The Cuban Affair

Chapter 1

I was standing at the bar in the Green Parrot, waiting for a guy named Carlos from Miami who’d called my cell a few days ago and said he might have a job for me.

Carlos did not give me his last name, but he had ID’d himself as a Cuban American. I don’t know why I needed to know that, but I told him I was Scots-Irish-English American, in case he was wondering.

My name is Daniel Graham MacCormick — Mac for short — age thirty-five, and I’ve been described as tall, tan, and ruggedly handsome. This comes from the gay clientele in the Parrot, but I’ll take it. I live here on the island of Key West, and I am the owner and skipper of a 42-foot deep-sea fishing charter boat called The Maine, named for my home state — not for the American battleship that blew up in Havana Harbor, though some people think that.

I usually book my charters by phone, and most of my customers are repeats or referrals, or they checked out my website. The party just shows up fifteen minutes before sailing, and off we go for marlin, sailfish, tuna, sharks, or whatever. Or maybe the customer wants a sightseeing cruise. Now and then I get a fishing tournament or a romantic sunset cruise. Whatever the customer wants. As long as it’s legal.

But this guy, Carlos, wanted to meet first, coming all the way down from Miami, and he sounded a bit cryptic, making me think we weren’t talking about fishing.

The barmaid, Amber, inquired, “Ready for another?”

“Hold the lime.”

Amber popped another Corona and stuck a lime wedge in the neck. “Lime’s on me.”

Amber is pretty but getting a little hard behind the bar. Like nearly everyone here in what we call the Conch Republic, she’s from someplace else, and she has a story.

I, too, am from someplace else — Maine, as I said, specifically Portland, which is directly connected to Key West by U.S. Highway One, or by a cruise up the coast, but Portland is as far from here as Pluto is from the sun. FYI, I spent five years in the U.S. Army as an infantry officer and got blown up in Afghanistan. That’s the short story of how I wound up here. The long story is a long story, and no one in Key West wants to hear long stories.

It was about 5 P.M., give or take an hour. The citizens of the Conch Republic are not into clocks, which is why they’re here. We’re on sun time. Also, we have officially seceded from the United States, so we are all expats. I actually have a rainbow-hued Conch Republic passport, issued by the self-appointed Secretary General of the Republic, a guy named Larry who has a small office over on Angela Street. The passport was a gag gift from my first mate, Jack Colby, who like me is an Army vet. Jack got screwed up in ’Nam, and he’s still screwed up but in an old-guy sort of way, so my customers think he’s just grumpy, not crazy. His favorite T-shirt says: “Guns Don’t Kill People. I Kill People.” Maybe he is crazy.

I wasn’t sure of the time, but I was sure of the month — October. End of hurricane season, so business was picking up.

Amber, who was wearing a tank top, was sipping a black coffee, surveying the crowd. The Green Parrot’s regular clientele are eclectic and eccentric and mostly barefoot. The owner, Pat, is a bit crazy himself, and he tells the tourists that the parachute hanging on the ceiling is weighed down with termite turds.

Amber asked, “How’s business?”

“Summer was okay. September sucked. Picking up.”

“You were going to take me for a sail in September.”

“I did a lot of maintenance on the boat.”

“I thought you were going to sail to Maine.”

“I thought so, too.”

“If you ever go, let me know.”

“You’ll need a sweater.”

A customer called for another and Amber moved off.

I’ve never actually slept with Amber, but we did go skinny-dipping once off Fort Zachary Taylor. She has a butterfly tattoo on her butt.

The place was starting to fill up and I exchanged greetings with a few people. Freaks, geeks, loveable weirdos, and a few Hemingway look-alikes. He used to live here, and you can see his house for ten bucks. You can see mine for free. Bring a six-pack. Anyway, Key West’s official motto is “One Human Family.” Well, they haven’t met my family. And they haven’t been to Afghanistan to see the rest of the human family. Or, like Jack, to Vietnam. Or if they have, they’re here, like me and Jack, to float in a sea of alcohol-induced amnesia. I’ve been here four years. Five is enough to forget why you came here. After that, you’re not going home.

But, hey, it could be worse. This is paradise. Better than two tours in Allfuckedupistan. Better than freezing my ass off in Maine. And definitely better than 23 Wall Street, where I worked for a year after graduating from Bowdoin College. If I’d stayed with Hamlin Equities I’d now be dead from boredom.

Instead, I was captain of The Maine, and a former captain of infantry with a fifty percent combat disability and a quarter-million-dollar bank loan on my boat. The fifty percent disability is for pay purposes and I have no physical limitations except for housecleaning. The bank loan is a hundred percent pain in the ass.

But when I’m out there on the sea, especially at night, I am free. I am captain of my own fate.

Which was why I agreed to meet Carlos the Cuban, who was not interested in fishing. That much I understood from our short phone conversation. And I wouldn’t be the first sea captain who got involved with these people.

Well, I’d listen and see if I could make an intelligent decision — like I did when I left Wall Street and joined the Army for adventure. How’d that work out, Mac?

Being captain of your own fate doesn’t mean you always make good decisions.

Chapter 2

A well-dressed man came through the open double doors and I knew it was Carlos. He was good-looking, maybe late thirties, with a full head of well-styled brown hair and pale skin. He wore neatly pressed beige linen slacks, Gucci loafers, and an expensive-looking Polo shirt the color of my lime wedge. I had the impression of a man who had stood in his air-conditioned walk-in closet this morning trying to figure out what to wear to Key West to blend in. Unfortunately he failed. But no one here is judgmental, and in fact some of the gay clientele seemed intrigued.

I’d chosen to dress up a bit for the meeting and I wore clean jeans, boat shoes instead of flip flops, and a designer T-shirt that said: “Designer T-Shirt.”

I knew Carlos hadn’t picked me out of the Yellow Pages, so he knew something about me and he’d determined that Daniel Graham MacCormick might want to work for him. Well, maybe I did, but I damn sure wasn’t going to make a midnight run to Cuba.

Carlos spotted me at the bar and walked toward me. He put out his hand. “Carlos.”

“Mac.” We shook.

“Thank you for meeting me.”

When someone thanks me for meeting him, he has something to sell me. Or Carlos was just a polite gentleman. He was probably third generation and he had no Cuban accent, but you can tell that these people are bilingual by their well-modulated English and their slightly skewed syntax. Also, a lot of them used their Spanish first names, so he wasn’t Carl. I asked, “What are you drinking?”

He looked at my Corona. “The same.”

I caught Amber’s attention and ordered two Coronas.

Amber checked out Carlos, liking what she saw, but Carlos didn’t notice because he was checking out the Green Parrot, not sure of what he was seeing. I could have met Carlos on the boat, but something told me that I should meet him in a public place, and he had no objection to that, which was good for starters. Plus, he could pick up my bar tab.

Amber gave Carlos his Corona with a lime and a smile, and slid mine across the bar.

Carlos and I clinked and he said, “Cheers.”

I noticed he was wearing a Rolex. I asked him, “You been to Key West?”

“No.”

“How’d you come?”

“I drove.”

It’s about a four-hour drive from Miami, down U.S. One, known here as the Overseas Highway, which connects the hundred-mile-long archipelago of islands, bridge by bridge, until it reaches Key West, the last island, ninety miles from Cuba. Some people say it’s the most scenic drive in America; others find it a little nerve-wracking and take a boat or plane the next time. Or never come back. Which is fine with some of the full-time residents of independent means. I, however, depend on mainland customers. Like Carlos. Who drove four hours to see me. “So what can I do for you?”

“I’m interested in chartering your boat for a cruise to Cuba.”

I didn’t respond.

“There is a fishing tournament, sailing from here to Havana in a few weeks.”

“Does the Cuban Navy know about this?”

He smiled. “This is an authorized event, of course — the Pescando Por la Paz.” He reminded me, “We are normalizing relations. The Cuban Thaw.”

“Right.” I’d heard about the new fishing tournament with the double-entendre name — Pescando Por la Paz, Fishing for Peace — but I wasn’t involved in it. Back in the Nineties, before my time, there used to be regular fishing tournaments and sailing regattas between the U.S. and Cuba, including the seventy-year-old Hemingway Tournament, but George II put a stop to all that. Now it was opening up again. The Cuban Thaw. The Key West Chamber of Commerce even had a new slogan: “Two Nations, One Vacation.” Catchy. But not happening yet.

Carlos asked, “So, are you interested?”

I drank some beer. Well, maybe this was all legit, and Carlos didn’t want me to sail into Havana Harbor and blow up The Maine, or rescue some dissidents or something.

I had some questions for Carlos — like who was he — but questions mean you’re interested. And that means the price is open to negotiation. “I get twelve hundred for an eight-hour day. Tournament rates depend on variables.”

Carlos nodded. “This is a ten-day event, beginning on Saturday the twenty-fourth, and returning on Monday, November second — the Day of the Dead.”

“The...?”

“What we call All Souls’ Day in the U.S.”

“Right. Sounds better.” A fishing tournament is usually four to six days, but Carlos explained, “The tournament fleet first makes an overnight goodwill stop in Havana, then the fleet sails to the tournament in Cayo Guillermo, a day’s cruise east of Havana. Do you know this place?”

“No.”

“It was the favorite deep-sea fishing place of Ernesto.” He smiled. “Hemingway, not Guevara.”

That must be an old Cuban joke.

He continued, “It was the setting for his famous book, Islands in the Stream. Have you read it?”

“I have.”

“So you know the place already. Some of the best pelagic fishing in the world.”

I was impressed that he knew what “pelagic” meant. The price just went up.

“The tournament is for bill fish — sailfish, swordfish, and marlin. Are you available?”

“Maybe. That’s a lot of diesel. Let’s say three thousand a day.”

He seemed to be doing the math, and if he was good at it, that came to thirty thousand. Which I could use. I don’t usually do a pitch, but I told him, “The Maine sleeps four comfortably, or five close friends. My first mate and I give up our berths. Price includes fishing gear, fuel, bait, and whatever. I assume this is catch and release, because I can’t keep big fish on ice. You supply the food and drink, and I need to see your license and permits for Cuba.” I reminded him, “Florida does not impose a sales tax on charter fishing, so thirty thousand is the total with no extra charges except a tip for the first mate at let’s say ten percent. I don’t take tips.” I also told him, “I’d have to cancel some previous bookings.”

“Your website shows only one booking in that time period.”

“Really? I need to update that. So, that’s the price.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. MacCormick.”

“Captain.”

“Captain.” He glanced around. “Let’s get a table.”

“Why?”

“There are some other details you need to know.”

Well, I was afraid of that. “Look... Carlos, I do charter cruises. Fishing, sightseeing, sometimes a party cruise. I guess I can do a tournament — even to Cuba — but I don’t do other things. Understand?”

Carlos didn’t reply and his silence said it all.

“But thanks for thinking of me.” I asked Amber to give the bar tab to Carlos and I wished him a safe trip back to Miami.

He replied, “Two million.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

I said to Amber, “Hold that tab.” I said to Carlos, “Let’s get a table, amigo.”

Chapter 3

We took our beers to a back table and sat.

I can’t imagine how many shady deals have gone down in this place over the last hundred and twenty-five years, but if the Green Parrot could talk, it would say, “Show me the money.”

