Part II

Chapter 11

It was about 8 P.M., and I was sitting at the bar in Pepe’s, a Mexican chain restaurant located in Concourse E of Miami International Airport, drinking a Corona and looking through my Yale travel packet. Probably I should have read this stuff a few weeks ago when Carlos gave it to me in his toney South Beach office, but I kept thinking that this Cuba trip wasn’t going to happen. Well, it was happening. Tomorrow morning. So, as the Yale Travel Tips suggested, I was staying at the airport hotel, located in the concourse about thirty feet from where I was now having a few beers. The Yale group would assemble in the hotel lobby at zero-dark-thirty — 5:30 a.m. to be exact.

Jack had driven me to the airport earlier via the Overseas Highway in my Ford Econoline van, which is not my first choice of a midlife-crisis vehicle, but it’s what you need if you own a charter fishing boat. In a few weeks I’ll be trading in the van for a Porsche 911.

Anyway, I had used the drive time to rebrief Jack about his part in the Cuban caper, and I reminded him to pick up the extra ammo before he sailed.

I’d also reminded Jack not to top off in Cayo Guillermo because we’d want The Maine as light as possible if we needed speed when leaving — though stealth is what we wanted. Earlier in the week I’d given Jack a refresher course on the ship’s electronics, so hopefully he could find Havana before he wound up in Puerto Rico. In fact, though, if he just followed the other boats in the tournament fleet he should have no problems.

Jack, while not overly enthused about his Cuban adventure, looked forward to his half-million-dollar cut — though he was conflicted about getting shot at to earn his other half million in combat pay. I promised him, “They don’t have to hit you. I’ll pay you even if they miss.”

Jack suggested I go fuck myself, then asked me how we were going to get the loot aboard The Maine, and I told him, “I haven’t been briefed yet.”

“When you find out, let me know.”

“Someone will let you know — when you need to know.”

“And what if I don’t like the plan?”

“Whatever the plan is, Jack, I’m sure you won’t like it.”

“This is where I could get killed.”

“Or get rich.”

“Or neither. ’Cause I don’t think you’re gonna make it to the boat with the loot.”

“Problem solved.”

I ordered another beer from the barmaid, Tina, and returned to my thoughts. Before you go on any mission, you need to understand what you know, identify what you don’t know, and try to guess what could go wrong. And finally, getting there is only half the fun; you need a clear path home.

So, to replay the last few weeks, after I met Carlos in Miami, he’d come back to Key West, as promised, and Jack and I met him aboard The Maine. Carlos had brought with him the paperwork and permit for The Maine to sail to Cuba with the tournament, and also brought with him The Maine’s new first mate, a young Cuban American named Felipe who seemed competent, and who also seemed to know that this wasn’t about fishing for peace. I didn’t know what they were paying Felipe, but I hope it included combat pay.

Felipe and Jack had hit it off — as long as Felipe understood that Jack was the captain — and they arranged to take The Maine out for a practice run. Felipe had promised me he was familiar with the boat’s electronics.

I’d asked Carlos about the three fishermen who were ostensibly chartering my boat, and he assured me they were actual sports fishermen who knew a rod from a reel so they wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Also, these three men, whom Carlos identified only as “three amigos,” had made arrangements to fly out of Cuba on the last day of the tournament with a destination of Mexico City. The three fishermen were going to stay at a local hotel in Cayo Guillermo, so if The Maine was sneaking out at night before the tournament ended, the fishermen would not be onboard to complicate things if we got into a shoot-out. So there would be only Felipe onboard for me and Jack to deal with if this was a double-cross. And of course, Sara would be aboard.

I had also asked Carlos if Eduardo had any intention of being onboard The Maine and Carlos said no, because Eduardo was persona non grata in Cuba and would be arrested if he stepped ashore — or if Cuban authorities came onboard and checked his ID. So despite my thought that Eduardo wanted to join us, it seemed that he would not see Cuba on this trip — and probably not in his lifetime.

I had also told Carlos about the letters to be opened in the event of my or Jack’s unexplained death or disappearance, and Carlos responded, “I would expect you to do that. But you can trust us.”

As for timing, the Pescando Por la Paz fleet of ten boats was scheduled to leave Key West on Saturday the twenty-fourth, two days after my and Sara’s Thursday flight to Havana with the Yale group. The tournament crews and fishermen would spend Saturday night in Havana for their goodwill visit, but Carlos was emphatic that neither Sara nor I would meet up with anyone from The Maine. Jack, however, wanted to buy me a drink in Havana, so we made a date to rendezvous at the famous Hotel Nacional bar. Carlos doesn’t give the orders.

Carlos had also brought with him an article from the Miami Herald about the Pescando Por la Paz, and I’d seen similar articles in the Key West Citizen. The Cuban Thaw had been big news recently, and though most editorials and articles had been favorable, the hard-core Cuban exile community remained adamantly opposed to Washington’s softening of American policy that had been in effect for over half a century. Basically, people like Carlos, Eduardo, and their amigos wanted F.C. and his brother Raúl gone — preferably dead — before any normalization took place. I myself had no strong opinion on that, as I told Carlos in the Green Parrot.

Also, I’d done due diligence and checked out Carlos’ website and Googled him, and he was legit in the context of who he said he was — a rock star lawyer for the anti-Castro groups in Miami, and he was not shy about it online.

I’d also checked out Sara Ortega’s professional website. She worked for a small boutique architectural firm and she had talent. Maybe, after I was rich, I’d hire her to build me a house somewhere. Her Facebook page didn’t show much, not even a mention of her boyfriend, and there wasn’t much about her on Google.

As for Eduardo Valazquez, he didn’t exist on the Internet, but that wasn’t unusual for a man of his age and occupation. He had, however, been mentioned in a few newspaper articles about the Cuban exile community — if this was the same Eduardo Valazquez — and I could see why he was not welcome in Castro’s Cuba.

Bottom line about Internet sleuthing is that it’s good as far as it goes, but you needed to take most of it with a grain of salt, and you needed some context to interpret what you read. In any case, my due diligence, for what it was worth, hadn’t spotted any red flags, and here I was in Pepe’s.

As for research and Intel about the People’s Republic of Cuba, as I said, I’d convinced myself that this trip wasn’t going to happen, so I didn’t do much of what the Army called “Country Orientation.” How much do you need to know about a place that sucks? More to the point, Carlos had given me a very good briefing, and he’d also assured me that Sara Ortega would be my main source of in-country information, and that aside from the Yale info packet and a Cuba travel guide there wasn’t much I needed to read. Carlos also pointed out that I wasn’t hired for my knowledge of Cuba; I was hired for my knowledge of survival in a hostile environment, i.e., Sara Ortega had the brains, Daniel MacCormick had the balls. Should work.

I’d also asked Carlos about the plan to get me, Sara, and the money aboard The Maine in Cayo Guillermo, and he assured me, “We will have the plan in place before you get to Cayo.”

“And how will I — or Sara — know what the plan is?”

“We will get word to you — and Sara.”

I didn’t bother to ask him how he’d do that, or when, and we both knew that if the Cuban police were hooking up electrodes to my testicles, it was best if I didn’t have this information.

Carlos also informed me, “We want no connection between you and The Maine, so I have the paperwork with me to buy your boat.”

“How much?”

“I have a certified check for the exact amount of your bank loan, payable to your bank.”

Well, now that I could dump this albatross, I wasn’t sure I wanted to part with her, but Carlos assured me, “There is a buy-back clause in the contract, and when you return from Cuba, you can buy your boat back for the same price.”

“Less if it has bullet holes in it.”

He ignored that and said, “The chances of the Cuban authorities somehow connecting Daniel MacCormick the tourist and Daniel MacCormick the owner of The Maine are very slim, but if they do, it might arouse suspicion.”

“I got that.”

He then presented me with a sales contract, some registration paperwork, and the check payable to my bank and drawn on the Sunset Corporation, whatever that was.

“And to be extra cautious,” said Carlos, “I’ve renamed the boat in the tournament paperwork.”

“It’s your boat.”

“And I will have the new name painted on the boat.” He smiled. “The Maine is now Fishy Business.”

“I like it.” But it would always be The Maine to me. And if I did buy it back, I’d have The Maine repainted on it, in gold, and sail it to Portland.

So I signed the paperwork and sold The Maine to the Sunset Corporation. In my next life, I want to be a Cuban American lawyer in Miami with an attaché case full of tricks.

And finally, Carlos had not forgotten the charter fee, and he gave me a certified check for thirty thousand dollars, which I split with Jack. Carlos also gave me a Cuba travel guide as a parting gift.

I congratulated Carlos on his new boat, and his last words to me and Jack before he and Felipe left Key West were, “Vayan con Dios.”

And Jack’s last words after he dropped me off at the airport were, “See you in Havana.”

And mine to him were, “Don’t wreck Carlos’ boat.” I also told him to use some of his money to buy four appropriately sized bulletproof vests.


I was working on my third beer and second bowl of nachos, half watching the Mets vs. Cubs playoff game on the TV above the bar while I flipped through my Yale travel packet. I glanced at a sheet of paper titled: Thirty Frequently Asked Questions, and read Number One: Everyone says it is illegal to travel to Cuba. Is this trip legal?

Yes was the expected answer. If it was No, there couldn’t be twenty-nine more questions. But for me and Sara Ortega only part of it was legal.

I read on: This program differs from more traditional trips in that every hour must be accounted for. Even the time you spend trying to seduce one of the ladies in your travel group. Well, no, it didn’t say that. But maybe it was implied.

I finished my beer and had a nacho. There were about thirty people in our group according to the roster in my travel packet, and I was happy to discover that I didn’t know any of them. Except, of course, Sara Ortega of Miami, who was actually sitting at a table about twenty feet from me with two ladies who looked very serious and studious, and dressed to repel a second glance.

Sara, however, was wearing a pale blue sleeveless dress that barely covered her knees and loafers that she’d slipped off under the table.

I hadn’t seen or heard from her since our sunset cruise, and as per her script we didn’t know each other. But we’d made eye contact when she’d walked into Pepe’s cantina, and I thought I saw a fleeting smile on her lips. Maybe a wink. I assumed she was also staying in the airport hotel, though apparently not with her boyfriend.

It appeared that there were other people from the Yale group in the restaurant who were staying at the airport hotel, and a few of them seemed to know one another, though a few had just walked up to a table and asked people if they were on the Yale Cuba trip, as Sara did before she joined the two ladies. Yalies, like vampires, can recognize one another in the dark. Similarly, Bowdoin alums can recognize one another in a bar — they’re the ones passed out on the floor.

Anyway, I took my eyes off Sara, who was not looking my way, and went back to the travel packet. I read: Each day has been structured to provide meaningful interactions with Cuban people.

Which reminded me of one of Jack’s informative T-shirts: “Join The Army, See The World, Meet New People And Kill Them.”

I read on: Please note that the Yale Alumni Association intends to fully comply with all the requirements of the general license. Travelers must participate in all group activities. Each individual is required to keep a copy of their Final Program, which could be requested by the Office of Foreign Assets Control at any point in the next five years.

I didn’t know this federal agency, but this sounded serious. I don’t keep any paperwork more than five minutes if I can avoid it, but maybe I should have this Final Program with me if I wound up in a Cuban jail and someone from the newly opened American Embassy was allowed to visit me in my cell. “Do you have your Yale Final Program, Mr. MacCormick?”

“No, sir. I lost it when I was being chased by the police.”

“Well, then, I can’t help you. You’re screwed.”

Tina, without asking, took my empty and put a cold one on the bar. “Private joke?”

“Just thinking about my vacation.”

“Where you traveling to?”

“Cuba.”

“Why do you want to go to Cuba?”

“North Korea was sold out.”

“Really?”

She was about ten years older than me, not bad-looking, and I thought if I flirted with her, Sara would notice, get jealous, and come join me. But that’s the kind of silly thinking you get with a beer buzz.

“You staying here?” Tina nodded toward the hotel lobby.

“I am.”

We made eye contact and she asked, “How’re the rooms?”

Well, I can describe my airport hotel room, or show it to you if you haven’t already seen a few. “I’ve slept in worse.”

She smiled. “Me too.” She added, “Beer’s on me.”

A waiter had drink orders for her and she moved down the bar.

Well, sleeping with the barmaid might not be a good way to begin this trip — or begin my romancing of Sara Ortega. It occurred to me that Sara, who lived in Miami, didn’t need to stay at the airport hotel, so she was here to make sure I was here. But she wasn’t here to have a drink with me. Maybe later.

Jack says women are like buses; there’ll be another one along in ten minutes. But this one, Sara Ortega, was impressive. Like the Army women I once dated, Sara was ready to put her life on the line for something she believed in. And she’d somehow talked me into putting myself in harm’s way again. The money was an inducement, of course, but aside from that I didn’t want her going to Cuba alone or with someone less competent, and she trusted me to take care of business. Balls, she said.

Men are egotistical idiots, prone to female flattery, but we all know that. And even if Sara and I didn’t hook up in Cuba, we’d always have memories of Havana. Unless we got killed.

I went back to the Thirty FAQs. Number Four informed me that I’d present one half of my visa card on arrival in Cuba, and it was Essential that I not lose the second half or I’d have trouble getting out of the country.

Well, if things went right, I wouldn’t need the second half; and if things went wrong, the second half wouldn’t get me out of Cuba.

I’m not a big fan of group tours — I did two group tours in Afghanistan. But I agreed it was good cover for this trip — until the time that Sara and I disappeared from the group. Then the alarms would go off. But if the Cuban police had any romance in their soul, they’d just think that hot Sara Ortega and horny Daniel MacCormick had slipped away to be alone together. And, as per Carlos, that would be our cover story if we were stopped by the police in the countryside. And the police might buy it — I mean, even if they’re Commies, they’re Latinos, right? But if we had sixty million dollars with us we’d have some additional explaining to do. That’s where a gun would come in handy.

I looked again at the travel packet and read that it was illegal to use American dollars in Cuba, and therefore our group would go to a Havana bank to convert our dollars into something called CUCs — Cuban Convertible Currency, for use by foreigners.

Carlos had told me to bring at least three thousand American dollars, two of which I’d gotten from him to settle our bet. Never turn down money — even after you’ve turned it down.

Also regarding currency regulations, Americans in Cuba were not allowed to use the Cuban peso for any transactions, and Americans could not buy pesos at a Cuban bank. Unfortunately, said Carlos, our Cuban contacts wanted to be paid in pesos, because they weren’t allowed to have or spend American dollars or CUCs. Therefore Sara would be carrying three hundred thousand Cuban pesos — worth about twelve thousand dollars — hidden on her person to be given to our Cuban contacts for risking arrest and imprisonment. That didn’t sound like a lot of money, but it was about fifty years’ salary in Cuba. I should have held out for five million. Dollars, not pesos.

I returned to my FAQ sheet and read that Wi-Fi was almost nonexistent in Cuba, and my cell phone would probably not have service. Carlos had mentioned this and pointed out the obvious, which was that communication between Sara and me would be difficult. It could also be a problem if, for instance, we tried to make an emergency cell phone call to the American Embassy. But as we learned in the Army, you go into battle with the equipment you have, not the equipment you want.

Sara and I could, of course, carry SATphones, but according to Carlos, that was a very big red flag for the Cuban authorities, and if you got stopped, you might as well be carrying a CIA ID card.

I took a long drink of beer and felt the alcohol seep into my brain, which sometimes makes me more honest with myself. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that this Cuban caper had less to do with money than it had to do with Mac’s need for action and adventure, which had to do with my low tolerance for 9-to-5 work. That’s why I quit Wall Street and how I wound up in combat for crap pay. And also why I wound up in a small boat on a big ocean — though the sea adventure never really got the adrenaline going the way combat did. Also, to be honest, I may be having daddy issues. But that analysis was for another time.

In any case, I now had a single elegant solution to my money problems and my midlife boredom problems. Cuba. And if I listened to Sara — and Carlos and Eduardo — I was also doing a noble thing, striking a blow against a repressive regime and righting an old wrong. But most of all, I knew, I was doing something for me. And Jack. And by extension, for all of us whose lives had been twisted by war.

On that subject, I admitted that like most veterans I was a better person for having served. My discharge papers, like Jack’s, said Honorable, which was true. What was not true, however, was that my Military Occupation Skill — infantry commander — had no related civilian skill. Turns out it does.

I looked over at Sara’s table. She was gone.

I asked Tina for another beer, but she gave me a note written on a paper napkin. It said: Get some sleep. Tomorrow is a long day. Signed: S.

Or, as I used to say to my men on the eve of a dangerous operation, “Tomorrow is going to be the longest or the shortest day of your life. It’s up to you.” And, of course, it was up to the enemy, and the gods of war, and fate.

Chapter 12

To get us into the spirit of adventure travel, the off-brand charter airline was flying an old MD-80 that had seen better days.

Sara was sitting about ten rows ahead of me in the window seat next to an older guy who appeared to be asleep, or maybe he’d died of fright during takeoff.

I was on the aisle, and the middle-aged guy next to me — who said he was with a people-to-people group called Friendly Planet — was staring out the window as I read about Cayo Guillermo in the travel guide that Carlos had given me. Cayo Guillermo, aside from being a fisherman’s paradise, was also one of Cuba’s seven certified entry ports, meaning customs, immigration, and security, including, I was sure, naval patrol boats.

I put down the book, yawned, and looked around. The Yale group of about thirty people were scattered throughout the cabin, which was full, and I could only imagine who these other people were, what groups they were with, or why they were going to Cuba.

The Yale group had assembled in the hotel lobby at 5:30 A.M., as per instructions, and we had been greeted by our group leaders, a young man named Tad and a young woman named Alison, both of whom were Yale faculty, but neither of whom inspired confidence in their organizational ability. Tad was maybe thirty, but he looked younger, a result no doubt of a cloistered life in academia. Tad needed three years in the Army. Alison was not bad-looking, though she seemed a bit severe, maybe even tight-assed. If I were alone on this trip, she would be my challenge. Anyway, Tad and Alison, according to the itinerary, would be giving lectures on Cuban culture, time and place TBA, which I think means To Be Avoided.

Sara had kept her distance from me during the group assembly, which was fine with me at 5:30 A.M. She was wearing black slacks, sandals, and a snug green Polo shirt. I wondered where she was hiding the three hundred thousand Cuban pesos.

My travel attire, like that of most of the men in the group, was casual — khakis, Polo shirt, and walking shoes. Also regarding attire, Carlos had said that Sara and I needed to look like hikers when we escaped to the countryside, so we had backpacks instead of carry-on luggage, and we’d leave our suitcases behind when we slipped out of our hotel in Havana, never to return.

After our group assembly and roll call we’d all gone to another concourse for what seemed like endless paperwork, passport and visa checks, and general bureaucratic bullshit. Finally, after we’d paid a twenty-five-dollar Cuban Departure Tax, we’d gotten our boarding passes for Wing-and-a-Prayer Charter Airlines, or whatever they were called.

It was during this drawn-out process that I checked out my fellow travelers. Most of the group were couples, and most of them were middle-aged, and many of them seemed like they were having second thoughts about their Cuban adventure. Me too. I also noticed seven or eight singles, including Sara and me, and a few older ladies of the type you always see traveling with groups, sometimes to exotic places where medical care is iffy. I give them credit, but I wouldn’t give them my amoxicillin.

More importantly, I didn’t see anyone in our group whom I’d consider suspicious — except Sara and me. Also, interestingly, Sara Ortega was the only person on the Yale roster with a Spanish surname. I hoped they didn’t single her out when we landed in Havana.

Also on the roster was a name I recognized — Richard Neville, a bestselling author. I’d read one or two of his novels, which weren’t too bad. I recalled his photograph on the book jacket and I spotted him standing away — or aloof — from the group. With him was a woman, Cindy Neville, according to the roster. She was young enough to be his daughter, but there was no physical resemblance, so she must be his wife. Cindy was a looker, and I wondered what she saw in him. Probably the bulge in his pants — the wallet, not the crotch.

Also on the roster was a man named Barry Nalebuff, a Yale professor who, with Tad and Alison, would be giving lectures, TBA.

Anyway, after the third or fourth head count and some confusing instructions from Tad and Alison, we had time for a quick cup of coffee and what might be my last buttered bagel on earth. Then to the gate.

Now, forty minutes out of Miami, we were already beginning our descent into Havana — or hell, according to Eduardo and Carlos. I could imagine what this flight was like in the 1950s; high rollers, movie stars, mobsters, and thrill-seekers from New York and Miami, flying on luxurious airliners to sinful Havana — casinos, prostitutes, sex shows, pornography, and drugs, all of which were in short supply in 1950s America. Old Havana must have been a deliciously decadent town, and it was no wonder that the corrupt Batista government fell like a rotten mango. I recalled that Sara’s grandfather had gotten out on one of the last commercial flights from Havana to Miami. Now his granddaughter was back, and I hoped she shared his luck in getting out.

The Communists, like the radical Islamists I fought, are not fun-loving people, and when they take over, they become the fun police. I once told a captured Taliban fighter, through a translator, “Life is short, sonny. Get laid, have a few laughs and cocktails, and dance a little,” but he had his own agenda.

The guy sitting next to me got tired of the view and said, “It’s about time we normalized relations.”

“Right.”

“And end the trade embargo.”

“Good idea.”

“Our government has been lying to us.”

“Now you tell me.”

“Seriously, the Cuban people are like us. They want peace. And better relations.”

Actually, they wanted to escape to Miami, but I said, “That’s good.”

“I think we’re going to be pleasantly surprised.”

I heard a chime and said, “The captain just turned on the no talking sign.”

My companion turned back to the window, and I took the opportunity to fill out my customs declaration form. Was I carrying any firearms with me? I wish. Did I have any alcohol with me? Just what’s left in my brain.

The form also asked if I was carrying Cuban pesos, and if so, how much. My answer was No, though I wasn’t sure what Sara would decide to do. Honesty is the best policy, unless you could lie and get away with it.

I also had an immigration form to fill out. Was this my first time in Cuba? Yes. And last. Where was I staying in Cuba? The Parque Central Hotel in Havana. Should I mention the cave? No. As for my departure info, I wrote my return flight number and departure date — though I reserve the right to escape earlier by boat, under fire. I signed the form.

I looked up and saw Sara coming toward me. She didn’t make eye contact as she headed for the lavatories in the rear. On her way back, however, she brushed her hand on my shoulder. I was getting into this secret relationship. It was exciting.


As we descended, I could see Havana in the distance, a city of over two million people, built around a large harbor that gave access to the Straits of Florida and the world beyond — if you could get there.

We made our final approach into José Martí International Airport, and I saw a few passenger terminals next to mostly empty parking lots. I noticed that one end of the airport was military, and the Cuban Air Force seemed to consist of five vintage Soviet MiG fighters, a few Russian-made helicopters, and an antique American DC-3 with a red star painted on its tail. Hopefully the MiGs and choppers were grounded for parts and repairs and I wouldn’t see them overhead when I sailed out of Cuba.

I’d read in my guide book that José Martí Airport had been bombed by Cuban exile pilots in 1961, in preparation for the CIA-backed Bay of Pigs Invasion. The attack bombers were American-made, apparently provided by the CIA. I could see why the Castro regime might have some unresolved anger issues. Anyway, the airport looked okay now, but I was sure the memory lingered on.

The MD-80 touched down and I was in Cuba, a long ninety miles from the Green Parrot.

Chapter 13

We deplaned and walked in single file across the sweltering tarmac, under a blazing sun and the gaze of security police who carried Russian AK-47s. The last time I saw one of those, it was firing at me.

We filed into Terminal Two, a dark, unwelcoming structure, built, according to my travel guide, during the days of the Cuban-Soviet alliance, specifically to accommodate — or segregate — Americans arriving on charter flights. I looked for a sign saying WELCOME AMERICANS! but it must have been in the shop for repairs. Also, the air-conditioning was not working or nonexistent, but there were floor fans.

Tad was holding up a Yale sign and the group congregated around him. I also saw raised signs for cultural institutions and art museums, and signs for other college alum groups. Apparently Cuba was the hot new destination.

Tad was urging the Yale group to get closer, and I thought he was going to lead us in “The Whiffenpoof Song,” but he shouted, “Please stay together!” Sara wound up next to me, and she looked a bit tense, which was understandable, so to buck her up I said, “Hi. I’m Dan MacCormick. What’s your name?”

She gave me a quick glance. “Sara.”

“First time here?”

“No.”

“Do you know where I can buy cigars?”

“In a cigar store.”

“Right. Are you traveling alone?”

She didn’t reply but I saw a smile flicker across her lips, and I gave her a reassuring pat on her arm.

Alison had found a uniformed official who directed the Yale group to an immigration officer sitting in a booth behind a tall counter.

We formed a queue and Sara was several people ahead of me. She looked totally composed now, but somewhere on her body or in her luggage were three hundred thousand Cuban pesos that would need some explaining if she was searched. Also, she had a hand-drawn hiking map that might arouse suspicion if a sharp security officer asked to see the Yale itinerary.

The immigration officer motioned for the first person on line — who happened to be one of Sara’s Mexican restaurant companions — to step forward into the booth.

The robotic officer took her immigration form, then matched her face to her passport and her name to a list that he had on a clipboard. He asked her a few questions that I couldn’t hear, then asked her to step back, remove her glasses, and look at the camera mounted over the counter. I really didn’t want my picture taken but I didn’t think this was optional.

The immigration officer stamped the lady’s visa, kept one half, then stamped her passport. He pressed a buzzer and motioned for her to go through a door and exit the left side of the booth. I wondered if we’d ever see her again.

The officer motioned for the next Americana, Alison, to step forward, and the process was repeated.

The line moved slowly, and at one point a couple approached the booth together and the immigration officer had a little shit fit and yelled out, “Uno! Uno!” like he didn’t get the memo about the Cuban Thaw.

It was Sara’s turn and she walked into the booth like she owned it.

The immigration officer took special note of Señorita Ortega, and I could see that they weren’t getting along. She stepped back to have her picture taken, then collected her visa and passport and disappeared through the door.

The guy picked up a phone and spoke to someone, then motioned for the next person in line. I hoped he was calling about getting more ink for his stamp, and not about Sara Ortega.

After about fifteen minutes, it was my turn, and I walked into the booth.

The immigration officer stared at me with his dead eyes. I gave him my passport, my immigration form, and my visa tarjeta del turista.

He looked at my passport photo and flipped through the pages, discovering that I hadn’t been out of the U.S. since I’d sailed The Maine to the Cayman Islands two years ago.

He asked in a heavy accent, “You travel with someone?”

“No.” But I’m trying to screw that lady who pissed you off.

I was ready for my close-up, but he kept staring at my passport, and I wondered if I’d given him my Conch Republic passport by mistake.

Finally he said, “Step back, look to camera. No smile.”

I stepped back, frowned, and had my picture taken for the secret police. The guy stamped my passport and visa, kept his half, and pushed the buzzer to unlock the door, which probably led to a hole in the floor.

I exited into the customs area where dogs were sniffing people and luggage, and I passed through a scanner as my backpack was X-rayed. The customs guy opened my backpack and examined my binoculars, which I thought would come in handy on our way to the cave and to Cayo Guillermo. He also found my Swiss Army knife and waved it at me. “Why you have?”

“To open my beer. Cerveza.”

“No legal. Tax. Ten dollar.”

I think he meant a fine, which was actually a shakedown, but I gave him a ten and he gave me my knife and said, “Okay. Go.”

The bandito just made half a month’s pay, but I was happy to see that official corruption existed in the People’s Republic. It could come in handy.

I proceeded to baggage claim, which was a long counter piled haphazardly with luggage. I looked for Sara but didn’t see her. I did, however, see Alison, who was directing everyone who’d gotten through customs to an exit.

I found my suitcase and wheeled it toward a customs agent who was collecting the declaration forms. Some people ahead of me had chalk marks on their bags, and they were directed to a counter where agents were searching the marked luggage. Another opportunity to levy a tax. Or be taken away to be searched. I was worried about Sara. I would have asked Alison if she’d seen her, but I wasn’t supposed to know Sara Ortega.

My suitcase wasn’t marked, and I gave the customs agent my Nothing to Declare form and headed out the door into the bright sunshine. There was a line of coach buses parked outside, each one with a sign, and I headed toward the Yale bus. Tad was standing near the bus, checking names off his list while a Cuban porter was loading bags into the luggage compartment.

I said to Tad, “MacCormick.”

He found my name and checked me off. “You can give this gentleman your bag and hop aboard.”

I turned his roster toward me and saw that most names had been checked off, but not Sara Ortega. I left my suitcase on the curb and headed back to the terminal. An armed guard at the door made it clear that I wasn’t allowed to reenter the terminal, so I stood there, peering inside.

I had my cell phone, but it showed no service, and even if it did I didn’t have Sara’s number. We were supposed to exchange phone numbers sometime after we landed, on the off chance we had service in Havana.

A few people whom I recognized from our group came out of the terminal, but not Sara.

Just as I was thinking of reporting Sara’s disappearance to clueless Tad, out came Alison and Sara, wheeling their suitcases and chatting away. Sara gave me a quick nod and Alison, who recognized me from the group, said, “We’re all here. You can board the bus.”

Sara hung back as Alison hurried to the bus.

Though I didn’t know Sara Ortega, I offered to carry her backpack as any single gentleman would do for a pretty lady who had caught his eye. She accepted my offer, and as we walked toward the bus, I asked, “What happened?”

“I was escorted into a back room and had my luggage searched. Got patted down and answered some questions.”

“Do you think it was random?”

“Nothing here is random. Here, it’s profiling. And paranoia. They have a problem with Cuban American tourists.”

“Okay... the money? The map?”

“You should never try to hide anything. The map is stuck in my guide book and they barely noticed it. The pesos are in my backpack, mixed with American dollars, which is what I did last time I was here. The customs agent asked why I was bringing pesos into the country.”

I was sure she had a good answer, or she wouldn’t be walking with me.

“I reminded him it was not illegal for me to possess pesos, it was only illegal for me to spend them, and I pointed out that I had declared the pesos. I showed him my receipt for the pesos that I’d bought from a Canadian bank and told him that I was giving the money to various Cuban charities — which is actually done by American aid groups and it’s legal.”

“Apparently he believed your b.s.”

“He believed he’d made a good score.” She explained, “Cuban customs is a gold mine for the customs officials. If they bust you, the government becomes their partner. If you pay them a fine, they pocket it.”

