She nodded.
He also explained to me, “Almost all Cubans believed that the Castro regime would not last more than a year. That the Americans would not allow a Communist country to exist off its shores.”
Why not? We’ve got California and Vermont.
“Cubans who escaped to Miami thought they would be back in a year.” He looked at Sara. “As did your grandfather. So he gave this trunk to his trusted priest, who hid it in a burial vault beneath his church in the Old Town, where it has remained until this morning.”
I guess there was no room in the burial vault for twelve steamer trunks filled with money. Which would have made our job a little easier. Assuming the Catholic Church had no use for the money.
In any case, we now had to haul these two trunks of paper to Camagüey, in a sixty-year-old station wagon. No big deal, but . . . I wish they had FedEx here.
Eduardo took a wad of tri-folded paper out of the trunk. The paper was yellowed, maybe brittle, and it was bound with a green ribbon, which he untied, then opened the papers and spread them carefully on the work bench. “Ah . . . yes. This is a título de propiedad . . . a property deed which shows that Señor Alfredo Xavier Gomez is the legal owner of an apartamento . . . an apartment building on Calle San Rafael, in Vedado.”
Lucky man. Though he was probably dead by now. I hoped we weren’t going to go through all of this.
Eduardo refolded the deed, tied it, and put it back in the trunk, then stared at the mass of legal documents. “Who knows what is in here? Historical land grants. Deeds to entire factories, mansions, plantations . . . all stolen.”
Goes to show you what a piece of paper is worth. Unless it’s a U.S. Treasury note. “Okay, so—”
“You—” He pointed to me. “You and Sara will bring all this to America on your boat.”
“Right.”
“The exile organizations have kept lists of people and families who claim property in Cuba. These deeds will be returned to the rightful owners and heirs.”
This might be a bad analogy, but it was like telling people you’d found their Confederate war bonds.
But hope springs eternal and Eduardo said to us, or to himself, “There will come a day when the owners and their heirs can claim their property.” He reminded us, “It has happened when the Communists were overthrown in Eastern Europe. And with property stolen by the Nazis. It will happen in Cuba.”
Possible. But I wouldn’t buy those deeds even at a ninety percent discount with my American dollars from the cave. “Okay, so let’s load this up—”
He looked at me. “We will need you—and Sara—to publicly verify how you came into possession of these two trunks.”
I was hoping to keep a low profile with my—and Jack’s—three million dollars. “What do you mean?”
“We are planning a big press conference in Miami. We have good friends in the Miami media.”
“I’m sort of modest—”
“There will be attorneys at the press conference who represent the families whose property was stolen. Now that we have legal proof of ownership, we will file claims in Federal court.”
“Right.” Carlos would be busy for the next decade. “Sounds good. But I’ll take a pass on the press conference—”
“This is an important story—an exciting story. You and Sara traveling to Cuba—”
“Hold on, amigo. No one told me about this.”
“You will be famous.”
“I want to be rich.”
“You will be good on television. You are an attractive couple.”
No argument there. But I had this vision of being shot at the press conference by her jealous Cuban boyfriend. I glanced at her again and she looked away. I didn’t think this relationship was going to travel well.
Eduardo was caught up in his excitement. “We will tell the story of the Pescando Por la Paz, The Maine, Fishy Business—”
“I’ll bet the regime doesn’t renew that fishing license.” Or the Yale educational travel license.
“I have spoken to Jack about this, and he has agreed to interviews.”
Really? Well, Jack missed his three minutes of fame when he came ashore in Havana looking for the brass band and the TV cameras and found instead an anti-American demonstration. Also, I wondered when Eduardo had spoken to Jack about this. After I met Jack? Or before? Jack never mentioned this to me at the Nacional.
More importantly, these documents had less to do with returning the property to the owners and more to do with creating legal issues that could derail the diplomatic negotiations now taking place. I would have mentioned this, but we all understood that.
Meanwhile, I was still in Chico’s Chop Shop, along with Sara, Eduardo, two trunks of títulos, and my new Buick. And it was a long way to Camagüey and Cayo Guillermo. I said to Eduardo, “I need the contact information in Camagüey.” I looked at him. “Now, por favor.”
“I hope you will agree to be part of this story.”
“Sure, I’m in. Let’s go.”
“You have what is called credibility as an American with no ties to the anti-Castro organizations.”
“Don’t forget photogenic.”
“And a man who is a wounded combat veteran. An officer who has received many medals.”
I wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything. “Look, Eduardo, with or without me at the press conference, or me appearing on the morning news, what you have here”—I motioned to the trunks—“speaks for itself. Don’t oversell it.”
He didn’t reply, and I continued, “My concern is the sixty million dollars. First, getting it, second, getting it and us out of Cuba, third, getting my cut, and fourth, we should all shut our mouths about the money or we could get it taken away by the U.S. government, who could put it in escrow while the negotiations go on for the next fifty years.”
Again, he didn’t reply, and I looked at Sara, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during Eduardo’s monologues. “Do you agree?”
Apparently she didn’t. I looked at Eduardo. “What’s happening?”