“Two million,” I said.

“Correct.”

“For a fishing tournament.”

“No. That’s thirty thousand. Certified check up front. The two million is cash, payable on completion of a job in Cuba.”

“Sounds like a tough job.” I asked, “With whom would I be doing business?”

Carlos took a business card out of his pocket and slid it across the table.

I looked at it. Carlos Macia, Attorney. He had a good South Beach address, but there was no name of a law firm.

He said, “I’m well-known in Miami.”

“For what?”

“For being heavily involved with anti-Castro groups.”

I left the card on the table and looked at Carlos Macia. Odd as it sounds, I was happy to be dealing with a lawyer. Some of these anti-Castro guys were cowboys, sometimes hare-brained, and often dangerous to themselves and others. I looked at him. “Who recommended me?”

“Amigos.”

“Explain what you need, Counselor.”

He looked around the crowded room. “The walls have ears.”

“Actually, they have termites. And no one here cares what we’re talking about. Look, Mr. Macia, you have offered me two million dollars and it will not surprise you that I could use the money, but—”

“You can pay off your bank loan on The Maine.”

“But I will not do anything illegal for the money.”

“I would not ask you to. I am an attorney.”

“And your amigos? Are they attorneys?”

“No. But I can assure you, the only laws you’ll be breaking are Cuban laws. Does that bother you?”

“Only if I get caught.”

“And that’s the point. If you don’t get caught you are two million dollars richer, and you have broken no American laws.” He smiled. “Unless you don’t pay your income tax on the money.”

On the subject of death, taxes, and getting caught, I asked Carlos, “How dangerous?”

“That’s for you to determine when you hear about the job.”

“How dangerous, Carlos?”

“Cuba is dangerous.”

“You expect me to risk my life for a measly two million taxable dollars?”

He looked at my bare arms. The shrapnel and burn scars didn’t tan well. “You risked your life for far less in Afghanistan.”

“It was a government job. Free medical.”

“You were awarded the Silver Star and two Purple Hearts. So you’re no stranger to danger.”

I didn’t reply.

“This is why we thought of you.”

Again, I didn’t reply.

“And you have a good boat.” He smiled. “And I like the name. The Maine. Very symbolic. Part of our shared history.”

“I named it after my home state. Not the battleship.”

“Yes, you’re from Portland. And you have no family responsibilities here, and no one to answer to except yourself. Also, we know that as a former Army officer you are a man we can trust.”

“Sometimes I drink too much.”

“As long as you don’t talk too much. Also, you have no ties to the anti-Castro groups, and I assume you have no positive feelings toward the Communist regime. Correct?”

“Between you and me, Carlos, I don’t give a damn one way or the other.”

“So you say. But if I had to bet money — and I do — I’d say you’d like to see those Communist bastards gone.” He smiled again. “You could run charters to Havana.”

“I can do that when relations improve.”

“Don’t hold your breath. Meanwhile, I have two million dollars on the table.”

I looked at the table. There was nothing there except his card and an ashtray. You can still smoke in this joint. I said, “The thirty thousand for the tournament sounds good.”

“Captain, I don’t really care about the tournament. That’s just the cover, as you know. In fact, you will not be sailing to Cuba on The Maine. Your first mate, Jack Colby, will. We will supply another crew member along with three avid fishermen. You will be flying to Havana on an authorized charter with one of my clients, and at some point after your job is done you will meet up with your boat and sail it out of Cuba.”

“With what onboard?”

He leaned toward me. “About sixty million dollars of American currency. Two of which are yours to keep.”

“Five.”

Carlos looked at me. “You’ll have to negotiate that with my clients.”

“Okay. And how’s my first mate compensated?”

“That’s up to you.” He informed me, “Mister Colby does not need to risk his life, and therefore does not need to know many of the details.”

“Who else is risking their lives?”

“A few others.”

“You?”

“No. I am persona non grata in Cuba.”

“Right.” Well, I’d promised myself in the hospital that I’d be more careful in the future. But...

Carlos glanced at his Rolex. “I think I’ve given you enough information for you to decide if you’d like to hear more from my clients, who are available now.”

I thought about that. The mission briefing. I’d volunteered for dangerous missions because it was for my country. This was for money. A lot of it. And maybe it wasn’t as dangerous as Carlos thought. For Carlos, a Miami lawyer, driving back to Miami after dark was dangerous. But for me, the danger bar was so high that even now, four years after Afghanistan, I felt there wasn’t much I couldn’t handle. But maybe that’s how I wound up in the hospital.

Carlos said, “My client, who will fly with you to Havana, can speak to you tonight. She will be very honest with you.”

She?

“Also, to be honest, we are interviewing others for this job.”

“Take the lowest bidder.” I stood. “And please take care of the bill.”

Carlos stood. “I can have my two clients at your boat in fifteen minutes. You should hear what they have to say.”

“I’ve heard enough.”

He looked very disappointed. “All right. I’ll let my clients know. Or... I have an idea. You can let them know yourself. Can we charter your boat for a sunset cruise tonight? What do you charge for that?”

Carlos was slick. Or thought he was. I should have said, “Adios,” but I said, “Make me an offer.”

“Two thousand.”

“How many people?”

“Three, including me.”

“Meet me at my boat in half an hour. What do you drink?”

“Cuba Libre.” He smiled.

“See you later. Give the barmaid a good tip.”

I walked through the noisy barroom, waved to Amber, and went out to Whitehead. Close by was the Zero Mile Marker for U.S. Highway One, the literal end of the road that started in Maine. I’ve had a lot of profound thoughts about that, usually fueled by a few beers. And I just had another thought: A journey of a hundred miles to Havana begins with a single misstep.

Chapter 4

Key West is only about a mile wide and four miles long, so walking or biking is a healthy way to get around, especially if drinking is in your plans. I’d walked to the Green Parrot from my rented bungalow on Pine Street, so I began walking to the marina. There was a nice breeze blowing through the palms, and it was a clear day, so it should be a two-thousand-dollar sunset.

I texted Jack, who was supposed to be getting the boat cleaned up in case the Cuban guy had wanted to see it: Got 3 customers for sundowners. Cuba Libres, ASAP.

Well, if nothing else, I made two thousand bucks tonight. What would I do with a couple million anyway?

I turned onto Duval, Key West’s main street, which is a mile of bars, drag shows, T-shirt shops, boutique hotels, and a street scene that makes Mardi Gras look tame. I especially enjoy Fantasy Fest on Duval in the week leading up to Halloween, when lots of ladies wear nothing but body paint — which I’d miss this year if I was in Cuba.

I got a text back from Jack, who has a flip phone and just learned how to text on it: This the Cuban guy you met at Parrot?

I replied, Yes. And stop asking the captain questions.

I wanted to get to my boat before my customers, so I flagged a cab to take me to Charter Boat Row.

Key West has about twenty-five thousand people, excluding tourists, but it feels like a smaller town and the full-time residents tend to know each other, and I knew the cabbie, Dave Katz, who used to drive a taxi in New York. He asked, “You sailing tonight?”

“Sunset cruise.”

“Good. How’s business?”

“Picking up.”

“I hope.” He said, “When they open Cuba, we’re all screwed.”

“Why’s that?”

“Tourists are gonna fly to Havana. Cruise ships won’t even stop here any more.”

I reminded him, “Two nations, one vacation.”

“Bullshit. We’re screwed.”

I also reminded Dave, “They don’t have Fantasy Fest in Havana.”

Dave laughed, then said, “In five years, Havana will look like it did before Castro. Sex shows, gambling, teenage prostitutes, cheap rum and cigars. How we gonna compete with that?”

“I don’t know, Dave. Haven’t thought about it.”

“You should. The Cubans know how to make money. Look at Miami. They own the place. Soon as the Commies are gone, Havana will be like Miami. But with gambling. And cheaper. We’re screwed.”

Fortunately it was a short ride to Charter Boat Row, and I gave Dave a twenty and some advice. “Buy a fifty-six Buick and move to Havana.”

“Not funny, Mac. You’ll see. People’ll be fishing out of Havana for half what you charge. You’ll be cutting bait, working for the Cubans.”

I might already be working for the Cubans. “Adios, amigo.”

“Screw that.”

The sign outside the marina said: HISTORIC CHARTER BOAT ROW. EXPERIENCED CAPTAINS. That’s me.

I walked along the finger dock and a few captains and crew, experienced and otherwise, called out greetings while knocking down the suds, so they weren’t sailing tonight. But business should pick up. It always does. And I had a bank payment due on The Maine. And an engine overhaul bill. Maybe I’d be happier cutting bait in Havana. Or maybe it was time to go home.

I had intended to sail The Maine to Portland in September to explore that possibility, but I didn’t. So now I was thinking about calling my father to talk about that. But like most down Easters, my father was a man of few words. If I’d gotten killed overseas and he had to put my obit in the Portland Press Herald at twenty dollars a word he’d be Yankee frugal and Maine taciturn and just say: Daniel MacCormick died. If it had to be a six-word minimum he’d show his practical side and add: Car for sale.

Well, maybe I’m being hard on the old man. He was proud of me when I joined the Army, and before my second deployment to Afghanistan he advised, “Come back.” Well, I did, and he seemed pleased about that, but a bit concerned about my physical injuries, though not so much about post-traumatic stress, which he doesn’t believe in. He liked to say he came back from Vietnam the same as when he left, which, according to my mother, is unfortunately true.

Regarding war, the MacCormicks have fought for their country since they arrived in the New World in the early 1700s, killing Indians, Frenchmen, Brits, Confederates, Germans, Japanese, and assorted Commies without regard to race, religion, or ethnic background. My older brother Web fought in the second Iraq war, so we also have dead Arabs on the family hit list, and I knocked off a few Afghanis to ensure true diversity. But if you met my family or knew my ancestors, I’m sure you’d think they were all fine, peaceful people. And we are. But we’ve always done our duty to God and country, which sometimes means somebody has to die.

After I killed my first Taliban, the men in my company gave me a T-shirt that said: “The Road To Paradise Begins With Me.” Jack loved that shirt so I gave it to him. He has an interesting collection.

My father, Webster senior, is a weekend sailor and a weekday certified financial planner, very risk averse with his clients’ money and tight as a crab’s ass with his own. I’d love to sail home with a few million in the bank and flip the old man half a million to invest for me. My mother, June, a Bedell, is a third-grade teacher at a private elementary school, though she doesn’t particularly like children, including maybe her own. Most of the MacCormicks and Bedells are college grads and according to my father the youngsters have all been educated beyond their intelligence. He may be right.

Like a lot of New Englanders, my family’s politics are a mixture of progressive and conservative. We believe in taking care of the less fortunate, but we don’t want that to cost us money. As for me, I am apolitical, and as for Yankee frugality, I missed that class. If I had, for instance, two million dollars I’d buy drinks for the house at the Green Parrot and take Amber on a long cruise. My financial advisor is Jack Colby, who likes to say, “I spent most of my money on booze and broads and I wasted the rest of it.”

