On that subject, the Coast Guard had offered us rides home, and Sara and Felipe went to Miami together. Jack wanted a ride to Miami Airport, destination Newark Airport, to see his sister in Hoboken, which was good. Me going to Miami with the three of them would be awkward, so I asked for a ride to Key West. That was two days ago. Sara and I hadn’t exchanged landline numbers, so we both had good excuses for not calling. She had said, however, “Let me work this out and I’ll come see you in Key West.”
I guess she was still working it out. If it took two more days, we’d be passing each other on the Overseas Highway as I was heading north to Maine. I’d always thought about making that trip by car, starting right here at Zero Mile, and following old U.S. One to Portland. So now I decided to do this. Should be interesting. And give me time to clear my head. My parents will be pleasantly surprised at the return of their prodigal son.
I started walking home, but my feet took me toward Charter Boat Row.
On my way through the quiet, palm-lined streets, I gave some additional thought to Cuba—not to what I’d seen, heard, and experienced, but what I hadn’t.
As best I could figure—drawing on my limited knowledge of clandestine operations—Eduardo and his amigos had gone to their amigos in the CIA with a plan. The CIA obviously liked the plan and offered to back it. They were suckers for any plan that included screwing Cuba, even if it wasn’t their own plan. But the CIA likes to control other people’s plans, and take credit if the plan goes well, or take a hike if it goes south.
Bottom line, I was certain that the CIA was more interested in the remains of the American servicemen murdered in Villa Marista prison than they were in Sara’s grandpa’s money hidden in a cave. I was sure the money once existed, and that was Sara’s deep belief. But there was no way of knowing if the money was still there, and if it was, the CIA didn’t care. It wasn’t their money. As for the property deeds, I think the CIA thought these documents might be useful to have in their possession—and not the possession of the Cuban exile community who had their own agenda and did crazy things.
I could imagine the Company seeming to be enthusiastic about Eduardo’s press conference in Miami, and about the storm of outrage it would cause in Congress, the media, the public, and within the MIA and veterans’ organizations. Bye-bye Cuban Thaw.
The CIA, however, had no intention of leaving something as important as American foreign policy to the Cuban exile community. In fact, the Company, while approving and backing the plan of Eduardo and his friends, pictured a different outcome: The Company would take charge of the evidence and control how, when, and if it would be revealed.
I mean, this was a no-brainer, and I was surprised that Eduardo and his amigos didn’t see how the last act was going to be re-written by their CIA partners. And the reason they didn’t see this, I think, is that the Cuban exile community, like the CIA, had such a big hard-on for screwing the Castro brothers that they couldn’t see or think straight. Blinded by hate, the way guys get blinded by lust.
I had no idea what the CIA intended to do with the contents of those two trunks, and for all I knew, the Company—maybe on orders from the top—had come onboard for the Cuban Thaw, and they were going to bury the evidence that would screw it up, like they buried The Maine. Or maybe they’d reveal to certain people in Washington the existence and contents of the trunks, to be used as a bargaining chip in the negotiations. Not my problem, except that I’d like to see those remains returned to their families. And maybe they would be. Quietly. Someday. But in the meantime, the CIA’s story was that the trunks had gone to the bottom of Davy Jones’ locker. Keith said he was sorry about that.
Bottom line, Eduardo, Carlos, Sara, Jack, and I had been used and screwed. As for Felipe, he was obviously the Company’s man in Cuba. He had worked with the CIA on our escape plan, but when the escape by boat became a naval battle, he wanted to broadcast a surrender to the Cuban patrol boats—or more likely he was actually broadcasting a pre-arranged message to his CIA friends that we were in trouble. In either case, it seemed to me that he’d lost his nerve, and maybe lost his trust in his CIA amigos. It happens. But all’s well that ends well; the Black Hawks came to the rescue.