“I got clipped for ten bucks.”

“You got off easy. Cost me two hundred.”

“We’re in the wrong business.” Señorita Ortega was a cool customer. I said, “It looked like you got off to a bad start with the passport.”

“He was being obnoxious, asking why the Americana was coming back to Cuba for a second time, and how could I afford to stay at the Parque Central. He practically suggested I was a prostitute, and I said I was going to report him.”

“I think he reported you to customs.”

“Probably.” She added, “I hate them.”

“Right.” It’s usually my mouth that gets me in trouble. Now I had another mouth to worry about.

Tad and Alison looked impatient as we approached, and Sara took her backpack and moved ahead of me. Tad checked her off, the porter loaded her bag, and she boarded the bus.

Tad must have thought I was going to grab his roster again, so he held it to his chest.

I hopped on the big bus, whose air-conditioned interior was as cold as a well-digger’s ass in Maine.

The bus had about fifty seats, so I was able to find two empty seats together and I sat next to my backpack. Sara was behind me, sitting with one of the older ladies.

Tad and Alison boarded, greeted everyone, and Alison said, “Well, that wasn’t too bad.” She introduced our bus driver, José, and led us in greeting him. “Buenos días, José!”

Group travel requires a certain level of voluntary infantile behavior. I had a flashback to my yellow school bus.

José pulled away and we were off to Havana, which my guide book said was twenty kilometers from the airport, giving Tad and Alison time to fill us in on the day’s agenda. Our Cuban guide would join us at the welcome dinner at our hotel and answer any questions we might have about Cuba. Question number one: How do we get to Paris from here?

The bus was comfortable, made in China, and fit for Americans, though the lavatory was temporarily out of order and would probably stay that way until a plumber arrived from Shanghai.

This was Tad and Alison’s second trip to Cuba, they told us, though not together. I hoped they’d hook up and made themselves scarce.

I tuned them out and looked out the window. The area around the airport was rundown — moldering stucco buildings with tin roofs — but the flowering vegetation was lush and tropical, hiding most of the squalor. The bus swerved a few times to avoid donkey carts, and the Yalies shot pictures out the window.

So here we were in hell. There’s a TV series that documents the story of ordinary people who agree to smuggle drugs into or out of some shithole country. They get busted, of course, and I used to laugh at the stupidity of these amateur drug smugglers who risked ten or twenty years in a hellhole third-world prison for a few bucks. What were they thinking? I would never do anything like that.

Chapter 14

There was almost no morning traffic on the airport road and no sign of commercial activity — no shops, no gas stations, and no McDonald’s. The only thing for sale was The Revolution, advertised on billboards, most of which showed the familiar Christ-like image of the departed Ernesto “Che” Guevara, and what appeared to be his quoted words praising LA REVOLUCIÓN. The only graffiti I saw was on the wall of a collapsed building — CUBA SÍ — YANQUIS NO.

If the martyred Che was the face of the revolution, Fidel was the man behind the curtain. My Yale info packet said that Fidel Castro had modestly avoided encouraging a cult of personality around him, so we’d see no images of F.C. or his brother Raúl, no statues, and no postcards or souvenirs showing F.C.’s or R.C.’s faces. I think the regime is missing an opportunity to make a few bucks on Castro Brothers T-shirts.

We reached the outskirts of Havana in about thirty minutes.

First impressions color future perceptions, and my first impression of Cuba was of decay. The buildings in Havana, like the ones along the airport road, were mostly in bad repair — except the buildings that were beyond repair. The good news was that the streets were litter-free, maybe because no one had anything to throw away.

There weren’t many private cars on the streets, and the ones I saw were predominantly Soviet-era clunkers belching exhaust smoke, but I spotted my first vintage American automobile, a canary yellow Chevy convertible, maybe a ’56 or ’57. The Yalies took pictures from the bus.

There seemed to be a lot of people hanging around not doing much, including work crews, apparently on break from their twenty-dollar-a-month jobs. No one was in rags, I noticed, but a lot of the women wore the same dark Lycra pants and tank tops. If there was malnutrition in Cuba, as Eduardo said, it wasn’t apparent in Havana, where many of the ladies seemed well-fed. The men, however, were leaner, and they dressed mostly in dark pants, sandals, and T-shirts, most of which sported American logos. I didn’t see any children, but they were probably in school — or not yet born, since Cuba had one of the lowest birth rates in the Western Hemisphere, which is never a good sign of a country’s future.

The bus continued, and Alison announced that we’d make our scheduled stop at the Plaza de la Revolución, which we did, and we all got off the air-conditioned bus into the sweltering October heat of Havana.

The plaza was huge, and Tad told us that a million people — ten percent of Cuba’s population — had come here in 1998 to hear John Paul II say Mass. That’s a lot of bread and wine for the Pope to hand out, and a lot of Porta-Juans. More importantly, for an officially atheist country, that was a lot of people showing up to hear the word of God.

The plaza was surrounded by mostly ugly buildings, one of which had on its façade a colossal metallic outline of a bearded and bereted Che Guevara, with the words HASTA LA VICTORIA SIEMPRE, which I thought might be Che’s last words to his wife, Vickie, but which Tad said meant “Always toward victory.” I needed to bone up on my Spanish. Corona, por favor.

Anyway, there were about a dozen tour buses idling around the mostly concrete plaza and groups of tourists snapping iPhone photos that they couldn’t e-mail to anyone until they were out of Wi-Fi-less Cuba.

We’d all hoped to see public toilets, or vendors selling cold drinks in the plaza, as you’d see anywhere else in the world, but apparently cold drinks and toilets were not part of the new five-year economic plan.

A few of our group snuck onto the other buses to use the toilet, and some people got back on our bus to get out of the heat. Our first few hours in Cuba were proving to be a challenge for the less hardy souls, who probably wouldn’t sign up for the Yale educational trip to Afghanistan.

One of the ugly buildings in the square had military vehicles in front of it and dozens of armed soldiers around it. Tad said that was the headquarters of the Communist Party. The Yalies took pictures.

The good news was that the plaza was filled with parked vintage American automobiles, and the drivers of these beautiful taxis were hustling the tourists to have their picture taken next to the cars, many of which had American flags flying from their antennas, which was interesting.

The cars were all pre-1959, of course, the year that time stopped here, and all of them were in mint condition, more lovingly restored and maintained than the buildings around the square. Maybe I’d buy a vintage Caddy when I was rich next month.

Meanwhile, I thought that one of these cars would make a good photo for Dave Katz, so I picked a baby blue Buick convertible that the owner said was a 1956 and I gave him my iPhone. Sara was standing nearby and I asked her to pose with me, but she declined. The Buick owner, who spoke good English, wouldn’t take her no for an answer — and lose two bucks — so he took Sara’s hand and led her to his car. The entrepreneurial and romantic gentleman urged us to get closer and I put my sweaty arm around Sara.

“Beautiful! Smile!”

He took two shots and I said to Sara, “I’ll text these to you. Can I have your number?”

“Maybe later.” As she walked away, I saw that a few of our group had noticed my interest in the pretty single lady whom I’d assisted at the airport. I gave the Buick driver an American five, though the transaction was illegal for both of us.

On that subject, Alison announced that we had to get to the bank to get CUCs because sometimes they ran out of money. We all boarded the bus and Tad advised us that the bank tellers sometimes slipped you counterfeit fifty- and hundred-CUC notes that they’d bought for half price, and they kept the real ones for themselves. “Check for the watermarks,” said Tad. Sara’s grandfather was rolling over in his grave.

We got moving and headed north up a wide boulevard with a landscaped median flanked by art deco structures, most of which needed restoration. In fact, this whole city needed Cuban American contractors from Florida.

The bus turned onto a side street and stopped in front of a small, shabbily constructed building that looked like a welfare office, but was in fact a government bank. We filed out of the bus into the grimy building and stood in line to change our Yankee dollars into Cuban Convertible Currency.

Carlos had advised me not to change more than five hundred dollars at a time to avoid drawing attention to myself. According to Carlos, half the population of Havana were volunteer snoops called los vigilantes, or los chivatos — the finger pointers — members of the revolutionary watch committees who reported on their neighbors and also reported any suspicious activities of foreigners. Okay, we definitely weren’t in Switzerland, but I had the feeling that Carlos, like Eduardo, exaggerated the degeneration of Cuban society. Somewhere beyond the paranoia and the hate of the regime was a reality that was not easily understood.

I handed over five hundred greenbacks and my passport to an unsmiling teller and expected to get five hundred CUCs back at the official exchange rate of one for one, but there was a ten percent Screw You, Yanqui charge for American dollars, and they also Photostatted my passport.

After everyone was back on the bus — holding up their CUCs to find the watermark — Tad did a head count and off we went. Alison said our next stop was the Hotel Nacional, where lunch awaited us, then to the Hotel Parque Central, where hopefully our rooms would be ready.

I looked out the window as we made our way north toward the Straits of Florida. Havana. Mildewed magnificence, said the guide book.

When you get to a place that you think you know because it’s been in the news, or because it’s been talked and written about so much, what you discover is that you know nothing about the place. As it said in my travel packet: Put your prejudices aside and discover Cuba for yourself.

Okay, but in the end it didn’t matter much to me what the truth or the reality was of this place, and I didn’t need to leave here wiser; I needed to leave here richer. And alive.

Chapter 15

Our tour bus pulled into a long, tree-lined drive that ended at the imposing Hotel Nacional, which according to Alison had been inspired by the Breakers in Palm Beach, where I’d actually stayed once, and when I got my bill I knew why they called it the Breakers. But that was in my carefree days before I sunk my small fortune into The Maine — which I actually didn’t own anymore.

Alison also informed us that the Nacional had been opened in 1930, and that it had been the scene of many important events in Cuban history, including a takeover by a group of revolutionaries, many of whom were later executed — maybe for complaining about their bill. Also, according to Alison, the Nacional had hosted many rich, famous, and powerful people, including royalty, world leaders, and American movie stars. The infamous had also stayed here, including Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano, who in 1946 convened the largest meeting ever held of the American Mafia, which gathered in the Nacional under the cover of a Frank Sinatra concert. I wondered if Frank knew what was going on. In any case, I’d heard of the Nacional and it had come to mind as a good place to meet Jack.

We all got off the bus and marched through the ornate lobby, which showed signs of restoration, then out the back doors across a terrace and down the sloping lawn toward the Straits of Florida. We followed Tad and Alison to an open pavilion that was serving lunch to tourist groups.

There were two long tables in the pavilion reserved for the Yale group. We all seated ourselves, and I found myself between two couples who were trying to make conversation. Across from me was the bestselling author and his better-looking wife. Sara was at the other table.

I couldn’t imagine sitting here through a family-style lunch — pass the beans, please — so I excused myself and walked down toward the water to what seemed to be fortifications overlooking the Straits of Florida.

A freelance guide offered me a history lesson for an American dollar, and I promised him two if he kept it under four minutes.

The guide, a university student named Pablo, told me that some of these fortifications were ancient, but that F.C. had ordered new fortifications built on the high ground of the Hotel Nacional during the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis when the regime feared a U.S. invasion.

The so-called fortifications looked pretty pathetic, consisting of some bunkers and a few exposed gun emplacements. As a former military man I knew that these structures could be knocked out in about two minutes by a single salvo of 16-inch naval guns. But sometimes the optics are more important than the substance.

Pablo also thought the fortifications were a joke, and he confided to me that he wanted to go to the U.S. He looked at the Straits and said, “Over there.”

“Good luck.” I gave him an American ten, and he gave me his opinion on the Cuban economy. It sucked.

As I was contemplating heading for the bar, Sara appeared and said something in Spanish to Pablo, who laughed and replied in Spanish, then walked off with his half month’s pay.

“What did you say to him?”

She smiled. “I asked if you were flirting with him, and if not, I’d give you a try.”

“You could have just said, ‘Adios, amigo.’ ”

“Conversation in Cuba has to be clever. That’s all they have.” She suggested, “Let’s take a walk.”

We walked along a park path that overlooked a four-lane road bordered by a seawall that ran along the shore. Sara said the road was called the Malecón, which meant the Breakwater. The Straits were calm, the sun was hot, and there was no sea breeze. Sara asked, “How are you enjoying your Cuba experience so far?”

“Too early to tell.” I added the mandatory, “The people seem nice.” Actually, they seemed listless and indifferent. “I need another day before I become an expert on Cuba.”

She smiled, then said, “They’re good people who’ve been badly served for five centuries by inept, corrupt, and despotic leaders. That’s why Cuba has had so many revolutions.”

They might have better luck picking a government out of the phone book. I asked, “How do you feel about being here?”

“I don’t know.” She confessed, “I feel some ancestral connection... but I don’t feel that I’m home.”

“How many Cubans in America would return if Cuba was free?”

“Fewer than those who say they would. But all of us would like to travel freely back and forth, to see family, and maybe to buy a vacation house — and to show our children and grandchildren where their parents and grandparents came from.”

“That would be nice. But not on that airline we flew in on.”

She smiled. “Within a year, there’ll be regularly scheduled airline service from the U.S. And by next spring there’ll be cruise ships at the Sierra Maestra Terminal filled with Americans.”

“Two nations, one vacation.”

“That’s clever. Did you make that up?”

“I did.”

We walked in silence awhile, me wondering why Sara skipped lunch to be with me, and she knowing why.

We reached the end of the park where a monument stood that Sara said was the Monumento a las Víctimas del Maine.

Well, that was ominous.

We turned and began walking back toward the hotel.

She asked, “How do you feel about the U.S. seeking improved relations with Cuba?”

“Well... I understand why it’s time to do that. But we need to get something in return.”

“We won’t get anything from these bastards. Except lies. Nothing will change here until the regime changes.”

“It’s a process. Cuba needs a half million American tourists and business people with money and big mouths spreading the idea of freedom.”

“Which is exactly what the regime is afraid of. There’s nothing in it for them, and they’ll pick some fight with the U.S., or... arrest some Americans on trumped-up charges in order to set back the process.”

“Is that what you’d like to see?”

“Yes, to be honest.”

“Well, as long as it isn’t us who are arrested.”

She didn’t reply, so I changed the subject. “I’m not sure I’m understanding our supposed relationship.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. As you know, we need to look like we’re having a holiday romance, so that when we disappear—”

“I understand. Happens to me on every vacation.”

“Yes, I’m sure, but not with a tour group in a police state. So to keep Tad and Alison from panicking and calling the embassy, we’ll leave them a note saying we’ve gone to the beach in Mayabeque Province — which is not where we’re going, of course — and we’ll be back in time for the return flight. As Carlos probably told you, we’ll leave our luggage in our rooms as though we’re coming back.”

“Right.”

She continued, “But even if Tad and Alison don’t call the embassy, our Cuban tour guide will report our disappearance to the authorities, who may or may not consider this a serious issue, and may or may not circulate our names and our airport photos to the police in Mayabeque — or all the provinces.”

“I’m listening.”

“Europeans, Canadians, and South Americans are allowed to travel independently around the country, so we won’t stick out in the countryside, and even if we’re stopped by the police I can probably talk us out of getting arrested.” She glanced at me. “We’re just starry-eyed lovers, off on a romantic getaway.”

“Hot as chili peppers.”

She smiled, then said, “We’ll probably be expelled, or possibly just returned to the group.”

“Sort of like catch and release.”

“I like your sense of humor.”

“Thank you. Here’s what’s not funny — if we have the sixty million dollars on us when we’re stopped—”

“Obviously that would be a problem. That’s the critical period — between the cave and The Maine.”

“Right. And if we get arrested with sixty million American dollars, you’ll get your wish about an incident that would set back diplomatic relations.”

“I don’t think our arrest would be enough to refreeze the Cuban Thaw. We’d also have to be executed.”

I saw she was smiling, but I didn’t think that was actually funny.

She said, “We need to take it a step at a time, and worry about it a step at a time. We need to be smarter than the police. Very soon we will be on The Maine, with the money, heading for Key West. That’s what I see in our future, and that’s what you need to see.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Good.”

“And by the way,” I asked, “do you know how we’re going to get the money onboard The Maine?”

“I don’t know at this time.”

“And when do you think you’ll know?”

She stayed silent a moment, then said, “Our contact in Havana will lead us to our contact in Camagüey Province, then my map will lead us to the cave, and a road will lead us to Cayo Guillermo.”

“I got that. How do we get the last five yards over the goal line?”

“We’ll find out when we get to Cayo Guillermo.” She reminded me, “This is all compartmentalized. Fire walls.”

Obviously there was a contact person in Cayo Guillermo, but Sara wasn’t sharing that at this time. So I returned to my more immediate concern and asked, “Am I supposed to romance you? Or vice versa?”

She glanced at me. “Let me fall all over you — as unbelievable as that may seem to our group.”

Was I supposed to smile? I asked, “When do we begin our charade?”

“We start tonight at the cocktail reception. By day four, which is Sunday, when the Pescando Por la Paz fleet leaves Havana for Cayo Guillermo, we’ll be having a romance.”

“Let me make sure I understand—”

“We’ll be sleeping together. Is that all right with you?”

“Let me think. Okay.”

“Good.”

And I get paid for this. There must be a catch.

She stayed silent a moment, then said, “I like you. So it is okay.”

I didn’t reply.

She glanced at me. “And you?”

“Just part of the job.”

“That was going to be my line.”

“You intrigue me.”

“Good enough.”

“And I like you.”

We strolled on in silence, then against my better judgement I said, “I thought you had a boyfriend.”

“I thought you had a boyfriend.”

“Just kidding.”

“Good. Then neither of us has a boyfriend.”

We walked up the sloping grass toward the hotel and reached the pavilion. I said, “I’m lunching in the bar. Join me.”

“We need to stay with the group.”

“I’m grouped out. See you on the bus.”

“Thank you for a nice walk.” She entered the pavilion and I could hear Tad say, “There you are. Have you seen... what’s his name?” The roster-snatcher.

I continued across the terrace, where a few dozen turistas were drinking mojitos.

I found the bar called the Hall of Fame and ordered a Corona but settled for a local brew called Bucanero. There was a pirate on the label, which was appropriate for the eight-CUC price. I gave the bartender a ten and sat in a club chair. The patrons were mostly cigar-smoking men, prosperous-looking, maybe South Americans. For sure no Cuban could afford this place, and if they could they wouldn’t want to advertise it.

A young lady in fishnet stockings approached with a cigar tray. “Cigar, señor?”

“Sure.” I picked out a Cohiba and the young lady clipped my tip and lit me up. Twenty CUCs. What the hell. I’d be lighting my cigars with fifties in a few weeks.

I sat back, drank my beer, and smoked my cigar, surveying the opulent room whose walls were covered with photos of the famous people who’d stayed here in happier times. I wish I’d been at that 1946 Sinatra concert.

But back to the present. Sara Ortega. That was a pleasant surprise.

Chapter 16

We arrived at our hotel, the Parque Central, which, as the name suggested, was across from a park in Central Havana.

We filed off the bus, collected our luggage, and entered the hotel, a fairly new building with an atrium lobby surrounded by a mezzanine level that could be reached by a sweeping staircase.

Most of the lobby was a cocktail lounge with a long bar off to the left. I saw that many of the tables were occupied by cigar smokers, filling the air with a not-unpleasant smell, though many of the Yalies seemed horrified. Hey, it’s 1959. Deal with it.

We were checked in as a group by clerks who had never heard of the hospitality industry, but mojitos were handed out to make up for the inefficiency and indifference.

Tad and Alison bailed out, leaving their flock of poor little lambs to fend for themselves — but not before Tad reminded us, “Welcome cocktail party and dinner on the rooftop terrace at five-thirty.”

That was where Sara was going to start falling all over me, so I should take a shower and get there on time.

Sara got her room key and wheeled her bag past me without a glance.

I got checked in and went up to the sixth floor and found my room.

The park-view room was clean and functional and had a queen-sized bed and a flat-screen TV. It also had its own safe, which I wouldn’t trust to be safe from the policía. There was a minibar but it was empty.

The room was sweltering and I lowered the temperature, which didn’t seem to do anything. I unpacked my few belongings, got out of my sweaty clothes, and hit the shower. I don’t know why I expected hot water, but cold showers were what I needed to lower my libido until Sunday.

I got dressed in clean clothes, including my blue blazer, and went down to the lobby bar. They didn’t have Corona, so I ordered a Bucanero. Six CUCs. A third of a month’s wages. The only person I recognized from our group was Tad, who was reading a stack of papers at the end of the bar, sipping a bottled water. I sat next to him and asked, “What are you reading?”

He looked up at me. “Oh... Mr....”

“MacCormick. Call me Mac.”

“Okay... these are my lecture notes.” He put his hand on them, and I felt I owed him an explanation for my intemperate roster-snatching, but instead I bought him a Bucanero.

To make conversation as I kept my back to the bar, looking for Sara in the lobby, I told Tad, “My four-star room has no hot water, and the A/C has asthma.”

“Sorry. It’s intermittent.” He gave me a tip. “There’s actually hot water in the sink and the tub. The showers seem to be on a separate system.” As for the A/C, he said, “Mine’s out, too. Havana has power problems.”

“What’s going to happen when a half million spoiled Americans hit this city?”

“God only knows.”

“At least the beer is cold.”

“Usually.”

We chatted a bit as I looked at people getting off the elevators. Tad was actually okay, but he took the opportunity to lecture me, “We missed you at lunch. It’s important that you stay with the group.”

“Why?”

“This is a group tour. If you go off on your own to someplace that we are not licensed to visit — like the beach, or on a boat, or any place that is not considered educational — then we risk losing our educational tour license from the State Department.”

“How does the State Department classify bordellos?”

He actually smiled, then confided, “As a practical matter, you’re free to do what you want after the group dinners.”

“So no bed check?”

“Of course not.” He suggested, “There are some good nightclubs in Havana. I’ll mention them at my first lecture tomorrow night.”

“Great. What’s your lecture about?”

“The history of Cuban music.”

“I don’t want to miss that one.”

“Actually, attendance at the lectures is required.”

I guess TBA didn’t mean what I thought it meant. “Can I see your notes? So I can ask intelligent questions.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“That’s okay. Let me ask you something — there’s a lady in our group, the one I helped with her luggage at the airport, Sara Ortega. Do you know anything about her?”

He shot me a look. “No. I don’t know any of the people in our group.”

“I hope you get to know Alison.”

He ignored that and asked, “Is there anyone from your class in the group?”

“I’m not a Yalie. Can’t you tell?”

He smiled politely.

I asked him, “Did anyone go off on their own last time you were here?”

“No... Well, a couple did go to a Havana beach.”

“Did you have them arrested?”

He forced a smile. “I just spoke to them in private, and I also reiterated the rules to the group at my next lecture.”

“Are you obligated to call the embassy if someone breaks the rules?”

“I... Well, last year the embassy wasn’t open. But... why do you ask?”

“I was hoping I could go scuba diving while I’m here.”

“Sorry, you can’t.” He added, “It would cause all of us trouble.”

“But no problem with a bordello?”

He again forced a smile. “I don’t think they exist here. But if you discover otherwise, let me know.”

I smiled. Tad was really okay — just a little uptight and anxious about his responsibilities as a group leader in a police state. I hoped he handled it well when Sara and I disappeared. Bye-bye license.

We chatted a bit, and Tad asked me, “What do you do for a living?”

Good question. And that’s what I was asked on my visa application. Carlos and I both knew that my cover story — my legend, in Intel parlance — should be close to the truth in case the Cuban authorities did a background check. You don’t want to be caught in an unnecessary lie, so Carlos and I agreed that my occupation was “fisherman,” and there was no way anyone would connect “fisherman” to the Pescando Por la Paz, especially now that I wasn’t the registered owner of a boat in the tournament.

“Mister MacCormick?”

Also, Tad would have photocopies of everyone’s Yale travel application, so I replied, “I’m a fisherman.”

“I see. Well, I hate to say this to you, but Cuba is a fisherman’s paradise. Though not for you.”

“Maybe next time I’m here.”

“Eventually Americans can come here as tourists with no restrictions.”

“Can’t wait.”

Well, I had set the stage, delivered a few lines, and it was time to exit left. “See you at cocktails.”

I took my beer to a cocktail table in the lobby and surveyed the lounge. A few of our group had drifted in, but not Sara.

Carlos, in his briefing, had told me that the hotels used by Americans were under surveillance by undercover agents from the Orwellian Ministry of the Interior. But because Cuban citizens were generally not allowed in the hotels for foreigners, these surveillance men tried to look like Latin American tourists or businessmen. I should be able to spot them, Carlos said, by their cheap clothing, bad manners, or by the fact that they never paid for their drinks. Sounded more like a scene from an Inspector Clouseau movie than Big Brother in Cuba. But maybe I should listen to Carlos.

As I was sitting there, it hit me — I was in Communist Cuba, where paranoia was a survival tool. And at some point in the next ten days, I was going to be either rich in America, or in jail here, or worse. Also, I was going to have sex with a woman I barely knew — not a first, but exciting nonetheless.

Regarding Sara, empathy is not one of my strong points, but I thought about the risks she was taking. She had much stronger motivations for being here than I did, but that didn’t diminish her courage. In fact, to be less empathetic, her motivations could lead her into some risk-taking that I wouldn’t approve of. Beware of people who are ready to die for a cause — especially if they’re your team leader.

And finally, I knew, as Sara did, that sleeping with me was actually not part of the job, and that our romance could easily be faked — and that was the original script that she and Carlos had probably worked out, thus the made-up boyfriend. But Sara had changed the script and changed her mind, and not only was she willing to die for her cause, she was also willing to... well, fuck for it. That’s a dedicated woman.

And what Sara wanted from me in exchange for sex was loyalty, reliability, and commitment. Men in combat bond in other ways. Women in dangerous situations with a male partner have figured out that the sexual bond can usually keep the idiot in line.

Or maybe she actually liked me. As unbelievable as that seems. And that could lead to a whole different set of problems. Especially if the feeling was mutual.

I finished my beer and checked my watch. Cocktails in fifteen minutes.

As in a war zone, I had a sense of heightened awareness, coupled with a contradictory sense of unreality. Like, this can’t be happening. But it was, and as I promised Sara on The Maine, if I got here I wouldn’t go back on my word. I’m all in, as we used to say in the U.S. Army. Good to go.

Sex, money, and adventure. Does it get any better than that?

Chapter 17

The upscale open-air rooftop restaurant was in a new wing of the hotel, and it could have been in Miami Beach. The winds of change were blowing in Cuba, but not the trade winds, and it was still hot and humid.

I’m usually on time for cocktails and chicks, but about half our group had not yet arrived, including Sara. Tad, Alison, and Professor Nalebuff were standing near a potted palm, talking to a tall guy with long, swept-back hair and tight pants who I guessed was our Cuban guide.

Everyone looked refreshed after their long day of airports, bureaucratic bullshit, and tropical heat. Cold showers are invigorating. As per our Travel Tips, the men in our group wore sports jackets, but no ties. The ladies had repaired their makeup and seemed cool and comfortable in nice summer dresses.

A waiter came up to me with a tray of mojitos, which like the daiquiri had been invented in Cuba and probably should have stayed here. But to get some gas in the tank, I took one.

I noticed that Richard Neville was mopping his brow with a handkerchief and also downing a mojito while simultaneously grabbing hors d’oeuvres from passing waitresses and somehow managing to smoke a cigarette. Amazing. His pretty wife, Cindy, was alone, staring out over the parapet at the lighted city, sipping a mojito. Under other circumstances I would have joined her, but I was about to be swept off my feet by Sara Ortega.

I spotted a bar and walked over to it. Former combat infantry officers don’t drink cocktails that come in primary colors with little umbrellas in them, so I gave my mojito to the bartender and ordered a vodka on the rocks.

Sara suddenly appeared beside me and said to the bartender, “May I have a Cuba Libre?” She added, “Por favor.”

She seemed to notice me for the first time and said, “Excuse me, what did you order?”

“Vodka.”

“You should be trying something local.” She said to the bartender, “Please give this gentleman a Cuba Libre.” She asked me, “Have you ever had one?” She smiled.

Playacting is fun. “Once. On my boat.”

“Do you sail?”

“I’m a fisherman.”

“What do you fish for?”

“Peace.”

“That’s good.” She put out her hand. “Sara Ortega.”

“Daniel MacCormick.” We shook, and I reminded her, “We met at the airport and took a picture together in the plaza.”

“Your arm was sweaty.”

Sara was wearing a white, off-the-shoulder silk dress that reached down to the straps of her patrician sandals. Her lipstick was that frosty pink that used to drive me crazy when I was a teenager.

The bartender gave us our Cuba Libres and I raised my glass. “To new adventures.”

We touched glasses. Here’s looking at you, kid.

She asked, “What brings you to Cuba?”

“Curiosity. How about you?”

“I’m looking for something.”

“I hope you find it.”

“I will.”

She walked to the parapet and gazed out over the city. “It’s beautiful from up here. But down there, not everything is beautiful.”

“I noticed.”

“But still romantic in a strange way.”

Sara pointed out some of the landmarks of the city, then drew my attention to the harbor. “You can see the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal on the far side of that plaza.” She stepped out of character and said, “We saw this on Google Earth.”

I nodded and asked, “Where is the Nacional?”

She pointed to the tall building, silhouetted against the sea, then pointed out the wide boulevard that snaked along the seashore. “That’s the Malecón, where half of Havana gathers on hot nights.”

“To do what?”

“To walk and talk. It is a place for lovers, poets, musicians, philosophers, and fishermen... and those who gaze toward Florida.”

Well, I thought, if you don’t have air-conditioning, television, money, or hope, the Malecón might be better for the soul than church. I was actually beginning to feel sorry for these people, though I almost envied their simple lives. As for Sara, she was more Cuban than she knew.

Sara said we should be sociable, and she took my arm and led me around the rooftop to meet our fellow travelers, introducing me as Mac, though I was Daniel when she picked me up at the bar. She told a few people that I wasn’t a Yalie, but that everyone should be nice to me anyway. That got some polite chuckles.

We circulated a bit, and Sara did most of the talking. I was starting to feel like a hooked tuna, so I joined in the dumb cocktail conversations. I remembered an old Bowdoin joke and said to a group of people, “I hear Yale is going co-ed. They’re going to let men in.” That didn’t go over well.

