The Cuban Affair

by Nelson DeMille

  Some of the docks were visible behind the marina and there weren’t many boats tied. I looked at my watch. It was a little after 1 P.M., and the fleet should still be out. Unless it was in Florida. “I’ll go see what I can find out. You stay with the cargo.”

  She said something to me in Spanish that I didn’t understand, but I got her point. “Adios, and good luck.”

  She got out of the wagon, walked to the main marina building, and went inside.

  Well, this was another one of those moments on which hung the fate of this mission and our own fate. If the fleet had been ordered out of Cuba, we’d be joining the balseros on a raft tonight.

  I saw a boat anchored about a hundred yards from the marina—a 100-footer, painted gray, and though I couldn’t see the markings, I saw a Cuban flag flying from its stern, and on its rear deck was a gun turret. That was not a fishing boat.

  It occurred to me, again, that too much of this mission relied too heavily on a series of events over which we had little or no control. I would have liked a plan that didn’t depend so much on vaya con Dios.

  Another military guy came out of the government building, looked at the American station wagon, then got into his vehicle and drove off. Must be lunch time. And here we were parked right next to a Guarda Frontera and customs and immigration facility whose employees made a living asking for your passport. Pasaporte, señor? What was my name again?

  Sara came out of the marina and I couldn’t tell from her face if she had good news or if we were swimming home.

  She got into the wagon and said, “Good news. Fishy Business is now in third place.”

  I never thought third place would be good news. “They’d catch up if they had a few more days. Okay, where to?”

  “Melia Hotel. Down the road a few hundred yards.”

  I pulled out of the parking area and turned right on the sand-swept road.

  The first hotel we came to was the Grand Carib, then a place called the Iberostar Daiquiri, which reminded me that I needed a drink.

  “Turn here.”

  I pulled into the long palm-lined driveway of the Melia Hotel, a complex of pink stucco buildings with lush landscaping. This was where the three fishermen were staying while Jack and Felipe lived on the boat, and it was where Sara and I would meet our Cayo Guillermo contact tonight at 7. If he—or she—showed.

  Sara, confirming what she’d been told about the Melia, said, “For a nice tip, we can park here tonight in the circular driveway and keep an eye on the wagon from those windows, which are the lobby bar.”

  Well, when I pictured this scene after my cemetery briefing, I saw me sitting here in a truck with sixty million dollars in the back. I suppose I should be grateful I got this far. But would I have accepted this job if I knew the sixty million was optional? No. But I might have if they’d told me about the Villa Marista bones.

  “Mac? Let’s go.”

  “Okay . . . but now that we’re Canadians, we can get a room here right now and take turns showering and getting some sleep while one of us hangs out in the bar.” Though I didn’t know how we were going to have sex with that plan. “We’ll pay cash.”

  “Sounds tempting, but we also need to show visas, and show our means of arrival and departure.”

  “Okay, then let’s just go to the bar.”

  “We’re not supposed to be here until seven and we’ll follow the plan.” She added, “I have a place we can go. Take a right on the road.”

  Sara had obviously been instructed on what to do here and what not to do. All I knew—from Sara in the cemetery—was Melia Hotel lobby bar, 7 P.M. And I guess that was all I needed to know until I needed to know more.

  I pulled out of the Melia Hotel and turned right on the beach road. We passed a hotel called the Sol Club, which seemed to be the last hotel on the road. Ahead was an expanse of low tropical growth, punctuated by palm trees, and to our right was the white sand beach and the Atlantic Ocean, where I’d be tonight if everything went according to the plan we’d hear at 7.

  We came to the end of the road and a wooden sign that said: PLAYA PILAR. Sara said, “Named after Hemingway’s boat.”

  “I never would have guessed.”

  “He named his boat for his heroine in For Whom the Bell Tolls. Would you name a boat for me?”

  “Of course.” If I had a boat. Anna?

