“This is your decision, Mac. And if you decide to go for it, I’m with you. And if you decide not to, I don’t want to hear about the three million dollars—ever.”
Comprende? Well, I give her credit for clarity and balls.
“Whatever you decide, the map is yours. I trust you to let me know if you plan a future trip to Cuba.”
“You know I wouldn’t—”
“I said I trust you.”
“Thank you. I’ll make a decision before we get to Diego Devilla.”
“Ciego de Ávila.”
“Whichever comes first.”
We continued on through the highlands of Santa Clara, which were starkly beautiful and which in no way resembled the mountains of Afghanistan, except for their quiet, brooding presence above the dangerous road.
We drove in silence and passed the exit for Sancti Spíritus. About ten minutes later the highway went to two lanes and Sara said, “The Autopista will end in a few kilometers. We need to get on the CC—the Carretera Central—and continue east to Ciego de Ávila.”
“Okay.”
The Autopista petered out and I followed the traffic to the CC, a badly paved road heading east, and joined a line of trucks and buses in the two slow-moving lanes. Hitchhikers lined the road, calling out to the passing vehicles, and a few of them looked like backpackers from somewhere else: blonde hair, young, fearless and clueless, on a great adventure. God bless them. And I hope they never see what I saw when I was their age.
Sara said, “About thirty minutes to Ciego de Ávila.”
I glanced at her and asked, “If we go to Camagüey, what’s in it for you?”
“Two things. The first is to make good on my grandfather’s promise to his clients. The second is to make good on my promise to you.”
That sounded very nice. But that wouldn’t incentivize me to risk my life. “Tell you what—if we go to the cave and find the money, I’ll split my share with you.”
“Thank you. But I’m not doing this for money.”
“Never turn down money you’ve earned.”
“I’m also giving you this choice so I don’t have to hear you complaining about losing three million dollars.”
“That sounds like put up or shut up.”
“Take your pick.”
“Thanks.”
The CC was moving at about forty miles an hour, and I shared the road with lumbering trucks and farm vehicles that were in no hurry. I spotted an old Ford sedan in the oncoming lane, which made me feel less like the only hot dog in a bowl of chili.
Sara glanced at her map. “There’s a ring road around Ciego de Ávila. When we get on it, we can continue to Camagüey, or take the Carretera Norte to the coast.”
I didn’t reply, and we drove on in silence.
We came to the circular road and the moment of truth. The first exit road headed south, then we came to the exit road that continued east to Camagüey. I slowed down and glanced at her, but she had her head back and her eyes closed.
The road to Camagüey beckoned, like the road to El Dorado, and I hesitated, then waved good-bye to my three million dollars and turned onto the Carretera Norte, toward the sea.
I drove for a few minutes, then said, “I’ll buy you a drink at the Melia Hotel.”
She kept her eyes closed, but nodded.
Well . . . I would have risked it if it was only me. But I wasn’t going to risk Sara’s life, or risk losing the remains of the forgotten dead who had been waiting too long to go home to their families and their nation. Jack would agree. You never leave a body behind.
There wasn’t as much traffic on the Carretera Norte, and the road was mostly downhill, and the highlands were flattening out as we headed to the coast. “How far?”
She opened her eyes and looked at the map. “About thirty kilometers to a town called Morón, then fifteen kilometers on a road that leads to the Cayo Coco causeway.” She added, “The causeway looks about fifteen kilometers long.”
So, to do the math, it was about sixty kilometers to Cayo Coco. Maybe another hour at this speed. I checked my watch. It was just past 11. We should be in Cayo Guillermo at about 12:30. I said, “I think we’re going to make it.”
“There was never any doubt in my mind.”
“Me neither.”
“Do you have any regrets?”
“About what?”
“The money.”
“What money?”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “We’ll come back someday.”
“Give me a call. Or stop by the Green Parrot.”
She didn’t reply.
I took the treasure map off my lap and handed it to her. “Burn this.”
“It’s yours.”
“Then I say burn it.”
She looked at the map. “A great hike through the Camagüey Mountains.” She fired up Jack’s Zippo, touched the flame to the map, and let it fly out the window.
I took my cigar out of my pocket and handed it to her. “We’re in the home stretch.”
We shared our last cigar as we headed for Cayo Guillermo and our rendezvous with Jack, Felipe, Fishy Business, and fate. I wondered when I’d get my surprise.
CHAPTER 47
We drove through the picturesque town of Morón and took a two-lane road that skirted a lake and cut through an expanse of lush and pristine marshland. A flock of pink flamingos settled into the water, fishing for lunch.
There didn’t seem to be anyone else on this road. “Where is everyone?”
Sara took her eyes off the flamingos and replied, “Most people arrive at the resort islands by boat or plane. There are actually direct commercial flights to the airport on Cayo Coco from Toronto and London, and charter flights from all over Europe.”
“What’s the draw?”
“It’s warm and it’s cheap.”
“Right.” The Europeans would go to hell if they could get a cheap charter package.