Well, I guess it goes without saying that Portland and Key West, though connected by the same ocean and the same road, are different places. And it also goes without saying that unlike my father, I am not the same man I was when I left home. But we are all One Human Family, fishing for peace. Meanwhile, I’d listen to what Carlos and his clients had to say about fishing for money. Costs nothing to listen. Better yet, I was getting paid for it.

Chapter 5

I came to the end of the dock where The Maine was tied. The bank and I own a beautiful 42-foot Wesmac Sport Fisherman, built in 2001 by Farrin’s Boatshop in Walpole, Maine. The original owner had custom outfitted the boat with a tuna tower, a hydraulic bandit reel, two fighting chairs, and other expensive boy toys. The Maine is powered by a Cat 800-horsepower diesel, and even with the tuna tower and other commercial extras she cruises at about twenty-five knots, which gets her out to the usual fishing spots quickly.

If Cuba was in her future and mine, she could make Havana in under five hours, burning thirty gallons of diesel an hour, which was about a quarter of her six-hundred-gallon fuel capacity. She’d burn about three hundred gallons getting to Cayo Guillermo, then an unknown amount of fuel for the six-day tournament, so she’d have to take on fuel before heading back to Key West. But to keep her light and fast, only enough fuel to get us home. And how much does sixty million dollars weigh?

But why was I doing that math? Well, because I was thinking that you shouldn’t turn down two million dollars before you’ve heard the deal.

I jumped aboard and saw that Jack wasn’t back yet with the rum and Coke.

I went below to the galley and got myself a bottled water from the fridge. The galley and cabin seemed shipshape and I used the head, which looked like it could pass an inspection from the Cuban lady. Jack is, if nothing else, neat and clean, a holdover from his Army days.

The Maine has a wide beam — 16 feet — so there’s room below for two decent-sized staterooms that sleep four, as I told Carlos, though a ten-day sail with provisions onboard could be a bit tight. And where was I going to stow sixty million dollars? I guess that depended on the denomination of the bills and how much room they took up. I’m sure we’d figure it out. Or, better yet, I’d just tell Carlos, “You need a bigger boat. Find someone else.”

I went into the cabin and checked out the electronics, which had all been updated about a year ago at great expense. To stay competitive in this game you needed the best and the latest in chart plotters, radios, radar, sounder boxes, and all that. Plus I had a flat-screen TV in the cabin, a DVD player, stereo, and four new speakers. I don’t even have that stuff in my crappy house.

I bought this boat — formerly named the Idyll Hour — from a rich guy from Long Island named Ragnar Knutsen, who had discovered that a pleasure boat was not always a pleasure. He’d sailed to Key West with his buddies for a fishing trip four years ago, then put a FOR SALE sign on his boat at Schooner Wharf. Someone at the Parrot knew I was looking and told me to check it out. I did, and made a deal with Ragnar for three hundred thousand, though the boat, new, had cost him about twice that — which should have been my first clue that I was buying a bottomless money pit. But I already knew that from growing up in Maine.

I also knew, as did Ragnar Knutsen, that the two happiest days of a man’s life are the day he buys a boat and the day he sells it. Ragnar, though, hid his happiness and told me he was practically giving me the Idyll Hour in thanks for my service to the country.

My father, of course, thought I was making a bad investment, a bad career choice, and an immature decision. I knew he was right, so I went ahead with the deal.

The bank liked the deal more than my father did, and for fifty thousand down — my Army separation pay and savings — I was able to sign a quarter-million-dollar note, and rechristen the boat as The Maine. With luck, I could get two-fifty for it, pay off the loan, and get a job back on Wall Street. Or I could go home and live on my disability pay. Or, holy shit, learn the financial planning business. Or, better yet, go back to school for a graduate degree in something. Never too old to waste time in school. I went to Bowdoin, as I said, the oldest college in Maine and one of the oldest in the country. When I was there, it was ranked the fourth best liberal arts college in the nation, but more importantly the second best drinking college. We got beat by Dartmouth, though I don’t know why. I did my part.

Anyway, grad school was also an option, and the Army — as a way of saying sorry about that Taliban RPG that almost blew your balls off — would pick up some of the tab.

Or... I could listen to what Carlos and his amigos had to say. As I used to say to my men, you gotta die someplace. And Cuba was as good a place to die as Afghanistan. And maybe that was better than wasting away here in Margaritaville, or on Wall Street, or in Portland. Lots of options. None of them good. Except maybe the Cuba option. Maybe this was my lucky day. Maybe not.

Chapter 6

Jack wheeled a cart alongside The Maine and called out to me, “Are those Beaners onboard yet?”

Well, if they were, they’d take offense and leave. Jack Colby does not embrace political correctness, cultural diversity, gender equality, or whatever is in fashion at the moment. He’s okay, though, with Key West’s gay and transgender population. “Everybody’s gotta get laid,” he believes.

Jack and I unloaded the cart, and I saw he’d scored two bottles of contraband Cuban rum — a liter of Ron Caney and a liter of Ron Santiago. He’d also bought Coca-Cola, limes, a bag of ice, and God-awful snacks. The Maine is not a party boat, per se, but I’ve had some interesting charters over the years, including a few drunken orgies. The captain and mate can’t drink, of course, but we can get laid at anchor. This job does have its moments.

We stowed everything below and Jack went topside, sat in the fighting chair, and lit a cigarette. He asked, “Who are these people?”

I opened a can of Coke and sat in the opposite chair. “The guy I met in the Parrot is a Miami lawyer named Carlos. There are two other people. One is a woman.”

“Why did this guy want to meet you at the Parrot just to talk about a sunset cruise?”

“He wanted to see the famous Green Parrot.”

“Yeah?” Jack took a drag on his cigarette. After three years of working for me, he knows he asks more questions than I care to answer, but before the Cubans arrived I’d tell him about the fishing tournament. And the other job.

Jack Colby was about seventy, tall, lanky, and in pretty good shape. His thinning brown hair was long and swept back, he had a perpetual three-day stubble, and his skin looked like it had been left in the toaster oven too long. Jack always wore jeans and sneakers, never shorts or flip flops, and today he’d chosen his favorite “I Kill People” T-shirt.

I suggested, “The Maine T-shirt I gave you would be good tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

He doesn’t mean “yes,” and he doesn’t mean “sir.” He means “Fuck you.” Sometimes he calls me “Captain,” and I never know if he’s using my former Army rank or my present title as a licensed sea captain. In either case he means “Asshole.”

Jack had been an enlisted man in the Army, and no matter how short a time you served, the military pecking order stays with you all your life, and as Jack would sometimes remind me, “You are an officer and a gentleman by an act of Congress, but an asshole by choice.”

The military also discourages fraternization between officers and enlisted men, and that, too, stays with you, but Jack and I share the unbreakable bond of combat — same mud, same blood — and though we rarely socialize, we’re friends.

Jack asked, “How much did you clip them for?”

“Two thousand.”

“Good score.”

“I’ll split it with you.”

“Thanks. I hope this Cuban broad is a looker.”

“She’s a Cuban American lady. And what do you care? You’re so fucking old, the only thing you can get hard is your arteries.”

Jack laughed. “Yeah? And I think you spent too much time in the foxhole with your gay soldiers.”

I think we’ve been together too long, and I notice that when I’m around Jack, I use the F-word more than I usually do, and I mimic his wiseass attitude. I hope he’s not rubbing off on me. I’ve got enough problems.

When Jack Colby first came aboard The Maine looking for a job, wearing a T-shirt that said: “Wounded Combat Vet — Some Reassembly Required,” he said he’d heard I was ex-Army, and in lieu of a résumé he showed me his DD-214 — his Army discharge paper — which he kept neat and safe in a plastic case, as it was an important document, loaded with military acronyms that defined his service. Box 13a told me that he’d been honorably discharged in 1969, and another box showed me he’d served a year overseas. Among his decorations, medals, and commendations was the Vietnam Service Medal, the Combat Infantry Badge, the Bronze Star, and a Purple Heart. I recalled that his home of record was Paterson, New Jersey, and that his last duty station had been Fort Benning, Georgia. Jack’s service number had an RA prefix, indicating Regular Army, meaning he’d volunteered for a three-year stint. His MOS — Military Occupation Skill — was 11-B, meaning infantry, and his Related Civilian Occupation said, “None.” Same as mine. He’d attained the rank of Private First Class, which is not much rank after three years and a tour in Vietnam, and I deduced that he’d either been busted or he had a problem with authority. Probably both. But he had received the Bronze Star for valor and a Purple Heart, so I hired him.

I imagine that Carlos knew that Jack was ex-military when he was searching for idiots to go to Cuba, and I also wondered if Jack would be up for a late-in-life adventure. Carlos said that Jack’s life would not be in danger, which was true regarding the fishing tournament, but not true regarding sailing out of Cuba with sixty million bucks onboard if Cuban gunboats were on our ass. If we made it that far.

Well, we’d see what Carlos and his clients had to say. If nothing else, I had lots of experience calculating the odds of survival, and as we used to say, any odds better than 50/50 were too good to be true. And the biggest clue about how dangerous this was, was the money. They weren’t offering me two million dollars to walk into the Bank of Cuba with a withdrawal slip for sixty million.

“What’s on your mind, Captain?”

“Just thinking about the Cuban Thaw.”

“They’re all fucking Commies.” He quoted from one of his T-shirts: “Kill A Commie For Christ.”

“You been to Cuba?”

“Hell, no. Place sucks.”

“Could be interesting.”

“Yeah. Like ’Nam was interesting.” He remembered something and said, “Hey, I saw a great T-shirt on Duval.” He smiled. “ ‘Guantánamo — Come For The Sun, Stay For The Waterboarding.’ ” He laughed.

Jack’s life was becoming more and more informed by T-shirts. I guess if you don’t own a car, you can’t collect bumper stickers. But Jack might be onto something: The Book of Life was a collection of T-shirt jokes.

I didn’t know much about Jack’s life after he’d left the Army and before he showed up on my boat, but he told me he’d stayed in Columbus, Georgia, after his medical discharge because of some local girl whose husband had been killed in Vietnam. He wound up marrying her, and I assume the marriage ended, because he was here alone, though he never mentioned a divorce. Maybe she’d died.

As for my own love life, I was once engaged to a woman — Maggie Flemming — from Portland whom I’d reconnected with on one of my Army leaves. We sort of grew up together and my mother approved of the lady’s family, which was more important than approving of the lady.

Long story short, my two overseas deployments and my stateside duty stations kept Maggie and me apart, and then my hospital stays and rehab put a further strain on the relationship. Also my head was in a bad place, and when you’re screwed up, you screw up, and that’s what I did, and I took off for Key West, where nobody notices. My mother was disappointed about the broken engagement, but my father didn’t comment. As for Key West, they both thought I’d be back soon.

As for Portland, it’s a nice town of about sixty-five thousand people, historic, quaint, and recently trendy and touristy, with lots of new upscale bars and restaurants. In some ways it reminds me of Key West, mostly because it’s a seaport, though nobody swims nude in Portland, especially in the winter. The family house, a big old Victorian, is haunted, though not by ghosts, but by memories. Portland, though, was a good place to grow up and it’s a good place to grow old. It’s the years in between that are a challenge to some people.