  I pulled into the sandy parking area, which was hidden from the road by high bushes, and stopped under a palm tree. There were a few other cars in the parking area, and closer to the water was a long blue building with a thatched roof that looked like a beach bar and restaurant.

  Sara said, “We can kill some time here and still keep an eye on the wagon from the back deck.”

  Obviously someone had done a recon, which encouraged me to believe that someone knew what they were doing.

  We got out of the wagon and retrieved our backpacks from the rear seat. I pulled the Glock out of my belt and shoved it in my pack.

  We walked into the restaurant, called Ranchón Playa Pilar, and through a beach bar called Hemingway, which was no surprise. We went out back to a raised wooden deck where a few people sat at plastic tables, mostly couples in their thirties, and others ranging in age from old to young, and in color from pale to lobster red. I could smell french fries.

  There was no waitstaff around, so we seated ourselves at a table with a good view of the beach and the Roadmaster. At the other end of the wooden deck was a couple with three children, and the kids were running around, being obnoxious.

  Sara said, “I’d like to have children.”

  “I’ll have the fries.”

  I looked out at the water, which was partially blocked by high sand dunes. There were wooden walkways going out to the beach, and someone had built a lookout tower where I saw people with binoculars and cameras. This was a nice piece of the world.

  So we sat there, smelling the fries and salt air, and listening to the surf and the hyperactive children. We could have been anywhere on holiday in the Caribbean or South Florida. But we weren’t. We were, in fact, in Cuba, where, as Sara once said, the police state is not always apparent.

  I noticed that the dozen or so customers were dressed in casual beach attire, including bare feet, whereas Sara and I were dressed more like hikers, complete with boots. Also, I was fairly sure I was the only person on the deck with a gun in my backpack. Fitting into your environment is more a matter of state of mind than of attire, and trying to be inconspicuous draws attention.

  A young waitress wearing black pants and a pink T-shirt came over to our table and wished us buenos días as she checked us out, maybe trying to determine our national origin. I’m Canadian.

  Sara returned the greeting in Spanish, then said in English, “We’d like to see a lunch menu, por favor.”

  “Sí, señora.”

  I thought Sara was señorita. This trip must have aged her.

  “Meanwhile,” I said, “I’ll have a beer. Do you have Corona?”

  “Sí.”

  There is a God. I asked Sara, “Have you thought about what you would like, Anna?”

  “Well, Jonathan, I’d like a daiquiri.”

  “Just like in Toronto.” I said to the waitress, “A daiquiri for the señora, por favor—eh?”

  “Sí, I will return.” And she left.

  Sara said, “You’re an idiot.”

  “You have to immerse yourself in your cover story. Didn’t they teach you that?”

  She had no reply.

  “Can we hang out here until seven?”

  “This place closes at four-thirty.” She looked at me. “Sometimes, before a clandestine rendezvous, it’s best to be static. Sometimes it’s best to be mobile.”

  “They taught you well.”

  “I read Richard Neville novels.”

  “Don’t confuse fact with fiction.” Which reminded me of something. “Do you have our group roster?”

  “I do. I took it in case we could use it for cover. Why?”<
br />
  “I want to get a Hemingway postcard from here and send it to Richard.”

  “Please focus on the mission.”

  “I have many missions in life.”

  “Not if you don’t complete this one.”

  “Right.”

  I looked again at the beach. The sand was almost iridescent, with a touch of blue and pink, and the water was a deep aquamarine. But farther out, I could see whitecaps and wispy clouds scudding quickly from east to west. There was a weather system on the way.

  The waitress returned with our drinks and two lunch menus, and I noticed the prices were in CUCs only, which effectively barred Cubans in their own people’s republic. The waitress said she’d come back for our orders, but we didn’t let her get away. We both ordered the specialty of the house, which was a lobster salad, and I ordered two bottles of water and papas fritas—french fries. I asked the waitress, “Do you know where I can buy postcards?”

  “Sí. Inside you will find these.”

  “Gracias.”

  Sara asked, “Los baños?”

  The waitress directed us to the baños, took our menus, and left.