Anyway, about half the group seemed normal and the other half needed more mojitos, or an enema.

I used to be good at cocktail parties in Portland, college, the Officers’ Club, and Wall Street. But four years at sea and too many Key West dive bars had apparently taken the shine off my silver tongue. Not that I gave a shit.

Sara, on the other hand, was good with tight-assed strangers, poised and charming. Her eyes sparkled. What was more impressive was that she knew she was possibly facing death, and she was handling that well for a rookie.

My own face-offs with death had made me see death differently. Death had become not a possibility, but a probability, so I made peace with that dark horseman, and that peace has stayed with me on my borrowed time.

I looked at Sara, who was engaged in a conversation with four men who obviously found her to be the life of an otherwise dull and awkward icebreaker party. It would be ironic, I thought, if I finally found the love of my life on the eve of... whatever.

I found myself in a conversation with two of the younger and better-looking women in our group — Alexandra Mancusi and Ashleigh Arote. Alexandra and Ashleigh were wearing wedding rings, but I couldn’t remember if their husbands were on the group roster. Nametags would have been helpful for me tonight, indicating marital status and where the spouse was. But then I remembered that my dance card was filled. Old bachelor habits die hard.

Ashleigh said, “You look familiar. Were you TD?”

I wasn’t sure what that meant. “If you mean totally drunk, yes.”

Both ladies laughed.

I confessed, “I’m not Yale.”

Ashleigh explained that TD was Timothy Dwight, the name of one of the twelve residential colleges that made up Yale.

Alexandra was JE — Jonathan Edwards — and they were both Class of ’02, which was my class at Bowdoin, but somehow I felt older. The Army will do that to you.

A young man joined us, maybe thinking I needed reinforcements, and introduced himself to me as Scott Mero. I asked him, “Are you TD?”

“No, JE.”

Who’s on first?

Anyway, I was hoping that Sara noticed that I was talking to these attractive young ladies, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The mating game is TD — Totally Dumb.

Scott Mero, as it turned out, was married to Alexandra Mancusi, who’d kept her maiden name, she told me, and only married Scott Mero because she didn’t have to change her monogramed towels. Funny. I needed another drink and was about to excuse myself and go to the bar, but Tad called for our attention and the group obliged, except for Richard Neville, who couldn’t tear himself away from Sara.

Tad officially welcomed us to the Yale alumni educational tour of Cuba. He kept it short, ending with, “Put your prejudices aside and discover Cuba for yourself,” which seemed to be the theme of this trip — though we had to stay with the group to discover Cuba for ourselves.

Tad introduced Alison, who also kept it short and counseled us, “There will be some challenges ahead in the coming days, but when you get home you’ll be glad you came.” Alison introduced our Cuban tour guide, Antonio, who she said was the best guide in Cuba. Certainly he had the tightest pants.

Antonio was about thirty-five, not bad-looking and he knew it. He gazed out at the group, smiled, spread his arms, and shouted, “Buenas noches!”

A few people returned the greeting, but not enough people, apparently, because Antonio shouted again, “Buenas noches!”

The response was better and Antonio flashed his pearly whites. “Bienvenido. Welcome to Cuba. Welcome to Havana.” He let us know, “This is a beautiful group. And intelligent, I am sure.”

I asked Sara, “What is the Spanish word for bullshit?”

She gave me an elbow in the ribs.

Antonio continued, “This will be the most amazing experience for you. And you are so lucky to have Tad and the beautiful Alison to be your group leaders, and I am sure we will all make your experience beautiful.”

Antonio was not only full of shit, he was enthusiastic about it.

Carlos had advised me — and I’m sure Sara also knew — to be wary of the tour guides, because most of them were informants who had the secret police on their speed dial. Antonio looked more like a gigolo than a chivato, but I’d keep Carlos’ warning in mind.

Antonio concluded, “I am keeping you from a beautiful dinner, and you will not forgive me, so I will close my big mouth and open it only to eat.”

Laughter from the Americanos who wanted to show their love to the ethnically different bullshit artist.

There were four round tables set up for dinner and it was open seating, and when that happens there’s usually some hesitation and confusion. You don’t want to wind up next to assholes. Sara sat and patted the seat next to her. “Sit here, Mac.”

I sat, and as the table of ten filled up I saw that Richard Neville had planted his butt on the other side of Sara. The other seven people included Cindy Neville, Professor Nalebuff, the two couples who hadn’t laughed at my Yale joke, and unfortunately, Antonio, who said, “We will have a beautiful dinner.”

A waiter took drink orders and I ordered a double vodka, straight up.

Shrimp tartare was the appetizer, and Professor Nalebuff, a bearded gentleman of about sixty, said he’d been to Cuba twice, and advised us, “This may be the best meal you’ll get in Cuba.”

Antonio disagreed, saying, “I have booked eight beautiful paladares — you know this? Privately owned restaurants which are a new thing to Cuba.”

Nalebuff said dryly, “We also have privately owned restaurants in America.”

“Yes, good. But they are expensive. Here, not so much. And everyone should try a government restaurant. Where the people eat very cheaply.”

The two middle-aged couples across from me thought that was a swell idea.

Antonio did not keep his mouth shut as promised, and he held court as I knew he would. He sounded like a dyed-in-the-wool Commie, or he was just trying to provoke a response from the privileged Americans as he shoved shrimp tartare in his mouth. The two couples seemed to be getting instantly brainwashed, agreeing with Antonio about the justice and humanity of socialism. If they spent an hour in a kennel, they’d probably come out barking. So much for an Ivy League education.

Neville had little to say except, “Pass the wine,” and his wife began a tête-à-tête with Nalebuff.

Antonio looked at Sara for a few long seconds, then said to her, “So you are Cuban.”

“I am an American.”

“Yes. But a Cuban. Do you speak Spanish?”

“Poco.”

“We will practice. You should speak your native tongue.”

I thought he was going to ask her if she was born in Cuba, or how her parents or grandparents had come to America. But then I realized this was a loaded subject for those who left and those who stayed.

Antonio said to her, “Welcome home.”

Sara didn’t reply.

Antonio had apparently gotten tired of his own voice, so he began asking each of us to say something about ourselves, starting with the two middle-aged couples, but he was not a good listener and his dark eyes went dead.

Barry Nalebuff told us he was a history professor at Yale and he had two lectures scheduled, the topic of which was Cuban-American relations since the Spanish-American War. He assured us, “I’ll keep them short, and the takeaway is that it’s a love-hate relationship, like a troubled marriage, and both sides need serious anger management counseling.”

Antonio said reflexively, “America has always treated Cuba as a colony. Until the revolution.”

Nalebuff replied, “I address that in my lecture. Please come.”

Antonio didn’t commit, though the lecture might do him some good. He looked at me. “And you? Why have you come to Cuba?”

“I thought the brochure said Cayman Islands.”

That got a laugh. Even Antonio smiled. He looked at Sara again, then said to Neville, “So Tad tells me you are a famous author. Tomorrow we go to Hemingway’s house. You will be inspired.”

“I don’t like Hemingway.”

His wife, of course, contradicted him. “You love Hemingway, darling.”

Antonio didn’t know what to say to that, so he called the waiter over for another bottle of wine. Antonio had a good gig.

The fish course was served and Sara asked me, “What is this?”

I can identify a hundred kinds of fish on the line, but not on the plate. I actually don’t eat fish. “It’s a henway.”

“What’s a henway?”

“About three pounds.”

“Stupid joke.”

Have we already had sex?

The multi-course meal continued as the sun set. The two middle-aged couples, whose names I couldn’t remember, asked Antonio lots of questions about the itinerary, which, on paper, seemed like a cultural version of the Bataan Death March.

Sara saw an opportunity to plant a red herring and asked Antonio, “Why can’t we go to the beach?”

He shrugged. “My government would allow this. But it is your State Department which prohibits it. You should ask them.”

Professor Nalebuff provided an answer. “Because of the embargo, Americans are not allowed to travel to Cuba for vacations. But we can come here for people-to-people exchanges, family reunions, art, education, and culture.”

I inquired, “Are the nightclubs considered art, education, or culture?”

Nalebuff smiled and agreed, “It all seems very illogical, but the purpose is to limit the amount of dollars that flow into Cuba.”

Antonio said, “The embargo has caused suffering among the people.”

Nalebuff had apparently had enough of Antonio and replied, “You can trade with ninety-five percent of the rest of the world. Stop blaming the American embargo for all your problems. Your problems are made in Cuba.”

Antonio didn’t like that, and I think he would have moved to another table, but Nalebuff beat him to it. “Excuse me. I need to circulate.” He got up and found an empty seat at Tad’s table.

The two middle-aged couples looked embarrassed and I’m sure they would have smoothed Antonio’s ruffled feathers, but Sara returned to her topic, “If we were allowed to go to a beach, where would you recommend?”

Antonio still seemed pissed at Nalebuff, maybe thinking about reporting him, but he smiled and replied, “There are beautiful beaches all over Cuba, but the closest are in the province called Mayabeque, which surrounds Havana.” He named half a dozen playas, then reminded her, “But this is forbidden for you. However...” He then said something to her in Spanish, which seemed to embarrass Sara. In fact, I heard the words “desnudo” and “playa,” which I translated as “nude beach.” Antonio was a pigalo.

After dessert was served, Tad announced that we were free to go and explore Havana by night, assuring us it was a safe city. “But be in the lobby at eight A.M. for the bus to Hemingway’s house and other stops on our itinerary. Breakfast at seven.”

About half the group stood and drifted toward the elevators, and I asked Sara if she wanted to hit a nightclub.

“It’s been a long day. I need to turn in.”

“Let’s have a nightcap in the lobby. We need to talk.”

She glanced at me and nodded.

Sara said a few good-byes and we crowded into an elevator. On the way down, she locked arms with me, and I knew I was hooked.

Chapter 18

We found a table for two in the lobby near the piano. The pianist, dressed in a dark suit, was playing Broadway show tunes, and I said to Sara, “I’m not having an authentic Cuban experience yet.”

“You will when we’re trying to outrun the police.”

You’d think she had served in combat, where we made jokes about death every day.

A disinterested waitress came to our table and we ordered brandies.

Sara asked, “Did you enjoy the evening?”

“I enjoyed being with you.”

She smiled. “You’re an easy pickup.”

“I’m following your script.” I changed the subject and said, “Antonio is an asshole.”

“You were giving him some competition.”

Definitely a bit sassy. Maybe I bring that out in women. I advised her, “Be careful of him.”

“I know that. And I assume Carlos briefed you about the chivatos — the police informants?”

“He did.”

“And about the undercover agents from the Ministry of the Interior who hang around the hotels?”

“He did.”

“Cuba looks deceptively like any Caribbean tropical paradise, and the police state is not always apparent, so some people let their guard down.”

“I hear you.”

We checked our cell phones, but we had no service, though we exchanged phone numbers in case Verizon put a cell tower on the roof this week. “I’ll send you the photos of us in front of the Buick.”

She smiled.

I said, “Good question about the beach.”

“Thank you.”

“What was that about desnudo and playa?”

She smiled again. “So you recognize important words in Spanish.” She translated, “He said there was a nude beach in Mayabeque, for foreigners only, but he would be allowed to go as my private guide.” She added, “He has a car.”

“Pig.”

“I hope you’re not the jealous type.”

I didn’t think I was, but I had my moments. More to the point, when Sara and I went missing, Antonio would report the beach conversation to the police, which would hopefully lead them on a wild-goose chase.

Our brandy came, and we sat in silence, listening to a medley from “South Pacific.”

She looked at me. “Now that you’re here, are you having second thoughts?”

“I’m here at least until Sunday.”

She forced a smile.

A few other people from our group drifted into the lounge looking for either a hostess or the No Smoking section, neither of which existed. I scanned the tables, trying to spot an undercover agent, but everyone looked like an American tourist.

Carlos had also told me that some of the rooms were bugged, and that those rooms were usually given to journalists, foreign government officials, and others who had come to the attention of Cuban state security. That might include Sara Ortega, so this was a good time and place to talk about something more important than Antonio and nude beaches. I asked Sara, “Where is your hiking map?”

She patted her shoulder bag. “And the pesos.”

“Don’t leave the map or the money in your room safe or the hotel safe. And be careful of what you say in your room.”

“I know that.”

“Good. Do you have any idea of how, where, or when our man in Havana will contact us?”

She put down her brandy glass. “Well, not here. But last time I was in Havana, a man just came up to me one night on the Malecón and said, ‘Would you be interested in some historical artifacts?’ ” She added, unnecessarily, “That was the sign — the identification phrase.”

Unless he was really selling historical artifacts. “Were you supposed to be walking on the Malecón that night?”

“No. It was just an impulse.” She explained, “It was after a group dinner in the Riviera Hotel. I needed a walk.”

“So this guy must have known that you’d be at the Riviera, and what you looked like.”

“Our friends in Miami were able to get him a photo of me and the Yale itinerary.”

“How?”

“Through a Cuban American tourist.”

“Okay... and what was the purpose of making this contact?”

“Just to see if it worked. A sort of dry run for the next time I came to Havana. I was also here to familiarize myself with the city. Also, we were still exploring ways to get the money out of the country.” She looked at me. “Now we have you and your boat.”

“I sold the boat to Carlos. It’s now Fishy Business.”

“I know that.” She assured me, “Carlos thinks of everything.”

“He thinks he does.” I returned to the subject and asked, “Did you meet your second contact in the countryside?”

“I wish I could have. But as you can see, no one can leave the group, even for a day—”

“Right. So this guy came up to you on the Malecón—”

“Marcelo. We walked along the seawall, just talking... to see if we were being followed — or got arrested.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“He was nice. He gave me some tips on Cuban slang, local customs, and how the police operate.”

“Did you buy any historical artifacts?”

“No, but I bought him a drink in the Nacional, slipped him two hundred thousand pesos, and took a taxi back to the Parque Central.” She added, “I wasn’t arrested, but for all I know, he was.”

“If he was, you would have been.”

“Unless they were just following him to see if we made contact again.”

I looked at her. “Do you have any formal training in this sort of thing?”

“No... not formal. But I was briefed.”

“By whom?”

“By a retired CIA officer. A Cuban American.” She asked, “What is your training?”

“You tell me.”

She hesitated, then said, “We know you took some Defense Intelligence Agency courses.”

“You’ll be happy to know I passed one of them.”

She smiled.

“What else do you know about me?”

“Everything that’s in the public record. School, Army, bad credit score.” She smiled again.

I continued, “Rented house, old van, credit card debt.”

“But no bank loan on The Maine.”

“Right.”

“You could leave here tomorrow and start a new life.”

“I could. But that’s not what I promised you.”

She smiled. “At least I know you’ll be here until Sunday.”

I returned the smile, then reminded her, “I’m in Cuba to make three million dollars.”

“But you thought you were going to the Cayman Islands.”

Funny.

She asked, “What do you know about me?”

“Virtually nothing. But I like your smile.”

“Did you see my work on my website?”

“I did. You have talent.”

“And you have good taste.”

And don’t forget balls. I returned to the subject and asked, “Could Marcelo be our contact again?”

“I have no idea.”

“What is the ID this time?”

“It’s ‘Are you interested in Cuban pottery?’ ”

“Spanish or English?”

“English.”

“Do you have a countersign?”

“No.”

“Then your contact is sure of who you are.”

“Obviously, or he wouldn’t be approaching me.”

“Unless he was just a guy struck by your beauty.”

“Then he’d have a better line than that.”

“Right. Okay, do you or your contact have a code word for, ‘I am under duress — being followed, wearing a wire, and being made to do this’?”

“No...”

“You should. Does the contact know my name or what I look like?”

“No name or photo. Just a description.” She looked at me and smiled. “Tall, dark, and handsome.”

We made eye contact. “And following you around like a puppy dog.”

“That’s right. In any case, it’s me, not you, who he — or she — will contact.”

“Okay.” It seemed to me that these people knew what they were doing, up to a point. I asked, “What is our contact in Havana going to do for us to earn his pesos?”

“Two things. First, give us the name and location of our contact in Camagüey Province. Then give us a means of getting there.”

“Such as?”

“Travel in Cuba is difficult — but our contact will get us to Camagüey. Safely.”

“All right. Then we meet our Camagüey contact. What is he or she going to do for us?”

“He or she will give us a safe house, and a truck to transport the goods to Cayo Guillermo. And some tools to get into the cave.”

“Good. And you trust these people?”

“They are Cuban patriots. They hate the regime.”

“And I assume they have no idea that we’re looking for sixty million in cash.”

“They have been told that I’m recovering a box of important documents — property deeds, bank records, and other paperwork that has no intrinsic value.”

“Right. You don’t want to tempt them to double-cross us.”

Sara had no reply to that, but said, “In fact, there is a trunk of such paperwork that we need to take with us.” She explained, “In my grandfather’s bank vault there were land grants going back to the Spanish kings and queens, property deeds for houses, factories, plantations, hotels, and apartment buildings — all potentially worth more than sixty million dollars. Much more.”

That was exciting. Except for the word “potentially.” I’ll take the sixty million in American dollars.

She continued, “Carlos and other attorneys will present all this documentation to an appropriate court and file a claim for this stolen property on behalf of their clients.”

“That won’t make the Cuban government very happy.”

“The hell with them.” She added, “It will make the Cuban exiles happy.”

“Right. Okay, and I assume the deed to your grandfather’s house is in the cave?”

“Actually, he smuggled it out. I have it in Miami.”

Maybe she should have brought it with her for when we visited the house. Along with an eviction notice. But I sensed this was an emotional subject for Sara Ortega, so I left that alone.

I thought about all she’d said regarding our contacts and what they were going to do for us. There was some obvious danger in making these contacts, but that came with the territory. I gave this mission a 50/50 chance of success.

Sara put her hand on mine. “It will go well.” She assured me, “The secret police are not as efficient as they’d like you to think.”

“Famous last words.”

“They are good at one thing — instilling fear. And fear paralyzes the people.” She looked at me. “I am not afraid.”

“It’s okay to be afraid.”

“And you? Now that you’re here — do you feel fear?”

“Yes. A nice healthy fear.”

“You’re honest.”

“We need to be.”

She nodded.

Sara looked tired, so I suggested, “Go get some sleep.”

She stood. “You too.”

“I’m right behind you. Room 615 if you need to call me.”

“I’m 535. See you at breakfast.” She walked to the elevators.

The piano player was playing the theme from “Phantom of the Opera.”

Hard to believe I was in Miami this morning, annoyed that they’d under-toasted my bagel.

Chapter 19

I walked into the breakfast room at 7:30 A.M., wearing khakis, a short-sleeved shirt, and running shoes. I spotted a few people from our group, but not Sara. The buffet was American with some Cuban touches, including beans, to propel us through the day. I got a cup of coffee, sat, and waited for Sara.

I’d gotten back to my room at a reasonable hour, but I couldn’t get to sleep so I’d checked out Cuban TV. There were five channels: Tele Rebelde, which was a news channel, CubaVision, an entertainment channel, and two educational channels to put you to sleep. The fifth channel told you to turn off the TV. Actually, there was CNN, in English, and according to my guide book, the satellite signal was pirated by the Cuban government and available only in select hotels and to the Communist elite, leaving the other eleven million news-hungry people on this island dependent on Tele Rebelde — which meant Rebellious, but could be translated as Government Bullshit.

I’d watched a little CNN, which reminded me of why I don’t watch TV news, then I watched a news cycle on Tele Rebelde, looking for a mention of Pescando Por la Paz, but I didn’t see anything. Maybe the regime was trying to decide if this was the kind of event they wanted to cover with reporters and a brass band, or wanted to ignore. If Sara was right, the Cuban government was not enthusiastic about the Cuban Thaw.

I intended to buy a newspaper, but there was no newsstand in the hotel, and no newspapers in the breakfast room, not even Granma, the Communist Party newspaper, which I could pretend to read instead of looking at the door. Where the hell was she? Maybe I should ring her room.

I had the daily itinerary in my pocket and I unfolded it on the table. I read: Hemingway’s house is just as he left it in 1960. Probably because the Commies wouldn’t let Ernest take anything with him when he left.

After Hemingway’s house, we’d go to lunch, then a visit to Vivero Alamar, a co-operative research farm where we’d learn about growing organic food. I wondered what sadist put this together.

“Is this seat taken?”

Before I could reply, Sara sat.

“Good morning,” I said. She was wearing jeans and a white Polo shirt and looked good.

“Have you had breakfast?” she asked.

“I was waiting for you.”

“If you do that, you’ll starve to death.”

“Right. Did you sleep well?”

“No. Did you?”

“I watched Tele Rebelde all night.”

“You should have watched the Cuban soaps on CubaVision. Margaretta is cheating on Francisco again, same as when I was here last year. I don’t know why he doesn’t leave her.”

I smiled, then asked, “Were you here alone?”

“I was.” She stood. “Let’s get something before the bus comes.”

We went to the buffet table, where Richard Neville was cleaning out the breakfast sausage, but he left a strip of bacon for me. Sara piled her plate with fruit and a glob of yogurt.

We sat and she said, “You’ll never see fresh fruit in the countryside.”

“Actually, we will at the organic food farm.”

“That’s all show, and what you see in the hotels is all imported.” She explained, “The farms are government-owned and mostly deserted because the work is backbreaking, still done with animals and human labor. Farmers get the same twenty dollars a month that they’d get pushing a broom in the city, so there’s no incentive to stay on the farm.”

Sorry I mentioned it.

“Ninety percent of the Cuban diet is beans and rice, imported from Vietnam, and even that is rationed.”

I stared at my strip of bacon and my scrambled eggs.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. Eat up.”

I sensed a change in Sara, maybe as a result of her being here, and she was getting herself worked up, like Eduardo. I tried to imagine me returning to an America that had gone into the crapper because of government stupidity... Well, maybe that wasn’t so hard to imagine.

Sara said, “The important thing regarding the Cuban countryside is that most people have moved to the towns and cities. That could be good for us, but maybe bad if we’re the only people driving a vehicle on a lonely road.”

“Right.” I asked her, “Do you know how big this haul is going to be?”

“My grandfather told me it was all packed in steamer trunks.”

“Good. How many trunks?”

She glanced at the nearby tables, which were empty. “A typical steamer trunk filled with hundred-dollar bills will hold about fifteen million dollars, and weigh about four hundred pounds.”

“Okay... one in each hand, two people, that’s sixty million.”

She ignored my math and said, “But there are also fifty-dollar bills, and twenties, so there are more than four trunks.”

“How many?”

“My grandfather said ten.”

“Each weighing four hundred pounds?”

“Yes. A twenty-dollar bill weighs the same as a hundred-dollar bill.”

“Right. That’s four thousand pounds of steamer trunks.”

“Give or take.”

If I’d known this in Key West I would have gone to the gym. “How about the gold and jewels?”

“The gold may be too heavy to take. But there are four valises of jewelry which we’ll take.”

“Always room for jewelry. And how about the property deeds that you mentioned?”

“That’s another steamer trunk.”

I pointed out, “This could be a bit of a logistical problem. You know, getting the trunks out of the cave, onto a truck, then to the boat.”

“Carlos has a plan.”

“Well, thank God. Would you like another cup of coffee?”

She stared at me. “We wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t think we could do it.”

“Right.”

A pretty waitress cleared our plates and smiled at me.

It was almost 8 A.M. and people from various tour groups were making their way toward the lobby. We stood and I left two CUCs on the table, and Sara said, “That’s three days’ pay.”

“She worked hard.”

“And she had a nice butt.”

“Really?”

The Yale group was already boarding and Sara and I got on the bus together, said good morning to José, Tad, Alison, Professor Nalebuff, and our travel mates as we made our way toward the rear and found a seat together.

The efficient Tad did a head count and announced, “We’re all here.”

Antonio hopped aboard and called out, “Buenos días!”

Everyone returned the greeting so we could get moving.

“We will have a beautiful day!” said Antonio.

Sí, camarada.

Chapter 20

The bus wound its way out of Havana and again I had the impression of a once vibrant city that was suffocating under the weight of a rotting corpse.

Hemingway’s house, Finca Vigía, was a handsome Spanish Colonial located about fifteen kilometers from Havana, and we got there in half an hour.

The house was well-maintained, according to Alison, because of a rare partnership between the U.S. and Cuban governments. Art and culture bring people together, said Alison, and that was why we were here; we were ambassadors of goodwill.

Even as ambassadors, we weren’t allowed inside, but dozens of tourists were peering through the open doors and windows into the rooms that had been left exactly as they were when Hemingway left Cuba after the revolution.

Antonio told us that Señor Hemingway had given Finca Vigía and all its contents to the Cuban people. Professor Nalebuff, however, told us that Hemingway had willed Finca Vigía to his fourth wife, but when Hemingway took his own life in 1961, the Cuban government forced his widow to sign over the property to them.

It occurred to me that Antonio wasn’t lying to thirty educated people; he lived in a time warp and an information desert like everyone else here and he had no idea of the truth. But reality was on the way. Unless the regime could stop it.

Anyway, Ernest had a nice swimming pool, and his boat, Pilar, was displayed in an open pavilion. Nice boat, but not as nice as mine — the one I used to own. On Pilar’s fantail were the words KEY WEST, which was where I’d rather be.

Neville’s wife, Cindy, was insisting that her bestselling husband pose for photos. He complied, but he wasn’t smiling, maybe thinking that people never took photos of themselves in front of his house, wherever that was. But maybe they would if he blew his brains out like Hemingway did. Just saying.

We left the grounds of Finca Vigía, and Antonio led us to a row of souvenir stalls where Sara bought me a Hemingway T-shirt, made in China.

We reboarded our air-conditioned Chinese magic carpet and went to lunch at an open-air restaurant. Lunch consisted of black beans, rice, fried plantains, and what appeared to be chicken that had been cut up by Jack the Ripper.

Then to the organic farm. A nice older gentleman explained, in Spanish, all the strides they were making in organic agriculture. Antonio translated, and Sara said to me, “All the farms in Cuba are organic because they can’t afford chemical fertilizer.” She added, “Most of this food goes directly to the Communist Party comemierdas — the shit eaters.”

Antonio overheard that, and he shot her a nasty look.

After two hours in the hot sun, looking at beanstalks, bugs, and plants that I’d never heard of, we staggered back to the bus.

Sara, sensing I may not have enjoyed smelling manure all afternoon, said, “Tomorrow morning is the walking tour of the Old Town. We’ll see my grandparents’ house, and my grandfather’s bank.”

“I look forward to that.”

“I have mixed feelings.”

“Maybe someday you can buy the house.”

“Maybe someday I can legally claim what was stolen.”

“Don’t hold your breath. Meanwhile, we can make a cash withdrawal from Grandpa’s bank vault.”

She took my hand and squeezed it. Don’t hurt the hand. I need it to carry steamer trunks.


As the bus approached the Parque Central, Tad reminded us that he was giving a lecture on the history of Cuban music at 5:30, and please be on time.

Alison reminded everyone that the bus left for the Riviera Hotel right after Tad’s lecture, so please be dressed for dinner. Also, there was a swimming pool on the roof if we were so inclined.

We got off the bus and I invited Sara to join me for a swim or for a cold beer at the bar.

“I need a nap and a shower.”

“Am I invited?”

“I’ll see you at the lecture.”

So I went to the bar. I didn’t recognize anyone from our group, but soon after I sat and ordered a Bucanero, Antonio sidled up next to me. He asked, “Did you enjoy your day?”

“I enjoyed the Hemingway house.”

“Good. Most Americans do.” He asked, “Did your companion enjoy her day?”

“She’s actually not my companion.”

“I see... So will she be joining you here?”

“No. She went to the nude swimming pool.”

Antonio had no comment on that and took a seat next to me. He had a bottled water that he stole from the bus, and he lit a cigarette, saying, “I am supposed to ask you if you mind if I smoke.”

“It’s your country.”

“It is.”

Antonio appeared to have dropped his tour guide persona and he seemed slightly less of a clown, though I didn’t know why he wanted my company sin Sara.

He asked, “Do you read Hemingway?”

“I did. How about you?”

“Yes, in Spanish and English. There is... how do you say...? A cult of Hemingway in Cuba.”

“Really?”

“Yes. In the Hotel Ambos Mundos, which we see tomorrow, there is the room where he lived and wrote before he purchased Finca Vigía. The room is now a museum.”

My beer came and Antonio continued his unpaid lecture. “Some of his novels are what we call his Cuban novels. Many of his books have a socialist theme.”

“I missed that.”

“But it is true. His books show people acting in a... a way that is for humanity... not for the individual.”

“Most of his characters were selfish and self-centered, like me. That’s why I liked them.”

Antonio continued, “Fidel said, ‘All the works of Hemingway are a defense of human rights.’ ” He added, without irony, “This is a socialist belief.”

There’s no point in arguing with brainwashed people, and Antonio was intruding on my quiet beer, so I said, “Well, thanks for the company. I’ll see you at dinner.”

But he didn’t leave and continued, “Fidel also said that For Whom the Bell Tolls inspired his guerrilla tactics in the Sierra Maestra.” He continued, “They met only once — F.C. and Hemingway. At the fishing tournament named for Hemingway. F.C. was to present the trophy to the winner. But it was F.C. himself who caught the biggest marlin and won the prize.”

“Whose scale did they use?”

“What are you suggesting?”

I didn’t want to get arrested on day two, so I didn’t reply.

Antonio sipped his water thoughtfully, then got my attention by saying, “I understand from Tad that you are a fisherman.”

“That’s right.” And why are you discussing me with Tad?

“So you understand the passion of this sport.”

“I do.”

“Do you know that there is a new tournament? The Pescando Por la Paz. It arrives in Havana from Key West tomorrow. You live in Key West. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“This tournament did not interest you?”

“No.”

He asked, “Have you read Islands in the Stream?”

“Have you?”

“Yes, of course. It is a very good book. It speaks of Cayo Guillermo — where the tournament will be held after they leave Havana.”

I sipped my beer.

“There is a very prophetic line in the book... written before the revolution.” He quoted without notes, “ ‘The Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out. They got what they deserve. The hell with their revolutions.’ ” He said, “I will see you at dinner,” and left.

What the hell was that all about?

Chapter 21

Tad’s 5:30 lecture was being held in a meeting room on the mezzanine level, and everyone came dressed for dinner as instructed because the bus was departing right after Tad did the cha-cha or whatever he was going to do. Sara and I sat together. She was wearing a red lacy dress and sandals, and her perfume smelled good.