But maybe if I scored big on this deal, I’d give it another try. Maggie was married, and my parents were still crazy, and my brother had moved to Boston, but I could see myself in one of the old sea captain’s mansions, staring out to sea... I actually missed the winter storms.

I finished my Coke, stood, and looked down the long dock, but I didn’t see my customers. It was possible they’d had a conversation and decided that Captain MacCormick wasn’t their man. Which would be a relief. Or maybe a disappointment, especially if no one else came along with a two-million-dollar offer this week.

Jack asked, “Where are these Beaners?”

“Jack, for the record, I think Mexicans are Beaners.”

“All these fucking people are like, mañana, mañana.”

“No one around here is good with time, either, including you, gringo.”

He laughed.

Jack’s world view and prejudices are a generational thing, I think, and he reminds me in some ways of my father, who grew up in what amounts to another country. Jack Colby and Webster MacCormick are unknowable to me because their screwed-up heads were screwed up in a screwed-up war that was different from my screwed-up war. Also, I had the impression from both of them that they’d like to go back to that other country. My generation, on the other hand, has no nostalgia for the past, which was screwed up when we arrived. In any case, as my father once said to me in a rare philosophical moment, “Memories about the past are always about the present.”

As for the future, that wasn’t looking so good, either. But it might look better with a few million in the bank.

I spotted my customers at the end of the long dock. Carlos, an older guy, and a young woman. “Our party is here.”

Jack swiveled his chair around. “Hey! She’s a looker.”

“Look at me — and listen.”

He turned his attention to me. “What’s up?”

“Carlos, the lawyer, has offered me thirty Gs to charter The Maine for the Pescando Por la Paz.”

“Yeah? So we’re going to Cuba?”

“I haven’t accepted the job.”

“Why not?”

“I wanted to speak to you first.”

“Yeah? Well, I accept.”

“You will be skippering The Maine.”

“Me?”

“Right. You sail to Havana for a goodwill stop, then a place called Cayo Guillermo for the tournament, then home. Three fishermen onboard, and—”

“These three?”

“No. Just shut up and listen. They’ll supply you with a mate. It’s a ten-day cruise. I’ll give you half.”

“Yeah? I’ll take it. But how come you’re not going?”

“I fly to Havana. Then meet you, probably in Cayo Guillermo.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a job to do in Cuba.”

“What job?”

“You don’t want to know. But we sail back to Key West together.”

Jack stared at me. “Are you outta your fucking mind?”

I didn’t reply, though I knew the answer.

Jack stood and got in my face. “Listen, sonny, your luck ran out when you got blown up. You got no luck in the bank. If you get involved with these crazy fucking anti-Castro—”

“That’s my decision, Jack. All you have to do is join a fishing tournament.”

“Yeah? And if the shit hits the fan, I’ll be trying to outrun Cuban gunboats with a bunch of wetbacks onboard.”

“We’re not smuggling people out of Cuba.”

“Then what are you doing in Cuba while I’m fishing?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and gave me some fatherly advice. “If you say yes to this, I’ll rip off your head and shit down your neck.”

“I want to hear what they have to say.”

“No you don’t. And I’m not going.”

“Okay... but there’s a lot of money involved. More than thirty thousand.”

“Yeah? You need money? Sink this fucking boat and collect the insurance.”

“I missed an insurance payment.”

“Then rob a bank. It’s safer. And they don’t torture you here if they catch you.”

Carlos and the other two approached. The lady was wearing white jeans and a blue Polo shirt, and had long dark hair topped with a baseball cap. She looked about my age, mid-thirties, and she had a nice stride.

“Mac? You listening to me?”

“Yeah... look, Jack, they’re offering me... us... two million.”

“Two... what?”

“I said I’d listen and make a decision.”

“Yeah? And if you listen and turn it down, then you know too much and you could wind up—” He made a cutting motion across his throat. “Comprende?”

“Your share is half a million.”

Jack was uncharacteristically quiet, then said, “Make sure you listen good. ’Cause I don’t want to hear anything.”

“And they don’t want you to hear anything.”

Our charter guests arrived and Carlos said, “Beautiful boat.”

Jack and I simultaneously reached out to help the attractive young lady aboard. She had nice hands. I pictured us together in Havana.

Chapter 7

Carlos introduced his clients, Eduardo and Sara — no last names — and we shook hands all around.

Eduardo was a distinguished-looking gentleman, older and taller than Jack, and with better posture. He was dressed in black slacks, sandals, and a white guayabera shirt. A gold cross hung on a chain around his neck. Eduardo had a heavy accent and I could easily guess at his personal history: He and his family were rich in Cuba, they escaped the godless Communists with just the guayaberas on their backs, and Eduardo was still pissed off.

Sara, like Carlos, had no accent and she seemed a bit reserved and not overly smiley, but her eyes sparkled.

We made small talk for a few minutes and I thought that Carlos was trying to determine if Sara or I seemed interested in a trip to Havana together. Also, my customers were checking out Jack’s T-shirt, maybe wondering if he was crazy.

Carlos said, “Looks like it’ll be a good sunset.”

Time, tide, and sunset wait for no man, so I told Jack, “Cast off,” and I went into the cabin and started the engine.

Carlos and Eduardo made themselves comfortable in the fighting chairs and Sara sat on the upholstered bench in the stern, looking at me in the cabin.

Jack yelled, “Clear!” and I eased the throttle forward. Within ten minutes we were out of the marina, heading west toward the Marquesas Keys.

The smell of the sea always brings back memories of Maine, of summer in the family sailboat and lobster bakes on the beach at sunset. Good memories.

I ran it up to twenty knots and took a southwesterly heading. The sea was calm, the wind was from the south at about five knots, and the sun was about 20 degrees above the horizon, so we’d have time to anchor, make drinks, and salute the dying sun.

Jack came into the cabin, sat in the left-hand seat, and lit a cigarette. “Want one?”

“No.”

“They’re gluten-free.”

“Go set up the drinks.”

“Who are these people?”

“I told you.”

“Who’s the broad?”

“The lady may be flying with me to Havana.”

“Just fuck her here.”

“Jack—”

“If you go to Havana, you don’t want a pair of tits watching your back.”

“All I’m doing tonight is listening.”

“Who’s the old guy?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“And make sure you understand how, where, and when the two million is going to be paid. For that kind of money, they’d rather kill you than pay you.”

“I’d rather kill you than give you half a million.”

He laughed, then said seriously, “If you decide to say no to this, I’m okay with that. And if you say yes, then I’m with you because I trust your judgement.”

“My judgement sucks, Jack. That’s why I hired you. But trust my instincts.”

We made eye contact and Jack nodded.

I said, “Go change your shirt. That’s an order.”

Jack went below.

I cut back on the throttle and stared out at the horizon. Jack Colby and I don’t agree on much, but we agree that after surviving frontline combat duty we were both on borrowed time. My former fiancée, Maggie, told me that God had another plan for me. I hope so. The last one didn’t work out so well. But to be fair to God, the combat thing was my plan. Man plans, God laughs.

I idled the engine and checked the depth finder. Lots of shoals out here and I didn’t want to drift onto them. I toggled the windlass switch to lower the anchor, then cut the engine.

I came out of the cabin and saw that Jack was wearing a The Maine T-shirt, and he’d set up a folding table with the bags of snacks, rum, Coke, ice, and five plastic tumblers with lime wedges.

Carlos did the honors, choosing the Ron Santiago, and made Cuba Libres for everyone. The alcohol rule for the crew is twelve hours between bottle and throttle, but Jack says you’re just not supposed to drink within twelve feet of the helm. I say never refuse a drink when you need one.

Eduardo proposed a toast. “To a free Cuba. Salud!”

We clinked and drank.

Carlos commented on the Cuban rum and said, “Those Communist bastards nationalized the Bacardi factory, stole it from the family, but it’s still good rum.”

In my infrequent dealings with Cuban Americans, I’ve learned that “Communist bastards” is one word. Well, I guess if the Conch Republic ever nationalized my boat, I’d be pissed, too. But I was still surprised at the depth and duration of the hate.

I glanced at Sara, who was looking out at the setting sun. She hadn’t said much, though Carlos said she’d be honest with me about the dangers of this trip to Cuba. But maybe she was thinking that I wasn’t the guy she wanted to trust with her life. I had the same thought about her.

Jack, picking up on the theme of Communist bastards, told our customers, “I killed a lotta Commie bastards in ’Nam.”

Eduardo smiled and drank to Jack.

Carlos, warming to the subject, asked, “Did you know that Cuban Communists participated in the torture of American prisoners of war in the Hanoi Hilton?”

Jack replied, “I heard about that.”

Carlos continued, “What most people don’t know is that about twenty American POWs were taken to Havana’s Villa Marista prison and subjected to brutal interrogation experiments, including mind-altering drugs and extreme psychological torture. They all died in Cuba, but they are listed as missing in action in Vietnam.”

Jack said, “Commie bastards.”

Carlos was obviously psyching up the troops to hate the inhuman enemy. But when you do that, you also run the risk of frightening the troops. Havana wasn’t looking so good to me.

Sunset cruises are supposed to be two or three couples getting romantic, and I had great mood music, like Bobby Darin singing “Beyond the Sea,” or if my customers are younger I put on one of my Adele CDs or Beyoncé. But this group wanted to hear “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

To change the subject I asked my customers, “Do you know about the green flash?”

They didn’t, so I explained, “When the sun dips below the horizon, there is sometimes a flash of green light. Some people see it, some don’t. But if you see it, it means you’ll have good luck.”

Carlos, being a lawyer, said, “People will lie.”

“If you lie,” I told him, “bad luck will come to you.”

Carlos had no comment, but Sara said, “I’ve heard it told differently. If you’re already blessed and chosen, then you’ll see the green flash. Those who are not favored will not see it.”

I said, “I’ve heard that, too. But I assume all my paying customers are blessed.”

She smiled.

Eduardo produced five Cohibas and said, “Made in Cuba by slaves, but still hand-rolled in the traditional way.” He passed them around and Sara also took one.

Jack had a Zippo lighter and lit everyone up. He showed his Viet-era Zippo to his fellow septuagenarian, and Eduardo read the engraving: “ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley.’ ”

Jack and Eduardo got a laugh out of that.

Well, Jack had a new friend. The cultural divide narrows when you hit seventy.

We smoked our contraband cigars and drank our contraband rum. I got my binoculars out of the cabin and scanned the horizon. To the south I saw what appeared to be a Coast Guard cutter. Also, I’d seen at least two Coast Guard helicopters overhead.

The Straits of Florida between the Keys and Cuba are well-patrolled waters. The Coast Guard and the Drug Enforcement Agency are on constant alert for drug smugglers, human smugglers, and desperate refugees from Cuba trying to make the short but dangerous sail to freedom.

If you live in the Keys, you know that thousands of Cubans set out each year in homemade boats and unseaworthy rafts — the balseros, they were called. The rafters. They prayed for calm seas, favorable winds, and no sharks, and put themselves into the hands of God.