  I asked, “What are we going to do with all our Cuban pesos?”

  “Save them for next time.”

  Send me a postcard.

  Sara took her backpack and stood. “Keep an eye on our cargo.”

  “Find me a Hemingway postcard.”

  So I sat there, rehydrating with my Corona, which, though it came from Mexico, brought back memories of home. And I looked out at the sea in the same way that the Habaneros on the Malecón stared wistfully at the Straits of Florida. So near, yet so far.

  Actually, Cayo Guillermo was about three hundred and fifty kilometers from Key West—about two hundred and fifty miles from Cayo to Key. That would be about a ten-hour cruise at twenty-five knots, depending on winds, waves, and tides. If we left here at midnight tonight, we should be at Charter Boat Row no later than 10 A.M., and at the Green Parrot in time for lunch. And Fantasy Fest was still in full swing.

  More important, we should be in international waters an hour after leaving here, theoretically safe from Guarda Frontera patrol boats.

  I wasn’t sure what the plan was to transfer our cargo to Fishy Business, but we’d find out at 7 tonight, and I hoped the plan didn’t rely too heavily on a prayer to the Virgin Mary. If it did, I, as captain, would change it.

  One of the obnoxious kids ran over to me, a six- or seven-year-old porker wearing only a bathing suit. He had a paper cup of french fries in his hand that I would have broken his wrist for. He stuffed a handful of fries in his mouth and inquired, “Where are you from?”

  “Canada. Can’t you tell?”

  “We’re from Hamilton. Where are you from?”

  “Toronto.”

  “You sound like an American.”

  “Go play in the riptide.”

  “You’re an American.”

  “Are you a chivato?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Give me a french fry and I’ll tell you.”

  “You mean a chip.”

  Busted by a six-year-old. “Right.”

  He stuck the cup toward me and I grabbed a few fries—chips—before he pulled them away.

  “What’s a . . . chovi—”

  “Comemierda. It’s a smart person. In Spanish. Say it.”

  He got it right on the second try and I encouraged him to use the word with the waitstaff.

  His mother called to him to stop bothering the nice man and he ran off with his chips, yelling, “They’re Americans!”

  Thanks, kid. Well, it wasn’t a crime to be an American in Cayo Guillermo, but it was a crime to be Daniel MacCormick and Sara Ortega in Cuba. I should have shown the kid my Canadian passport. If it fooled him, it would fool the police.

  Sara returned and I decided not to mention the kid. She didn’t spook easily, but she might want to leave before I got my lobster salad.

  She put a stack of postcards on the table. “Pick one. We’ll keep the rest as souvenirs.”

  I was hoping for three million dollars to remember Cuba by, but I wasn’t allowed to say that.

  I flipped through the postcards and found one of a fishing boat that said, Cayo Coco and Cayo Guillermo, Where Ernest Hemingway Loved to Fish. Perfect. “Dear Richard, I hope you liked your T-shirt and I hope you and Cindy went to Rolando’s.”

  “And I hope you get to mail that postcard from Key West.”

  “We will.”

  So we sat there and enjoyed the moment. I glanced at the Buick Roadmaster in the parking area. Almost as important as us getting out of Cuba alive was getting our cargo safely and secretly into the U.S. And that made me think ahead to the American Coast Guard cutters and the DEA intercept boats. But Jack and I and The Maine—now Fishy Business—were in the computer system and we were considered trusted boat owners and crew, and we knew some of the Coast Guard people by name and we’d chatted with them on the radio. Same with U.S. Customs in Key West. And that, I knew, was one of the many good reasons why Carlos and his amigos picked Jack and me for this interesting job.

  Our lobster salads and fries came and we ate and drank in silence, dividing our attention between the sea and the parking area where the Buick wagon sat—and where the police would come if they were looking for us.