She continued, “Also, as you know, this is some of the greatest sports fishing in the world.” She smiled. “In fact, I think there’s a fishing tournament going on right now.”
“I hope so.”
“They’re still here, Mac.” She added, “Someday, maybe soon, Americans will be coming here in droves to fish.”
Not if Eduardo and Carlos and their amigos had anything to say about it. But maybe—now that I needed to work for a living again—I could run charters to Cayo Guillermo from Key West. Two nations, one vacation. All I needed was my boat and a new identity.
The road continued through the wetlands, and up ahead I could see blue water, which Sara said was the Bahía de Perros—the Bay of Dogs—and a spit of land jutting out to the horizon.
She said, “That’s the causeway.”
We continued through the wetlands, which were now giving way to the deeper waters of the bay ahead.
She assured me, “Once we’re over the causeway, we won’t attract any attention.”
“What do we do for the next six hours?”
“Whatever we do, we need to stay close to our cargo.”
“I could use a wash. Are there any nude beaches?”
“What did it say in your guide book that you were supposed to read?”
“I didn’t get that far because I didn’t think we’d get this far.”
“Well, let me brief you. First, there’s not much of a Cuban population on the islands except for day workers at the resorts, so there are no neighborhood watch groups. That doesn’t mean there are no chivatos among the hotel and restaurant workers, but almost all the foreigners on the islands are Europeans, Canadians, and Brits, whom the regime does not associate with suspicious activity.”
I didn’t think any of that was in the guide book. That came from someplace else. I suggested, “Let’s be Canadians again.” I got laid last time.
“There is a police presence on the islands, but I’m told it’s light and soft.”
“That’s a nice change. But, as per what I did read in my guide b
ook, Cayo Guillermo is an entry port, so there’ll be port security and patrol boats.” I added, “Getting in by car is easy. Getting out by boat, maybe not so.”
“We’ll find out tonight.”
“And we’ll find out very soon if the fleet is still here or back in Key West.”
“They’re here,” she said.
“If not, is there a Plan B?”
“We’ll find out when we meet our contact.”
“What if he or she doesn’t show up?”
“He’ll be there, and the fleet will be there.”
“We’ll see. And last but not least, there’s the possibility that the police have connected me to Fishy Business, and are waiting for us in Cayo Guillermo.”
“No, they’ll be waiting for us at the toll booth on the causeway where we have to show our passports.”
“No one mentioned toll booths or passports.”
“It was in the guide book that Carlos gave you.”
“Is there a way around the toll booth?”
“No. But there’s a way around showing our passports.”
“Do I need my wallet or do I need my gun?”
“Neither.” She pulled two blue passports out of her pocket and handed one to me.
I glanced at it and saw it was a Canadian passport, which was a lot more authentic-looking than my Conch Republic passport. I thumbed open the cover and looked at the photo, which was the same as my real passport photo. But my name was now Jonathan Richard Mills. The passport was issued in Toronto. I didn’t even remember being there. “Where did you get this?”
“Amigos.”
“Right.” I looked at the passport pages and saw a few exit and entry stamps. I didn’t know I’d been to London’s Heathrow Airport.
She said, “These passports will withstand visual scrutiny at the toll booth, but not a passport scanner at an airport.”
I reminded her, “We’re sailing home.” I also reminded her, “Our airport photos are probably being circulated, and mine looks a lot like this one.”
“Hopefully, the Ministry of the Interior forgot the Cayo Coco causeway toll booth. And if not, just smile at the toll collector and say buenos días as he’s glancing at your Canadian passport and taking your two CUCs.”
“Okay.” I looked at the solitary toll booth that was placed in the middle of the road so that the toll taker could collect from the drivers in either direction. “Do they have SunPass here?”
“Give him a sunny smile.”
“Right.” I asked, “What’s your name?”
She handed me her Canadian passport. “Anna Teresa Mills. We’re married.”
“When did that happen?”
“That explains my Latina appearance if someone is thinking about the face matching the name.”
“Right.” And obviously someone back in the U.S. thought about it. “Do you speak Spanish?”
“Un poco.”
“Is this going to work?”
“Mac, if you can’t get past a toll booth, we should turn around.”
I didn’t know architects could be so cool and calm. But then I remembered she’d been briefed—or trained—by a retired CIA guy . . . or maybe not retired.
As we approached the toll booth, a pickup truck pulled in front of me from a side road, and in the bed of the truck were about a dozen men and women, joking and smoking.
Sara said, “Day workers.”
I felt like I was home.
The toll booth guy waved the truck through, but I knew we had to stop.
Sara said, “Don’t offer the passports. Let him ask.”
I pulled up to the booth, smiled, and said to the uniformed toll taker, “Buenos días,” as I handed the guy two CUCs.
“Buenos días, señor . . . y señorita.” He hesitated, then said, “Pasaporte, por favor.”
I gave him the two passports, which he flipped through, then glanced at me, then bent his head to get a look at Anna Teresa, who was leaning toward the window, smiling at him.
He said something in Spanish and handed me the passports. Adios.
I proceeded onto the causeway. “I’m glad he didn’t ask to see what was in the back.”