Of the thousands who attempted the crossing each year, I don’t know how many made it, how many drowned, or what happened to those who were caught by Cuban patrol boats — but I did know that under the current refugee policy, if the U.S. Coast Guard picked them up at sea they were considered “Wet Foot,” and returned to Cuba. But if they made it to land in the U.S. they were “Dry Foot,” and allowed to stay. Which seemed to me to be a cruel and arbitrary process, an affirmation that life is randomly unfair.

I and most of my fellow charter boat fishermen agreed that if we ever picked up a balsero at sea, we’d take them ashore.

I passed the binoculars to Sara, and she, Carlos, and Eduardo scanned the horizon to the south, consciously or unconsciously looking for their countrymen.

Carlos said, “The sea is calm, the winds are from the south, and there will be a moon tonight.”

Everyone understood that this was a night for the rafters.

Carlos freshened everyone’s drinks and asked me some questions about The Maine. He then mentioned the Pescando Por la Paz and said to me and Jack, “I hope you’ll consider that.”

I didn’t reply, but Jack said, “I hear I’m skippering The Maine.”

“Yes, if Captain MacCormick agrees.”

I said, “We can talk about that later.”

Carlos asked us, “Do you have passports?”

Jack replied, “Yeah. Issued by the Conch Republic.” He laughed.

Carlos didn’t get the joke, but said, “You can both get an expedited passport in Miami. I can help with that.”

I actually had a real passport, and I’d made Jack get one in case a customer wanted to sail to a Caribbean island. I said, “We’re good.”

The sun was red now, dropping into the sea, and we all looked out at the sparkling horizon. I can’t believe I get paid for this.

On that subject, Carlos said, “If I see the green flash, I’ll pay double. If I don’t, this trip is free.” He looked at me.

This was a sucker’s bet, but really a test. Did I trust Carlos? No. Was I a gambler? Yes. Did Carlos want to screw me, or did he want to incentivize me with a two-thousand-dollar tip? One way to find out. “You’re on.”

Everyone was quiet now, staring at the red ball as it sunk below the horizon. A fiery light hung for a moment above the darkening sea, then disappeared, and the day slipped into night. I did not see the green flash.

Carlos, however, said, “Yes, I saw it. So I am blessed. Or will have good luck.”

Jack said, “Lucky you just lost four thousand bucks.”

“And worth it.”

I was sure it wasn’t his money he was gambling with. Or his life.

Eduardo admitted he didn’t see the green flash, but Sara said, “I think I saw something.” She looked at me. “And you?”

“I would like to see the green flash of four thousand dollars.”

Everyone laughed. Even Carlos, who fished an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Here’s two. Two later.”

“Two is enough.”

Carlos made another round of drinks — straight rum this time — and we all sat, except for Jack, who went below and put on one of his Sinatra CDs. Frank sang, “When I was seventeen, it was a very good year...”

Carlos and Eduardo had returned to the fighting chairs and I found myself next to Sara on the upholstered bench.

The boat rocked in the gentle swells and the breeze died down. The lights of a few other boats were visible out on the dark water, and if you looked almost due south, you could imagine the lights of Havana, less than fifty miles away.

In fact, Carlos pointed his cigar and said, “That is hell over there. Here, it is heaven. But someday, in my lifetime, Cuba will be free.”

We all drank to that, and Eduardo said, “And that bastard, F.C., who has created hell on earth, will burn in God’s hell with his father, the devil.”

F.C. is what the Cuban Americans call Fidel Castro, though I don’t know why. Anyway, Eduardo’s damnation sounded very solemn in his Cuban accent.

I think I understood where Carlos and Eduardo were coming from, but Sara was a cipher. She still seemed a bit reserved, but she liked a good cigar, drank straight rum, and wore a baseball cap. She’d also slipped off her loafers and was barefoot. Jack says that women who go barefoot are hot. Sounded plausible.

Jack came up from below into the cabin to turn on the running lights and check the radar to make sure a cargo ship wasn’t bearing down on us.

We sat silently with our own thoughts, smoking and drinking, listening to Sinatra, and enjoying the majesty of the sea and sky. Life is good.

Until Carlos said to me, “I think there’s some fishing business for you to discuss with Sara and Eduardo. I’ll go below and watch TV. Jack can join me or stay in the cabin.” He looked at me. “Captain?”

I nodded.

Carlos went into the cabin for a word with Jack, then disappeared below, leaving me with his clients.

Sara said to me, “I think you’re the man we’re looking for.”

I didn’t reply.

“We can’t evaluate you any further. But you can evaluate us, and see if you’re interested in working with us.” She asked, “Do you want to hear more?”

I looked at Eduardo, whose face seemed expressionless in the darkness. He drew on his cigar and stared out to sea.

I turned my attention back to Sara. “I told Carlos I wasn’t interested.”

“But you are interested. Or we wouldn’t be here.”

Well, the moment for an important decision had arrived, as it had so many times in Kandahar Province. I stared at the red glow of my cigar, then looked at Eduardo, then Sara. “Okay.”

Chapter 8

Sinatra was singing, “I did it my way,” and a bright moon began to rise in the east, casting a river of light on the dark water.

Sara looked at me and we made eye contact. She said, “You probably want to know who we are before you hear what we have to say.”

She had a soft voice, but it commanded attention. “That’s a good start.”

“I’m Sara Ortega and this is Eduardo Valazquez, though you should not repeat our names to anyone.”

“I ask the same of you.”

She nodded and continued, “I’m American born, an architect by trade, living and working in Miami. You can visit my website.”

“Married?”

She glanced at me. “No.”

It was Eduardo’s turn and he said, “I, too, live in Miami and my life’s work is the destruction of the Communist regime in my homeland.”

“Website?”

“No.”

Well, there were thousands of Cubans in South Florida and elsewhere in America who belonged to any one of several dozen anti-Castro groups. It was like a small industry in Miami, but getting smaller as the younger generation of Cuban Americans lost interest in the crusade. The third generation had no memory of old Cuba and no personal experience with the Communist regime to fully understand the hatred that their parents and grandparents clung to. Also, the CIA was not funding these groups like they used to, so maybe this was why Eduardo and his amigos needed sixty million dollars.

Sara said, “In my private life, I’m a supporter of Eduardo and his friends, but in my public life, I’ve shown no interest in exile affairs.”

“So you won’t be arrested as soon as you step off the plane in Havana?”

“Hopefully not.” She added, “There are many like me who keep a low profile so that we can travel to Cuba.”

“Have you been?”

“Once. Last year.” She asked, “And you?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“I hope I have the pleasure of showing you around Havana.”

Normally, I’d say, “Me too.” But I didn’t.

She also let me know, “I speak perfect Cuban Spanish and when I wear clothes bought in Cuba I can pass for a native.”

I wasn’t so sure about that.

She asked, “Do you speak any Spanish?”

“Corona.”

“Well, that’s not important.”

What was important was that this sounded like we were going on a secret assignment together, and this was the mission briefing. I said, “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

“Well, then, catch up to me. I’m in Havana. Are you?”

That was a bit sassy. “Let’s go back to Miami. Who else knows about this?”

Eduardo replied, “A few of our friends, but each person knows only what he needs to know. And only a few people know your name.”

“Hopefully the Cuban secret police are not among those people.”

He replied, “I would be lying to you if I said there was no possibility of a security leak. But our experience in the past has been very good, and our friends in American intelligence assure us that no secret police from Cuba have infiltrated our group. As for Cuban American informants in our midst, we have always identified these traitors, and they are no longer with us.”

I didn’t ask for a clarification of “no longer with us.” I did ask, however, “How about all these thousands of new refugees escaping from Cuba?”

“We have little to do with them. We help them, especially if there are family connections, but we can’t trust them all so we remain separate from them.” He added, “For the most part they hate the regime as we do, but for different reasons. My goal is to return to a free Cuba. Their goal is to get out of Cuba. To get a job in America.” He editorialized, “Unfortunately, these people have not done an honest day’s work in their lives.”

“They will when Starbucks gets to Cuba.”

Eduardo ignored that and informed me, “Everyone in Cuba works for the government, and everyone makes the same money — twenty dollars a month. Slave wages. There is no incentive. That is Communism.”

Actually, I’ve had a few months where a twenty-dollar profit would look good. That’s Capitalism.

Eduardo continued, “The people are hungry. There is malnutrition.”

“Sorry to hear that. But to return to the topic of security and this... mission being compromised—”

“You think like a military man,” Eduardo said. “That’s good.”

“Right. So—”

“There is always a chance that we will be betrayed. I will not lie to you. We have lost people in Cuba.”

I had a flashback to the battalion ops bunker where some colonel was saying, “I won’t lie to you, Mac. This is going to be tough.”

I looked at the cabin and saw that Jack was still there, having a smoke. I could see the flickering light of the TV coming from the stateroom below. Maybe Carlos was watching reruns of “I Love Lucy.”

This might be a good time to announce that the sunset cruise was over.

Sara said, “I’d understand if you didn’t want to go to Havana with me. There’s an element of danger, and maybe the money isn’t enough of an incentive. But for me, it’s personal, so I’m going.”

“How is sixty million dollars personal?”

“The money will be returned to those it belongs to — including my family. And some of it will go to our cause. And, of course, you will be paid.” She added, “Carlos says you want five million. Will you take three?”

“Let’s talk about the element of danger.”

“We’ll come to that. But first, now that you know who we are, we’d like you to know how we became who we are.” She nodded to Eduardo.

Well, as I said, I could almost guess Eduardo’s history, but I know that the Cuban exiles like to tell their story, and he began, “My father, Enrique, was a landowner in Cuba. Mostly sugar plantations and sugar mills. When Castro took power, my father and my older brother, also Enrique, were arrested, held in prison, starved, then shot by firing squad. Their last words, according to witnesses, were ‘Viva Cuba.’ ”

Eduardo paused, then continued, “The Communist bastards would sometimes drug those who were to be executed so they had no last words. Or they would starve them, or even bleed them. They wanted no martyrs, no defiant words at the execution wall.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“But there’s more. My mother and I were forced out of our home into communal barracks, and sent to work in the fields we once owned. My sister, who was ten years of age, became ill and was taken from us and never seen again. My mother died of overwork — or maybe a broken heart. With my family all gone... there was no reason to stay, so I escaped and made my way to a coastal village, where I and a few others stole a small sailboat. But there was no wind and we were six days at sea. An American Coast Guard cutter saw us and brought us aboard, as they did in those days before the rules changed, and they took us to the Coast Guard station in Key West.” He paused, then said, “I will be forever grateful.”

And forever pissed off. And who could blame him? I didn’t grow up in South Florida, but I’ve been here long enough to hear similar horror stories from people of Eduardo’s age. Like Holocaust survivors, they’re not forgetting, and there’s no reason they should. But it’s a heavy thing to live with. I didn’t know what to say, except, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I believe that God saved me so I could bring justice to all who have suffered at the hands of these godless monsters.”

I really didn’t want to engage in this conversation, but I asked Eduardo, “If you and your friends ever overthrew the regime, would you take revenge? Like shoot Communists?”

“Every one of them.”

Sara interjected, “All we want is justice. The return of our property, and the right to return to Cuba. We seek the establishment of human rights, and the freedoms we have here.”

That should be easy after Eduardo shoots all the Commies.

Eduardo said, “Sara has designed a beautiful monument to be built in Havana, dedicated to all the martyrs who have been murdered by the regime.”

