be wearing the green uniform of the security guards.”

  But he’s actually an undercover agent for the Ministry of the Interior, and he has our photos from the airport.

  “All you will need are your passports and your exit visas.” He asked, “Do you have any questions?”

  “No.”

  He looked at us and said, insincerely, “I’m sorry about this, but you have been caught up in historical events—a chess game played in Havana and Washington—and you are the innocent pawns.”

  No, we’re actually guilty of something, but you don’t know what it is, asshole.

  He informed us, “I need to see Ramón tonight, so I will not be at the dinner, but . . .” He glanced at me, then said to Sara, “I think I will see you later for the three hundred thousand pesos.”

  What a deal. He gets laid, gets paid, and walks away, leaving us to get arrested.

  Sara said to him, “I will see you later.” Then she said something to him in Spanish.

  Antonio nodded, then looked at me. “I don’t think I should apologize. Do you?”

  “I think you should leave.”

  But he didn’t and said, “This is Cuba. My country. And you are lucky I am getting you out of here. So instead of your arrogance, I think perhaps you should thank me.”

  Well, since he wasn’t going to fuck Sara, and since we were going to fuck him, I said, “Thank you.” I added, “Gracias.”

  “De nada.” He smiled, then said to Sara, “I look forward to tonight,” and left.

  She said softly, “I hate him.”

  “Put the hate on hold.” Though, to be honest, if I had him alone I’d probably snap his neck. I asked her, “What time are you entertaining Antonio?”

  “I confirmed midnight.”

  Well, that would give us a little head start in getting out of Havana.

  I asked her, “What other meaningful Cuban cultural experience would you like to have now?”

  “We need to get my backpack.”

  “Right. And we need to recon Calle 37.”

  We went out into the heat of the city and took a Coco cab to the Vedado district, then walked to Calle 37, which was a street of nondescript buildings that looked like warehouses or auto repair shops. Number 570 was a ramshackle stucco building with an old wooden barn-like garage door, barred windows, and a rusty steel entrance door.

  Sara said, “This looks like a place where there’d be a vehicle for us.”

  I was reminded of the garage where the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre took place, but I didn’t share that thought with her.

  There was no possibility that we were being watched or followed, so we headed toward Rolando’s to retrieve her backpack.

  It was a fifteen-minute walk to the residential district, which appeared different in the daylight but no less deserted, and we still looked like we didn’t belong there. It was possible, I thought, that we’d been seen last night by the ubiquitous neighborhood vigilantes and chivatos, and that the police were staking out the area and waiting for us behind the wall. So, señor and señorita, are you looking for this backpack with the gun and the pesos? I mentioned this to Sara and she replied, “Chivatos turn in their friends and neighbors to the police, but they’d never turn in any evidence of a crime if it was worth more than two dollars.”

  Right. In other words, if you see something, say something—unless you see that it’s worth money. Patriotism doesn’t buy the beans.

  The low wall came into view and Sara suddenly picked up her pace, vaulted over the wall, then reappeared a few seconds later with the backpack, scrambled onto the sidewalk, and kept walking. The police did not pop out of the bushes.

  As we headed for the bridge over the Río Almendares, I pulled the Glock out of her backpack and stuck it in my belt under my Polo shirt. We were traveling hot again.

  As we crossed the bridge, I wrestled with the idea of dropping the hot gun in the cool river. But then I thought about our meeting tonight in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre garage, and our road trip into the Cuban heart of darkness, and our rendezvous in Cayo—and I recalled Jack’s wise T-shirt words, “Better to have a gun and not need it than to need a gun and not have it.”

  We looked less conspicuous in Miramar, and we retraced our path to Avenida Quinta and hailed a taxi. We were back at the hotel by four o’clock, hot, sweaty, and tired, but happy in the way that a successful but uneventful recon patrol makes you feel.

  * * *

  Sara went to her room to shower and change into clothes that would be appropriate for both the Mama Inés restaurant and what could be a week in the boondocks, trying to look like a backpacker. I did the same, saying adios to my discount luggage and dirty clothes except for my sweat-stained Hemingway T-shirt, which I put in a plastic bag and stuffed in my backpack.