The CIA’s motto, “The truth shall set you free,” was kind of an understood joke, while Key West’s motto, “One Human Family,” is a sad joke. Somewhere in between the cynical lies and a naïve trust in the human race was the true human condition: complex and capable of anything from heroism and self-sacrifice to betrayal and murder. That’s what I saw in Afghanistan, and what I saw in Cuba.
And my final thought on all this was that if we and The Maine had made it to Key West, Keith and his colleagues would have been there to relieve us of the trunks. In the end, there was no way those trunks were going to wind up at a press conference.
The Black Hawk’s timing was a little off, however, and I didn’t know if that had to do with the storm, or if it had to do with Keith not fully understanding our situation, or if it had to do with typical chain-of-command inability to act quickly and decisively. Or maybe, to be cynical, the Company was trying to decide if this whole mission needed to be buried at sea. As I said, I’d worked with CIA Special Ops in Afghanistan, and they were good at what they did. And when they made mistakes—like directing a drone to launch a Hellfire missile into a house full of civilians—it was not a mistake; it had a purpose, and you’d never know what that was, because dead men tell no tales.
So, that was my post-action report and my estimation of the completed but unsuccessful mission. More importantly, my DEROS—Date of Estimated Return from Overseas—had come, and I was home.
My post-action report regarding Sara Ortega, however, was more complicated, and that awaited further Intel.
In life, love, and war, there are usually identifiable winners and losers. But with this Cuban mission, it was hard to tell if anyone won. I think Sara understood that Felipe hadn’t been completely honest with her, and I was sure that the CIA hadn’t been honest with Felipe—or Eduardo. And those two certainly hadn’t been honest with me. Nor had Sara, for that matter, but I’m sure she thought she was lying to me for my own good. That’s the way we justify lies to people we love. As for Felipe, he lied for his own good, but I fucked his girlfriend, so we’d call it even. Did I miss anyone? Well, Jack, who never trusted anyone from the beginning. Old guys have seen too much, and they trust no one. That would be me someday if I lived long enough. As for Carlos . . . well, Fishy Business indeed.
And all of this reminded me of Antonio quoting Hemingway about how the Cubans always double-crossed each other. I guess Hemingway lived in Cuba long enough to come to this conclusion—and he hadn’t even met Antonio, Carlos, Felipe, or Eduardo. Or Sara Ortega, who hadn’t actually double-crossed me, but who’d lied to me. It occurred to me that the Cuban exile groups and the CIA deserved each other.
I mean, this was all one big circle jerk, and if anyone was a winner, maybe it was the CIA. They needed a win in Cuba. They were long overdue.
I arrived at Charter Boat Row and walked out to the end of the long dock where The Maine had once been berthed, as I’d done so many times in the early-morning hours before sunrise.
The last slip was empty, so no one had yet taken it over.
I looked out at Garrison Bight, at the harbor lights reflecting off the water, and at the clear, starry sky and the moon setting in the west.
I recalled the last time I’d seen The Maine here, the night before Jack drove me to Miami International Airport. I think I’d had a premonition then that I’d never see her again, but that had more to do with me not making it home than The Maine not making it home.
I thought, too, of the time that Carlos, Eduardo, and Sara had come walking down this dock, and Jack saying, “Hey! She’s a looker.” He should have added, “I see trouble coming.” Not that it would have made a difference.
I didn’t feel like going home, so I sat on the dock with my back to a piling and stared out at the water and
the sky and smelled the salt air, which always reminds me of being a kid in Maine.
It seemed to me that there was a purpose to all that happened, and the purpose was to free me of all my worldly possessions, my debts and obligations, and also to free myself from what had become the equivalent of my job on Wall Street.
Also, I’d more than fulfilled my wish to have a new adventure. I could have done without the shoot-out in the mangrove swamp or the drive-by shooting with the Zhuk, and for sure I could have done without the 30mm cannon fire. But everything was within my skill set, and a return to combat duty was just what an Army shrink would have ordered to make me healthy and happy. The best cure for post-traumatic stress is new stress.