I’m never sure what to say when I’m in the presence of anyone who’s committed to a cause. My mother says I’m self-absorbed. She’s probably right. But I had to say something appropriate to what I’d just heard, so I said, “I hope you get to build that.”

Sara finished her rum, then said to me, “As for my family, my grandfather was a bank president, working for an American bank in Havana. I can’t tell you his name or the name of the bank and you’ll understand why.”

Eduardo’s cigar had gone out and Sara relit it with her own. There was some obvious affection between them. She continued, “My grandfather often said that most people in Cuba were in denial about Castro’s forces, which were growing stronger in the Sierra Maestra mountains. And the Batista government and the newspapers mocked the revolutionaries, and my grandfather said there was a false sense of security in Havana.”

Substitute Kabul for Havana and I’ve been there.

“But my grandfather was a smart man and he could tell that the days of the Batista government were numbered even before Castro’s forces moved out of the mountains toward Havana.”

All this talk about Castro, Batista, and 1959 made me think about The Godfather Part II, which I’d just seen again on TV a few weeks ago at 2 A.M. I remembered that Michael Corleone had come to the same conclusion as Sara’s grandfather: Batista was finished.

Sara continued, “My grandfather gathered all the American and Canadian dollars in his bank, and also jewelry and gold coins kept in the safe deposit boxes. He also asked his customers to transfer their other assets to his bank so he could have it all flown to his bank’s headquarters in America. Everything was packaged individually with the names of the depositors on the packages, and receipts were issued by my grandfather.” She looked at me. “This money never got out of Cuba.”

“And here we are.”

She nodded. “There were also land deeds and other monetary instruments in these packages, as well as about sixty million dollars in currency, which was a lot of money in 1958.”

“It’s actually a lot of money now.”

“Yes, but then it was worth almost a billion dollars in today’s money.” As the granddaughter of a banker, she reminded me, “There is over half a century of lost interest on that money.”

“That’s what happens to money when you hide it under the mattress.”

“It’s actually hidden in a cave.”

“I’m not sure I want to know that.”

“There are over twenty thousand caves in Cuba. Cuba is riddled with caves.”

“And I assume you know the one where your grandfather deposited his clients’ assets.”

She nodded.

“How do you know that no one’s made a withdrawal?”

Eduardo replied, “The cave was sealed by Sara’s grandfather. It is still sealed.”

I didn’t ask him how he knew the cave was still sealed, but he must know or we wouldn’t be talking about going to Cuba. I was starting to see a picture of me with a pick ax.

Sara poured herself a Coke and continued, “On New Year’s Day 1959, Castro’s forces entered Havana and Batista fled the country. My grandfather wasn’t immediately arrested because he worked for the American bank, and Castro was telling the world that his revolution was not Communist. Which, of course, was bullshit.”

The obscenity coming from Sara’s nice lips caught me by surprise and I smiled, but she wasn’t smiling, so I nodded.

“My grandfather was questioned by the revolutionary police about the bank’s assets, and he said that his wealthy depositors had sent their money out of the country months before because they were frightened about the revolution. He actually kept a second set of books to show to the police. In fact, a few wealthy Cubans had gotten their money out, but most delayed too long in getting themselves out.”

Eduardo interjected, “The collapse of the Batista government was very sudden. Havana celebrated New Year’s Eve as Castro’s forces began marching on the city and Batista’s soldiers began to flee. The upper classes, government officials, and senior military who couldn’t escape were arrested. We know that some of these people were bank depositors who may have revealed under torture what they knew about Sara’s grandfather hiding his bank’s assets.”

It wasn’t looking good for Sara’s grandfather, but she had a happy ending. “My grandfather, with the help of his bank in America, was able to board one of the last commercial flights out of Havana. He arrived in Miami with nothing, except my grandmother and their three sons, one of whom was to become my father.”

“Your grandparents were lucky.”

“Yes, and my grandfather continued his career in Miami. He called it a temporary corporate transfer. He died in Miami ten years ago. My grandmother is still alive, as are my parents, waiting to return to their home in Havana.” She added, “We’ll see this house when we go there.”

Or send me a picture.

She continued, “Before the revolutionaries closed the American bank, my grandfather was able to wire transfer all the records of these assets to the bank headquarters in America. The families who escaped to America were located and given receipts — or still had their original receipts. Those who remained in Cuba and who survived may also have their original receipts. In any case, there’s a record of everything in the American bank headquarters, and the money will be returned to its rightful owners or heirs.”

Minus some expenses, like my fee. “Okay, so the paperwork’s in order, and all you need now is the money.”

“It’s waiting for us.” She looked at me. “My grandfather was a very brave man. He risked his life to protect his clients’ property and his bank’s property from falling into the hands of the Communists. So you can see why this is personal for me. I want to finish my grandfather’s work.”

I nodded. If I was my father, which I’m not, I’d ask Sara how these wealthy Cubans got their money. Batista’s government, as I understood it, was an extension of the American Mafia. Gambling, drugs, prostitution, and pornography. Also the factory owners and the landowners like Eduardo’s father were often not enlightened employers, which was why so many of them were arrested after the revolution. I also wondered if the American Mafia used Grandpa’s bank and had some money in that cave. Behind every great fortune is a crime, but probably some of this money was earned honestly. And all of it had been kept out of Castro’s hands. I don’t make moral judgements — well, I do, but in this case, I’d withhold judgement. At least until I decided if I wanted to take a three-million-dollar cut of the cash.

Sara asked, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking, why now? Why not leave the money where it is until relations improve? The bank and the depositors should be able to make a legal claim on the money. That’s my advice. No charge.”

Sara replied, “The problem is actually the improved relations. From what we are told, the contemplated treaty between the U.S. and Cuba will address the question of compensation for American assets that were seized when Castro took over. These are now worth billions. But in exchange, the regime insists that the U.S. legitimize their appropriation of all private property and money that was seized from Cuban citizens. So for the Americans, they’ll have a legal means to recover what they lost. For the Cubans who lost everything, there will be nothing.”

Well, I thought, someone has to get screwed. That’s the art of the deal.

Sara continued, “It could happen that this American bank, when dealing with these issues of compensation, may inadvertently reveal to the Cuban government that their former depositors in Havana — Cuban and American — have receipted assets still in Cuba. We’ve discussed this and spoken to lawyers, and we feel we need to move on this and recover the money before it becomes an issue in the negotiations.”

I guess I could see that happening. No one knew what lay ahead as the two governments began talking after a half century of silence. I was sure that it would take another half century to unravel the questions of who owned what, who was going to get compensated, and who was going to get screwed. If it was my money — and three million of it might be — I’d go get it now.

Eduardo added, “With improved relations comes tourism. Already thousands of Canadians, Europeans, and others who have no travel restrictions to Cuba are exploring the country. Hiking and camping are becoming popular. And when tens of thousands of Americans start to arrive... well, one of them may accidentally discover the hidden entrance to this cave.”

That should pay for their trip. And I guess that could happen, even with twenty thousand caves. I asked, “Did anyone ever try to recover this money before now?”

Eduardo replied, “No one but Sara knows the location of this cave.”

I looked at her and she said, “I will explain later.”

“Okay... but do you have anyone in Cuba who can help you when you get there?”

“We do.”

I wasn’t sure if “we” meant me, but Sara said, “Let’s move on.”

That seemed to be a signal for Eduardo to stand and say, “I will leave you to discuss your trip to Havana.”

Eduardo seemed to assume I was going, and I assumed he wasn’t — he didn’t want to wind up against that wall. Actually, neither did I.

He snagged the unopened bottle of Ron Caney and went below where Carlos was still watching TV.

I glanced into the cabin and saw Jack in the captain’s seat, reading a magazine and eating from a bag of snacks. Hopefully he was watching the radar. For sure he was wondering if he’d be a half million dollars richer in a few weeks, or dead.

I looked at Sara, who was looking at me. Pretty woman. And smart. And brave. That was my evaluation.

“You look pensive, Mac. Can I call you Mac?”

“Of course.”

“I know this is a lot to take in, and a lot to consider.”

“Right.”

“When you and I finish here, you’ll be able to make an informed decision.”

“Or justify a stupid one.”

She smiled, stood, and poured us both some Coke. “Rum?”

“No, thanks, I’m driving.”

She handed me my glass and touched hers to mine. “Thank you for listening.”

“It’s your boat tonight.”

She sat in Eduardo’s vacated fighting chair and swiveled it toward me, took a drag on her cigar, and tossed it overboard. She crossed her legs and said, “We will now go to Havana. Or do you want to go home?”

I wanted another drink, but I said, “I’m still listening. But I reserve the right to stop you at any time.”

“Fair enough.”

Jimmy Buffett was singing, “Wasted away again in Margaritaville.” Which might not be my worst option.

Chapter 9

Sara stared out to sea, toward Cuba, then turned to me and began, “I went to Cuba last year at this time when we first heard talk of normalizing relations. As you know, the State Department doesn’t allow American citizens to travel to Cuba for tourism. But they do issue licenses for group travel for cultural, educational, or artistic purposes, and that’s how I went to Cuba.”

I knew a few people who’d gone to Cuba with authorized travel groups, and even a few who’d circumvented the travel ban by going to Cuba via Canada, Mexico, or another country. Most Americans went to Cuba out of curiosity, or to have something to talk about at cocktail parties as they passed around Cuban cigars. Or, like the present mayor of New York City, who went to Havana on his honeymoon, some Americans wanted to experience the romance of socialism. And some Americans, I’m sure, went for clandestine purposes, and if you followed the news you’d know that some of those people were now in Cuban jails — and a few were never heard from again, as Eduardo admitted.

Sara continued, “I went with a Yale educational group.” She added, modestly, “I graduated from the Yale School of Architecture. We were in Cuba for twelve days and we saw a lot of beautiful old colonial architecture, much of it collapsing, unfortunately, and a lot of ugly Soviet architecture, also collapsing, fortunately.”

“Did you see your grandparents’ house?”

“Yes, a beautiful mansion in the Old Town. It’s now a squalid tenement filled with families. I also saw the bank that my grandfather managed. It’s now a government office where people come to sign for their libretas — their monthly food ration booklets.” She added, “It’s sad... actually, it made me angry.”

I nodded. Revolutions usually replace one group of incompetent autocratic assholes with another, and the real losers are everyone else.

Sara said, “If you go to Cuba with me, we’ll be going with a Yale educational group.”

“I went to Bowdoin.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She had a sense of humor. That’s good. She’ll need it.

She assured me, “Anyone can join the group if there’s room.”

I assumed I was already booked.

She continued, “These authorized tours are very tightly run, and you need to account for all your time. There are few opportunities to separate from the group, and the Cuban tour guide may be reporting to the police. Breakfast, lunch, and most dinners are with the group, and you spend most of your day on a tour bus with the group and the Cuban guide, and there are lectures most evenings before dinner given by the two Yale faculty group leaders or by a local Cuban university instructor.”

“What time is cocktails?”

“Generally speaking, you’re free to explore Havana after dinner, but during the day it’s more difficult to separate from the group, though there are opportunities. If, for instance, you’re sick — and many people develop gastrointestinal problems — you can stay in your room, or pretend to be in your room, and no one checks on you.”