I noticed that Antonio was not in the room to monitor Tad’s lecture for subversive material, so maybe he was busy reporting me to the secret police for questioning the weight of F.C.’s marlin. My mouth sometimes gets me into trouble, which makes life interesting.

Anyway, attendance was taken and three people were absent, though they’d sent word that they were in their rooms, not feeling well, which was understandable after a long day in the hot sun listening to Antonio’s bullshit. Thinking ahead, Sara and I should go on sick call to give us a running start before we were reported as AWOL.

Tad began his lecture by playing Cuban music on a compact disc player while images of hot dancers flashed on a projector screen. This turned out to be the highlight of the lecture.

Tad then spoke from his notes, and I actually found the lecture interesting. I learned about Son music, salsa, rhumba, reggaeton, and the African origins of a lot of Cuban music and dance. There was no time for Q&A, but Tad remembered to give us the names of some good nightclubs, including Floridita, the birthplace of the daiquiri, and where Hemingway used to hang out. Tad said, “His record was eighteen double daiquiris in one sitting. Don’t try to match that.”

I said to Sara, “We used to do that before breakfast at Bowdoin.”

On our way down the sweeping staircase to the lobby, Sara asked, “Did you enjoy that?”

“I did.”

“Cuban music and dance are one of the few things that the regime hasn’t changed or censored.”

So even the Commies like to see boobs and butts shaking. In some ways, Cuba was still Cuba. I said, “I’m a little Hemingwayed out, but we can go to Floridita after dinner if you’d like.”

“I think we should take a walk on the Malecón.”

“You’re a cheap date.”

We boarded the bus. José was still on duty and Antonio had reappeared in time for a free dinner.

On our drive to the Riviera, Antonio gave us some background on the hotel to make our dining experience more meaningful and beautiful. The Riviera, he told us, was built by the notorious American gangster Meyer Lansky, and opened in time for Christmas 1957. “But on New Year’s Day 1959,” said Antonio, “the Communist Party crashed Mr. Lansky’s New Year’s Eve party.”

That got a laugh from the Yalies — who had all seen Godfather II — and Antonio, who’d probably used that line a hundred times, smiled.

So, I thought, Meyer Lansky and his Las Vegas partners had made a bad bet on the Riviera Hotel and Casino and lost everything in one day. I wondered if any Mafia money was in the cave. I pictured bundles of cash labeled “Lansky” or “Luciano.” Maybe that’s where my cut was coming from. I’ll take it.

We pulled up to the Riviera, which overlooked the Malecón and the Straits of Florida but looked like it belonged on the Las Vegas Strip.

We got off the bus and entered the huge marble lobby, which was eerily deserted. Antonio gave us a peek inside the empty Copa Nightclub, a Fifties time capsule. I could picture that New Year’s Eve party, men and women in evening dress, smoking and drinking at the tables, and people dancing to a twenty-piece orchestra, while Fidel Castro and his ragtag army headed toward Havana. And the party was over.

Someone asked, “Will the casino reopen?”

“Never,” replied Antonio. “It was completely destroyed with axes and hammers on the first day of liberation by the revolutionary army and the people of Havana.” He added, “We will see a news film of this in the Museum of the Revolution.”

I didn’t think I could watch that.

Anyway, it was time for a beautiful dinner. We were dining in the original restaurant, called L’Aiglon, and Antonio escorted us in. The spacious room had a plush carpet, red ceiling, and crystal chandeliers that were once gaudy but are now mid-century antiques.

Only a few other guests occupied the tables, and Sara claimed a table for two so we could be alone. I looked at Antonio sitting with Tad and caught him looking at me and Sara. Clearly he was interested in us, and my encounter with him in the bar had put me on guard.

A bow-tied waiter took our drink orders, and Sara ordered an expensive bottle of Veuve Clicquot and said to me, “Get used to being rich.”

Service was slow, so the Yalies used the time to take pictures. I could imagine the slide show conversation back in the States. “And those two hot tamales ran off together, and we all got questioned by the police and missed our day at the tobacco farm.”

The drinks arrived and everyone sat.

The restaurant was French, but the cuisine was something else, and the service was what you get from waiters making twenty bucks a month. Reality check: The rest of the country carried food ration cards.

I filled Sara in on my bar chat with Antonio and said, “We can draw one of two conclusions — that his interest in you is personal, or that his interest in you is something else.”

She nodded. “What is his interest in you?”

“Sizing up his competition.”

She forced a smile, then asked, “Why was he discussing you with Tad?”

“Don’t know.”

“And I don’t like that he mentioned the fishing tournament.”

“In context, it seemed like small talk. Out of context... I’m not sure.”

Sara seemed a bit concerned, so I changed the subject and told her that I had questioned F.C.’s marlin trophy in the Hemingway Tournament, and that I’d suggested to Antonio that it had to do with a rigged scale. I said, “I’m in big trouble.”

She laughed. “That’s a famous story. The Cubans in Miami say it was a scuba diver who put the fish on F.C.’s hook — with lead weights in its belly.”

We both got a laugh at that.

Well, if this was our second date, it was going well. In the real world I should be thinking that I might score tonight, or next date latest. But Sara Ortega had put me on the itinerary for day four. Why? I don’t know, but I thought I could fast-track this romance. Maybe another bottle of bubbly.

I emptied the first bottle into our flutes and said, “Your eyes sparkle like this champagne.”

“Worst. Line. Ever.”

“I’ve been at sea too long.”

“Apparently.”

A few more people drifted into the restaurant, and I could hear British accents and German being spoken.

Sara remarked, “This hotel seems like a lifeless parody of its former self.”

“In the right hands, the Riviera could be a gold mine.”

“This hotel is actually owned by the military, who are the biggest property owners in Cuba.” She added, “Nothing will change in Cuba until property is returned to its rightful owners.”

“In this case, Meyer Lansky’s heirs and partners.”

“It can be complicated,” she admitted. “Or easy if you steal what’s yours.”

That might not be so easy.

Dinner was included in the tour, but I needed to settle the bar bill, which I did for two hundred CUCs in cash. The Cuban military didn’t take American credit cards.

Sara and I skipped dessert, and I reported in to Tad — and Antonio — that we were going to take a taxi to Floridita.

“Have fun,” said Tad.

Antonio advised, “It’s a tourist trap. You should walk on the Malecón instead.”

Which was where we were actually going, but I said, “That’s too close to the beach. Tad will turn us in to the State Department.”

Tad forced a smile but didn’t reply. I didn’t think he’d miss me when I was gone.

But Antonio would.

Chapter 22

We left the Riviera Hotel and began walking east toward the Nacional, which was about two miles farther down the Malecón. The night was warm, breezeless, and humid, and a bright moon illuminated the water, reminding me of Sara on my boat. Same moon, same water, different planet.

The wide sidewalk that ran along the seawall was a river of humanity, including multi-generational families dining al fresco. A few salsa and rhumba bands played and people danced. Others strolled, drank rum and beer, smoked, and gathered in groups to talk or read poetry.

Sara commented, “This is Havana’s living room and dining room, and the poor people’s cabaret. And this is the authentic Cuban experience you wanted.”

“Including the secret police?”

“Marcelo said no. They would be easy for the people to spot.” She added, “But there are always the chivatos.”

I noticed that there were enough Americans and Europeans strolling that we didn’t stick out, and I could also see that this was a good place for a chance encounter with a Cuban selling pottery — and Sara was certainly easy to spot in her red dress.

I asked, “Do you have your pesos with you?”

She tapped her shoulder bag.

We stopped near a salsa group, and, inspired by the hot music, Sara handed me her bag and joined a few people who were dancing. She had some good moves and she was really shaking it. She hiked up her dress and the crowd whistled and clapped, and I felt my pepino stirring.

Sara blew a kiss to the band and we moved on. I returned her bag with a compliment. “Not bad for an architect.”

“I’ll teach you Cuban dance when we get back to Miami.”

I would have said “if,” but I liked her optimism.

We stopped and looked out over the seawall at the beach and the Straits of Florida. People were fishing or wading in the water, maybe thinking about those ninety miles to Key West.

On that subject, Sara said, “You’ll notice there are no boats out there.”

“Right.”

“There are virtually no private watercraft allowed in Cuba, for obvious reasons.”

“They should just let people go.”

“Sometimes they do. As with the Mariel Boatlift. The regime understands it needs a safety valve — an unofficial method of getting rid of people who could cause problems. But Cuba loses many of its best and brightest.”

“I assume there are patrol boats out there.”

“There are. The Guarda Frontera — the border guards. They keep an eye on the commercial fishing fleet and also look for the rafters. But they can’t patrol hundreds of miles of coastline.” She added, “About five or six thousand rafters a year try to escape, and fewer than half are caught.”

Not bad odds. I asked, “Do the border guards have helicopters or seaplanes?”

“A few of each, but not many.”

“It only takes one.”

“It will go well.”

“Okay.”

We continued our walk, but no one approached us except artists selling their sketches or kids looking for a few coins.

I spotted a few ladies of the night, and Sara noticed. “Prostitution was one of the first things outlawed by the regime, and it carries a four-year prison sentence for both parties.”

“I’ll let Tad know.”

She smiled and put her arm through mine. “But you don’t need to buy sex.”

“Right.” Meanwhile, I’m not getting any for free.

“Cuba is a very promiscuous society, and casual sex is rampant. The Cubans say that sex is the only thing that Castro hasn’t rationed.”

Funny. But all this sex talk was getting me cranked. I could see the Nacional ahead and said, “Let’s have a nightcap.”

“We should keep walking.”

“No one’s selling Cuban pottery tonight.”

She didn’t reply.

“But that needs to happen soon. Our window will start closing in two or three days.”

“Would you be willing to come with me to Camagüey Province even if our Havana contact doesn’t show up?”

Actually, I’d prefer to do that and not have any Cubans involved. If Cuba was anything like Afghanistan, every time we relied on the locals to assist us we’d get double-crossed, ambushed, or at best screwed out of money.

“Mac?”

“Well... if I say no, would you go without me?”

“I would.”

The lady had balls. “Let’s give it a few days, then if our window of time is closing and we haven’t met our contact here, we can make that decision.”

“All right. And you understand that if we don’t meet our contact in Havana, we won’t know how to meet our contact in Camagüey, and we won’t have a vehicle or a safe house.”

I assured her, “I know how to hot-wire most vehicles, and the best safe house is under the stars.”

She stopped walking and faced me. “I told Carlos and Eduardo you were the right man for this job.”

Before I could think of a response, she threw her arms around my neck and we were locking lips on the Malecón.

She let go and we continued our walk. She asked, “Was that a gun in your pocket?”

“That was my Cuban Missile Crisis.”

She laughed, then said seriously, “It would be good if we had a gun.”

“We’ll have guns on The Maine if we need them to get out of Cuba.”

“We could need a gun much sooner.”

“As I understand it, getting caught with a gun in Cuba could be a death sentence.”

“I would rather die in a gunfight than be captured.”

“I think it’s time for a drink.”

We walked in silence, then Sara pointed out a modern six-story building off to the right. “That’s the U.S. Embassy.”

The windows were dark, except for a corner office on the sixth floor. Someone was working late, maybe trying to catch up after being out of the office for fifty years. The area around the building was bathed in security lights, and I could see the Great Seal of the United States over the front door.

Sara said, “We have no ambassador yet, but we have a Chargé d’Affaires, Jeffrey DeLaurentis, who runs the embassy. His boss, the Secretary of State, John Kerry, is a Yalie, and I met him once. So if we wind up in a Cuban prison, I can play the Yale card.”

Based on what I saw of her Yale alum group, neither the State Department nor the embassy would be taking that call.

Anyway, there was a small plaza in front of the embassy that Sara said was called the Anti-Imperialist Forum. “It’s where crowds gather spontaneously to protest against America. Except nothing in Cuba is spontaneous.”

“Except dancing.” And sex, which is unrationed.

Well, our primary objective didn’t go too well on the Malecón, but I had a secondary objective that might go better at the Nacional.

Chapter 23

We reached the tree-lined drive of the Nacional and entered the hotel lobby, which, unlike the Riviera, was hopping and crowded with what looked like an international clientele. I hoped Jack didn’t show up here tomorrow in one of his inappropriate T-shirts.

Cocktails on the terrace appealed to me, and we went out the back door.

The terrace was crowded, but for five CUCs the hostess found us two comfortable chairs that looked out at the Straits. A waitress appeared and Sara ordered a daiquiri and I got a Bucanero, por favor. A three-piece steel band played Caribbean Island music.

A soft breeze came off the moonlit water, stirring the palms, and the air was sweet with tropical flowers. The combo was playing “Guantanamera,” one of my favorites. Out over the water a jetliner was climbing out of José Martí Airport.

This would be the perfect end of a nice evening if I was going to get spontaneously laid.

On a different but somewhat related subject, Sara said, “This is romantic.”

Our drinks came and we clinked. “To a new friendship,” she said.

“And to you,” I replied.

We stared out at the water, and I could see the silhouettes of the old and new fortifications along the beach. People have a way of screwing things up, even in a tropical paradise.

She said, “I never asked you — do you have a woman?”

The best and shortest answer was, “No.”

“Why not?”

“I was married to my boat.”

“Be serious.”

“I never found the right woman.” I added, “But I’m open to that possibility.”

“Sounds like bullshit. That’s okay. When we leave here, we go our separate ways.”

I hate these kinds of conversations. “Let’s focus on getting out of here.”

“And if we don’t, we’ll always have this time together.”

I had the feeling I was being manipulated, but I also felt that Sara honestly liked me. If we actually got out of this place alive, we could sort it out. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking — two more days until sex on Sunday, then a few more days after that until we had to make some big decisions. Regarding the first subject, I spontaneously suggested, “Let’s get a room here.”

She didn’t reply.

“We could get arrested tonight and executed in the morning.”

She laughed but it was a nervous laugh. Clearly she wasn’t ready.

I was about to drop the subject but she said, “Get the check.”

“And a taxi?”

“And a room.”

“Wait right here.”

I moved quickly to the front desk and inquired about a room. The clerk sensed that I was on a pepino mission, and he said that only luxury rooms were available, and I had my choice of four — the Errol Flynn room, which sounded exciting, the Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra room, where I could also get laid, the Walt Disney room, which might be a little weird, or the Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan room, which sounded like a winner, for five hundred CUCs — more than I had in my wallet. But the clerk wanted me to get laid — or he wanted to pocket some cash — so he said he’d take part of the payment in American dollars, plus ten percent. Why is free sex so expensive?

I had to show him my passport and visa, and I signed in as “Dan MacDick,” which was either a Freudian slip or good tradecraft. He handed over a big brass key whose tag said: 232, Tarzan. That’s me.

I returned to the terrace, where Sara was downing another daiquiri. I asked, “Do you need a few more to do this?”

“It relaxes me.”

I put an American fifty on the cocktail table. “Ready?”

She nodded and stood.

We walked into the lobby and got on the elevator, neither of us saying anything.

On the second floor, we followed the hall sign to 232. The brass plaque on the door read: JOHNNY WEISSMULLER, TARZAN.

Sara either didn’t notice or had no comment. I unlocked the door and we went into the room. I turned on a light, which revealed a big space whose décor was sort of eclectic, with a few tacky touches such as the leopard skin on the floor and the tiger-striped bedspread. Maybe I should have asked for the Walt Disney room.

Anyway, there was a bar, thank God, and I said, “What would you like to drink?”

Sara seemed to have zoned out and was staring out at the water.

I opened the bar fridge and found a split of Moët and popped the cork, then filled two flutes and handed one to her.

She took it and stared at the bubbles.

I’m not pushy, but Major Johnson was in command now, so I had to strike the right balance between romance and sex. I turned on the radio and found some soft Son guitar music, which was sort of romantic.

Sara seemed to come out of her zone and I raised my glass. “To us.”

We clinked and drank. I asked her to dance, and we danced to the rhythmic guitars. Her body felt good against mine.

She said softly, “I don’t just jump into bed with any man.”

“Me neither.”

Anyway, the clothes came off as we danced and drank champagne, and we wound up in the shower together. I saw that Sara had a bikini cut and she sunbathed topless. You can learn a lot about people in the shower.

She ran her finger over the scars on my chest. “This makes me sad.”

“Could have been worse.”

She explored further, one hand cupping my bolas and the other wrapped around my pepino.

“It’s all there,” I assured her.

“Put it in a safe place.”

I grasped her buttocks and slid inside her.

She put her hands on my shoulders then arched her back, and the water ran over her face and breasts as I got into the slow, rhythmic beat of “Chan Chan” coming from the radio.

Olé!


Later, in bed, Sara wrapped her arms and legs around me and whispered, “I’m happy, but now I’m also... frightened.”

“That’s okay.”

“Last week, I lived for the day I could return to Cuba and steal the money from under their ugly noses... Now, I have... maybe something else to live for.”

“I had the same thought.”

“Were you frightened when you were there?”

“Every day.”

She stayed quiet awhile, then said, “I don’t want them to capture me.”

“I understand.” Same in Afghanistan. If you fell into the hands of the Taliban, you’d wish you were dead. I also remembered what Carlos had said about Villa Marista prison, and I was sure conditions there hadn’t improved much.

She cuddled up to me. “It would be nice to be rich in Miami with you. But it would also be nice to just be in Miami with you.”

“That would be nice.”

She rolled out of bed, went to the bar, and poured two more glasses of champagne. She noticed the key on the bar and asked, “Why is this called the Tarzan room?”

“Come here and I’ll show you.”

Chapter 24

If you fell into the hands of the Taliban, you’d wish you were dead.

They’d cut off your balls, then slice off your face with razor knives. And they’d hold your head and make you look in a mirror at your own faceless red skull. And you couldn’t close your eyes, because you’d have no eyelids. And then they’d make you watch the dogs eat your face and your balls. Then they’d give you a pat on the back and let you go.

And that was why you’d blow your brains out before you let yourself get captured by them.

It was my first tour, before I got promoted to captain, and I was leading my motorized platoon, about forty men from the 5th Stryker Brigade Combat Team in Maiwand, operating out of FOB Ramrod, into a moonscape of dust, dirt, and rocks, under a blazing sun.

The lead vehicle, a Bradley recon, got hit by an IED, then all hell broke loose and we were taking RPGs and automatic weapons fire from the piles of rock on both sides of the road. We dismounted quickly and moved away from the vehicles that were getting hit. I took a round in my body armor but kept moving, and we got flat and began returning fire.

There was very little cover or concealment, and it took me about ten seconds to realize we’d been caught in a well-planned ambush by a large enemy force, and there was the distinct possibility that we were all going to die. Kill the wounded first, then yourself.

Half our eight armored vehicles and Humvees were ablaze, and one exploded and I could feel the heat on my back.

They tell you in tactics class that the only way out of an ambush is to charge into the ambush. This is bullshit.

I got on the horn and ordered the platoon to move north along the road and begin flanking the ambush.

The Taliban are tough and sometimes fearless, but rarely smart, and never very good marksmen. They fire their AK-47s on full automatic like kids playing with toy guns. Their hits are lucky, but hits are hits, and a few of my men went down, but the medic reported light wounds.

The desert wind was from the south and we fired and maneuvered north, under the cover of black diesel smoke and smoke marker grenades until we were about a hundred meters out of the kill zone. Then we began flanking the ambush positions, moving from rock pile to rock pile, getting around them until they realized we’d turned the tables on them.

The crews of the undamaged Bradley Fighting Vehicles had remounted and were providing supporting fire with their 7.62mm machine guns and 25mm rapid-fire cannons.

The Taliban began withdrawing, dashing among the rock piles. I could see that they outnumbered us, but I ordered the platoon to pursue, though I knew that the turned-around ambush could easily turn into a secondary ambush, a.k.a. a trap. It’s a game. No rules, but lots of strategy. Offense is the best defense, so we pushed on across the desert valley into thickening piles of rock that had rolled down from the nearby mountains.

My platoon sergeant strongly suggested we break off the pursuit and wait for the helicopter gunships to even the odds. But I was full of adrenaline and all pissed off, and I’d led a charge into the rock field, totally oblivious to the horseshoe-shaped ambush that awaited us.

The Taliban took the higher ground at the base of the mountain, and they’d also taken up positions in two parallel wadis to complete the horseshoe that we’d run into.

We formed a tight perimeter and returned the fire while the Bradleys continued supporting fire from the road about four hundred meters away.

The bad guys had the manpower, but we had the firepower, and it was sort of a standoff until a group of Taliban moved out of one of the brush-filled wadis and turned the horseshoe into a box. We were surrounded and starting to run low on ammunition.

My sergeant, a big black guy named Simpson, said to me, “You make life interesting, Lieutenant.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

The closest wadi was about a hundred meters to our west, and the Taliban were strung out in the dry streambed, popping off bursts of AK-47 fire that mostly ricocheted off the rockfalls around us.

We were trapped, but relatively safe where we were, and we could have waited for the gunships, but in a situation like this, the Taliban sometimes start moving and maneuvering close to you, so the gunships can’t fire their stuff without the risk of hitting friendlies.

So, when your ass is in a sling, you do the unexpected. I got on the horn and ordered the Bradleys to direct all their fire on the wadi to the west, then lift their fire after three minutes, and shift it to targets of opportunity.

I assembled the two squads that were with me, waited out the barrage on the wadi, then charged toward it just as the Bradleys lifted their fire.

We reached the dry streambed within a minute and found it unoccupied except for a dozen dead and wounded Taliban lying in the dried mud.

Their dead are often booby-trapped, and the wounded are ready to pull the pin on a grenade or pull a gun as soon as you come near them. So Sergeant Simpson and I drew our Glocks and did the dirty work while the rest of the men took up defensive positions.

The last wounded Taliban I came to was staring at me, his eyes following me as I moved closer to him. His legs were chewed up, like a 25mm round had exploded at his feet. He never looked at the gun in my hand, but kept staring into my eyes. I kept eye contact with him, and I hesitated, because maybe it would be good to take a prisoner for Intel. The wounded guy raised his arms and clasped his hands in prayer. In the distance I heard the sound of choppers coming toward us.

I lowered my gun and moved toward the Taliban, who suddenly reached out and grabbed my ankle. I didn’t know if it was a sign of thanks, or an act of aggression, and I fired a 9mm round into his face. I still don’t know what he was trying to tell me.


I was awakened by a foot rubbing against mine, and someone was saying, “Good morning.”

I felt sweat on my face. It was still dark outside. She asked, “Did you sleep well?”

“No.” I asked, “Would you like coffee?”

She yawned. “Let’s get back to our hotel.”

But we lay there, then she said, “I promised Carlos I wouldn’t get emotionally involved with you... wouldn’t have sex with you. And now we’ve had sex three times.”

“Three?”

“You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?”

Funny. I got on top of her and we made love again.

Afterward, we lay side by side, and she took my hand. “I have a confession to make.”

“There’s a church down the street.”

“Listen. I do have a... sort of boyfriend... but...”

That didn’t completely surprise me. “That’s for you to work out.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“I have more pressing issues to worry about.”

“I think you’re angry.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you jealous?”

“No. Do you think he’d be jealous?”

“He’s Cuban. They get jealous.”

“Just explain that it was part of the job.”

“I’ll... just explain that it’s over.”

“That’s your call.”

“Can you at least give me some encouragement?”

“What do you want me to say?”

She didn’t reply, so I said, “I like you very much.”

“And I like you very much.” She squeezed my hand.

Well, nobody was using the four-letter L-word. But it was out there. And I knew from the Army that hurried wartime romances lead to what seems like love, and half the men and women I knew in the Army who returned to duty from a pre-deployment leave had gotten married — or engaged, as I did. Then when you returned from overseas, reality set in.

Sara asked, “Do you have a confession to make?”

“I’m unattached, as I said.”

“But you have women.”

“Not for awhile.”

“Why have you never married?”

I sat up in bed and glanced at the bedside clock: 5:34.

“Mac?”

“I’ve had a complicated life.”

“Engaged?”

“Once. How about you?”

She sat up. “I’ve never found the right man.”

I didn’t reply.

“Would you like to change the subject?”

“I would.”

She turned on the lamp. “What would you like to talk about?”

Coffee. But there was something else on my mind. “While we’re being honest with each other, I want you to tell me if there’s more to this trip to Cuba than I’ve been told.”

“What do you mean?”

“More than the money.”

She hesitated a second, then replied, “There is.” She added, “You’re very smart.”

“Okay. And?”

“And I will tell you when you need to know.”

“I need to know now.”

“The less you know now, the better.”

“No, the more I know—”

“What you don’t know you can’t reveal under torture.”

That was a little jarring at 5:30. I almost wanted to return to the subject of love. “Okay, but—”

“I’ll tell you this — you’ll be very pleased with the other reason we’re here. And that’s all I’m saying.”

“Okay... breakfast in bed?”

“We need to get back to our hotel.” She got out of bed, went to the bar, and opened her shoulder bag, pulling out a wad of pesos.

I said, “That’s okay. No charge.”

She smiled and took out a piece of paper and gave it to me. “I made a photocopy of the map in the hotel business office.” She looked at me. “If anything happens to me, you should be able to follow that to the cave.”

I turned on my lamp and glanced at the map, which was like a child’s drawing of a pirate treasure map. But the directions written on the bottom in English seemed clear if you started in the right place. The map was titled, “A great hike through the Camagüey Mountains.”

“As I told you, I’ve altered it slightly, and I’ll explain it to you later.”

“Okay.”

“Also, our Havana contact will give us a good road map for Camagüey. I assume that as a former infantry officer, you have good map skills.”

“That’s what I got paid for.”

“Good. I trust you, Mac. I know you’ll do the right thing, even without me.”

I looked at her, standing naked in the lamplight. “I will do my best.”

I got out of bed, went to the window, and looked out at the starlit Straits of Florida. Sara came up behind me, wrapped her arms around my chest, and put her chin on my shoulder. She said, “Just as I saw the green flash, I can also see our boat, sailing across the water, with Jack and Felipe in the cabin, and you and I sitting on the bow, looking at the horizon as Key West comes into sight. The sun is coming up. Can you see that?”

I could, and I couldn’t. But I said, “Yes, I can see that.”

“Our mission is blessed. You are blessed. Just as you returned twice from Afghanistan, you will return home from Cuba.”

Unless God was getting tired of covering my ass.


Sara ran a comb through her damp hair and put on a little lip gloss. Low maintenance. We got dressed, left the room, and rode down in the elevator. I dropped the key off at the desk, and the same clerk glanced at Sara, then asked me, “How was your stay, señor?”

Should I beat my chest? Or let out a Tarzan scream? “Fine.”

“Breakfast is being served in the Veranda.”

“Thank you, I’ve eaten.”

Sara and I left the hotel. The sun was up and the air was already steamy. I suggested we walk to our hotel — or swing from tree to tree — but Sara said it was more than a mile to the Parque Central, and we should take a taxi so we’d get there before our group started coming down for breakfast.

“But I want everyone to see us staggering into the hotel together.”

“I’m sure you do.” She said to the doorman, “Taxi, por favor.”

The only transportation available was a Coco cab, an open, three-wheeled Lambretta-type vehicle that reminded me of the ones in Kabul. We got into the rear seat, and off we went through the quiet streets of Havana. Sara said, “This is romantic.”

I could see the pavement through the rusted floorboards.

There wasn’t much traffic on this Saturday morning, but there were a lot of people walking, and the city looked spectral in the morning mist. This place totally sucked, but it was starting to grow on me.

Sara put her arm through mine and said, “I’m sorry I lied to you about the boyfriend. But I’ll never lie to you again.”

“And don’t lie to him.”

“I’ll try to call him from the hotel phone.”

“It can wait until you get back to Miami.”

“I want to do it now... in case I don’t get back.”

“In that case, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yes... but... it’s the right thing to do. Even if you cheat, you shouldn’t lie.”

Really? I thought lying and cheating went together. But maybe Catholics needed to confess. “Let’s decide tomorrow.”

We got to the Parque Central and entered together. The breakfast room was just opening, but I didn’t see anyone from our group. “Coffee?”

“No. I don’t want to be seen with you wearing the same dress I wore last night.”

“Who cares?”

“I do. And you need to change.”

“I need coffee.”

“I’ll see you later.” She went to the elevators.

I walked into the breakfast room and ran into Antonio at the coffee bar. “Buenos días,” he said. “I was looking for you and Miss Ortega last night in Floridita.”

Really? Why? “We took your advice and walked on the Malecón.”

“Ah, good. Did you enjoy that?”

“I did.” I scanned the tables and saw an empty one near a sunny window. “See you later.”

“Yes, for the walking tour. But you don’t need a sports jacket.”

“Actually, we just got back to the hotel.”

“Yes, I saw you come in. I hope your evening was beautiful.”

“It was, and now I’m going to have a beautiful cup of coffee.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

“I won’t.”

I got a cup of coffee and sat at the table near the window.

Antonio also sat by himself and made a cell phone call. I was annoyed that he had service and I didn’t. Antonio hung up and took some papers from his shoulder bag. Today’s itinerary? Or his police informant’s report? The man was an asshole. Maybe worse — a chivato.

But the world looked a little different this morning, and I was as close to happy as I’d been in awhile.

My heart said that Sara and I should just get a flight out of here and go live happily ever after.

But my head said I’d regret it if I let three million dollars slip through my fingers. I’d rather regret the things I did than the things I didn’t do. Also, I’d made a commitment to do this.

This was getting complicated, as I knew it would.

And what was she keeping from me? Something that would please me. I could not possibly imagine what that was. But if we pressed on, I’d find out.

Chapter 25

Back in my room, I changed into jeans and my new Hemingway T-shirt, then stuck two bottles of water in my backpack along with my Swiss Army knife, my binoculars, and my new treasure map. I was ready for my Havana recon.

I joined our group in the hotel lobby at 8 A.M. where Tad was taking attendance.

Sara was looking good in white shorts, a Miami Dolphins T-shirt, and a baseball cap. She had her big shoulder bag, which I assumed was filled with pesos and her map.

Sara and I held hands, and the Yale group, to the extent that they cared, understood that we were having a holiday romance. Antonio, too, noticed.

Antonio led us across the street to the small park, where he began by telling us that downtown Havana was divided into three areas: Habana Vieja, the Old Town, where we were going to walk this morning, Centro Habana, where we were standing, and the area called Vedado, the newer section of Havana where the Riviera and Nacional were located and that was once controlled by the American Mafia and their Cuban underlings.