And now I needed to decide what to do next, which I would do tomorrow. Or the next day. My road trip to Maine sounded good.
I think I drifted a bit, and in those unguarded minutes of half-sleep, Sara’s face and voice crept into my thoughts.
I’d obviously fallen hard, but the reality was that we had not a single thing going for us outside of Cuba. Holiday romances can be intense, but as the old song said, too many moonlight kisses seem to cool in the warmth of the sun.
Aside from the good sex, there was the question of trust. I don’t know as much about women as I think I do, but I was fairly sure that Sara’s lies were situational, a requirement of the mission, and not who she was. That’s why she gave me a copy of the treasure map: to show she trusted me, but also to atone for her lies. I could forgive the lies she’d been instructed to tell me, and the lies of omission—except the lies about Felipe, which were more personal than professional—and she’d lied to him, too. And that could be a peek into the future. And what the hell was she doing in Miami?
So I should consider myself lucky that I’d dodged that bullet along with the others. Mac was free at last.
* * *
The sky was getting lighter and the gulls were squawking.
I stood, yawned, and stretched. I’d spent a lot of nights sleeping on my boat, but not many sleeping on the dock.
Charter Boat Row was coming alive and I saw crews and captains getting their boats ready for customers who’d be along in an hour or so. Now that I was not part of this, I could admit it wasn’t so bad, and I would miss it.
I took a last look at The Maine’s empty slip, and I pictured her there, then I turned to walk back along the dock to go home for a cup of coffee and start packing for Maine. Did I own a sweater?
At first I thought I was still half asleep, or my brain was still conjuring up ghost images, or maybe like a lot of guys who’ve loved and lost, I was seeing her face on every woman walking by. But the woman walking toward me on the dock was wearing white jeans, a blue Polo shirt, and a baseball cap. She had a nice stride.
She waved to me and called out, “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”
We didn’t exactly run into each other’s arms, but we did move pretty fast, and within a few seconds we were embracing, and she said, “Permission to come aboard.”
“Welcome aboard.”
Corny, I know. But . . . what the hell.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
All good fiction is based on fact, and I am fortunate to know people who know more things than I can find on the Internet.
First, I’d like to thank a man who I met in Cuba, and who gave it to me straight about contemporary Cuban politics, culture, and life. He wishes to remain anonymous for obvious reasons, but he’s given himself the code name “Lola.” Thank you, Lola, wherever you are, and take care.
There are many nautical scenes in this book, and growing up on Long Island I know many weekend sailors. I asked four of them to read and vet the scenes set on the high seas. Any mistakes in those scenes are mine alone.
First, thanks to my longtime friend Tom Eschmann, who, like my main character, “Mac,” has fished and sailed the waters of Key West, and there’s little that Tom doesn’t know about boats. Tom is not only an avid fisherman and a great sailor, he’s also an avid reader of fiction, and this happy combination has helped me lend realism to these scenes.
Similarly, my childhood friend Dan Barbiero has spent what amounts to years on the water. Dan (Yale ’66) and his wife, Helen, accompanied me and my wife to Cuba on our Yale educational travel trip, and we learned a lot about Cuban rum and other things. To help me research this book, Dan took lots of notes and many pictures of daiquiris and mojitos, and a few photos of Havana. Thanks, Dan and Helen, for making the trip lively.
I’ve often thanked and acknowledged my great friend John Kennedy, labor arbitrator, and former Deputy Police Commissioner of Nassau County (NY) and Member of the New York State Bar, for sharing with me his expertise in criminal justice and the law. And now I’d like to thank John for sharing his knowledge of the sea. John is a true Renaissance man.
My fourth sailor, Dave Westermann, is also a great friend, a great lawyer, and a great sailor. Weekend cruises with Dave on Long Island Sound and around Manhattan Island on his luxury cabin cruiser that I helped pay for have been a mixture of business and pleasure, and tax deductible to the extent allowed by law.