“As long as they hear the toilet flushing.”

“Please be serious.”

“Sorry. Look, I get this. Let’s move on to where the rubber meets the road. What happens in Havana? Do we meet someone?”

“Yes, maybe the person I met last time. Or maybe someone else.”

“And they take us to the cave?”

“No. Our contact in Havana will assist us in getting out of the city, to the province where the cave is located. We will be met there by someone who will give us shelter, and give us a vehicle to transport the money from the cave to Cayo Guillermo.”

That sounded like two too many people in Cuba who knew about this.

She saw my brow darkening and said, “These contacts don’t know about the cave or the money.” She assured me, “These are trustworthy people. This part will go well.”

“And how about the next part?”

“Getting from the cave to Cayo Guillermo with the money is the most difficult... dangerous part of the plan.” She let me know, “We need to be resourceful and smart.”

Actually, we needed to be Superman and Superwoman. But for three million dollars, I could be resourceful and smart. I asked her, “How about getting the money aboard The Maine?”

“There are several possibilities. We’ll know before we get to Cayo Guillermo.”

Transferring the money to The Maine sounded like the weak link in an already weak chain of events. But this wasn’t my problem if I wasn’t going. And as of now, I wasn’t. But to do due diligence, I asked her, “And you know the exact location of the cave?”

“I’m the only one who does.” She explained, “My grandfather gave a map to my father, with detailed instructions for locating the cave. My father gave it to me.”

“Okay.” That was more than my father ever gave me. I asked, “Why you?”

“My father was the favorite of my grandfather, and I was the favorite of both of them.”

“I see.” Using that method of inheritance, I’d never see a dime.

She added, “I’m the best suited to do this.”

“I’m sure you are.” Anyway, I tried to imagine a fifty-five-year-old treasure map with detailed instructions on finding a cave somewhere in a province. Well, half my time in Kandahar Province was spent looking for bad guys in caves. Everyone wanted to find Osama bin Laden. But we kept coming up empty. Turns out the asshole was in Pakistan. I could have the same experience in Cuba with the money. Wouldn’t that be ironic? “Okay, so you have the treasure map. And if you’re stopped at customs or stopped by the police on the street—”

“I’ve copied the map, and altered it. And I’ve hidden the map in plain sight by labeling it, ‘A great hike through the Camagüey Mountains.’ ” She added, “And it’s all in English now.”

Clever lady. “I hope nothing was lost in the translation.”

“That’s for me to worry about.” She again assured me, “This part will go well.” She further assured me, “My grandfather will be with me.”

I thought he was dead. “Okay, I’m good with caves. And land navigation. And hiking.” And guys trying to kill me while I’m doing all that.

“I assumed you were. So is that a yes?”

“That’s a theoretical, conditional maybe.” I asked her, “What happens when we leave the tour group and the Cuban tour guide notifies the police?”

“That doesn’t matter. When we’re gone, we’re gone, and we’re not going back to Havana. We’re going to the cave, then to your boat in Cayo Guillermo. Then to Key West, with sixty million dollars onboard.”

“The devil is in the details.”

“It always is.”

I took a last drag on my cigar and dropped it over the side, then looked out toward Havana. Close, and yes, cigars. As for escaping from the Yalies, that would be much easier than escaping from the police and the military when we were reported missing. Also, there was the problem of how to get sixty million dollars — and maybe gold and jewels, which are heavier than paper — to Cayo Guillermo, then onboard The Maine. But these were the devilish details that we’d figure out or find out in Cuba. The Army likes to have detailed plans for everything, but everyone knows that even the best battle plans fall apart as soon as the first shot is fired. Then it’s improvisation, instinct, and initiative that save the day. A little luck helps, too.

Sara continued, “There’s a Yale educational group going to Cuba on October twenty-second. I’m signed up for it. So are you. I assume your passport is in order, but you haven’t completed your paperwork for your visa.”

“Did I put down a deposit?”

“You did. With a money order. You’ll need to pay the balance.”

“The word ‘presumptuous’ comes to mind.”

“Let’s call it optimism.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I go without you.”

“How would you get the money out of the country without my boat?”

“There are other ways, as I discovered when I was in Cuba.”

“Then you don’t need me.”

“Not good ways, as I also discovered. The Pescando Por la Paz is the best way.” She explained, “It’s perfect cover, and if we can get the money onboard The Maine... let’s say hidden in boxes of provisions, then we don’t have to resort to other methods that could be dangerous.”

This whole idea was dangerous, but I didn’t mention it.

She continued, “Also, sailing back to Key West with the tournament fleet won’t present any problems regarding the Coast Guard or customs.”

Right. We wouldn’t want to get that far and have our sixty million confiscated at the dock. This was sounding easier every minute — or so she thought. The irony was that Sara was being honest with me, but not with herself.

She continued her pitch. “Yale groups go to Cuba two or three times a year. And there are other educational groups I can join. But this group tour, coming at the time of the fishing tournament, is a happy coincidence... a gift from God.” She added, “You — and your boat — are the last piece in this plan.”

Well, that sounded like pressure. This was a persuasive lady. I’d buy a boat from her and consider it a gift from God. But I wasn’t sure I’d risk my life for her, or for the money. Also, there was another piece of the plan she hadn’t addressed, and I asked, “If I said yes, how would you and I travel?”

“An authorized charter flight from Miami to José Martí Airport in Havana with the Yale group and other travel groups onboard.” She added, “The Yale group is booked at a good foreign-owned hotel in Havana.”

That wasn’t actually the question I was asking. “Are we traveling... as friends?”

She seemed almost embarrassed, then recovered and said, “We won’t even know each other until we meet on the tour.” She added to be clear, “Separate rooms.”

Well, if I said yes, at least I couldn’t be accused of thinking with my dick.

I waited for her to dangle the possibility of something more that might clinch the deal, but she said, “I have a boyfriend.”

“Me too. This is Key West.”

She smiled. “I’ve heard otherwise.”

They really did their homework.

She continued, “As for the Pescando Por la Paz, Carlos has entered another ship in the tournament to hold a place. He can substitute The Maine for that ship.”

That answered the question of why I never heard I was in the tournament. I was feeling like a rock star with a conniving manager who was booking me on a tour that I didn’t know about — and didn’t want to go on.

Sara also informed me, “Friends of Carlos chartered your boat in August.”

I thought back to August and remembered two Cuban American couples on a fishing trip.

“They said you were a good captain.”

“They’re right.”

“They also said you have guns onboard.”

In fact, I have a 9mm Glock, and Jack has a.38 Smith & Wesson revolver that we can use if we’re taking a shark onboard. Also onboard was a Browning 12-gauge shotgun for bird and skeet shooting, and an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle for protection. There are a lot of drug smugglers in the Straits and you don’t want to run into them, but if you do, you need to be prepared. Bottom line, my arsenal is for sport, business, and protection against bad guys, which I guess could include Cuban gunboats.

Sara said, “Carlos says your guns can legally stay onboard in Havana and Cayo Guillermo if Mr. Colby declares them and doesn’t bring them ashore. That is maritime law.”

“Okay.”

“But someone may have to bring a pistol ashore.”

“Not happening.”

“We can discuss that later.”

“What else do I need to know that will get me arrested in Cuba?”

“Only what I’ve just told you.” She admitted, “I have no specific details of anything else. This is compartmentalized information, doled out as we need to know it — in case we’re questioned by the police in Cuba. You understand?”

I nodded, wondering what Sara did for a living when she wasn’t designing monuments. I mean, you don’t usually hear “compartmentalized information” from architects or many other people. Maybe she read spy novels. I asked, “How do you know our Havana contact is not being watched by the police?”

“In a police state, the people learn how to identify the secret police and how to lose them.” She reminded me, “I had no problem meeting my contact last year.”

Sara, having survived one trip into the heart of darkness, was a bit cocky. I’ve been there myself. And I have the wounds to prove it.

She also let me know, “There’s a possibility that when we get to Havana, we won’t be able to meet our contact. Or if we do, he or she will advise us, or get word to us, that it’s too dangerous to continue, and the mission will be aborted. If that’s the case, you’ll be paid fifty thousand dollars for your time and trouble.”

“Do I have to look at architecture for the rest of the tour?”

“You’ll find all the cultural aspects of the trip interesting.” She also told me, “If the mission is on, but you change your mind in Havana—”

“That will not happen.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Okay, if we’re in Havana without a mission, will you go drinking and dancing with me?”

“It would be my pleasure.” She made a show of looking at her watch. “We’re going back to Miami tonight.”

“Why don’t you stay in Key West?”

“People are waiting for us in Miami.”

“Okay.” I stood.

She also stood. “I’d like your answer now.”

“You’ll have it before we dock. I have to speak to Jack.”

“All he needs to know is what he needs to know.”

“Carlos made that clear.” I asked, “Will I be seeing Eduardo again?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I enjoy his company.”

She stayed silent, then said, “He’s an avid fisherman.”

“He should fish in safe waters.”

She nodded. “We’ll see.”

I called out to Jack, “We’re heading back!” I said to Sara, “If you think of anything else I need to know, tell me before we dock.”

“There is nothing else, except...”

“Yes?”

“I like your designer T-shirt.” She smiled and tapped my chest. The hook was in.

She also said, “I feel confident that I can put my life in your hands. You survived two combat tours and you can survive Cuba.”

“Well... it’s not the same. I commanded a hundred well-trained men in Afghanistan, armed to the teeth, and each man was watching the other guy’s back. In Cuba, it would be only me and you.”

“But you have balls.”

That sort of took me by surprise.

“And I have brains. And experience.” She smiled again. “Teamwork makes the dream work.”

“Sounds like a T-shirt.”

“Do you have confidence in me?”

“You seem to have confidence in yourself.”

“What more do you want?”

Well, I’d like to get laid, but I’d settle for three million instead.

“Don’t talk yourself out of this, Mac. There’s a saying — ‘I’d rather regret the things I did than the things I didn’t do.’ ”

“I actually regret both.”

“We need you. This is also about justice. And about striking a blow against an inhuman system.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I gave her my standard spiel. “Make yourself comfortable below, or stay on deck, but don’t fall overboard. The Straits are an all-you-can-eat salad bar for sharks. We’ll be back to port within an hour.”

“Good cruise.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

As I moved toward the cabin I could hear the electric windlass raising the anchor. Jack started the engine. “How’d it go?”

“Okay.”

“Are we going to be rich?”

“Not from fishing.”

“Are you at least going to get laid?”

“It didn’t come up.”

He moved out of the captain’s chair, but I said to him, “You take the helm.”

“Why?”

“You need the practice.”

Jack lit a cigarette and pushed forward on the throttle. “Trust your instincts, Mac.”

“My instincts tell me you don’t know what you’re doing in that chair.”

“For half a million, I can learn fast.”

“I need your decision before we dock.”

“What do I need to know before I make a decision?”

“Nothing you don’t already know.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it.” He reminded me, “We’re on borrowed time anyway.”

Indeed we are. And there was a payment due.

Chapter 10

We got underway, and Jack glanced at the GPS. “Is this the way to Key West?”