He got right to the point for a change and said, “You are not going to Camagüey.”
Did I see that coming? “Why not?”
“Because it is dangerous.”
“It was dangerous yesterday. And last week.”
“It could be more dangerous today. Or tomorrow.”
“You don’t know that. That’s for me and Sara to determine.”
“It is for me to determine. And as you said yourself, the money could compromise our efforts to publicize this—” He motioned toward the trunks. “It would distract from our main objective.”
Well, I guess a dozen trunks filled with sixty million dollars would be more interesting to the American public than worthless paper. “That’s why we shouldn’t advertise the money—”
“And as you know—as you said to Mr. Colby—there is a possibility that the Cuban government will cancel the fishing tournament and send the boats away.”
Was there anything Jack forgot to tell him?
“So time is of the essence.”
I looked at Sara again. Apparently Eduardo’s arguments for scrubbing the mission were more convincing than the ones I or she had already discussed. Though they were the same arguments. But, to be fair, the situation had changed.
In fact, Eduardo said, “We cannot risk losing these documents on a dangerous journey to the cave.”
“All right . . . but I just lost three million dollars.”
“You will be compensated.”
“How?”
“The fifty thousand dollars you were promised if the mission was aborted. And the title to your half-million-dollar boat, free and clear.”
Which I could rename The Albatross. I would have negotiated with him, but he was sort of a dead man. And maybe I was, too.
Eduardo also told me, “Mister Colby knows he will be compensated for his time and his cooperation in helping us publicize this great legal and moral victor
y over the regime.”
Jack and I had some talking to do. I looked at Sara. “Did you know we weren’t going to Camagüey?”
“I . . . knew there was a possibility.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
She looked at me. “Mac . . . it’s better this way. It’s safer. It’s less than an eight-hour drive to Cayo, with only two trunks. We’ll meet our contact at the Melia tomorrow night, get onboard The Maine, and sail for Key West.”
Right. What was I going to do with three million dollars anyway?
Eduardo said, “Sara did not know what would happen. This decision depended on getting these trunks in our possession before you left for Camagüey. We have the trunks, so you are not going to Camagüey for the money.” He added, “The money has sat there for fifty years. It will be there when we return.”
Right. I couldn’t wait to do this all over again. In fact, count me out. I said, “It’s your show.”
“It is.” Eduardo said to Sara, “The map.”
She walked over to where we’d laid our backpacks and retrieved her map and mine. I hoped she didn’t notice I had packed only one pair of clean underwear.
She brought the maps to us, and Eduardo said, “I see you made a copy.”
“For Mac.”
“Are there any more copies?”
“The original—my grandfather’s—in my possession in Miami.”
Eduardo nodded, and said to me, “Your lighter, please.”
I fired up the Zippo and Sara held both maps to the flame, watched them burn, then dropped them on the floor. They smelled like money burning.
Eduardo advised me, “You will forget the existence of this map.”
“I won’t mention it at the press conference.” I looked at Eduardo, then at Sara. “Are we ready to get out of here?”
Apparently not.
Sara put her hand on my arm, then realized that Eduardo would not like that and drew it away as she said, “You asked me if there was more to this mission than the money.”
“Right . . . where did I ask you that?” Oh, in bed.
“And there is.”
“Right. The property deeds. The press conference . . .” I thought back to what Eduardo had said when Sara told him we’d gone to Villa Marista. So you understand. And Eduardo’s mention of my military service. And I now understood that Captain Daniel MacCormick was going to raise the issue of the missing American POWs at that press conference. I hope Sara’s photograph came out good.
She looked at Eduardo and nodded toward the trunk that hadn’t been opened. I assumed it was also filled with property deeds, but Eduardo hesitated and Sara said, “He needs to see this now.”
Eduardo nodded, produced another key, and opened the padlock of the second trunk.
It was Sara who took hold of the lid and said, “Something that will please you more than money.” She raised the lid. “The bones are going home.”
Lying in the trunk were rows of neatly piled skulls, their empty eye sockets staring at eternity, staring at me, and I knew without a doubt that these mortal remains had come from Villa Marista, and that the answers to what happened to seventeen missing Americans were in the DNA of those bones.
PART III
CHAPTER 43
Eduardo’s last words to us were, “Vayan con Dios,” and mine to him were, “Have a safe journey home.” And I meant it.
Eduardo and Sara had a more emotional good-bye, mostly in Spanish, and Sara—now sitting next to me as I drove the Buick station wagon through the quiet streets of Vedado—was still upset. But not as upset as I was about Eduardo cancelling my payday—or me being the last to know what was going on.
Anyway, Eduardo had given us a road map with instructions to head south and look for signs for the Autopista Nacional, the A-1, which I was doing.
It was just before midnight, and very shortly Antonio would be knocking on Sara’s door. I hope he had the decency to bring flowers and a bottle of rum. In any case, he would discover that there was no love or money in Room 535 for him. And he’d be furious. But what would he do? Call his police comandante? Or wait to see if Sara showed up? I hoped he waited. We needed to get clear of Havana before the police started looking for us.