  Well, we’d gotten to Cayo Guillermo, and we’d learned that the fleet was still here. That was the good news. The bad news was that Sara and I were by now the subject of a nationwide police hunt. But Cuba was a big island, and the police, as in most police states, were better at intimidation than police science. I was sure that most fugitives were found as a result of chivatos tipping off the police. So we were relatively safe here, in a chivato-free zone.

  Unless, of course, the police had made the connection between me and Fishy Business, which could have happened an hour ago, or could happen an hour from now.

  So that was my analysis of enemy strengths, weaknesses, and capabilities. Now for my friends.

  First, there was Eduardo on the loose. I probably should have stuffed him in a car trunk in Chico’s garage, but Sara would have been upset.

  Next, I still hadn’t gotten my surprise. It wasn’t my birthday, so it had to be something else. Maybe the plan called for leaving me and Jack in Cayo Guillermo. Surprise! But they needed us for the press conference—unless that was all bullshit. But they also needed Jack and me to get the boat past the Coast Guard, and to avoid U.S. Customs. Also, now that we didn’t have the sixty million dollars with us, the chances of Jack and I being double-crossed were greatly reduced. But not zero.

  And finally, I couldn’t help but think—for the last time, until next time—about the three million dollars. Two for me, one for Jack. That would have been a life changer. But maybe the money was still there, and maybe I’d come back for it with Sara—if we didn’t have a life-changing experience here in the next few hours.

  Meanwhile, our contact person at the Melia Hotel didn’t know what night we’d show up, but I hoped he—or she—showed up at the lobby bar every night as instructed. It’s good to see you here.

  Sara asked, “Have you figured out your surprise?”

  “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “Well . . . then maybe I should tell you now.”

  “Now would be good.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Our contact at the Melia bar is Felipe.”

  That was a surprise. But not a big one. And it made sense from a security standpoint—fewer people involved, and someone with skin in the game. “That’s good.” But why did she think I wouldn’t be pleased? Well . . . if I’m so smart, I should know.

  I looked at her, and we made eye contact. “Okay . . .” I think I got it. “Okay . . . and . . . ?”

  “I’m sorry, Mac. You needed to know before we met him.”

  Right. So I could act as though Sara and I were barely on a first-name basis after a week together. Well, these people really did keep it
in the family.

  She looked at me. “I . . . don’t know what to say.”

  “Well . . . me neither. But what were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that we wouldn’t get this far. So it didn’t matter. I wanted you . . . and I guess I should have thought ahead.”

  Well, in truth, I myself don’t often think farther than my dick, but . . . I had to admit I was . . . angry? No, more like surprised at my feelings. When the boyfriend was abstract and in Miami, it didn’t bother me too much. But now that I could put a handsome face on the generic boyfriend, and a name, Felipe, it was starting to hit me—hard.

  “Say something.”

  I looked at her and saw she was upset. I assured her, “When we meet Felipe, I will act as though nothing has happened between us.” I saw Casablanca six times.

  “He’s already half crazy with jealously.”

  “Can’t imagine why.”

  “He’s Cuban.”

  And this was the guy I’d be on the boat with for ten hours. Well, I had a gun. But so did he. I thought back to when I’d asked her, “How well do you know Felipe?” And she’d replied, “I’ve met him.” Well, I guess so. And I also thought back to Sara in Floridita, asking if Jack had asked me if I was sleeping with her. I recalled, too, that Jack had told me that Felipe knew Sara. Was Jack trying to tell me something? Also, Eduardo knew what was going on, maybe from Jack, or maybe from looking into Sara’s eyes at Chico’s garage, and I remembered that Eduardo reminded her that she was committed to a man in Miami. And he’d stared at her when he confirmed what the contact—Felipe—would say. It’s good to see you here.

  So, yes, I had all the clues I needed. Then why didn’t I put them together? Because love is blind.

  In any case, Eduardo had no way of contacting his nephew about his suspicions. And he never would. So I assured her again, “I will be an officer and a gentleman.”

  “Is that all you have to say.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to say you want me.”

  She may have watched too many Cuban soap operas, which was what this was starting to sound like.