“Close enough.”

Jack wasn’t rated or licensed to captain a 42-foot motor vessel, but he’s a natural sailor, with a gut instinct for the sea and the weather and a good feel for the helm. He’s also a great fisherman. It’s the ship’s electronics that remain a mystery to him.

I asked, “You think you can handle the Pescando Por la Paz?”

“No problem.”

Hopefully the mate that Carlos was going to provide knew how to navigate. I wouldn’t want to get to Cayo Guillermo with sixty million dollars and discover that The Maine had run aground in Havana Harbor.

Well, that might be the least of my worries.

Jack opened the last bag of Doritos. “Want one? Gluten-free.”

“You enjoy them.”

Jack asked, “Do you know how they begin a fishing tournament in Cuba?”

“No. How?”

“On your Marx, get set — go!” He laughed. “Get it? Marx.”

“Pay attention to the depth finder.”

I could hear the SatTV in the cabin below. My satellite antenna sometimes works out here, and my customers seemed to have picked up a comedy show with lots of canned laughs that drowned out their conversation. Also, they were speaking Spanish, so I couldn’t eavesdrop if I wanted to, but they were practicing good tradecraft by blasting the TV.

It occurred to me that I wasn’t getting the whole truth from Carlos, Eduardo, or Sara. On the one hand, their story about the hidden money seemed believable and consistent with what happened in Cuba at that time. But on the other hand, it seemed like a story that was too well told. But maybe that was my natural skepticism getting in the way of a good opportunity to retire.

I wasn’t trying to talk myself out of this, but when someone offers you three million dollars, you need to wonder if, (A) you’ll ever see the money, and (B) if the job isn’t more dangerous than it already sounds. I’m okay with dangerous, but when it crosses the line to suicidal I have to reboot.

Jack asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m trying to figure out how I can screw you out of your thousand bucks.”

“Yeah? Let me help you. Whoever turned down the other two thousand bucks should go back and ask for it. And the guy who didn’t turn it down gets the two thousand in the envelope, so somebody owes me half of four thousand.”

“Where did you learn your math?”

“On the streets of Paterson. Envelope, please.”

I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and gave it to him.

He advised me, “Never turn down money — unless there are strings attached.”

“There are always strings attached.” I changed the subject and asked him, “How much ammo do we have onboard?”

He glanced at me, then replied, “Not much. Maybe half a box of nine-millimeter—”

“Take some of your ill-gained two thousand and buy at least four hundred rounds for the AR-15, a hundred for the pistols, and a few boxes of deer slugs for the shotgun.”

Jack stared out the windshield, then said, “Combat pay in ’Nam was fifty-five dollars a month. Do you believe I risked my life for less than two bucks a day?”

“That wasn’t why you were risking your life.”

“Right. But even for half a million...”

“You need to think about this, Jack. I’m in, but if you’re not, I need to know.”

“You should think about it. All I’ll be doing is fishing. Unless that broad told you something else.”

“Only what you already know. You’re driving the getaway boat. I — and Sara — are robbing the bank.”

“What bank?”

I didn’t reply.

He asked, “Are we being chased during the getaway?”

“I hope not.”

“But if we are—?”

“That’s where you earn your half million.”

He nodded, then asked, “Do you take your two million out of the heist?”

“It’s three now.”

“Yeah? I guess it got more dangerous.”

“Tell you what — if we get shot at, your combat pay is another half million. If you’re in.”

He thought about that, then smiled. “Okay... but if you don’t make it to the boat, then I just sail home after the tournament and I sell your boat and keep the money.”

Daniel MacCormick died. Boat for sale.

“Deal?”

I looked at him. “Deal.”

We shook.

The moonlit water was calm, the winds had picked up from the south, and The Maine was clipping along at twenty-five knots. I could see the lights of Key West on the horizon.

Jack lit a cigarette and said, “I remember the Cuban Revolution.”

“The one in 1898?”

“The one in the 1950s, wise guy. It was big news at the time.”

“Not for me, old man. I wasn’t born.”

“I was a kid. But I remember it on TV.” He seemed lost in thought, then said, “I can remember the priests in my church, St. Joe’s, talking about churches in Cuba being closed down by the Communists, and priests being arrested. My Catholic school teacher said Castro was the anti-Christ.” He laughed. “Scared the shit out of me.”

I imagine that Catholicism and Communism didn’t mix well in 1950s America. And Jack was having a flashback to those days of fading American innocence, which I found interesting.

He took another drag on his cigarette. “To make money, I sold the Catholic newspaper, The Tablet, on the sidewalk in front of the church after every Mass. Ten cents. The Tablet had all kinds of stories about people escaping from Cuba, and people getting executed. St. Joe’s was raising money for the refugees, and I remember when the first Cuban family moved in down the street... They spoke pretty good English, and this guy, Sebastian, would talk to the neighbors about everything he lost in Cuba, a factory and some other shit, and the wife — can’t remember her name — would cry a lot. The kids were young. Three of them. They were okay, but they always talked about the big house they had in Cuba. And servants. So I guess they all felt like they got fucked.” He smiled. “Hey, I was born fucked in New Jersey.”

There were two kinds of history: the kind you read about, and the kind you lived through — or were actually part of. For Jack, the Cuban Revolution was a childhood memory. For Sara, it was family history, and part of who she was. For Eduardo, it was a boyhood trauma and an obsession. And for me, it was irrelevant. Until today.

Jack asked me, “You trust these people?”

“My instincts say they’re honorable people.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“They need us.”

“Up until we’re on this boat with the money you stole.”

“We’ll be armed. And they’re probably thinking the same about us.”

“Right. There’s no honor among thieves.”

“We’re not thieves. We’re repatriating money that rich Cubans stole from poor Cubans so it can be returned to the rich Cubans who stole it.”

Jack smiled, then asked me, “You thinking with your dick?”

“Not this time.”

“Okay.” He asked, “How much money are you stealing?”

“You don’t need to know. Also, it goes without saying that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“Loose lips sink ships.”

“You and I will write letters that names names and I’ll leave the letters with my attorney in sealed envelopes, to be opened in the event of our deaths or disappearance.”

Jack had no reply.

“And I will let our new amigos know that these letters exist.”

Jack nodded.

Sara came up from below and stood with us in the cabin. She said to Jack, “I hope the tournament sounds interesting to you.”

“Yeah, and the sail home could be more interesting.” He asked, “Want a Dorito?”

“Thank you.” She took one and looked at the electronic displays on the console. “Can you pull up Havana and Cayo Guillermo on the GPS?”

I got on Google Earth, typed in “Havana,” and the screen switched to a satellite view of the city. Sara said, “If Christopher Columbus had Google Earth he would have realized he hadn’t found India.” She laughed for the first time. Nice laugh.

Sara pointed to a spot on the coast of the Straits of Florida, about four or five miles west of Havana Harbor. “This is the Hemingway Marina, where most of the tournaments used to dock. But to maximize the publicity for this new tournament, and to get good photo ops, the Pescando Por la Paz will sail directly into Havana Harbor.” She pointed to the big harbor, and continued, “Here is the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal, just restored to the way it looked a hundred years ago.”

I zoomed in on the structure, which appeared to be a long covered pier jutting into the harbor, attached to a large terminal building on the shore.

Sara said, “This restoration was done in anticipation of American cruise ships making Havana a port of call.”

Maybe Dave Katz was right. The cruise ships would bypass Key West and I’d lose some of that business. Time to retire with three million dollars.

Sara continued, “The terminal building, as you can see, faces out onto a square — the beautiful old Plaza de San Francisco de Asís.” She looked at Jack. “So when you get off this boat and step out of the terminal, you’ll be right in the heart of the historic Old Town.”

Jack stared at the screen, but said nothing.

Sara continued her sales pitch. “There might be a band waiting if it’s been approved, and maybe a small crowd, maybe TV cameras and some reporters from Cuban TV and newspapers. Possibly also some Cuban government officials and some people from the American Embassy.” She assured Jack, however, “You don’t need to give an interview or pose for pictures if you don’t want to.”

Again, Jack said nothing. But if he agreed to an interview and photos, I’d strongly advise him not to wear his “Kill A Commie For Christ” T-shirt.

Sara said, “We don’t know how much publicity the Cuban government wants for this occasion.” She explained, “They’re ambivalent. They realize that events are moving faster than they’d like, and they find themselves standing in the way of history.”

Interesting.

Sara said to Jack, “There are lots of good bars, restaurants, and nightclubs in the Old Town.”

I thought Jack was going to turn the boat around and head to Havana.

To put the rosy picture in better focus, I asked, “Do the crews and fishermen go through immigration and customs?”

“I guess they do. But as invited guests, I’m sure there won’t be any problems. Why do you ask?”

Well, because you said that someone might need to bring a gun ashore. “Just asking.”

I glanced at Jack, who seemed to be thinking about all this. He’d already signed on for the well-paying job, so Sara’s soft sell was unnecessary. But it was good that she painted a nice word picture for him of his brass band arrival in Havana Harbor. If she could tell him where to get laid, that would clinch it.

Sara said to Jack, “I hope I gave you a good sense of what to expect in Havana.”

Jack nodded.

Right. But not a good sense of what to expect in Cayo Guillermo.

I pulled back on the Google image to show both Havana and Cayo Guillermo, about two hundred and fifty miles east of Havana. Theoretically, it should be an easy sail along the coast.

Jack stared at the Google image and nodded to himself.

Sara said to me, “If Jack has the helm, let’s have a drink.”

I thought she was going to go below, but she walked out to the stern, and I followed.

She poured two rums and gave one to me.

Still standing, she said, “Eduardo is impressed with you and Jack, and he has no problem with three million.” She asked, “Are you with us?”

“I am.”

“Good. And is Jack with us?”

“He is.”

She touched her glass to mine. “God will also be with us.”

“Then what could possibly go wrong?”

We drank to that.

She said to me, “Carlos needs to meet with you, to give you the details of your educational trip to Havana, and there are papers for you to sign for your visa and a few other logistical things to discuss.” She asked, “Can you meet him in his office tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“He’ll let you know the time.”

“I’ll let him know the time.”

She glanced at me. “Okay... and Carlos will come back to Key West in a few days — at your convenience — to speak to you and Jack about the tournament. And to get a copy of Jack’s passport and some information on The Maine. He’ll have the permit for the tournament and a check to charter your boat.” She smiled. “Secret missions begin with boring details.”

“It’s good when they end that way, too.”

She looked at me. “This will go well.”

That’s probably what they said about the Bay of Pigs Invasion. Not to mention the CIA’s hundreds of attempts to kill Castro. And let’s not forget the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Mariel Boatlift, and the trade embargo.

As Jack might say, the U.S. and Cuba have been fucking each other so long that they both must be getting something out of it.

But we were now on the verge of a new era — the Cuban Thaw. But before that happened I had a chance to do what so many other Americans, including the Mafia and the CIA, had done before me — try to fuck Cuba. I probably had as much chance of doing that as I had of fucking Sara Ortega.

“Why are you smiling?”

“It must be the rum.”

“Then have another. I like your smile.”

“You too.”

We had another, and she said, “Our next drink will be in Havana.”

And maybe our last.