After thirty-five years with the same publisher, you may have noticed that I am now published by Simon & Schuster, a venerable institution in New York publishing, where I was welcomed with open arms, as though my reputation had not preceded me. Most welcoming were Carolyn Reidy, President and CEO, Jonathan Karp, President and Publisher, and my new and terrific editor, Marysue Rucci, whose own reputation as an excellent editor and author wrangler is well deserved. Thanks to everyone at S&S for making the transition easy and fun.
I would not have been at Simon & Schuster if it weren’t for the efforts and good advice of my savvy and hardworking literary agents, Jenn Joel and Sloan Harris of ICM Partners. Jenn and Sloan love the written word and it shows in the passion they bring to their profession. Sometimes we even talk about money.
This book is peppered with Spanish, and my Spanish is limited to “Corona, por favor,” but I was fortunate to have Spanish speaker Yadira Gallop-Marquez working down the hall from my writing office. Gracias, Yadira, for your patience and your time.
My good friend Michael Smerconish, novelist, journalist, TV and radio host, and political gadfly, was kind enough to share with me his experiences in Cuba, which inspired some of the scenes in this book. Thanks, Michael, for your years of support and enthusiasm for my writing.
As I’ve done in my last dozen or so books, I want to take this opportunity to thank my two fabulous assistants, Dianne Francis and Patricia Chichester. If it’s true that no one wants to see how sausages or laws are made, then it’s doubly true that no reader wants to see how books are written. It’s not pretty. But someone has to see this, and Dianne and Patricia see me, hear me, and put up with me during my many months of sausage-making. Truly, this book would not have happened without them. Thanks again, and know I am appreciative.
Social media has become a mixed blessing for authors. I love that I can reach out to my readers, and vice versa, but the nuances of social media sometimes present a challenge. The solution is to hire someone who’s less than half your age, and I did that when I engaged the services of Katy Greene, CEO and founder of Greene Digital Marketing. Thanks, Katy, for all your help, advice, professionalism, patience, and creativity. I have seen the future, and it is you.
And many thanks to my daughter, Lauren, and my son Alex, who are the perennial early readers of my manuscripts and who are repaying me for all the homework I helped them with. And thanks to my son James (age eleven), who is coauthoring his next funny novel with me.
The last shall be first, and that’s my wife, Sandy Dillingham. It’s not easy living with a writer (Cosmos help) but Sandy, a former book publicist, understands how to deal with authors—be patient but firm, compliment their writing, but be honest, and ignore their moods. Love you.
* * *
The following people or their families have made generous contributions in c
harity auctions in return for having their name used as a character in this novel:
Alexandra Mancusi—Cancer Center for Kids at Winthrop-University Hospital; Scott Mero—FACES (Finding a Cure for Epilepsy & Seizures), NYU Langone Medical Center; Dave Katz—Robert F. Kennedy Center for Justice & Human Rights; Ragnar Knutsen—Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory; Ashleigh Arote—Crohn’s & Colitis Foundation; Professor Barry Nalebuff—Robert F. Kennedy Center for Justice & Human Rights.
I hope they all enjoy their fictitious alter egos and that they continue their good work for worthy causes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© JOHN ELLIS KORDES
Nelson DeMille is the New York Times bestselling author of nineteen novels, six of which were #1 New York Times bestsellers. His novels include Radiant Angel, Plum Island, The Charm School, The Gold Coast, and The General’s Daughter, which was made into a major motion picture starring John Travolta and Madeleine Stowe. He has written short stories, book reviews, and articles for anthologies, magazines, and newspapers. Nelson DeMille is a combat-decorated U.S. Army veteran, a member of Mensa, Poets & Writers, and the Authors Guild, and a member and past president of the Mystery Writers of America. He is also a member of the International Thriller Writers, who honored him as 2015 ThrillerMaster of the Year. He lives on Long Island with his family.
For more information, please visit www.nelsondemille.net
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NOVELS BY NELSON DeMILLE
By the Rivers of Babylon
Cathedral
The Cuban Affair Page 40