  I strapped on my fanny pack containing the Glock and the extra magazines and left the room with a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, then went down to the meeting room where the Yalies were assembling for Professor Nalebuff’s lecture on Cuban-American relations. On his next trip here Nalebuff could add a footnote about Dan MacCormick and Sara Ortega. Arrested and executed? Or escaped with the Batista-era loot and living happily ever after? I took a seat and waited for Sara.

  Professor Nalebuff took the podium and began, “This is the story of David and Goliath, Cuba and America. It is the story of a long love-hate relationship that spans the centuries, a story that is both heartbreaking and hopeful.”

  I noticed that Richard Neville was taking notes, and I had no doubt that Professor Nalebuff’s eloquent words would find their way into Neville’s next novel. Plagiarism is the sincerest form of flattery.

  Sara appeared at the door with her backpack, wearing black jeans, a dark green T-shirt, and hiking boots, and she had her shoulder bag, presumably packed with pesos. I was similarly dressed in blue jeans, a gray gym shirt, and boots. Our backpacks didn’t draw any attention because some of our group carried their packs on the bus, day and night.

  Sara sat next to me and I asked, “Did you pack a bathing suit?”

  So we listened to Professor Nalebuff tell us, in scholarly language, what I’d concluded before I even got here—Cuba and America had been fucking each other so long that we both must be getting something out of it.

  Professor Nalebuff concluded, “If both sides act with goodwill, and if neither country causes or exploits a diplomatic incident, the future looks promising.”

  Should I tell him that the diplomatic incident was sitting in front of him?

  * * *

  As Sara and I descended the sweeping staircase into the lobby, she said, “Since we’re not coming back tonight, we need to leave a note now for Tad and Alison to get in the morning.”

  “No note. Let them think we may have been detained by the police.” I added, “Which may be true.”

  She didn’t reply.

  As the Yalies filed out of the hotel to board the bus, I stopped at the front desk, took the plastic bag out of my backpack, and gave it to the desk clerk. “This is for Señor Neville. Please have it delivered to his room tonight.” I gave the clerk a five.

  “Si, señor.” He made a note of it and asked, “Your name?”

  “H
e’ll know who it’s from.”

  Sara and I exited the hotel, and she asked me, “What was that?”

  “My Hemingway T-shirt.”

  “This is no time for jokes.”

  “It’s good for my head.”

  “You need to grow up.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t have an exploding cigar to leave for Antonio.” I asked her, “Did you leave a note in your room for him?”

  “I left a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door.”

  I pictured Antonio arriving at midnight with a smile and a stiffy. Sorry, amigo. Go fuck yourself.

  We boarded the bus and I saw that the driver was now Lope—Antonio’s eyes and ears when he was absent. Well, that could be a problem when Sara and I didn’t return to the bus after dinner. But I had a new teammate—Tad—who would cover for us. Or at least give us a head start.

  Tad did a head count and the bus pulled away.

  Within ten minutes we were in the Old Town, and we pulled up to Mama Inés restaurant, which was located in a colonial building a few blocks from the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal where Sara and I were expected at 7 in the morning. But we had other travel plans—if all went well at Calle 37.

  The restaurant was dark and crowded, and the Yale group was assigned several tables. Sara and I found ourselves sitting with two young couples who should have been wearing T-shirts that said: “Clueless.” We made small talk and I was surprised to discover that these college-educated Americans didn’t completely comprehend that Cuba was a police state.

  I changed the subject to sports, and as we waited for our drinks, Sara commented that she and I were going to take a walk along the Malecón after dinner and share a bottle of wine on the beach—which accounted for our backpacks if anyone wondered.

  Mama Inés’ clientele, aside from the Yale group, looked like Europeans and some Latin Americans with money. The last Cuban who could afford this place was probably Fidel Castro. More importantly, I didn’t see anyone who looked like they were interested in us.