Antonio went on a bit about the Mafia, which seemed to be an obsession of his. Antonio had probably seen Godfather II a dozen times.

Finally he said, “We will have lunch in a beautiful paladar, then we return to Centro to continue our walking tour.”

I thought Antonio was finished, but he asked, “Who has been to Havana before?”

A middle-aged couple — who looked otherwise normal — raised their hands.

“Ah, good. So you can have my job today.”

The Yalies, who were mostly humorless with each other, made an exception for the charming Cuban and laughed.

Antonio asked, “Anyone else?” He looked at Sara, who had not raised her hand. “Miss Ortega, weren’t you here last year?”

“Why do you ask?”

He kept looking at her, but didn’t reply. “So, we will begin our walk.” He began walking east toward the harbor.

The streets and sidewalks got narrower as we entered the Old Town and the group was strung out for fifty meters as Antonio stayed in the lead and gave his talk, which, happily, I couldn’t hear, but Sara gave me and the Yalies around us a commentary on the historic architecture.

Habana Vieja, some of it over three hundred years old, was very picturesque, but also hot, airless, claustrophobic, and aromatic. It was Saturday, so the cobblestoned streets were mostly free of traffic but filled with locals bartering for scarce goods and food, as senior citizens hung out their windows and watched the world go by. For people who had nothing, they seemed happy enough. Or maybe it was my outlook that had changed. Getting laid will do that.

Another thing that struck me was the number of buildings that had totally or partially collapsed. You could actually see the interiors of the rooms where the front walls had fallen away and vegetation sprouted from rotting stucco. Maybe my landlord wasn’t such an asshole.

We came to a small square where Antonio began a commentary on the Catedral de San Cristóbal de la Habana, which, he said, was almost three hundred years old and had once held the remains of Christopher Columbus. But when the Spanish were defeated in the War of 1898, they stole Christopher and took him to Spain. “We want him back!” shouted Antonio. “He will be good for tourism!”

The Yalies laughed on cue, and I said to Sara, “Spain and Cuba should just divvy up the bones. They could flip a coin for the skull.”

She glanced at me and said, “Yes, the bones need to come home... There are answers in the bones.”

I had no idea what she meant, but she seemed suddenly far away. I took a bottled water from my backpack and made her drink.

Antonio was still talking and I tuned out. Tonight I was going to meet Jack at the Nacional, and I hadn’t mentioned that to Sara, and I didn’t think I needed to explain my being AWOL to her. But that was before we became lovers. Now I needed to say something. That’s what happens when you sleep with someone.

Antonio said we could go inside the Catedral if we wanted. Ten minutes.

Sara said, “Let’s go.”

“Yes, dear.”

There were a number of tourists inside the dark cathedral and a few locals were on their knees in front of the baroque altar. Sara, of course, wanted to pray.

I haven’t prayed since Afghanistan, and then only when there was incoming, but Sara was insistent, and I followed her to the altar rail. This whole day would have played out differently if I’d kept my pepino in my chinos. On the other hand, if I hadn’t yet scored, I’d now be on my knees, praying for it.

Sara knelt, made the sign of the cross, and prayed silently. Out of respect, I clasped my hands and bowed my head. And while I was at it, I prayed that we’d both get out of here alive — and that one of us would not get pregnant.

She crossed herself again, stood, turned, and took my hand. We walked down the side aisle, past racks of flickering votive candles. She stopped and lit one, then continued on.

Outside in the bright sunlight she said, “I prayed for our success here and lit a candle for the soul of my grandfather.”

“That’s very nice.”

Antonio told us that we would visit three more plazas in the Old Town before lunch.

Dios mío.

We walked to a harbor fort, the ancient Castillo de la Real Fuerza, which was uphill all the way, and we ascended a rampart lined with ancient cannons from which we could see the harbor channel. We were alone, and Sara pointed to a building about four hundred meters away. “That’s the Sierra Maestra Terminal, and that’s the pier where the fishing fleet is going to dock. But I don’t see any boats, and I don’t see any activity in the plaza that looks like a welcoming ceremony.”

I didn’t need my binoculars to confirm that.

She said, “I hope it hasn’t been cancelled.” She reminded me, unnecessarily, “Everything depends on the Pescando Por la Paz.”

Actually, everything depended on a chain of events that we had little or no control over. I reassured her, “Even if the fleet left Key West at first light, and maintained a fleet speed of twenty knots, they wouldn’t reach Havana until about eleven, earliest.” I looked at my watch. “It’s just past ten now.”

“All right... Carlos said if we didn’t see it on the news, we needed to verify the fleet’s arrival ourselves.” She added, “He also said he’d try to get a phone or fax message to me at the hotel if the tournament was delayed or cancelled.”

Carlos never told me that, but there were lots of things that Carlos hadn’t told me, as I was finding out from Sara. In any case, it was time for me to share something, so I told her, “I’m actually meeting Jack tonight.”

She looked at me. “Carlos didn’t want—”

“Carlos didn’t want you to sleep with me. We don’t care what Carlos wants.”

“You agreed to follow orders, Captain. I’m not going to let you compromise the mission.”

I had a flashback to the ops bunker. Everyone who gave orders from the rear seemed to think they knew what was going on at the front. Well, if you’re not standing next to me when the shit is flying, you don’t know what’s going on. “I agreed to do the job. My way.”

“There’s no reason for you to meet him.”

“There are lots of reasons.”

“What?”

“To be sure they’ve arrived, as you just said.”

“If I don’t hear from Carlos, we can find out by coming to the pier later.”

“I need to exchange info with Jack. And have a beer.” I added, “We may never see each other again.”

She thought about that, then asked, “Where are you meeting him?”

“At a prearranged place. It’s safe.”

“What time?”

“Six.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

She looked at me and we locked eyeballs. Finally, she said, “All right... do what you have to do. But make sure you’re not followed, and make sure he wasn’t followed. There can’t be a connection between—”

“I passed that class.”

She seemed a bit miffed. Glad I got laid last night.

In fact, she seemed to be thinking the same thing and said, “That’s what happens when you sleep with a man. They step all over you.”

“Not if they want an encore.”

“I should have waited until Sunday.”

“I’m free Sunday.”

“I should have listened to Carlos.”

“You have to listen to your heart. Not your lawyer.”

“And what organ are you listening to, señor?”

“My heart.” Dick, too.

She looked at me. “I believe you.”

We kissed and made up. Sex changes the rules and the dynamics. You get some control, but you lose some control. That’s life.

I scanned the horizon with my binoculars, but there were no boats heading for the harbor.

I had a few other things on my mind and I asked her, “How well do you know Felipe?”

“I’ve met him. Carlos and Eduardo know him.”

“Can we assume that Carlos or Eduardo have vetted him?”

“Felipe is actually the grandnephew of Eduardo.” She added, “We try to keep these things in the family. Like the Mafia does. If you can’t trust family, you can’t trust anyone.”

She hasn’t met my family. But maybe she would. That should be interesting. I said, “I would have worried less about Felipe if someone had told me who he was.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “We rarely include... outsiders in our business. And when we do, we don’t say more than we have to about... anything.”

People who know the Scots say we’re clannish, and the MacCormicks, who are of the Clan Campbell, can be that way. But I suspect that the Cubans make the Scots look inclusive.

Sara took my hand and said, “We have a special relationship now.” She smiled. “You’re practically one of the family. You’ll see when we get back to Miami and we have a big party to celebrate.”

I pictured myself partying in Miami wearing a guayabera and my clan kilt. More to the point, this mission was like an onion that needed to be peeled away, layer by layer. There had to be an easier way to get laid and make three million dollars.

Chapter 26

At the base of the old fort was the Plaza de Armas, which was lined with royal palms, and the group took cover from the sun while Antonio gave a history lesson. I didn’t want to bring up the subject of Antonio again, but I asked Sara, “How did Antonio know you were here before?”

“I don’t know... I mentioned it to Alison, and she must have said something to him.”

Or Antonio had some info from the police, who would have copies of our visa applications, which were filled with information.

Sara looked at Antonio, who was now texting. “Why is he asking about us?”

“We don’t know that he is.”

“And why did he quote those Hemingway lines to you? ‘The Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out.’ ”

“Don’t know.”

“I’ll be happy when we get out of Havana.”

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Antonio led us to a pedestrian street called Calle Obispo — the Street of the Bishop — lined with old shops and some new, trendy stores, art galleries, and cafés. Creeping capitalism.

Sara stopped and we let the Yalies go on. She looked across the street at a large neo-classical stone and stucco building with a white portal that was decorated with carved four-leaved clovers for some reason. The building seemed derelict, though there were official-looking signs and revolutionary posters in the grimy windows. I knew this was her grandfather’s bank.

She said, “I can picture him walking to work every morning, dressed in his dark suit and tie.” She added, “The Habaneros dressed well in those days. Well... the gentlemen and ladies did. Despite the heat, and no air-conditioning. It was important to look good.”

I was feeling a bit inadequate in my Hemingway T-shirt.

“If Batista hadn’t been such a corrupt thug, kept in power by the American Mafia, American corporations, and the American government... the Communists would never have won.”

“And you would have been born here in luxury and we’d never have met.”

She forced a smile. “We would have met. It’s in our stars.”

“That’s a nice thought.”

She kept looking at the former American bank, now a government office where people signed for their libretas — their ration books. She said, “Maybe this building will be returned to the American bank as part of the negotiations.”

“Maybe. But we’re not returning the money to the vault.”

“No. But we’ll return it to the rightful owners.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

She took my hand and we caught up to the group.

As Antonio promised, we stopped at the Hotel Ambos Mundos, a pastel-pink edifice whose façade had been restored to its pre-revolution glory.

Antonio said, “You can use the baño here, visit the bar where Hemingway drank each night, and have a daiquiri or mojito if it is not too early for you. For two CUCs you can see his room where he wrote Death in the Afternoon. Fifteen minutes.”

The Yalies filed into the hotel, including Richard Neville, who looked like he was going in for a root canal. I was thinking about a cold beer, followed by a leak in the same urinal that Ernest Hemingway used, but Sara said, “I’ll show you my grandparents’ house. It’s close.”

“Okay.” I followed her down Calle Obispo, then we turned onto a cobblestoned side street of old baroque mansions. As we walked I could see that a few of the grand houses had been restored, and Sara said they had been turned into luxury apartment houses for non-Cubans by foreign developers in a joint partnership with the Cuban government. Sounded like a nice deal for everyone except the former owners. It struck me that the issues of legal ownership and compensation could drag on for half a century, which again made a good case for stealing what was stolen from you.

I saw that a number of the old houses seemed to be in a state of limbo — condemned but inhabited. Sara pointed to one of these balconied baroque mansions across the street. “That is my grandparents’ home — where my father and uncles were born.”

I looked at the four-story house of faded blue stucco, most of which had fallen away, revealing the stone core. Some of the windows were gone, as were most of the louvered shutters. The house had an imposing entrance flanked by red granite pillars, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine this huge house as it had once been. And it also wasn’t difficult to understand why the socialist government thought it was too big for a family of five. Plus servants, of course.

I could see people through some of the big windows, and an elderly couple sat on a balcony that looked like it was held up by the Holy Spirit.

Sara told me, “I went inside when I was here. All the plumbing leaks, and there are only two working bathrooms. The kitchen is in the basement and it’s communal, and the house is filled with mildew and vermin. When the rent is free, as it is in Cuba, you get what you pay for.” She asked me, “Would you like to go inside?”

“Only with a hazmat suit.”

She assured me, “The people were very nice to me.”

“Did you tell them you inherited the deed to the house and you wanted it back?”

“I told them that I was an architect, and that if I could reclaim the house, I would restore it for them, top to bottom, and take a small apartment for myself.”

“Did they believe that you would let them stay?”

“I mentioned a rent of five dollars a month.”

“How’d that go over?”

“Not very well.” She added, “They have a long way to go here. They’re frightened of the future.”

“Who isn’t?”

She kept staring at the house, then said, “My grandmother’s piano is still in the music room. I took a picture of it for her... She didn’t want to see it.”

I glanced at my watch. “You want a daiquiri?”

“No.”

“You want a picture?”

She nodded and handed me her cell phone.

I took a few photos of her standing across the street from her former family mansion, then a few close-ups under the pillared portico while I listened for the sounds of imminent collapse.

We began walking back to the Ambos Mundos. I understood the emotional attachment and the sense of loss that Sara Ortega must be feeling, but you really can’t go home again. Unless you’re just there to pick up what you left behind.

Chapter 27

We got back to the Ambos Mundos as our group was exiting the hotel, and Antonio led us to the nearby Plaza de San Francisco de Asís. On one side of the plaza was the newly restored Spanish-style Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal, which Antonio pointed to and said, “Today, at some hour, an invasion fleet is arriving from America.”

The Yalies chuckled tentatively, waiting for a further explanation.

“It is actually a fishing fleet which has sailed out of Key West. This is a new tournament called Pescando Por la Paz—” He translated, “Fishing for Peace. A... how do you say, a double entendre. Very clever. Yes?”

The clever Yalies seemed to think so.

Antonio continued, “The fishermen will come through this terminal and walk directly into this beautiful plaza, and be welcomed by the people. And then they will find the good bars and get drunk like sailors.” He laughed at his own lame joke.

I looked around the plaza, but there were still no signs of the fleet’s arrival — no dignitaries, no reporters, no banners or bands.

The arrival of the fishing fleet from America was not exactly world-shaking news, but it was news in the wider context of the Cuban Thaw, so it should be marked by some sort of official ceremony and appropriate news coverage. Unless, of course, the regime wanted to ignore it or downplay it. Or cancel it.

Sara said, “I’m getting worried.”

“Let’s assume Antonio has the latest update.”

Antonio fixed his gaze on me. “Mister Mac is a fisherman in Key West, so perhaps he will want to drink with his fellow fishermen tonight.”

I didn’t respond, and Antonio moved on to other points of interest.

Our next and last plaza of the morning was Plaza Vieja — the Old Square — and on our way there Sara asked me, “Why did he say that?”

“I’m not reading anything into it.”

“He practically said that he knows you’re going to meet someone.”

“There are only three people in the world who know that — me and Jack, and now you as of an hour ago.”

She seemed frustrated with me. “He’s made the connection between you — a Key West fisherman — and the Pescando Por la Paz.”

“There is no connection. Only a coincidence which anyone would comment on.”

We reached the Plaza Vieja and Antonio talked as he walked. “This square was laid out in 1559 for the private residences of Havana’s wealthiest families, who in former times would gather here to watch the public executions.” He added, “Now, of course, those wealthy families are gone.”

Having attended their own public executions. But Antonio didn’t say that. He said, “Please look around. Ten minutes. Then to lunch.”

Half the group headed toward the fountain in the center of the plaza to get their fountain photos, and some headed for the shade, as did Antonio, who retreated under a tree, lit a cigarette, and made a cell phone call. I said to Sara, “He’s calling for a firing squad.”

“You deserve one.”

Funny. I said, “You need to calm down—”

“And you need to ask yourself if this mission has been compromised.”

“If it has, you should thank Antonio for letting us know.” I added, “He may be reporting to the police, but he knows nothing. And if he’s fishing for something, he’s not using the right bait.”

“But why is he fishing?”

Good question, and I’d thought about that. “Well, it could be that you came to his attention as a Cuban American, and he’s trying to be a good chivato, making himself sound important to the police.”

She didn’t seem satisfied with my explanation, so I continued, “It’s also possible that the immigration or customs people at the airport notified the police about you, and the police checked to see who the tour guide was for this group and told the guide — Antonio — to keep an eye on Sara Ortega.” I reminded her, “You’re supposed to be giving your three hundred thousand pesos to charities. And maybe that’s why you’re on their radar.” Or there was a leak in Miami, and if that was the case, the game was over.

She looked at me. “You’re either very cool, or you have your head up your ass.”

Which reminded me of an old Army saying — “If you’re taking intense fire and you’re keeping cool while everyone around you is scared shitless, then you’re not fully understanding the situation.” I didn’t think that was the case here.

“Do you think Antonio believes we just met?”

“We did just meet. You need to believe your cover story.” Recalling my unpleasant hours in a mock interrogation cell, I added, “We’d be questioned in separate rooms and our stories need to match.”

“I know that.”

Our ten minutes of architectural appreciation were up, and Antonio called the group together. “Now to lunch.”

We followed Antonio out of the plaza and into a street that led back to Centro.

Something had changed in Sara’s positive attitude, and it probably had to do with last night. That’s what happens when you have something to live for.


We walked in silence awhile, then Sara asked me, “Is it at all possible that the police have made a connection between you and Fishy Business?”

“Anything is possible. But let’s trust Carlos on this.”

“I do. But...”

“Even if the police somehow discover that I once owned one of the tournament boats, that’s all they know. They may find it curious, or suspicious, but that doesn’t lead them to any conclusions about why I’m in Cuba.”

“No... but it could lead them to questioning you about that coincidence.”

“You can be sure I’ve already thought of the right answers.”

Clearly Sara was worried, so I let her know, “I don’t see, hear, or sense anything that endangers us or the mission. If I do, I’ll let you know.”

We stood facing each other. She said, “This is Cuba, Mac. Not Afghanistan. The first sign of danger here is usually a midnight knock on your door.”

“You’re the one who said that the only thing the secret police are good at is instilling fear.”

“Well... sometimes they get lucky.” She thought a moment and said, “Maybe the money is not worth our lives—”

“It’s not all about the money. It’s also about stealing something from under their ugly noses. Remember? It’s about finishing what your grandfather started. And, as I just discovered, it’s also about something that’s going to please me, whatever that is.”

“All right... let me think about this.”

“Let me know before I meet Jack so I can tell him if you and I are leaving Cuba early.”

“All right... and if the tournament has been cancelled, then the decision has already been made for us.”

Borrowing from her book, I said, “It will be a sign from God.”

“No, it will be a decision made by the Cuban or American government.”

“That too.”

We looked up the street but the group had disappeared. “We lost them. Let’s find a place for a cold beer.”

She took her itinerary out of her bag. “Lunch is at Los Nardos. I know where that is.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Come on. Tad will be in a panic if he thinks we’re missing.”

“Good training for him when we do go missing.”

We took our time walking, and on the way I ran all this through my mind. I couldn’t get a tight grip on Antonio, but if I had ten minutes alone with him in one of these back alleys, I’d have some answers. But as Sara pointed out, this was not Afghanistan, where I could be very insistent with the locals about answering my questions.

Anyway, it was easy to make a good case for abandoning this mission and getting out of Cuba. But I told Sara that if I came here, I wouldn’t back out. So this was her decision. And if she was influenced by my assurances and we got arrested, it wouldn’t be the first time I miscalculated.

She took my hand as we walked and said, “I’m not afraid of death, Mac. I’m afraid that the police will arrest us — here or in Camagüey — find the map, and... make us confess... I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to let everyone down.”

“You won’t.”

“Also... I feel responsible for getting you into this.”

“I understand the responsibility of command. But I knew what I was getting into.” Well, not all of it. There are always surprises.

“In the Army... if you gave an order that... caused a death...”

“Shit happens.” I added, “I wasn’t back in the rear phoning in orders, I was right there at the front, and that’s where you’re at now.”

She glanced at me, then said, “All right... if I say we leave, it’s my decision. If I say we go forward...”

“I promise I won’t blame you if we wind up dead or in jail. But I won’t be happy.”

She forced a smile, then said, “Most men in this situation would jump at the chance to go home, collect fifty thousand dollars, and tell their friends they slept with a woman in Havana who paid for their vacation.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Well, thank you for listening. I’ll let you know before you meet Jack.”

“Okay, and if we’re not going to Camagüey, I do not want to spend another week with the Yale educational tour.”

“It won’t kill you.”

“It might.”

She understood that I wasn’t making a joke and agreed, “If we’re being watched, it would be good to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

“Correct.”

“But it’s difficult... There are no commercial flights to the U.S.... but maybe we can get a ticket to Mexico or Canada.”

“Even if we do, we may be on a watch list at the airport.”

“We seem to be running out of options,” she said.

“We never had many options. And when that happens, you just push on.”

“To Camagüey.”

“Correct.”

“With or without meeting our contact here.”

“Correct.”

“We’re back to where we started,” she concluded.

“When we got on that plane in Miami, there was no turning back.”

“No, there wasn’t,” she agreed.

“The road home goes through Camagüey Province, the cave, Cayo Guillermo, and The Maine.”

Chapter 28

We arrived late for lunch at Los Nardos, a small restaurant on the edge of the Old Town. Our group was already seated, filling up most of the tables, but Antonio had thoughtfully saved two seats for us at his small table, and we sat opposite the Nevilles.

Pretty Cindy Neville said to me, “I like your T-shirt.”

Well, Richard did not. Nor did he like me — once he realized he had no chance with Sara Ortega. Plus he’d had to see where Hemingway drank at the Ambos Mundos hotel. He was having a bad day. He should only know what kind of day I was having.

Cindy said, “Richard wouldn’t let me buy him a Hemingway T-shirt at Finca Vigía or Ambos Mundos.”

I assured her, “There’ll be many more opportunities.” I suggested, “Make it a surprise.”

Neville frowned, so to have a happy lunch, I said to him, “I’ve read a few of your books.”

Well, you’d have thought I just handed him a carton of cigarettes and a Pulitzer Prize.

“I hope you liked them.”

Of course you do. “Of course I did.”

Frozen daiquiris were part of the package, and everyone got one put in front of them. Antonio proposed a table toast. “To a great novelist — Ernest Hemingway — a true Cuban soul and a beautiful writer of the people.”

Neville’s face got frostier than his daiquiri.

The menus came, and Antonio made a few suggestions to the Nevilles, who looked like Hamburger Helper people, so Antonio ordered family-style for all of us.

Cindy asked Sara and me, “Where are you from?”

“Miami.”

“Key West.”

“Oh... are you...?”

I said, “We just met.” I further explained, “We’re discovering that we have a lot in common.” We’re both horny.

“That’s nice.” She said to Sara, “You mentioned at the welcome dinner that you are Cuban.”

“Cuban American.”

“So this trip must be very special for you.”

“It is. And why have you come here?”

Cindy replied, “Richard wants to set his next novel in Cuba.”

Antonio said to Neville, “Please put me in your book — as the hero.”

Neville was definitely thinking: Not after that toast, asshole.

Cindy continued, “He’s gotten a lot of material already.”

I couldn’t resist saying, “Don’t ask too many questions in Cuba.”

Cindy confided to us, “Richard says if he gets arrested, that will be good publicity.”

Antonio assured her, “That can be arranged.”

We all got a good laugh at that. This was fun. Like making jokes about blood while you’re dining with a vampire. I was feeling reckless and said to the Nevilles, “Be careful of the chivatos.”

“Who?”

“Ask Antonio.”

Antonio looked at me, then at the Nevilles. “This is a... derogatory term... for the citizens who volunteer for the revolutionary watch committees. In America you would call them neighborhood watch groups. They assist the police in combating crime.” He added, “They have nothing to do with foreigners.”

Sara asked Antonio, “So if a chivato sees a foreigner who appears suspicious, they won’t call the police?”

“Well... like any good citizen, they would, of course.” He thought of something and said, “In America, where you have terrorism, the police say, ‘If you see something, say something.’ It is no different here.”

Sara replied, “In America we don’t report our neighbors to the police because of their political views.”

Well, they used to in Maine.

Cindy changed the subject and said to me, “So you’re a fisherman.”

“I am.”

“Will you go meet the fishermen coming in for this tournament?”

“I don’t know them.”

Richard remarked, “I’d like to go to the terminal and take pictures of the fleet’s arrival.” He looked at Antonio.

Antonio reminded Neville, “You must stay with the group. It is your State Department which does not allow you to go where you wish in Cuba.”

It was ironic, I thought, that it was my government, not Antonio’s, that restricted our movements in Antonio’s police state. But soon Sara and I would have a unique opportunity to fulfill the stated goal of this trip — Discover Cuba for Yourself.

Antonio, however, had some good news. “There is no group dinner tonight, and you are all free to go to the Plaza de San Francisco and perhaps find some of the fishermen and crew from the tournament.” He looked at me.

I wanted to get away from that subject, so I asked Neville, “Where do you get your ideas?”

He didn’t seem to know.

Antonio dropped the subject and said to me and Sara, “We missed you at Ambos Mundos.”

I let Sara reply and she said, truthfully, “I showed Mac my grandparents’ home.”

That seemed to interest him. “So you knew where it was?”

“I have the property deed, which goes back to 1895.”

“Well,” he joked, “hold on to it for another hundred years. You never know.”

Sara, of course, didn’t think that was funny and said, “It’s now a crumbling tenement.”

“It is a home for the people.”

“It’s not fit for animals.”

Antonio looked at Sara. “You speak your mind.”

“It’s an American habit.”

“Yes, I know.” He asked her, “And what did your grandfather do to afford a large house in Havana?”

“He was an honest businessman. And he had the good fortune to escape to America before he was arrested for no reason.”

Antonio had no reply.

I was wishing that Sara wouldn’t provoke Antonio, but it seemed to be in the DNA of the exile community to bug the Commies. I get it, but it’s safer to do it in Miami. Having said that, I, too, needed to control my mouth.

The Nevilles seemed to be feeling left out or uncomfortable, and Richard announced that he was going outside for a cigarette. I hoped Antonio would join him, but he didn’t. Cindy asked where the baño was and Antonio told her.

So now we were three.

Antonio looked at Sara. “Do you still have family in Cuba?”

“I do not.”

“May I ask — why have you come back a second time?”

“Obviously I enjoyed my first visit.”

“Good. Cuba is like a mother who welcomes the return of her sons and daughters.”

“Some of whom have been arrested on trumped-up charges.”

Antonio had no reply, and Sara asked him, “How do you know this is my second visit?”

“Someone mentioned it to me.”

“Why are you asking about me?”

He smiled. “I thought you were... unattached.” He looked at me. “I congratulate you, señor.”

Hey, no contest, señor.

Antonio looked over his shoulder at the front door, then looked toward the baños, and I thought he was trying to decide if he needed a cigarette or a pee, but he leaned toward us and said, “Perhaps we can have a drink tonight.”

Neither Sara nor I replied.

He continued, “Tonight is your free night. I can meet you both at seven at a bar called Rolando in Vedado.” He smiled. “No tourists. No Hemingway.”

Sara glanced at me, and I said to Antonio, “Thank you, but we’ve made other plans.”

“Then tomorrow night. Same time and place. You will excuse yourselves from the group dinner.”

This was not sounding like a friendly invitation anymore. I thought his next line was going to be, “You can meet me at the bar, or you can meet me at police headquarters.” But he said, “This will be worth your time and trouble. And your money.”

“Excuse me?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“For what?”

Richard Neville was returning from his nicotine break and Cindy was making her way back to the table.

As they both reached the table, Antonio said, “As Hemingway wrote, the Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out.”

Which may have been the answer to my question.

The Nevilles sat and Richard asked, “Still Hemingway?”

No one responded, and the apps came.

Antonio said, “I hope everyone likes octopus.”

What the hell was this guy up to?

Chapter 29

After lunch, Antonio led us on a short walk to the Museum of the Revolution, a neo-classical building that was once Cuba’s Presidential Palace. In front of the former palace was a Soviet-made tank that Antonio said was used by Castro’s forces to help repel the U.S.-backed Bay of Pigs Invasion. “The invasion failed,” said Antonio, “so we invaded Miami with a million Cubans.”

Sara said to me, “He won’t find it so funny when the exiles start returning and buying up Cuba.”

And round it goes.

As for the Yalies, they didn’t know that their proudly patriotic Cuban guide was just another guy on the take. Five hundred bucks. Two years’ salary for Antonio. But for what? Information? A shakedown? One way to find out.

Sara, however, on our walk to the museum told me she didn’t want us to meet Antonio. She was in charge, but my instincts said we should meet him. It was possible, of course, that the meeting was some kind of entrapment and we’d get arrested. But in Cuba you could get arrested for no reason, so we may as well get arrested while having a drink. I needed to talk to Sara.

We went inside the huge palacio. Antonio was excited about showing us something, so we followed him to a lobby space near the grand marble staircase. He said, “This is the Rincón de los Cretinos — the Corner of the Cretins.”

And who were the cretins in the corner? Well, they were cartoonish murals of ex-President Batista, plus George Bush and Ronald Reagan in cowboy clothes, looking like characters out of Mad magazine. In fact, George looked like Alfred E. Neuman.

Even the Yalies thought this was a little over the top, and I didn’t think Cretin Corner would help improve relations.

We climbed the sweeping staircase and moved on to other rooms, all of which glorified La Revolución, though many of the exhibits were in bad taste, including grisly photos of revolutionaries being tortured and executed by former Cuban regimes. Also on display were blood-stained military uniforms that looked unsanitary. Unfortunately, there were a number of school-aged groups viewing all of this. That’s probably how Antonio got his little head screwed up.

We entered the former executive office of the late President Batista, and Antonio pointed out a gold-plated rotary-dial phone that AT&T had given to their important customer, then he launched into a diatribe about American imperialism. Sara thankfully kept her mouth shut.

Tad, to his credit, said to Antonio, “We should move on.”

So we checked out more of the Museum of the Revolution, which was deteriorating like most of Havana, and like the revolution itself.

Antonio showed us a secret staircase that Batista had used to save himself when a group of university students stormed the palace and tried to kill him. Antonio said, “Many of the students were arrested, tortured, and executed.”

Apparently they take student protests seriously here. The group moved on without us and I said to Sara, “Let’s escape down the secret staircase.”

“Try to learn something while you’re here.”

“Okay. I learned from Antonio at lunch that his interest in you was personal.”

“It was never personal. You know that.”

“Don’t be modest. Also, you shouldn’t have pressed him on why he was asking about you.”

“Sometimes, Mac, you just have to confront people who are causing you anxiety.”

“Right. Well, I think you smoked him out. Now he wants to talk to us.”

“We’re not talking to him.”

“You and I need to talk about that.”

“Later. Maybe.”

We caught up to our group, and Antonio escorted us into a room that had been turned into a stand-up movie theater, and we watched film clips of La Revolución in color and black and white, narrated in Spanish. I saw on the screen a young Fidel and a young Che Guevara, and a lot of other bearded guys moving through the bush carrying rifles. They looked like Taliban.