“This is not a border crossing.” She added, “I was told this was easy.”
I didn’t ask who told her that, but I said, “Well, we can beat the toll when we leave here.”
The two causeway lanes weren’t much wider than a single lane, and there were no guardrails on the road, which was built on piles of rock. A truck came toward me, and we both had to squeeze to the side, and I thought one of us was going to wind up in the Bay of Dogs. An accident would not be good. “How long is this?”
“I told you. Fifteen kilometers.” She suggested, “Enjoy it.”
I kept my speed down and continued on the causeway, which reminded me of the Overseas Highway where I’d begun this vacation. Gulls and pelicans swept back and forth over the road, and the bay was alive with waterfowl.
Sara said, “I’d like to come back here someday.”
I’d like to get out of here tonight.
The causeway continued in an almost straight line across the bay and I could now see the shoreline of Cayo Coco in the distance.
I thought back to the uniformed toll booth collector, which made me think back to the uniformed passport guy at José Martí Airport—the guy who called ahead and had Sara stopped. I said, “The police could be waiting for us on the other end.”
“There’s not much we can do about it now.”
“Right.” U-turns were not an option.
I could see a jetliner making its slow approach into the island airport, and as it got lower I saw the Air Canada maple leaf logo on its tail. And this brought home the fact that for the rest of the world, Cuba was just a holiday destination. For us, it was a legacy of the Cold War, a place where Americans were loved or hated, depending on who you ran into.
As we got closer to the end of the causeway, I could see what looked like mangrove swamps along the shore. The causeway curved left and I had a clear view of the road that went inland. I looked for police activity on the road, but it appeared to be clear. “I think we’re okay.”
Sara, who had seemed cool as a frozen daiquiri, now took a deep breath. Then, out of the clear blue Cuban sky she asked me, “What did you mean when you said, ‘Give me a call, or stop by the Green Parrot’?”
Well, I guess what I meant was that we were going our separate ways. Freudian slip?
“Mac?”
“Just a dumb joke.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
“Right.” Had she been brooding this whole time? I mean, we had more immediate problems.
She said, “If we get out of here alive—”
Like that problem.
“—we’ll have a bond that can never be broken.”
Did her boyfriend have a gun?
“Do you believe that?”
“I do.” I let her know, “The bonds I formed in combat will be with me all my life.” Though I wasn’t having sex with those guys.
“Do you love me?”
“I do.”
“That’s what I needed to know . . . in case we get . . . separated.”
“And you?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
We held hands as we drove off the causeway onto Cayo Coco and continued on a narrow tree-shaded road.
“Turn left for Cayo Guillermo.”
Next stop, Key West, Florida, U.S.A.
CHAPTER 48
Cayo Coco, the largest of the islands in the archipelago, seemed to be in the midst of a construction boom, with hotels and cottages rising along the white beaches. This was a different Cuba, and I wondered if all this foreign investment was in anticipation of the arrival of the Americans. If so, the investors might have a longer wait than they thought.
Sara was looking at a map in her Cuba guide book. “Stay on this road for the Cayo Guillermo causeway.”
“Okay.” I spotted a few vinta
ge American cars, which I assumed were taxis, and in fact, an older couple tried to wave me down. I waved back. “Dave Katz should come here.”
“Who’s that?”
“A taxi driver in Key West.”
“We should come back here. On your boat.”
Did she mean the same boat that we were going to use to escape from Cuba? “I think we’ll be unwelcome here after our Miami press conference.”
She didn’t reply.
I drove onto the Cayo Guillermo causeway, which was lined with anglers, and I saw that one guy had caught a red snapper. “You like sushi?”
“Don’t talk about food.”
The sand banks and shallows along the causeway were pink with hundreds of swaying flamingos, and Sara said, “This is breathtaking.”
“It is.”
The short causeway ended and we were now in Cayo Guillermo—not the end of our journey, but maybe the beginning of the end. And that depended on the Pescando Por la Paz fleet still being here. And we’d know that in about ten minutes.
Sara said, “We made it.”
Indeed we did. “Where’s the marina?”
She glanced at her guide book. “Take a right.”
Cayo Guillermo wasn’t as developed as Cayo Coco, and there was almost no traffic on the narrow road, except for bicycles and Coco cabs. I saw a sign ahead that said: MARINA MARLIN, and I turned into a gravel parking area and stopped.
The marina was a collection of decent-looking buildings along the shoreline, including a big open shed where the fishermen brought their catch to be weighed and photographed while they told fish stories and had a brew. I noticed, off to the left, a shabbier structure flying the Cuban flag, and I assumed this was the government Port of Entry building. In fact, there were four olive drab military-type vehicles in front of the building, and I saw a wooden sign that said: GUARDA FRONTERA. And under that, it said, MINISTERO DEL INTERIOR—same as Villa Marista prison. These assholes were everywhere.
As I watched the building, a guy in an olive green uniform came out, got into one of the vehicles, and began driving toward us. I drove the wagon toward the main marina building, but I saw the guy give us a glance as he passed by.
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