I concentrated on the road and my driving. I’d never sat behind the wheel of a vintage American car, and it took some getting used to, especially with Chico’s modifications. It was hot in the wagon, but I had to leave the windows up so that we weren’t so visible. There were, however, little butterfly windows that let in some air. They should bring those back.
Also, as Chico said, the fuel gauge didn’t work, but I’d take his word that the gas tank was full.
The 90-horsepower Perkins boat engine didn’t give the same performance as the Buick’s original 300-horsepower V-8, even with Chico’s newly installed Hyundai manual transmission. But the gas mileage would be better, and maybe we’d have to stop only once for gas. On the other hand, we weren’t going to outrun any police cars.
Sara came out of her funk and said, “He’s like a grandfather to me . . . This is sad.”
“He’s where he wants to be,” though I wished he was where he was supposed to be—in Miami. And I wished I was where he’d arrived from—Key West.
She asked, “How are you doing?”
“Okay. You see any signs for the Autopista?”
She looked out the windshield. “No, but we’re heading in the right direction.” She added, “We’re in the district of 10 October—near Villa Marista.”
I had a vision of my Villa Marista photo on a screen at the press conference, and maybe all over the news and the Internet. The surprises on this mission never seemed to end. The biggest surprise so far had been the skulls. I could still see them staring at me . . . as though pleading, “Take me home.”
I continued on through the dark streets of 10 October. The Autopista was south of Havana and it ran east, according to the road map, in the direction of Cayo Guillermo, though it went through the interior of the island, far from the coast. The Soviet-built highway hadn’t existed when Eduardo fled Cuba, but Eduardo and Sara agreed that the Autopista would be faster than the more direct coastal road that the tour bus had taken to Matanzas. And it would be safer—no towns to pass through and no local police. You could legally do a hundred K—60 mph—on the Autopista, and with luck, said Sara, we might never see a police car. Sounded too good to be true.
Sara and I and Eduardo had loaded the two steamer trunks into the rear, and I was surprised how heavy the legal documents were, and how light the skulls were. We’d covered the trunks with the tarp, and Eduardo had given Sara the padlock keys and said, “The next time these trunks are opened will be in Miami.”
Or when the police ordered us to open them.
Before we’d closed the lids on the trunks, I’d looked at the soil-stained skulls more closely. Some of the lower jaws were missing, but all of them had their upper teeth, mostly intact—and through dental records and DNA they could be identified and matched against the Department of Defense’s list of missing in action. And then we would have names. And those names would have families . . .
About half the skulls had the distinctive round hole of a bullet entry wound, but one of the skulls looked like it had been crushed with a blunt instrument. The rest were free of trauma, and I assumed those men had died from . . . who knows? In any case, these skulls would be a powerful visual image, and very strong evidence of imprisonment and murder in Castro’s Cuba. What I—and Sara—had to do was tell the world how we’d gotten them.
Sara asked, “What are you thinking about?”
“Our cargo.”
She nodded. “It’s fitting that it’s you who are bringing the bones home, and that it’s me who’s returning the deeds to the stolen property.”
That sounded like a talking point for the press conference.
I had asked Eduardo about the rest of the remains—the skeletons—and he’d told me and Sara that the bodies had been exhu
med from their common grave on the grounds of Villa Marista about a year ago, and the purpose of the exhumation was to burn the bones in order to obliterate any evidence of the American POWs. And this was done, Eduardo said, in advance of the diplomatic talks, and in anticipation of demands from the Americans—politicians, MIA groups, and veterans’ organizations—that a U.S. military body recovery and identification team be allowed to visit Villa Marista to investigate the rumors and accusations that seventeen American servicemen had been murdered there.
And how had the skulls survived the bonfire? According to what Eduardo had been told, the skulls, and especially the teeth, were difficult to burn, so they were to be pulverized before burning. And according to Eduardo, this presented an opportunity and an incentive to someone—maybe a worker or a guard or someone who opposed the regime and recognized the potential value and importance of these skulls—to smuggle them out of Villa Marista. For money. Or for truth and justice. Or both.
I saw signs for José Martí Airport, which brought back memories of my arrival when I stepped off the plane a virgin, hoping to make my fortune in Cuba. And hoping to get laid. One out of two ain’t bad.
Sara said, “Turn here.”
I turned left where a sign pointed to A-1, and we came to a ramp that took us to the eastbound lanes of the Autopista. If we drove through the night, we’d be in Cayo Guillermo at about 7 or 8 A.M. And at about 7 p.m., we’d meet our contact in the lobby bar of the Melia Hotel, then sometime in the night we’d get this cargo aboard The Maine and set sail for Key West. What could possibly go wrong?
The divided highway had four lanes in both directions and the pavement was good, though the road lighting was not—which was also good; the darker the better. There wasn’t much traffic heading away from Havana, but enough so that we didn’t look like the only vehicle on the road. But later, as we got farther into the interior, and into the early-morning hours, we might actually be the only vehicle on the highway—certainly the only ’53 Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon, which, even in a country of vintage American cars, would attract almost as much attention as Sara Ortega in a tight dress walking down Calle Obispo at two in the morning.
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