The scene shifted to Havana, New Year’s Day 1959, and a convoy of rebel fighters in trucks and Jeeps was moving through the city, and crowds of Habaneros were cheering in the streets. Next was a scene at the Hotel Nacional and I looked for Michael Corleone and Hyman Roth jumping into their getaway cars, but they must have left already.

The Riviera Hotel appeared on the screen and, as Antonio promised, there was a newsreel of guerrilla fighters and civilians smashing up the casino, including the bar. This was a sad ending, so I left the theater.

Sara joined me and said, “My father told me that was the most frightening day of his life.”

I guess it would be if you were a young boy waking up in a mansion on New Year’s Day, wondering why the servants hadn’t brought you your breakfast. I pointed out, “Everyone else looked happy.”

“Yes... It started out with high hopes for the Cuban people... but then it turned into a nightmare.”

“Right.”

The Yale group filed out of the theater, and Antonio led us outside to what was once the back garden, and was now the Granma Memorial — a massive glass structure that preserved the yacht, named Granma, that had brought Castro and his small band of revolutionaries from Mexico to Cuba in 1956. The rest, as they say, is history.

Sara informed me, “When Cuba is free, this is all coming down, and this garden is where my memorial to the martyrs will be built.”

And Eduardo could use the garden walls to shoot all the Commies. I said, “Good location.” I was really feeling like an outsider now, caught in a family feud that went back to Christopher Columbus.

Anyway, around the Granma Memorial were some bullet-riddled military vehicles and a jet engine that Antonio said was from an American U-2 spy plane that had been shot down during the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis. I wasn’t born then, but I knew that this crisis had taken us to the brink of nuclear war with the Soviet Union. And if that had happened, I wouldn’t be standing here. It occurred to me that Cuba had always been a thorn in America’s ass, and that America had always tried sticking it up Cuba’s ass.

This was not a happy garden, so Sara and I left the group and walked out to the street. Our next stop was the nearby National School of Ballet, where we were scheduled to see a rehearsal, and we headed that way.

As we walked, I said to Sara, “We need to meet Antonio.”

“If we meet him, that’s an admission that we’re not innocent tourists.”

“I follow that logic, but if you’re at the craps table you have to throw the dice.”

“No, you can pass.”

“Let’s try another cliché — you can’t ignore the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room.”

She stayed silent as we walked, then said, “I’ve already agreed that you can meet Jack tonight. I’m not agreeing to meet Antonio.”

“Aren’t you curious about what he has to say?”

“I know what he has to say. He wants five hundred dollars. It’s just another shakedown of a Cuban American tourist.”

“You know there’s more to it.”

“Yes. It could also be a sting. We give him five hundred American dollars, and the police appear and arrest us for bribery and currency violations — or, worse, trying to recruit a spy.” She added, “That’s happened before. And espionage is a capital offense here.”

“I can go alone.”

“You will not.”

“All right... but—”

“You don’t understand the Cubans, Mac.”

“Compared to the Afghans, the Cubans are Boy Scouts.”

“If we ever go to Afghanistan, you’re in charge.”

“Sí, comandante.”

“Not funny.”

We reached the National School of Ballet and sat on the front steps sharing a bottled water and waiting for our group. I said to Sara, “Antonio wants to tell you what interest the police have in you.”

No reply.

“He’s a Mafia wannabe. He wants to live the good life. He wants two years’ salary. It’s as simple as that.”

“All right, I’ll think about meeting Antonio. Meanwhile, there’s no group dinner tonight. What am I supposed to do while you’re out drinking with Jack?”

“I’ll meet you at Floridita at... nine o’clock. I’m going to break Hemingway’s daiquiri record.”

She smiled. “I’ll take pictures.”

Our group arrived and Antonio invited everyone to enter the ballet school with Tad and Alison, then he came over to us and asked, “Are you joining us?”

“We’re thinking about it.”

“And have you thought about my offer of a drink?”

“Are you buying?”

“No. I’m selling.”

I glanced at Sara. Still sitting, she looked Antonio in the eye. “We’ll be there.”

“Good. It will be worth your time and money.”

“We’ll be the judge of that.”

He nodded, then hopped up the steps like he’d just made two years’ pay — which he had.

Sara looked at me. “I’m trusting your judgement on this.”

“Trust my instincts.”

She stood. “We’ll see.” She asked, “Do you want to see sweaty young girls in leotards?”

Yes, but... “How far is it to the Parque Central?”

“About three blocks, right down this road.”

“Let’s go.” I stood.

“We’ll miss the Museum of the Firefighters.”

“I’ll show you my hose. Come on.”

She smiled and took my hand. “If we’re playing hooky, we first need to go see if the fleet has arrived.”

“If we’re being watched, we don’t want to go anywhere near that terminal.” I said, “We can check out CNN or Tele-whatever in the room.”

So hand in hand we hurried to the Parque Central for a spontaneous afternooner.

Chapter 30

On our way to the Parque Central, we passed one of the old men who hawked the Communist Party newspaper, Granma, and Sara gave him ten pesos from her stash and took a copy.

We entered the hotel and stopped at the front desk, but there was no fax or phone message from Carlos, and I said, “No news from Carlos is good news.”

The elevator came and I asked, “My place or yours?”

“I think I was assigned a bugged room.”

We rode up to my room, and I put the DO NOT DISTURB sign out and double-locked the door.

Sara turned on the TV and sat cross-legged on the bed, dividing her attention between Tele Rebelde and Granma.

“See if you can find the Mets score.”

The minibar was stocked and I opened two Bucaneros and gave one to Sara, then sat in a chair with my beer and watched the news. The anchor guy and his female sidekick sounded like they were reading an eye chart in Spanish.

Sara used the remote to switch to CNN, but there was no signal so she turned back to Tele Rebelde, sipped her beer, and flipped through Granma again. “I can’t believe there’s not one word in here or on TV about Pescando Por la Paz.”

“If the tournament was cancelled, the regime would be happy to report that and lay the blame on some American treachery.” I repeated, “No news is good news.”

She nodded. “You may be right.” She said, “We need to discuss a few things about tonight. But first bring your map here and I’ll decipher it for you.”

I looked at my watch. It was almost 5 P.M. and I didn’t want to be late for my six o’clock with Jack, so I suggested we talk in the shower, and we got out of our sweaty clothes.

The shower was freezing, but I left the water running in case my room was bugged, and I turned on the water in the bathtub, which, as per Tad, was warm. We climbed into the tub, facing each other.

Sara leaned toward me and said, “On your way to where you’re meeting Jack, I want you to swing by the cruise terminal. If the fleet isn’t in, you’ll come directly back here.”

“No, I go see if Jack shows up at our meeting place.”

“Why—?”

“Because the fleet could have been delayed. Or if the government wants to low-key the arrival, it could have been diverted to someplace out of town, like the Hemingway Marina.”

“All right... but when you get to where you’re meeting Jack, call me from a pay phone and leave a message at the front desk. The message will be either, ‘We’re having a drink,’ or, ‘He’s not here yet.’ ”

I watched the water rising above my periscope.

“Are you listening to me?”

“I am.”

“If he’s there, I’ll know that the fleet is in. But if he hasn’t shown up by seven, you’ll leave and meet me here in the lounge. And on the way back here, you’ll swing by the cruise terminal again.”

I was going to wait for Jack at the Nacional, but I said, “Sí, comandante,” so I could get laid.

“And make sure you’re not followed.” She informed me, “The best way to do that in Havana is to take a Coco cab.” She explained, “You have clear visibility all around, and the Coco cabs take shortcuts through back alleys and narrow streets that cars can’t use.”

Same in Kabul.

“And I don’t have to tell you not to give your driver your actual destination, and get out a few blocks before.”

“Right.” The water was now starting to float Sara’s tub toys, so I turned it off, but the running shower provided some background noise.

She reminded me, unnecessarily, “If The Maine — Fishy Business — is not in Cuba, then we have no way to get the money out of here.”

I pointed out, “We don’t have the money yet.” I asked her, “Aside from the money, how about the other thing that will please me? Is it bigger than a bread box? And can we get it out of Cuba without a truck and a boat?”

“I shouldn’t have told you about that.”

“You should tell me what it is.”

“I can’t.” We made eye contact and she said, “The important thing tonight is to see if the fleet is in.”

“Right. And if the fleet is in, and Jack confirms to me that they’re going to Cayo Guillermo, then we’re in business — and then we need to think about if we’re going to wait in Havana for our contact, or head off on our own to Camagüey. We also need to meet Antonio to see what he’s selling.”

She thought about all that, then said, “Carlos, Eduardo, and I were very confident that we had a perfect plan...”

“It’s a wonderful plan,” I assured her. “That’s why I agreed to it. Unfortunately, none of it has gone right. And, by the way, it never does. So we have to make it go right.”

“I like your can-do attitude.”

And I liked that she was back on track. “We make a good team,” I agreed. “And that’s why you hired me.”

I lay back and closed my eyes. This was a pleasant moment, and I enjoyed sharing the warm tub with a friend and teammate.

I felt Sara’s fingers fondling my bolas and I smiled.

My teammate said, “Now that I have you by the balls, where are you meeting Jack?”

Funny. I think. I reminded her, “The less you know—”

“I need to know in case I need to get hold of you.”

“You’ve already got hold — don’t squeeze. The Nacional. Hall of Fame bar.”

She released my bolas and said, “If Jack doesn’t show up and you don’t see the fleet at the Sierra Maestra Terminal, we’ll take a taxi to the Hemingway Marina.”

“Okay.”

“Have we covered all contingencies?”

“And some.”

I don’t recall life without cell phones, voice mail, texting, and the Internet, but in the good old days — according to my parents — all plans, contingencies, and meeting places had to be discussed and understood before people parted or hung up the phone, and my generation was spoiled, they said, and lazy, irresponsible, and too dependent on technology, including electric toothbrushes, and if anyone moved my dinner plate six inches to the left, I’d starve to death.

Well, my five years in the Army proved my parents wrong. I could survive without my iPhone.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking that if we have Plan B and Plan C, we now need Plan A.”

“Which is...?”

“Insert Tab A into Slot B.”

“I fell right into that one.”

“You did.”

So we made love in the tub. Good meeting.


Sara sat in bed wearing one of my clean T-shirts, with the TV tuned to Tele Rebelde and the volume turned up to cover our words. As I got dressed in slacks and a sports jacket, she said, “Be careful, and don’t forget to call.”

I looked at her. “If I don’t call by seven — or if my message is, ‘Don’t wait up for me’ — that means I’m in the company of the police.”

She didn’t reply.

“Go directly to the U.S. Embassy and get yourself inside — one way or the other. Meanwhile, go find some company in the lounge so you don’t get that knock on the door.” I added, “That’s the last contingency.”

She nodded.

I assured her, “All will go well tonight. See you at Floridita at nine.”

“Say hello to Jack.”

“You’ll see him in Cayo Guillermo.”

“Come here.”

I went to the bed and we kissed. She said to me, “I’m going to call my friend in Miami now.”

“Use the phone in the business center.” And keep it short.

I went down to the lobby, where I exchanged five hundred dollars for CUCs at the cashier’s desk, then I went outside and found a Coco cab. “Malecón, por favor.”

And off I went in the little motorized tricycle.

Well, next time I get bored with life I’ll try hang gliding.

Chapter 31

My little Coco cab was weaving through traffic, so there was no way anyone could have been following me unless he was the Lone Ranger mounted on Silver. Nevertheless, I did not swing by the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal. If Jack was in Havana, I’d know soon enough. Plus, I was running late.

It was still daylight but the Malecón was already hopping on this steamy Saturday evening and the seawall looked like the world’s longest pickup bar.

I told the driver to pull over, gave him ten CUCs, and began walking, past beggars, poets and drunks, and a group of Americans who looked like the cyclone had just blown them in from Kansas.

I turned onto a side street, and continued to the long drive that led to the front of the hotel. I checked my watch: 6:15 P.M.

I entered the Nacional for the third time in as many days and stopped at the front desk to see if Jack — or Sara — had left a message, but they hadn’t. I walked into the high-ceilinged Hall of Fame bar, which was filled with a haze of cigar smoke. I scanned the crowded room but I didn’t see Jack.

I asked the maître d’ for a table, and for ten CUCs he remembered a cancellation and escorted me to a small table under a photo of Mickey Mantle.

I optimistically ordered two Bucaneros from a waitress and asked for the cigar lady, who arrived with her tray, and I bought two Monte Cristos, which I left on the table.

My beers came and I drank alone. It was now 6:30.

So where was Jack? Maybe drunk in a waterfront bar, or getting laid, lost in space, arrested, or still in Key West. And if that was the case, I was going home without three million dollars.

Out of habit, I checked my phone for a text or voice mail. Still no service, so I went to the bar to see if Jack had left a message with the bartender, but there was nothing for me.

Sara must be worried by now, so before she called here I asked the bartender to dial the Parque Central from the bar phone and he handed it to me.

As the phone was ringing, a hand grabbed my forearm. “You are under arrest.”

I turned and looked at Jack, who was smiling. “Did you piss your pants?”

“You’re fired.”

“Again?”

The call connected and I said to the operator, “Message for Sara Ortega in Room 535. We’re having a drink. See you at nine.” I asked her to repeat the message and hung up.

Jack asked, “You banging her yet?”

“She sends her regards.”

I led Jack to the far end of the lounge and we sat.

Jack was wearing a decent pair of khakis and a white Polo shirt that I recognized as the one I kept on The Maine for formal occasions. He also had a fanny pack around his waist, something I’d never seen him wear before. “What’s in there?”

“Condoms.” He raised his beer bottle and we clinked. “Good to see you.”

“Same here.”

There were a few tables of well-dressed men around us speaking Spanish, and no one seemed interested in our conversation. I asked Jack, “How did you get here?”

“Fifty-seven Chevy convertible. My old man had a fifty-eight Chevy—”

“Were you paying attention to being followed?”

“Followed?” He thought about that and said, “I gave the guy an American ten to let me drive.” He smiled. “I was all excited, but the guy’d put a fucking Toyota four-cylinder in the car and it was like two hamsters on a treadmill—”

“Jack, were you followed?”

“No.” He added, “I don’t think so.”

Well, neither did I. Or if he was followed it was because the police already knew there was a connection between Jack Colby, Daniel MacCormick, and the newly renamed Fishy Business, and if they knew that, they’d want to know more. So we may as well have another beer. “Why are you late?”

Jack was looking around the Hall of Fame bar. “This is some high-class place.”

“It’s older than you.”

“Yeah? Hey, there’s a picture of Sinatra. And Churchill... Marlon Brando, John Wayne... There’s Mickey Mantle—”

“They’re all dead, Jack, like you’re going to be if you don’t tell me why you’re late.”

Jack looked at me. “I had a few beers with our three fishermen. Couldn’t tell them I had to meet you, and couldn’t think of an excuse to ditch them. I tried to call you but there’s no service.” He observed, “This place is fucked up.” He asked, “How’s it going here?”

“So far, okay.” I asked, “What time did the fleet get in?”

“About noon.”

“Any problems?”

“Nope. I navigated right into the harbor. Piece of cake.”

“I assume you just followed the boat in front of you.”

“Yeah. But it was tricky.”

“How is Felipe?”

“He seems okay.” Jack thought of something and said, “He knows Sara.”

“Right.”

“You fuck her?”

“She has a boyfriend.”

“So what? You got to use the old ‘We could be dead tomorrow’ line.”

“How are the three fishermen?”

“Regular guys. Can’t even tell they’re Cuban.”

“I hope you complimented them on that.”

He got that I was mocking him and laughed. Clearly he’d already had a few, but even when Jack’s half in the bag he can be coherent if I’m up his butt. “How did it go after you docked?”

“Okay. A couple of Commie assholes went from boat to boat to check passports and stuff, and collect a fifty-dollar arrival fee — twenty-five for Fidel, twenty-five for them. Felipe gave them a couple bags of food and a bag of stuff from Walgreens — toothpaste, vitamins, and stuff — and they stamped our visas and went di-di mau.”

Jack sometimes uses Vietnamese expressions, especially when he’s had a few. I said, “I hope some of the crew stayed behind to secure the boats.”

“You think we’re stupid?” I didn’t answer so he continued, “Felipe stayed onboard, and each of the boats left somebody onboard. Otherwise, there’d be nothing left when we got back.”

Or there’d be ten fishing boats headed to Key West with five hundred Cubans onboard. “Was there any security on the pier?”

“Yeah. About ten military types with AKs. Haven’t been that close to one of those since I took one off a dead gook.”

“Did you tell them that?”

Jack laughed, then continued, “These bastards shook us down for twenty bucks from each boat — to help us keep an eye on the boats.”

“You got off easy.”

“If they didn’t have guns, I’d’ve kicked them in the nuts and told them to do their fucking jobs.”

“Right.” But negotiations tend to favor the guy with the submachine gun, as Jack and I learned long ago when we held the guns. I asked him, “When you left the terminal, did you get a brass band?”

“No. But there was a film crew and, like, maybe a few hundred people in this plaza.”

“Friendly?”

“Most of them. They were yelling, ‘Welcome, Americanos,’ and stuff. But there was another group yelling, ‘Yankee, go home,’ and ‘Cuba sí, Yankee no.’ Shit like that. So we got stuck there in front of the terminal.” He took a swig of beer. “Fuck them.”

I could picture this on Cuban TV with some creative film editing. The anti-American demonstration would look like half of Havana. The friendly group — who had somehow gotten word of the fleet’s arrival — wouldn’t be seen on Tele Rebelde. I asked, “Any police? Military?”

“A few cop cars. But the cops just sat there, then a loudspeaker blasted something in Spanish and everybody left.”

End of spontaneous demonstration.

Jack said, “Tell your lady friend this wasn’t the big welcome she talked about.”

Nor the welcome that Antonio had talked about. And that made me wonder how Antonio knew so much about the arrival of the American fleet if it hadn’t been reported on the news. Maybe the same way that the anti-American group knew about it — from the police.

In any case, the news blackout and the staged anti-American protest was a peek into the regime’s mind-set about the Thaw. No big deal, unless the tournament was going to be cancelled. I asked, “Any word about your sail to Cayo Guillermo?”

“We leave at first light.”

“Okay. Before you sail, I want you to get to a pay phone, or borrow a cell phone from a local, and call the Parque Central Hotel.” I gave him my cashier’s receipt that had the hotel phone number on it. “You’ll leave a message for Mr. MacCormick in Room 615. If you’re sailing for Cayo, your message is, ‘My flight is on time.’ If the tournament has been cancelled, your message is, ‘My flight has been cancelled.’ And your name is...” I looked at the cigars. “Cristo.” I asked him, “How copy?”

He smiled at the Army radio lingo. “Solid copy.” He asked, “Why do you think the tournament—?”

“I don’t think anything. But I have no way of knowing if the Commie assholes are going to find an excuse to cancel the tournament.”

“If they do, you might as well go home.”

Easier said than done. On the subject of the Commie assholes finding an excuse to cancel the tournament, I asked, “Did the crews or the fishermen have any trouble on shore with the police or the locals?”

“Not that I know of. We all started out together — maybe fifty of us, and three women fishermen, two not bad-looking — and we hit the bars. We all had these Pescando Por la Paz baseball caps, but I gave mine to a Cuban broad. Everybody in the bars and on the streets was friendly, and we bought lots of drinks for everyone.”

“And a few for yourselves.”

He smiled. “We spread goodwill. Then some of us split up.” He showed me a piece of paper and said, “This is our visitors’ pass or something. We all have to be back on the boats by midnight.”

“Make sure you are.”

“No problem.” Jack was checking out the cigar lady in the fishnet stockings and asked, “Where does a sailor get laid around here?”

Recalling Sara’s lecture on that subject, I informed him, “Being with a prostitute will get you four years in the slammer.”

“That sucks. But how much do they charge?”

“Jack, you’re on an important mission. Keep your dick in your pants.” I should talk. Jack looked unhappy, so I said, “I’m sure you can charm the pants off a señorita after a few drinks and dinner.”

He smiled. “I need a wingman.”

“I have a date.”

“Yeah? Your girlfriend has you on a short leash?”

I ordered two more beers. Jack had his Zippo and we fired up the Monte Cristos.

I asked him, “Did the customs guys search the boat?”

“No. They didn’t even go below. They were happy with their gifts and welcomed us to Cuba.”

“Did you declare the guns?”

“They were stowed in the locker and I forgot them.”

“Okay... Did you remember the extra ammo and the Kevlar vests?”

“Cost me a fortune.” He asked, “Did you find out how we’re getting the money onboard?”

“No, but I’ll find out when Sara and I get to Cayo Guillermo.”

“And how am I supposed to find out?”

“Did you ask Felipe if he knows anything?”

“Yeah. I asked. And he said, no comprende.”

And he could be telling the truth. But not the whole truth. I said to Jack, “I’m sure someone will get word to you — or to Felipe — while you’re in Cayo.”

“How much money is this?”

“Let’s just say we’ll have some heavy lifting to do.”

“What do I do if you don’t show up by the time the fleet sails for home?”

“You and The Maine sail home with the fleet.”

He looked at me. “I can’t do that.”

“That’s an order.”

He watched the smoke rising from his cigar.

“Jack, don’t worry about what you can’t control. You just go and have a nice tournament.” I added, “As for getting me, Sara, and the money onboard, as you saw at the pier, everyone in this country is on the take.”

He reminded me, “You and me spent some time in fucked-up countries like this. You ever been double-crossed by the locals?”

“At least once a week.”

“Me too. So—”

“So if we get double-crossed, we do what we did then. Shoot our way out.”

“You got a gun?”

“No. You do. Four of them.”

“You need a gun before you get to Cayo Guillermo.” He looked at me.

Well, I knew where this was going, and I knew that Jack didn’t have condoms in his fanny pack. “How did you get it past customs?”

“Easier than I thought.” He explained, “The two Cuban guys who came aboard gave us customs forms that we filled out and signed. Nothing to declare. They took the forms and their loot and left.”

I informed Jack, “Having a gun in Cuba is not your constitutional right — it’s your death sentence.”

“Well, sonny, in my country, gun control means using both hands.” He added, “Your Glock will increase the chances of you — and my money — getting to The Maine.”

“And increase my chances of getting arrested if I get stopped and searched on my way out of this bar.”

Jack quoted from one of his T-shirts. “Better to have a gun and not need it than to need a gun and not have it.”

“Right. Okay... thanks.”

“You don’t mean that now, but you might later.” Jack drank his beer and commented, “This shit isn’t half bad. We need this in the States. I can use my million to open a U.S. franchise when the embargo is lifted.”

I reminded him, “Half a million for deployment and half a mil for combat pay if we get shot at.” I also reminded him, “They don’t have to hit you.”

He looked at me through his cigar smoke. “I forgot to tell you — the Glock is costing you half a million.”

“It’s actually my gun.”

“I risked my life getting it to you.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Tell you what, Captain, if you don’t want the gun, I’ll take it back to the boat.”

“I’m surprised you’re not a millionaire already.”

“Me too.”

“But you are an asshole.”

“Don’t piss me off. I got a gun. And you don’t.” He thought that was funny.

We sat in silence awhile, enjoying our beers and cigars. A D.J. set up his electronics and played a Sinatra album. Jack was hungry and we got a bar menu and ordered Cuban sandwiches. Frank sang “That’s Life.”

On that subject, I asked Jack, “What happened to the lady you married?”

“She got sick.”

“Children?”

“No.”

“Who are your next of kin?”

“I got a sister in New Jersey.”

“You have a will?”

“Nope.”

“If you don’t make it, how can I find your sister?”

“If I don’t make it, neither will you.”

“Let’s say I make it home, Jack, with the money. How do I get your money to your sister?”

“If you get that lucky, you keep it.”

“Okay. How do I find your sister to let her know you’re dead?”

“You sound like an officer.”

“I’m trying to sound like a friend.”

He finished his beer, then looked off into space.

I changed the subject and asked, “How’s the weather look this week?”

“Next couple of days look okay for fishing. But there’s a tropical depression brewing out in the Atlantic.”

It was the end of the hurricane season, but the Caribbean had been unusually hot for October. “Keep an eye on that.”

“We all are.” He asked, “Why is Havana so much fucking hotter than Key West?”

“Must be the women.”

He laughed. “Yeah. Felipe said if you stick a candle in a Mexican woman it comes out melted. Stick a candle in a Cuban woman and it comes out lit.”

Glad to hear they were bonding. I asked, “Any mechanical issues with the boat?”

“Nope.”

“When are your three fishermen flying to Mexico?”

“They go to Havana Airport right after the last day of fishing. They miss the awards dinner and all that shit.”

“When does the fleet sail for home?”

“About nine the next morning.” He looked at me. “I can develop a mechanical problem and wait for you past nine.”

I had no idea what time or even what day Sara and I would get to Cayo Guillermo, or what the security situation was at the marina, or who’d been bribed, or who might need to be taken out, or who, if anyone, was in Cayo to assist us. As a tactical matter it wasn’t important for me to know any of this right now, but from a psychological point of view it’s always good to visualize the path home.

“Mac?”

“You sail with the fleet. But thanks.”

“Hey, this has nothing to do with you or your girlfriend. This has to do with my money.”

“So if I show up in Cayo without the money—”

“I leave you on the dock.” He did a finger wave and smiled. “Adios, amigo.”

“You’re a tough guy, Jack.”

“Don’t take it personally. And by the way, asshole, you promised the boat to me if you got killed, and then you sold it to fucking Carlos.”

“If you make it back, he’ll be happy to sign it over to you in exchange for you keeping your mouth shut. And if we both get killed, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Jack had no response to that and knocked the ash off his cigar.

Sinatra was singing “New York, New York,” which was where I’d like to be right now.

Well, the time had come to move from future problems to present problems. “Listen to me.” I looked around to be sure no one else was listening. “It’s possible that the police are interested in me and Sara.”

He looked at me.

“If the police question you, here or in Cayo Guillermo, you can say you’ve heard of me in Key West, but you don’t know anything about me being in Cuba, and you don’t know anything about me selling my boat. You never heard of Sara Ortega and you’re just a hired hand. And if they tell you they’ve got me or Sara in jail and we told them otherwise, you stick to your story, ’cause that’s all you got.”

He nodded.

“If you get questioned in Havana, demand a call to the embassy. If you’re in Cayo Guillermo and something smells fishier than the fish, you can tell Felipe what I just told you — if he hasn’t already told you the same thing — and you and Felipe go out fishing with your customers and keep going.”

Jack looked at me. “Why do you think the police are interested in you and Sara?”

I wanted to be honest with Jack, but I honestly didn’t know if this mission was coming apart, or if Sara and I were overreacting, or misinterpreting Antonio’s bullshit. And I wouldn’t know until we met him tomorrow night, and by that time Jack would be in Cayo Guillermo. I asked him, “You remember getting paranoid five hours into a patrol when nothing was happening?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s God’s way of saying this isn’t a walk in the park. Keep your head out of your ass.”

“Okay. But that don’t answer the question.”

“Right.” So I briefed him about Sara’s problems at the airport, and about our Cuban tour guide, Antonio, and Antonio’s interest in Sara. “It could be a personal interest, but maybe something else.”

“Sounds like he just wants to fuck her.”

“Right. But it’s also possible that this guy is a police informant.”

“Yeah?”

I explained that tour guides in Cuba sometimes reported to the police, and I also told Jack, “Antonio mentioned the Pescando Por la Paz a few times. And he knows I’m a Key West fisherman.”

“How’d he know that?”

“He asked our American tour guide about me.”

“Yeah? So this guy’s a snoop and a stoolie.”

“And a lousy tour guide.”

Jack thought about all this and concluded, “You should kill Antonio.”

“He’s not that bad of a tour guide.” I told Jack, “I’m meeting this guy in a bar tomorrow night. I think he’s playing a double game. He wants five hundred dollars to tell me what the game is.”

“Okay. Then follow him home and shoot him in the head. End of game.”

“I think it might be easier for me and Sara to just get out of Havana and head out to where the money is stashed.”

“Maybe tomorrow night is a trap.”

“The secret police in Cuba don’t have to waste time with traps.”

“I told you this place was fucked up.” He also reminded me, “It would be easier to rob a bank in Miami for three million dollars.”

“That’s illegal. This is not. This is fun.”

Jack laughed. “You’re fucked up.”

“Me? You just told me to blow a guy’s brains out.”

“Just a suggestion. Do what you think you gotta do.”

“Thank you.”

The D.J. was playing Dean Martin now, and we sat in silence awhile, then I asked, “Did the security people who came aboard ask to see the boat’s registration?”

“Yeah... One of them checked it against the hull numbers.”

The registration certificate didn’t show the previous owner — me — though that information was available from the state of Florida if you were someone in law enforcement who had a legitimate need to see it. But that didn’t include the Cuban secret police. That was the good news.

Jack, however, had some other news. “A few of the crew on the other boats are from Key West, and they know you just sold The Maine, which is now Fishy Business.”

“Let’s just assume the police are not asking questions about any of this. But ask the other crews to give you a heads-up if they are.” I added, “And tell them: Don’t remember The Maine.”

Jack leaned toward me. “Maybe you and Sara should think about getting out of Cuba.”

“And you should think about becoming a millionaire.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“You’ll never know if I go home.”

“Okay. If you got the balls for this, I’ll see you in Cayo Guillermo.”

“Trust my instincts.”

“Your instincts are as fucked up as your judgement.”

“They must be if I hired you.”

The sandwiches came, but we weren’t hungry and we ordered two more beers. Dino was singing, “When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s amore...”

On that subject, Jack said, “I hope you’re not just showing off for your girlfriend.”

There’s always a little of that. But... “I’m here for the money. Same as you.”

“If you say so.”

I looked at my watch. It was early for my rendezvous with Sara, but I said, “I have to go.”

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“The old man — Eduardo.”

I already knew what he was going to say.

“He’s onboard. Got himself a phony passport. Says he wants to see Cuba one last time before he dies.”

“Shit.” I asked, “Did he come ashore with you?”

“No, and Felipe is sitting on him.”

Well, Eduardo wouldn’t see much of Cuba from a docked boat. So by now he could have given Felipe the slip, and he could be wandering around Havana, drunk, yelling, “Down with the revolution!” False passport or not, Eduardo Valazquez in Cuba was a massive security breach, making my security breach in meeting Jack look like a minor lapse of judgement. “Why did you let him onboard?”

“You think I let him onboard? He stowed away in a stateroom. Squeezed his skinny ass under a bunk. Nobody knew he was onboard until we got into Havana Harbor.”

I wondered if Carlos knew. Carlos wasn’t stupid enough to okay this, but Eduardo was the client and Eduardo had the money and called the shots. I was pissed.

I asked, “Did the Cubans who came onboard see him?”

“No. Like I said, they didn’t even go below.”

“Okay. When you left the pier, was there any passport control?”

“Yeah. Just one guy.”

“Did he have a passport scanner?”

“Just his eyeballs.” He added, “The place don’t look open for business yet.”

“All right...” I suspected that Eduardo’s passport was a gift from the people he called “our friends in American intelligence,” and I assumed it was a very good passport that would withstand scrutiny. But if Eduardo wound up in an interrogation room, he would not withstand a good beating, and he’d tell them he’d arrived on Fishy Business. Damn it.

I looked at Jack. “Okay... When you get to Cayo, make sure the old man doesn’t step foot off the boat.”

Jack suggested, “I can throw him overboard on the way if you want.”

“Just keep him below.” I let Jack know, “He’s Felipe’s grand-uncle or something.”

“Yeah? Nobody told me that.”

“Now you know. So don’t feed him to the sharks.”

“Okay.”

I wondered if Sara knew that Eduardo had a nostalgic yearning to see Cuba one last time. Maybe. And maybe that was why she didn’t want me to meet up with Jack. Same with Carlos. Though to be fair and rational, neither Sara nor Carlos would put the mission at risk for something so stupid as Eduardo’s homesickness, so neither of them could have known. On the other hand... well, if I was Cuban, I might understand this.

I checked my watch. It was 8:30. I asked Jack, “Anything else?”

“Just the gun.”

“Okay. You leave first and leave the fanny pack on your seat.”

“You buyin’ the gun?”

“It’s my gun.”

“I’ll give you a deal. Four hundred thousand and that includes three magazines, one locked and loaded, ready to rock and roll.”

“Okay, asshole, I’ll buy the gun. But you’re not getting combat pay.”

“Okay. Sold.” Jack finished his beer and looked at me. “Here’s what else I’ll throw in. There’s an old waterfront bar called Dos Hermanos a few blocks from the pier. All the crews and fishermen are gonna meet up there at eleven. If you and your lady have nothing to do, meet me there at eleven-thirty — with your passports and money, no luggage. I bought a few blank visitor passes from the security guys — to get women onboard. They’re stamped and signed. So I’ll be able to get her — and maybe you — onboard The Maine.” He added, “When the fleet sails for Cayo at first light, The Maine is gonna sail for Key West.”

“I’ll see you in Cayo Guillermo.”

“You should ask Sara.”

“Okay. But if we’re not at Dos Hermanos at eleven-thirty, have a drink for us.”

“You got balls, Mac.”

“You gotta die someplace.”

He unhooked his fanny pack and stood. “My sister’s name is Betty. Elizabeth. Lives in Hoboken. Last name Kuwalski. Married a Polack. He’s an asshole. Two kids, Derek and Sophie, both grown up and on their own. See if you can find them. They could use the money.”

“Okay.”

“And if I make it and you don’t—?”

“Go see my parents in Portland and say good things about me.”

“I’ll try to think of something.”

“You know the drill, Jack — ‘died quickly with no pain or suffering.’ Last words were ‘God bless America’ or something.”

“I know the drill. Okay, see you later.”

I stood and we shook. “This is your last fishing trip, Jack. Good luck.”

“You too.” He turned and left.

I called for the check, sat in Jack’s chair, and buckled the fanny pack under my sports jacket. I paid the check in cash and headed toward the lobby, half expecting to hear, “Stop where you are, señor. You are under arrest. For real this time.”

I moved through the lobby, exited the hotel, and the doorman signaled to a white Pontiac convertible.

I got in and said to the driver, “Floridita, por favor.”

The cabbie, who spoke English said, “Yes. We go to Florida.” He laughed.

Everyone’s a comedian.

So off we went in the mid-century American convertible.

Not only was this place a time warp, it was an alternate universe where the past and the present fought to become the future. And I thought Key West was fucked up.

Chapter 32

Floridita, a pink stucco place on Calle Obispo, looked like a dive bar in a seedy Miami neighborhood, complete with a neon sign. I passed under a white awning that said ERNEST HEMINGWAY, and inside, Señor Hemingway was at the bar, captured in a life-sized bronze, sitting precariously at the edge of a stool with his elbow on the polished mahogany. I would have bought him a drink, but he was already ossified.

On the wall behind Hemingway was a black-and-white photograph of E.H. and F.C. sharing a moment, and I deduced that the occasion was the Hemingway Tournament before or after F.C. won the trophy with his lead-belly marlin.

The inside of Floridita looked better than the outside, more 1890s than 1950s. There was a large mural behind the handsome bar, depicting what looked like Havana Harbor in some past era of square-riggers. The long open room had a blue ceiling and mottled beige walls, and a staircase that led to an upper floor. The café tables were littered with guide books, and the chairs were filled with American tourists, half of whom were badly dressed in shorts and T-shirts. The other half were badly dressed. The waitstaff wore nice red jackets and bow ties. Lined up on the bar were five electric blenders beating rum into glucose tolerance test cocktails.

The maître d’ sized me up as an Americano — who else would come here? — and asked in English, “Table or bar, señor?”

“Table for two, por favor.”

He showed me to a table against the wall, and a waiter came by for my order.

The drink menu listed half a dozen kinds of overpriced daiquiris, including a Papa Hemingway — but no Fidel Castro. I actually wanted a beer, but to get into the spirit I ordered a Daiquiri Rebelde — a rebellious daiquiri.

“Excellent. Will someone be joining you?”

Well, you never know in a police state. I checked my watch: 8:55. “Make it two.”

So I sat there listening to American accents and the clatter of electric blenders.

The A/C was trying to keep up, but the place was warm. I would have taken off my jacket, but... well, the other thing about a police state is that you’re not supposed to be carrying a loaded 9mm Glock in your fanny pack. I mean, this wasn’t Florida, where a gun permit was easier to get than a fishing license.

Anyway, Floridita was a tourist trap, but a nice enough one, though Richard Neville might not agree.

The daiquiris came and I sipped one. These things should come with insulin. I checked my watch: 9:05. I checked my cell phone: no service. Maybe next year.

A guy walked in wearing a light green shirt with military epaulets, a black beret, and a gun belt and holster.

The crowd got a little quieter as the guy walked toward the bar, and before he got there the bartender squirted a seltzer siphon into a glass and handed it to him with a forced smile. So the guy — cop or military — was a regular on a break, not on a mission. That was the good news. The bad news was that he put his back to the bar and scanned the crowd as he lit a cigarette and sipped his seltzer. Half the tourists looked away and the other half looked excited. What a great picture this would be. A real Commie with a gun. In Floridita! Shit.

The guy’s gaze settled on me, sitting by myself, wearing the only blue blazer in the place, not to mention the only fanny pack that hid criminal evidence. Stop-and-frisk was not a debatable issue here. Thanks, Jack.

The cop — or soldier, or whatever he was — gave me a final look, then shifted his attention to a table of two young ladies in shorts. They had good legs.

I looked at my watch: 9:15.

I would have used the bar phone to call the Parque Central, but that could be an invitation for this guy to engage me in conversation. It is warm in here, señor. Take off your jacket.

Señor Beret put his seltzer on the bar, then started toward me. I buttoned my jacket to hide the fanny strap. The baños were in the back, and I stood, evaluating my chances of getting to the crapper and doing a Michael Corleone with the gun.

Just then, Sara came through the door and the guy gave her a glance, then stopped at the table with the four pretty legs.

Sara noticed the guy, frowned, then saw me and smiled. She came over to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I pulled out her chair and she sat. “Sorry I’m late.”

I gave the guy another glance. He was smiling as he chatted up the two American señoritas.

I sat. Sara was wearing black pants and a white silk blouse. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She said, “You’re sweating.”

“It’s warm in here.”

“Take off your jacket.”

“I’m okay.”

Sara looked at me. “I’m late because I had trouble finding a Coco cab. Not because I was on the phone.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I actually didn’t make that call to Miami. I decided to take your advice and do it in person.”

Also known as keeping your options open.

“That gives us time to... make sure...”

I thought we already had this conversation. “If you still want me after you hear me snoring tonight, I’m yours.”

She smiled and we held hands. She looked at the drinks. “What is this?”

“Daiquiri Rebelde.”

She sipped her drink. “Not bad.” We clinked glasses.

Sara informed me, “Long before Hemingway came here, expats from Florida used to gather here, so the locals called this place Floridita — Little Florida — and the name stuck.”

“I thought it meant ‘tourist trap.’ ”

She smiled. “If you’re in Havana, you have to come here at least once.”

“Right. I’ll cross it off my bucket list.” In fact, I’ll cross this whole country off my list of places to see before I die.

I was keeping my eye on the man with the gun, and Sara glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to me. “He’s BE — Brigada Especial — part of the PNR, the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria. A branch of the Ministry of the Interior.” She added, “They have an eye for the foreign girls. The blonder the better.”

“That leaves you out.”

“They’re thugs.”

The BE guy gave me another glance — or he was checking out Sara.

She said, “If he asks us for our passports, just show them to him without comment — though I doubt he’d do that in here.”

Or he’d ask us to step outside. I glanced at her shoulder bag filled with pesos, plus her map — a copy of which I had in my jacket. Was that suspicious? Not as suspicious as the gun. I knew that if I got busted, Sara was going down with me. Not good.

She said, “The PNR have a scam where a street peddler will accuse a tourist of underpaying for something, and a PNR or BE guy suddenly appears and settles the dispute for money. And if a tourist gets into a car accident and one of them shows up, you’ve got a problem. And if you report that your passport was stolen, they’ll actually arrest you for not having a passport.”

“Well, there’s a certain logic to that.”

“They’re comemierdas. Shit eaters. That’s what the people call them and call the Communist Party officials. Shit eaters.”

“Sounds better in Spanish.” It also sounded like the revolution had taken a bad turn.

“They’re actually trained to be paranoid about foreigners. They work closely with the chivatos.”

“Maybe Eduardo was right. When you overthrow the regime, shoot them all. Or better yet, torture them with a job in the hospitality industry.”

Sara smiled. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant.” She leaned toward me. “So the fleet is in.”

“Yes. Jack sends his regards.”

“Did he ask if you were sleeping with me?”

“It was written all over my face.”

“I hope he doesn’t say anything to Felipe.”

I reminded her, “No one knows that Jack and I were meeting.” Though I forgot to tell him to keep his mouth shut.

The BE guy was now posing with the two young ladies, and a waiter took a picture with the guy’s cell phone, but not with the ladies’ phones.

Sara said, “You’re not allowed to take pictures of them. But they collect pictures of themselves posing with” — she nodded toward the girls — “dumb blondes.”

“He was giving you the eye.”

“He won’t come over here because I’m with you. But when I was here last year, if I strayed even twenty feet from the tour group, I got pestered by the police and every jinetero on the street.”

“Every...?”

“Hustler. Gigolo. Asshole. Havana is full of them. Women are fair game here.”

“I see now why you wanted me along.”

“I can take care of myself. In Spanish and English. I just needed your boat.”

“I also carry steamer trunks.”

“The perfect man.”

The BE guy seemed to be finished with his seltzer and señoritas and he headed for the door, then glanced back at Sara before he exited.

Sara seemed happy he was gone, and so was I.

She asked, “So tell me what happened with Jack.”

“It went well. Are you ready for another?”

“I am.”

I signaled to the waiter and ordered another Daiquiri Rebelde for Sara. I switched to Bucanero.

Sara also ordered two cheroots. “We have something to celebrate.” She said, “So I assume the fleet is sailing to Cayo Guillermo tomorrow.”

“As of now. I told Jack to leave a message for me at the hotel either way.”

“Good thinking. But let’s think positive.” She asked, “Did Jack say if there were any problems at the pier?”

“Nothing that greenbacks couldn’t solve.”

“Good... Was there any official welcoming ceremony in the plaza?”

“Not exactly.” I related Jack’s description of what happened.

Sara nodded and said, “The anti-American demonstrators were the BRR — the Brigadas de Respuesta Rápida. The Rapid Response Brigades.”

“What do they rapidly respond to?”

“To whatever the government tells them to respond to.” She explained, “They’re officially sanctioned civilian volunteers who are supposed to look like spontaneous demonstrators. But as I told you, nothing here is spontaneous.”

“Except... love.”

She smiled.

I asked, “Does the BRR turnout mean that the government may cancel the tournament?”

She thought about that, and replied, “The regime is like someone who agreed to host a house party, then changed their mind too late. And we’ll see more of that in the months ahead.” She added, “They’ve been isolated so long that they can’t make decisions. Also, there are pro- and anti-Thaw factions within the regime.”

“So is that a yes or no?”

“If they’re looking for an excuse to cancel the tournament, they’ll find one. But they may be satisfied with the propaganda value of the anti-American demonstration. And they may have another one planned for Cayo Guillermo.”

“Right.” I asked, “How did all the pro-American Cubans know about the fleet’s arrival?”

“Word of mouth, which is bigger than texting here. Or Radio Martí, broadcast from the States if it isn’t being jammed.”

“So Antonio could have heard about Pescando Por la Paz from Radio Martí.”

“Or from the Rapid Response Brigades, whose members include los vigilantes — the chivatos who in turn report to the PNR — the National Revolutionary Police.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“This is a police state, Mac. That’s all you have to remember.”

“Right. Okay, we’ll find out tomorrow night where Antonio gets his information.”

“You still want to meet him?”

“When a local offers to sell you information, you never say no. Even bullshit has some Intel value.”

“All right... What else did you learn from your unauthorized meeting with Jack?”

Well, I’m glad you asked. Where do I start? With the gun? Or with Eduardo? I should save the gun for last. I said to her, “Eduardo has stowed away on the boat.” I looked at her.

She kept eye contact and said, “I was afraid of that.”

“Well, if you — or Carlos — knew that Eduardo might pull a fast one, you should have had someone sit on him in Miami.”

She stayed silent, then explained, “Eduardo is... a powerful man.”

“Right. He pays the bills.”

“It goes beyond that. No one says no to Eduardo.”

“So we’re talking about the Cuban godfather?”

“Sort of.” She forced a smile. “But a nice godfather.”

“Well, if I knew what Don Eduardo was up to, I damn sure wouldn’t have said yes to you about this trip.”

“I don’t blame you for being angry. But I didn’t think he was going to—”

“Well, he did. And if the police get hold of him, we could have a serious problem.”

“He would never—”

“I’ve seen the Afghan police reduce Taliban fighters to whimpering children.”

She had no reply.

“All right. If Eduardo wasn’t Felipe’s... whatever, I would have told Jack to throw him overboard.”

“No you would not—”

“I will protect this mission — and my life and yours and Jack’s — at any cost.”

Sara did not look happy, but she looked convinced.

“Meanwhile, Felipe is watching Eduardo on the boat.” I added, unnecessarily, “I don’t want him running around Havana.”

“He... he wants to walk from Cayo Guillermo to his family home, through the countryside. And to visit the cemetery where his family is buried. On All Souls’ Day — the Day of the Dead. That’s what we do.” She looked at me. “Then he wants to die in Cuba.”

Well, that should be easy. I softened a bit and said, “All right. I get it.”

Thinking back to the sundowners on my boat, and my subsequent meetings with Carlos in Miami and Key West, I’d identified a number of things that could go wrong with this mission, and one of them was Eduardo coming along for the ride. Another was Sara coming to the attention of the authorities, and then there was the problem of me getting involved with Ms. Ortega. Well, that all happened. And now there were new problems, like Antonio, and also the gun, which was a problem only if I got caught with it. But if I followed Jack’s advice, the gun could solve the Antonio problem — though I saw no reason for that. Yet.

To add to these concerns was the possibility that the tournament would be cancelled, and/or we wouldn’t meet our contact. But were those problems? Or safe passes home?

Bottom line, we weren’t even out of Havana yet, and as my Scottish ancestors used to say, “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley,” meaning, “This shit’s not working.” Next was Camagüey, the cave, and Cayo, which were going to be a challenge — if we could get out of Havana.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“The road ahead.”

“I’m feeling more confident about that.”

It must be the daiquiris. I also told her, “I briefed Jack about Antonio and our possible problems with the authorities, and about Antonio mentioning Pescando Por la Paz.”

“All right... and did that spook him?”

“It raised his awareness. If it needed raising.”

“I assume he’s still in.”

“He’s in if I’m in.”

“And you’re in.”

“If you’re in.”

“So we’re all in.”

And all crazy. I finished my beer and she finished her daiquiri, then asked, “Did Jack say anything about Felipe?”

“No... just that Felipe was not happy to find Eduardo under the bed.”

“Felipe can handle his uncle.”

“I hope you’re right. And does Felipe know anything about what’s going to happen in Cayo Guillermo that he’s supposed to pass on to Jack?”

“I don’t know what Felipe knows,” she replied.

“How about Eduardo?”

“Eduardo did not want to know any of the operational details about the mission. His only mission is to go home.”

“He’s going back to Miami on The Maine.”

“Let him—”

“Subject closed.”

She called the waiter over, ordered another round, and asked for a light. I limit myself to a cigar a week in Key West. But here, as in Afghanistan, tobacco was not the primary health issue in terms of life expectancy.

Three guitarists appeared and began strolling around the room, strumming and singing. I recognized a few of the songs from Tad’s lecture. I was really getting my money’s worth on this tour.

Sara leaned toward me. “Are the guns onboard?”

Well, three of them are. One was sitting on my fanny. But I didn’t want to upset her — or excite her — with that news until the right moment. I replied, “They are. And Jack also has four bulletproof vests onboard. Hopefully, we will not need them, or the guns.”

She nodded.

The strolling guitarists arrived at our table and asked for a request. Sara, who I noticed didn’t reveal her fluency in Spanish, said in English, “Please play ‘Dos Gardenias’ from the Buena Vista Social Club.”

The three guitarists seemed happy with that and began playing and singing in Spanish. Not bad.

I looked at my watch: 10:35. We had an hour to get to Dos Hermanos if we wanted to go there. Next stop, Key West.

I looked at Sara smoking her cheroot and she saw me looking at her and winked. I tried to picture us together in Miami, or Key West, or even Maine. The picture looked better if we were in a red Porsche convertible.

The guitarists finished, and I gave them a ten and they gave us a happy smile. So if anyone was watching us, we looked more like dumb tourists than enemies of the state.

Floridita was getting more crowded and Sara said, “There’s a floor show later. Do you want to stay and drink sixteen double daiquiris?”

Or do I want to go to Key West and drink sixteen Coronas? Sara didn’t know she had that option.

“Mac?”

I looked at her. “The crews and fishermen are meeting at a place called Dos Hermanos at eleven.”

“That’s a famous old seafarers’ bar.”

“Jack asked if we’d like to meet them there.”

“We can’t do that.”

I leaned toward her. “Jack says he can get us onboard The Maine tonight.”

Sara looked at me.

“The fleet sails for Cayo Guillermo at first light. The Maine will sail for Key West.”

She stayed silent awhile, processing that, then asked, “What did you tell Jack?”

“I told him not to expect us. But he said I should ask you. So I’m asking.”

“I thought we made the decision to push on.”

“We did.”

“All right... what has changed?”

“Someone offered us a ride home.”

She seemed to be considering this and asked, “How do you know we can get on the boat?”

I explained about the blank visitor passes. I added, “Sort of like the letters of transit that Bogie gave Bergman and her husband. Just fill in the names.”

She nodded absently.

I continued, “We have everything we need with us — passport, visa, and bribe money.” To give her all the info she needed to make a decision I also told her, “Jack gave me my Glock, which I’ll ditch before we go through security. And let me remind you that Eduardo is on the boat, and he needs to go back to Miami.” And finally, I reminded her, “If the tournament gets cancelled, the fleet will be heading home in the morning and we’ll be in Cuba without a boat.”

The guitarists were serenading a young couple who were holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. I looked at my watch, then at Sara. “We need a decision.”

“I’m... weighing the pros and cons.”

“The reasons for scrubbing this mission far outweigh the reasons for going ahead. But that’s not how you’re going to make this decision.”

“Call for the check.”

I signaled the waiter for the check, paid in cash, and we left Little Florida, perhaps to go to Big Florida.

She asked me, “Where is the gun?”

“In a fanny pack around my waist.”

“Is that why you wanted to meet Jack?”

“No. But maybe it’s why he wanted to meet me. And maybe Eduardo being onboard is why you didn’t want me to meet Jack.”

“I was as surprised as you were.”

“Life is full of surprises.”

“It is,” she agreed. “Some pleasant, some not.”

“Indeed. Where are we going now?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Calle Obispo was a pedestrian street and we walked past her grandfather’s bank, where this all started fifty-five years ago, and came to the corner where a few cabs waited for tourists. We climbed into a Coco cab and the driver asked, “A dónde vas?”

Good question.

Sara replied, “Hotel Parque Central, por favor.”

“Good decision,” I said.

“And the right one.”

That remained to be seen.

Chapter 33

Sunday was not a day of rest nor a day of worship unless you worship an air-conditioned Chinese bus.

Our itinerary had us on a road trip to a city called Matanzas, a hundred kilometers east of Havana, and Sara and I sat together as the bus pulled away from the Parque Central, our home away from home.

The morning had started off with two messages: a phone message from Jack, a.k.a. Cristo, saying, “My flight is on time,” and an announcement from Tad saying, “Antonio won’t be joining us today.”

Regarding Jack’s message, Sara saw this as a sign that she’d made the right decision last night and that the mission was back on track. I wasn’t sure Jack would agree. In any case, I hope he got laid last night.

Regarding the news that Antonio was AWOL today, Sara asked, rhetorically, “Where do you think he is?”

Well, hopefully he got run over by a Coco cab. Or shot by a jealous boyfriend, thereby saving me the trouble. On the other hand, be careful what you wish for. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to meeting Antonio tonight, but neither did I want him dead before I heard what he had to say.

Sara, however, said, “I don’t think we should go to that bar tonight.”

Well, if we were on The Maine now, heading to Key West, she wouldn’t have to worry about that.

“Mac?”

“That’s how we left it with him.”

“I’m wondering why he didn’t tell us he had today off.”

“Ask him when you see him.”

“I think tonight is a trap and he didn’t want to... interact with us today.”

“Interesting logic. But you could make the opposite case. If tonight is a trap, Antonio would be on this bus reminding us about cocktails at seven.”

She had no reply.

In fact, though, she could be right. Antonio seemed like a guy who didn’t have the cojones to look you in the eye before he gave you the kiss of death. Judas had more balls.

Also missing today was José, our driver, and a guy named Lope was subbing for him. If I were paranoid, I’d say Lope was actually subbing for Antonio. Another week in this place and I’ll start to think my dick is reporting to the police.

The bus rolled through the quiet Sunday streets of Havana and Sara put her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes.

We’d slept together in my room, and this morning I gave her a quick tutorial on how to fire the Glock. Pull the trigger. The Army women I’d dated considered a gun a fashion accessory, but with most civilian women it was best to keep the gun out of sight when you dressed or undressed. Sara, however, was happy that I was armed, though she understood that the gun totally blew our cover as innocent tourists.

There was no safe place to stash the Glock except on my person — or Sara’s — so I had it with me now in Jack’s fanny pack along with the three loaded magazines. Hopefully, there’d be no occasion today for the policía to inquire about the contents of my butt bag.

Sara had advised me last night, “You can’t take the gun to our meeting with Antonio. If it’s a trap, the gun is all the evidence the police need to turn us over to a military tribunal.”

Right. You can bullshit your way out of a lot of things, but getting caught with a gun wasn’t one of them in Cuba.

Also last night, while we were discussing evidence of our crimes against the state, Sara explained to me the alterations she’d made to the treasure map. They were fairly simple, basically reversing a few double-digit numbers, and as a former infantry officer well-trained in map reading, I was sure that I — if I was on my own — could follow this map to where X marked the cave.

We were on the coastal road now, heading east toward Matanzas. The countryside was very pristine — no gas stations or outlet malls, no motels, and no billboards advertising a pick-your-own-mango farm. Also, the countryside seemed sparsely populated and many of the farm houses appeared abandoned, as were the fields around them. Off in the distance I saw a field being plowed by a farmer with two oxen.

Antonio wasn’t onboard to tell us about the new five-year agriculture plan, so Tad stood and gave the group some uncensored info, telling us that agriculture in Cuba had regressed to the nineteenth century, validating my opinion that the organic farm we’d visited was a pile of bullshit.

Professor Nalebuff was onboard, and he offered more subversive information. “Cuba’s last financial lifeline was Venezuela, whose socialist government kept Cuba afloat with oil money. But the price of oil has fallen, and Venezuela, like Cuba, is an economic basket case.” He added, “Ironically, Cuba’s last real hope is U.S. tourism and trade.”

Don’t forget fishing tournaments.

Tad and Alison, who’d been holding back on their criticism of the regime, thought they could speak freely without Antonio around, but Lope, who said he spoke no English, seemed to be listening.

The highway ran close to the coast and I gazed out at the Straits of Florida. Somewhere out there, running on a parallel course with us, was the tournament fleet, and The Maine, which, if we’d gotten aboard last night, would now be heading for Key West. As Yogi Berra wisely said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”


As we reached the outskirts of Matanzas, Alison told us, “Before the revolution, Matanzas was home to a large number of artists, writers, musicians, and intellectuals, and was called the Athens of Cuba.”

And now it looked like Pompeii.

We got off the bus into the heat and humidity of a large plaza, and we followed Tad and Alison to a nineteenth-century pharmacy that had been turned into a pharmaceutical museum, housed in a grand mansion once owned by the family who’d also owned the pharmacy. Then came La Revolución.

The old pharmacy was sort of interesting, especially the big apothecary jars of belladonna and cannabis. The opium looked good, too. They don’t have this in Walgreens.

We then walked through the narrow streets of the town, jostling for sidewalk space with the natives, who probably thought our tour bus had taken a wrong turn. I said to Sara, “Now you know why Antonio took the day off.”

“Stop complaining.”

Tad advised us that these provincial towns were safer than Havana with regard to pickpockets and purse snatchers, but we should safeguard our valuables as we walked. I didn’t think he was referring to my Glock, but I’d already moved my fanny pack to my front and covered it with my Polo shirt, giving me a nice beer belly.

As we walked through the town, I spotted a few PNR guys, who looked us over as we passed by, but there is safety in numbers, and as long as Sara and I stayed in the herd we wouldn’t be picked off by a wolf asking to see our passports and visas. Señor, are you pregnant?

Sara, however, might be too pretty for the wolves to ignore, so I told her, “If you’re stopped, I can’t come to your assistance. That’s Tad and Alison’s job. And if I’m stopped, you don’t know me.”

“Everyone knows we’re together.”

“The police don’t.” And I was happy Antonio wasn’t there to rat us out. I reminded her, “We just met. And sleeping together doesn’t mean we have to get arrested together — or even walk together.”

“All right... I understand.” She offered, “I can carry the gun.”

“It’s my gun.”

On the plus side, the natives seemed friendly, though there didn’t seem to be any reason for this town’s existence.

After a few hours of trying to figure out why we were here, the heat-exhausted herd returned to the plaza and boarded the bus. Sara and I sat together and shared a bottle of water.

Maybe because it was Sunday, our next stop was lunch at the Matanzas Seminary, located on a hill above the city. Alison told us that the seminary was not Catholic — it was Methodist, Presbyterian, and Episcopal — with forty students of both sexes, half of whom, said Alison, would probably leave Cuba at the first opportunity. Me too.

We pulled into the seminary grounds, which were nicely landscaped, and the buildings were in better repair than any I’d seen in Matanzas. I was fairly certain they didn’t have stop-and-frisk here, and I relaxed for the first time today.

As we got off the bus, Sara said, “Religion will save Cuba.”

“Right. Look what it did for Afghanistan.”

“Don’t be a cynic. I never asked — what religion are you?”

“You’ve been sleeping with a Presbyterian. But when I’m getting shot at, I pray to everyone.”

“Would you consider converting to Catholicism?”

Were we talking about a wedding? Or Last Rites?

“Mac?”

“Yes, I’d consider that.”

She took my hand and squeezed it.

We were greeted by a pleasant middle-aged lady who escorted us into a refectory with long tables and benches, and Sara and I found ourselves sitting with Tad and Alison, who didn’t appear to have hooked up yet. Also at our table were Alexandra and Ashleigh, whom I’d chatted up at the welcome dinner before I fell in love with Sara Ortega. At the end of the table was our driver, Lope, who hadn’t picked his table at random.

There were pitchers of iced tea on the table, hopefully waiting to be turned into wine. Nice-looking young men and women, alight with the Holy Spirit, brought out platters of food. I’d expected loaves and fishes, but we got rice and beans, and poultry that had come in second in a cockfight.

We all made small talk, then Tad asked me, “How are you enjoying yourself so far?”

“This has been an eye-opening experience.”

“And there’s more to come.”

Right. But not with you. I asked, “Where’s Antonio today?”

“I’m not sure. He was scheduled to be with us.”

“I hope he’s not sick.”

“He left word that he’d be joining us tomorrow.”

“But not tonight for dinner?”

“Apparently not.”

Correct. Sara and I were having drinks with Antonio tonight.

Alison said, “We’re having dinner tonight at La Guarida, one of the best restaurants in Havana, housed in a huge old mansion. If you’ve seen the movie Fresa y Chocolate, you’ll recognize scenes that were shot there.” She added, “La Guarida was favorably reviewed in the New York Times.”

“So was Fidel Castro,” I said.

Everyone thought that was funny. Even Lope, who smiled.

Alison asked us all where we’d wound up having dinner on our own last night, and everyone at our table had a culinary adventure tale, some good, some not so good. I admitted, “Sara and I drank dinner at Floridita.”

That got a few chuckles. We were really bonding. In another week we’d be calling one another by our first names.

Tad took the opportunity to chide me and Sara. “We missed you at the ballet rehearsal and the visit to the firefighter museum.”

Sara responded, “I wasn’t feeling well and Mac walked me back to the hotel.”

Alison advised, “Stay hydrated.”

This wasn’t a good time to tell Tad and Alison that we were blowing off the group dinner tonight, but I set it up by asking, “What are the first symptoms of malaria?”

No one seemed to know.

Anyway, before lunch was finished, Sara looked at her watch and made an announcement. “I have an appointment with Dr. Mendez, who is the rector here.”

Really?

She explained, “I’m involved with an ecumenical charity in Miami, and I’ve brought cash donations for several religious institutions in Cuba.” She stood. “I’ll meet up with the group shortly.” She left, carrying her purse of pesos.

Alison said, “That’s very nice.”

And also consistent with her cover story.

Our next stop was the chapel to hear the chamber choir perform. I wasn’t looking forward to this, but the young men and women in the choir had angelic voices, singing some great oldies like “Rock of Ages” and “Amazing Grace,” and for a few minutes I was a kid wearing my Sunday suit, sitting in First Pres in Portland. Meanwhile, Sara was still MIA.

We next went to an outdoor lecture given by a theologian who told us that there was a religious revival occurring in Cuba, but it was mostly driven by Evangelical Protestants, not the Catholic Church. I was sure the Pope would be back.

Sara appeared at the end of the lecture and we all boarded the bus for the trip back to Havana.

I asked her, “How much did you give them?”

“Thirty thousand pesos. About twelve hundred dollars, which is a lot of money.”

“Are we good with God now?”

“We’ll find out tonight.”

Indeed we would.

Chapter 34

Before the revolution, the Vedado district of Havana was controlled by Cuban mobsters and the American Mafia in a profitable joint business venture that might be a good model for the future.

Our taxi, a dilapidated Soviet Lada whose upholstery smelled like bleu cheese, traveled along the Malecón toward the far western edge of Vedado, where we were to meet Antonio in a bar called Rolando.

Parts of Vedado, according to Sara, still retained some of its pre-revolutionary flavor, and remained home to a number of unauthorized activities, including black marketeering, midnight auto sales, rooms by the hour, and unlicensed rum joints, to name just a few of Vedado’s private enterprises. Every city needs a Vedado.

Our driver, who spoke a little English, had never heard of Rolando’s, and our hotel concierge couldn’t find it listed anywhere, but our driver made a few cell phone calls to his colleagues and thought he had an address. If this was a trap, Antonio wasn’t making it easy for us to fall into it.

I’d left a note at the hotel for Tad and Alison saying that Sara and I had been stricken with Fidel’s revenge and would not be joining the group for dinner. P.S.: Gotta run now.

We continued along the Malecón, and Sara didn’t have much to say, except things like, “This is a mistake,” and “This was your idea.”

Sara and I were casually dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and we both wore our running shoes in case the evening included a sprint to the American Embassy.

I’d left my treasure map in my room, stuck in my backpack with my Cuba guide, but my Glock and the three loaded magazines were now in Sara’s backpack, buried under wads of Cuban pesos, along with her map and all my American dollars. Now all we had to do was find a place to stash this before we met Antonio.

The driver turned off the Malecón and traveled south along a dark residential street of shabby multi-family housing units, almost invisible behind overgrown vegetation.

The driver slowed down and we all looked out the windows, trying to find the address or a sign, but most of the street lights were out and the landscapers hadn’t been here since 1959.

Sara told the driver to pull over and said to me, “We’ll walk.”

I paid the driver, and we began walking. The only sounds on this dark, quiet street were tree frogs croaking in the hot night air. I wasn’t concerned about being followed, because if this was a trap the police were already at Rolando having a beer with Antonio while they waited for us. I checked my watch: 7:16.

Up ahead I could see a small bridge over a narrow river that Sara ID’d as the Río Almendares, and on the opposite bank was a well-lighted area that she said was Miramar, Havana’s wealthy and clubby suburb, now occupied by foreign businessmen, embassy people, and the Communist elite. So we had come to the end of Vedado and the literal end of the road where Rolando’s was supposed to be.

Just as I was wondering how to call Uber, I spotted a pink two-story building near the river, set back from the road. There were lights in the windows, and a high hedge ran around the building. I didn’t see any cars parked out front, but I could see a few bicycles leaning against the hedge.

Sara said, “That has to be it.”

As we walked toward the pink building, we came to a shoulder-high wall running along the sidewalk, and on the other side of the wall was the shell of an abandoned house, nearly invisible in the middle of an overgrown lot. I suggested, “Good place to lose your backpack.”

She nodded and we both looked up and down the dark street. And though we hadn’t seen a car or a person since we began walking, I knew that every street in Havana had los vigilantes — the kind of people who peeked through the window blinds.

Sara looked over the wall, then dropped her backpack into a thick growth of vines.

I asked, “Did you remove all your ID?”

“No, Mac, I left my passport so the police could track us down and return your gun.”

“Good thinking.” She didn’t seem to be in a good mood. “Okay, let’s have a drink.”

We continued to the end of the street and stood at the gated opening in the hedge, through which we could see a patio and a half dozen tables whose chairs were filled with tough-looking hombres, smoking, drinking, and playing cards.

I took her arm and we walked onto the patio of what I hoped was Rolando’s.

The customers gave us the once-over, but no one said anything. I saw this scene in a movie once, but I don’t remember how it ended.

Over the entrance door was a hand-painted sign that said: ROLANDO — AQUÍ JAMÁS ESTUVO HEMINGWAY. Sara translated, “ ‘Hemingway was never here,’ ” which was funny, and which was also what Antonio promised. I should give this address to the Nevilles.

I entered first, with Sara right behind me.

The front room looked like a grocery store with shelves along the dingy stucco walls displaying canned food. The only person in the room was an old man sitting behind a counter, reading a newspaper. He glanced at us, and before I could say, “Antonio sent us,” he cocked his head toward a curtain in the wall.

I led the way, and we passed through the curtain into a stairwell where steps led to the upper floor.

I could hear recorded music at the top of the stairs — “Empire State of Mind” — and we ascended into a dimly lit room with louvered windows, unadorned red walls, and floor fans.

Men and women sat on ratty upholstered furniture that was scattered haphazardly around the concrete floor, and a few couples were dancing. Everyone seemed to have a drink and a cigarette, and a few of the couples were working up to the main event. There must be rooms available. Or maybe a broom closet.

I didn’t see Antonio, but a guy got up from a chair and motioned us to follow him. He led us to a door that went out to a small rooftop terrace dimly lit by oil lamps on the four tables. The only customer was Antonio, sitting by himself, drinking a beer, smoking a cigarette, and talking on his cell phone.

He saw us, hung up, stood, and smiled. “Bienvenidos.”

Chapter 35

Antonio was wearing his tight black pants and a tight black T-shirt, which looked kind of ridiculous. We didn’t shake hands, but he invited us to sit.

He asked, “Did you have difficulties finding this place?”

“It wasn’t in my Michelin guide.”

He looked at us. “Do you think you were followed here?”

That was a funny question coming from a police informant. “You tell me.”

He shrugged. “It’s not important. I have taken American tourists here before. To show them how the people relax after work.”

Right. Those twenty-dollar-a-month jobs can be stressful. “You live around here?”

“Yes. This is my neighborhood bar.”

Jack would advise me to get Antonio’s address, follow him home, and shoot him in the head. Sara might second that.

He also let us know, “We have this terrace to ourselves until we are done.”

Sara said, “That could be two minutes.”

Antonio looked at her, but didn’t reply.

I could hear Black Eyed Peas singing “I Gotta Feeling.”

A young waiter wearing an Atlanta Braves T-shirt came out to the terrace. Rolando’s cocktail menu was limited to rum and beer, and because everyone here made twenty bucks a month, all drinks were ten pesos — forty cents. Well, the price was right. Antonio was drinking Bucanero, but Sara and I ordered colas. I told the waiter, “Unopened bottles. No glasses.”

Antonio didn’t look offended that I was suggesting the place was dirty, or that he was going to drug us. Also, Antonio could be wearing a wire, but his pants and shirt were so tight he’d have to have the transmitter up his ass.

I said to him, “We told a few people in our group that we were having drinks with you here.”

“So if you disappear, the police will consider me a suspect. Except the police don’t care if you disappear.”

Right. In fact, the police would be the prime suspects in our disappearance.

Antonio asked, “What did you tell Tad and Alison about your absence tonight?”

“I told them we had Fidel’s revenge.”

He looked at Sara. “Que?”

“Diarrhoea.”

He smiled. “That’s why I was absent today. From eating an American apple.”

Asshole.

The waiter brought our drinks, and I opened the bottles myself. No one proposed a toast.

The sunlight had faded from the western sky, replaced by the lights of Miramar, and ninety miles north, across the Straits, was Key West, where Fantasy Fest was in full swing. Life takes some interesting turns.

Antonio got down to business and asked us, “Do you have the money?”

Sara replied, “It is against Cuban law for us to give you American dollars, and we have no reason to give you anything.”

Antonio turned to me, the voice of reason. “Most of my tip money is in American dollars. It is of no consequence.”

“We have no American dollars with us, but if we’re interested in what you say, I’ll put your tip in an envelope and leave it for you at the hotel.”

“I think you don’t trust me.”

“What was your first clue?”

“I’m taking a big risk to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“You are already at risk.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I can.” He looked at Sara. “I have information that the police are interested in you.”

Well, that was no surprise, and that didn’t seem to include me. Unless Antonio was saving the best for last.

Sara looked Antonio in the eye. “There are not many scams or entrapments that I haven’t heard of in Cuba, including this one.”

Antonio informed us, “If this was a police trap, both of you would already be under arrest. And if you think this is a scam, you will be making a big mistake. Your problem is not me — it is the police.”

“You work for the police,” said Sara.

“Everyone in Cuba has two jobs and two lives.” He added, “And two souls. That is how we survive.” He reminded us, “The Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out. In the end, we all work for ourselves.”

Right. Also, Antonio had a serious case of multiple personality disorder, and I wasn’t sure which Antonio had shown up tonight. “Okay, so tonight you sell out your police friends for money, and tomorrow you double-cross us.”

“That is a chance you will have to take.”

“No. I can pass.”

“You can. But that could cost you your freedom.”

Sara said to him, “Look at me.”

He looked at her.

Sara spoke to him in Spanish, and I could hear the words “los vigilantes,” “chivatos,” and “Policía Nacional Revolucionaria,” but not the word for “shit eaters,” so she was controlling herself. I mean, not to engage in ethnic stereotyping, but Miss Ortega had a Cuban temper, especially when speaking to someone she believed was a Commie shit eater who had destroyed Cuba.

Antonio listened impassively, then said, “Your Spanish is more than ‘un poco.’ ”

Sara said to me, “Let’s go.” She stood.

I said to Sara, “Let’s let Antonio tell us why he thinks the police are interested in you.”

She hesitated, then sat and shot me a very annoyed look.

I said to Antonio, “You’re on, amigo.”

He lit another cigarette and said to me — not Sara — “She had a problem at the airport.”

Did he get that info from Alison? Or the police? “I didn’t see any problem at the airport, and she never mentioned a problem to me.”

“She had three hundred thousand pesos with her.”

Well, he could have only gotten that from the police. “That’s not illegal.”

“It is suspicious.”

“If you’d been with us today — or if you’ve spoken to Lope — you’d know that Miss Ortega made a donation, in pesos, to the Matanzas Seminary.”

“Yes, and very kind of her. But the police are interested in the remainder of the money.”

“It’s all for Cuban charities. But let’s back up. Explain how you know what happened at the airport.”

“I thought you understood this. My job puts me in contact with tourists — mostly American. The police find this useful, so they ask me to tell them if I see or hear anything that seems suspicious. In some cases they ask me to watch a certain person” — he glanced at Sara — “who they already suspect of criminal or political activities.”

“And why would the police suspect Sara Ortega of anything?”

“They don’t tell me everything. But in addition to the problem at the airport, they also told me she has been to Cuba once before. And she is Cuban.”

Sara interjected, “Cuban American.”

I asked, “Have you done this before? Telling American tourists — Cuban Americans — that the police were interested in them? And then asking for money?”

“You have asked enough questions.”

“Sorry, I’ve got more. What are you telling the police about Miss Ortega?”

“I am telling them the truth — that she has made some insulting remarks about Cuban socialism.”

“Did you also tell the police you had a personal interest in Miss Ortega?”

He smiled. “I don’t tell them everything. But I told them she is having a holiday romance.”

“Is that why you invited me to come along?”

“I invited you to come along because the police are now interested in you.”

He must have told the police that I had questioned F.C.’s marlin trophy. Also, he knew that Sara would not meet him alone. “Why are they interested in me?”

“Because you and Miss Ortega have disappeared together for lengths of time. You said you were going to Floridita after the Riviera Hotel, but you were not there, as I discovered, and you spent the night out of your assigned hotel. You also left the group after the Museum of the Revolution. All of that is suspicious, and that is what I told the police.”

“Did you also tell them that Miss Ortega and I just met on this trip?”

“So you say.”

Antonio was probably very selective about what he told the police, which is what police informants do to curry favor. It’s also what assholes do.

He continued, “I also told the police that Miss Ortega was inquiring about an unauthorized visit to the beach.”

“And you told them, of course, that you offered to drive her to a nude beach.”

He looked at Sara, perhaps thinking about what could have been — if I hadn’t entered the picture. In fact, Antonio had probably pictured a different meeting here with Sara Ortega, and without me. He would have let her know that the police were interested in her, and told her how he could help her and what she could do for him to return the favor. Good fantasy, but at some point Antonio realized that Sara Ortega wasn’t the kind of woman to be frightened out of her clothes. Then I entered the picture and his fantasy of taking her home morphed into the more realistic possibility of taking five hundred dollars home. Well, ironically, he was onto something, but he hadn’t mentioned Pescando Por la Paz, or my meeting Jack Colby at the Nacional, so my guilt seemed to be by association with Miss Ortega, whose guilt was a result of her birth.

I said to Antonio, “You haven’t told us anything we haven’t already figured out. So... I’ll buy the drinks and contribute to your group tip at the end of the tour.”

“The end of the tour for you is closer than you think.”

Why did I know he was going to say that? “Does that mean we’re going to be expelled?”

“Unfortunately it means something else.”

I wonder what that could be.

Antonio chain-lit another cigarette and told us, “As you know, there are those in America and in Cuba who are not in favor of normalizing relations. The regime itself is ambivalent about normalization. Perhaps frightened of what it means.”

Neither Sara nor I replied, and he went on, “You may have heard that there was an anti-American demonstration at the pier when the fishing fleet arrived.”

As a matter of fact I did hear that, but I replied, “That’s not good for improving relations.”

“No, and this was not a spontaneous demonstration. It was...”

“Staged?”

“Yes. Staged. By the Ministry of the Interior.” He looked at Sara. “As I’m sure Miss Ortega knows, they are a very powerful ministry in Cuba, responsible for internal security, the border guard, and the police. They are also very much opposed to normalizing relations. They are afraid of” — he pointed north — “what is over there.”

“The Conch Republic?”

He seemed confused. “America. That is the reality that is coming. But the Ministry of the Interior is looking for an incident that will refreeze the Cuban Thaw and keep the Americans away — and the incident, unfortunately, will be the arrest of Miss Ortega. And you.”

I wasn’t sure if Antonio was telling the truth, or if he was trying to frighten us into a big tip. “There is absolutely nothing in my background that has anything to do with Cuba.”

“So you say. But I know the police are investigating your background. Through the Internet. And through sources in Key West. And they are also investigating Miss Ortega’s activities in Miami.”

That sucked. Well, I had taken down my website when I sold The Maine, but the police might still be able to find something to connect me to Fishy Business. As for Sara, she’d told me she kept a low profile in Miami. I glanced at her and she seemed cool and composed.

Antonio continued, “I’m not sure when this arrest will happen. But you will probably get a late-night knock on your doors... or one door if you are sleeping together.” He added, “They like to do these things when you are most vulnerable — in your beds — and when everyone else is asleep.” He looked at Sara, then at me, waiting for a reaction.

I asked him, “If the police don’t tell you much, why did they tell you all this?”

I think Antonio expected a more agitated response from us, and he stayed silent, then replied, “They told me to make myself available for the police interrogation, where I will denounce both of you and write a statement.”

“Okay, if we buy all that — for five hundred dollars — what are we supposed to do with this information?”

“You need to get out of Cuba.”

“If we do that, the police will suspect that you tipped us off.”

“And if they arrest you, you will tell them that I betrayed them.”

“We wouldn’t do that to you, amigo.”

“Of course you would. I am playing a very dangerous game. So it is as important for me as it is for you that you get out of the country.”

My bullshit detector was beeping, but I said, “Okay, so how do we get out of Cuba?”

He didn’t take that as a rhetorical question, and answered, “I have made inquiries and I can get you both on a British cruise ship leaving Havana in two days. It is sailing to Bridgetown, Barbados.”

Well, that was the second boat ride out of here that I was offered this week. This one sounded too good to be true, but I asked, “How much?”

He seemed to be thinking about that, then replied, “Whatever is left of Miss Ortega’s three hundred thousand pesos, and an additional thousand American dollars — which I will need for bribes at the pier.”

Antonio was good at upselling. Five hundred for the advertised special, but for another thousand, plus all our pesos, he’ll throw in a cruise to Barbados.

Sara said, “We need to think about this.”

“There is not much to think about. And I will need your answer tomorrow, by noon. I will also need the thousand dollars tomorrow to make the travel arrangements, and then the three hundred thousand pesos when I can assure you of your passage on the ship.”

Neither Sara nor I replied, so Antonio continued his sales pitch. “Because of the American embargo, no ship of any nation that comes to Cuba may enter a U.S. port for six months after visiting Cuba, so there are not many cruise ships in Cuban ports, but fortunately, this British ship — The Braemar — never enters American waters and is now in Havana.” He continued, “Many Americans come to Cuba by flying to Bridgetown, which is the home port of The Braemar, so there should be no difficulties in getting you onboard for the return voyage to Bridgetown.”

“Then why do we need you?”

“To get you through security and passport control — where your names are now on a watch list.”

Thanks for that, asshole.

“This is your only opportunity to leave this island.”

“We understand. And you’ll have our answer tomorrow.”

Antonio also advised us, “Calling your embassy will put your State Department in a difficult position at this time of sensitive diplomatic negotiations.”

Should I tell him that Sara Ortega and the Secretary of State were practically classmates at Yale?

“And if you try to get into the embassy, the police will stop you and discover that you are on the watch list, and arrest you.”

Should I remind Antonio that Richard Neville wanted to be arrested? He’d get more out of it than me or Sara.

Antonio also told us, “If you were to be arrested — or if you were to somehow escape from Cuba — your tour group will be expelled. This has happened before. Also, as in the past, to increase tensions, the regime will cancel many goodwill exchanges, including, for instance, the Fishing for Peace tournament.”

And why did he mention that? To see if I reacted? This was not good news, but I didn’t comment and said, “You understand that Miss Ortega and I are tourists who have just met. We are here with a licensed group to experience Cuban culture, not to overthrow the regime.”

He smiled, then said patiently, “In Cuba, guilt or innocence is not important. Politics are important. Let me remind you that your compatriot Alan Gross received a fifteen-year sentence for spying and spent five years in prison, and he was innocent.”

“Apparently he didn’t have someone like you to tip him off.”

“You are fortunate to have me.”

“In America we say, with friends like you I don’t need enemies.”

He seemed uncertain if that was an insult or a compliment. He looked at us. “Despite our differences, I actually like you both, and I’m happy to be in a position to help you out of your difficulties.”

“Which you helped get us into.” I asked, “Anything else?”

“My five hundred dollars — which, you will agree, I have earned.”

“It will be in an envelope at the front desk tomorrow morning.”

“And the thousand dollars for bribes.”

“Same envelope.”

I was about to stand, but then Antonio said, “You understand that I am giving you your life — your freedom.” He looked at Sara and they made eye contact.

He said something to her in Spanish, and though I don’t understand Spanish, I knew exactly what he was saying.

She took a breath, and I thought she was going to unload on him, but she controlled her voice and spoke to him in an almost meek tone, and shook her head. Antonio said something else to her and she nodded and replied.

He looked at me, maybe trying to see if I got what the deal was. I glanced at Sara and she said, “It’s okay.”

She stood and looked at me. “It’s time to go.”

I stood, but Antonio remained seated and said to Sara, “You should not have come back.”

She nodded.

“But I will get you out of here.”

Again, she nodded.

I took her arm and we left. Pharrell was singing, “Because I’m happy...”

Chapter 36

We stood in the dark, quiet street. I asked, “Did I hear what I think I heard?”

She nodded. “He told me there were rooms available there. But I told him I couldn’t do that with you sitting there while I was with him.”

“How long do you think it would have taken?”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Sorry.”

“But we agreed he’d come to my room tomorrow night — at about midnight.”

“Okay. And he thinks he has a deal?”

“He thinks I’m frightened. And he thinks I will enjoy myself.”

“I can’t believe that slimeball actually did that — even in Spanish — with me sitting there.”

She looked back at Rolando. “He thinks I’m just a loose woman, and that you and I are just casual lovers. He also thinks that you’d agree I could sleep with him if it was a choice between imprisonment or escape from Cuba.” She added, “I said I’d speak to you, and I was sure you’d agree with that.”

“I guess we should have seen that coming.”

“I did. From day one.” She said, “We need to leave tomorrow night.”

“Right.” I didn’t think we were being watched, but to be safe I said, “We shouldn’t retrieve your backpack tonight.”

She glanced down the street at the abandoned house, then looked at the bridge over the river. “All right. Let’s walk to Miramar and get a taxi.”

We walked onto the footpath of the narrow bridge that spanned the Río Almendares, and from here Miramar looked like a pleasant 1950s Florida suburb. I could see why the international community and the Communist elite would want to live here, away from the two million less fortunate souls who were crowded into the decay of Havana.

We came off the bridge and turned into a palm-lined street of pastel-colored houses. The streets of Miramar were laid out in a grid, and Sara seemed to know the area. We turned north and she said, “The main thoroughfare, Avenida Quinta, is up here and we can find a taxi.”

We continued and I said, “You noticed that Antonio again mentioned the Pescando Por la Paz.”

Sara had no response.

“It’s possible that the police may suspect my connection or they may discover the connection through their background investigation. And if they do, they’ll be waiting for us when we get to Cayo Guillermo.”

“We’ll worry about that when we get there.”

That strategy wasn’t in my training manual, but the problems with this mission — including Eduardo running down memory lane — were piling up so fast that it wasn’t worth arguing about.

Sara looked at the well-kept houses along the road. “These Communist pigs have beach clubs, good food, and access to foreign goods that the Cuban people can only dream about.”

“I’m sure they’re wracked with guilt.”

“They’re hypocritical shit eaters.”

And if the regime was overthrown, the exiles would be back, living in Miramar. I could see Carlos opening a branch office here. “You need to focus on the mission. Not the residents of Miramar.”

“Don’t lecture me. You’re not Cuban.”

“I’m not lecturing you. I’m telling you — put the hate on hold and think about why we’re here and how to get the hell out of here.”

She didn’t reply.

I took my own advice and thought about all the curve balls that had been thrown at us since we stepped off the plane. God was trying to tell us something. And I thought I knew what it was. I asked, “How long would it take us to drive from here directly to Cayo Guillermo?”

Sara didn’t reply.

“How long?”

“Maybe eight hours.”

“For a few hundred bucks we can find a taxi to take us to Cayo tonight, and we could be there before dawn, get onboard The Maine before they go fishing, and be in Key West in time for happy hour.”

She took my hand as we walked. “You said the road home goes through Camagüey.”

“I did say that. But that was before Antonio told us that the police were coming for us — or that the fleet could be ordered to leave.”

“Why would you believe any of that?”

“Because it could be true.” I also reminded her, “You have a date with him tomorrow night, so tonight is a good time to leave Havana.”

She let go of my hand and didn’t reply.

We came to Avenida Quinta, which was divided by a median and flanked with tropical trees and lined with mansions. A few taxis slowed, then drove on. “So, do we want a taxi to the hotel, or a taxi to Cayo?”

“We leave tomorrow night for Camagüey Province.”

“Listen to me. Even if Antonio is wrong about the fleet being ordered to leave, or even if he’s lying about the police arresting us, or us being on a watch list, let’s assume he wasn’t lying about the police investigating our backgrounds. And if the police discover the connection between me and Fishy Business, and if we leave for Camagüey tomorrow, by the time we get to Cayo Guillermo they’ll be waiting there for us. And not only will they get us, they’ll get the money. And the property deeds, and... whatever the other thing is.” I asked, “Do you understand all of that? And do you understand what they will do to you in a Cuban prison?”

She stayed silent, then said, “You can go to Cayo Guillermo if you want. And when you get there, you can either wait for me, or you, Jack, and Felipe can sail off with my transportation home.”

Well, whatever was driving her was too powerful to stop with logic, facts, or even fear. “All right... you’ve shamed me into keeping my promise.”

“This will go well.” She took my hand. “I feel safe with you.”

I wish I could say the same.

She pointed up the avenue. “Over there is the Museum of the Ministry of the Interior, which is on our tour. The museum pokes fun at all the CIA’s attempts to kill Castro.”

“I’m surprised the exploding cigars didn’t work.”

“The history of American intervention in Cuba is a history of failure.”

I had the same thought back in Key West.

“But we — you and I — are going to turn that around.”

“Right. Taxi?”

She nodded.

I stepped into the street and hailed a passing cab, a nice late-model Toyota that didn’t smell like bleu cheese.

I said to the driver, “Hotel Parque Central.”

Sara said something to him and they had a brief conversation in Spanish. She said into my ear, “I asked him to take us to a casa particular in Vedado — a private house that rents rooms, usually with no questions asked.” She added, “We don’t want to risk a knock on the door tonight. And I don’t want an early visit from Antonio.” She took my hand. “We’ll go back to the hotel in the morning and join the group. Then, after the group dinner, we retrieve my backpack and go to Camagüey.”

“Okay.”

The driver took the tunnel that went under the Río Almendares and drove into Vedado. Sara exchanged a few words with him, then said to me, “I told him — Tomás — that we were Canadian Embassy staff, married to other people, and we needed a very discreet casa that didn’t ask for passports.”

“I think you’ve done this before.”

Well, to look the part, Sara put her arms around me and we started making out like caribou in heat. I glanced at Tomás, who was adjusting his rearview mirror. He didn’t know Canadians were so hot.

Within a few minutes we pulled up to a small stucco house, nearly hidden by vegetation. Tomás got out and knocked on the door. The way our luck was running, this was probably Antonio’s house.

An elderly lady came to the door, and she and Tomás exchanged words, then Tomás motioned for us to join them. We got out of the taxi and Sara and the old lady — Camila — chatted for a minute, and Sara said to me, “This is good. Give him a twenty.”

I gave Tomás a month’s pay, and he gave me a wink and wished us buenas noches. Camila didn’t ask about luggage or passports and she invited us inside as she scanned the block, then closed the door and locked it.

The casa’s front room was small and shabby, but neat and clean. On the wall was a nice black-and-white photograph of a young Fidel Castro. Camila showed us the baño and the small kitchen where, said Sara, we could have coffee in the morning, no charge. The price for the room was five CUCs, up front, and I gave Camila a ten, which made her happy, and she offered us some leftover rice and beans if we were hungry.

“Ask her if she has any Canadian Club.”

Sara said something to her, and Camila poured us two glasses of rum, compliments of the house.

Camila showed us to our room, a tiny space filled with a double bed and a wooden bench. A small barred window let hot, humid air into the room. On the wall facing the bed — where the flat-screen TV should be — was a crucifix.

Camila smiled and wished us buenas noches and I bolted the door behind our hostess.

I asked, “Are we safe here?”

She motioned toward the crucifix. “He’s watching over us.”

But look what happened to him.

We clinked glasses and sipped our rum. “What would you like to do?” I asked.

“Get out of my clothes and have sex.”

Just what I was thinking.


We lay in the dark room, naked and sweaty. “Aside from the money, what is it that we’re here for?”

“The deeds and titles to the stolen properties.”

“What else?”

“It’s something that you will understand as soon as you see it.”

“Is it worth risking our lives for?”

“Trust me, Mac.”

“I do.”

“Do you love me?”

“I came for money, but I’m staying for love.”

She rolled on top of me. “We’re going to have it all. Money, love, and... justice.”

And hopefully a long life to enjoy it all.

Chapter 37

We rose before dawn, got dressed, and slipped quietly out of Señora Camila’s four-star casa.

Sara said we weren’t far from the Plaza of the Revolution, and we walked there to look for a taxi. There weren’t many cars or people on the dark street, but a Policía Nacional Revolucionaria car slowed down, and the driver gave us the once-over. I was glad we didn’t have the Glock.

We walked into the plaza and I could see the building that sported the metallic outline of Che Guevara, lit with spotlights. HASTA LA VICTORIA SIEMPRE.

Sara said, “That’s the Ministry of the Interior — the ministry of torture and repression.” She told me, “That’s coming down when the regime falls. I’ve designed a beautiful building for that space.”

“Good. That one’s ugly.”

“Uglier on the inside. And if you ever see the inside of that place, you’ll never see the outside again.”

I didn’t doubt that. It seemed like a long time since my first day in Havana, when I’d had my picture taken in this plaza with Sara Ortega. If I’d known then what I know now... who knows?

Sara spotted a black Cadillac, maybe 1957, parked in the square, and we walked toward it.

I asked, “How do you want to handle Antonio’s offer?”

“I have about fifteen hundred American dollars in the hotel safe that I’ll give him this morning. I’ll agree to give him three hundred thousand pesos tonight when he assures me... in my room... that we can get on the ship to Barbados.” She added, “We just need to get through this day.”

Antonio must be very pleased with himself. Getting laid and getting paid.

The Caddy driver was asleep, and we woke him and he took us to the Parque Central.


The breakfast room wasn’t serving yet, but I snagged two cups of coffee and we took them up to my room.

There was no sign that the room had been entered or searched, and my travel guide and treasure map were still in my backpack.

Sara turned on the TV to Tele Rebelde and said, “I have a strong feeling that today is the day we meet our contact.”

“Well, it’s today or never.”

“And if we don’t... we have the map. That’s all we need.”

Well, a ride to Camagüey might help. But why mention it?

She finished her coffee. “I’ll meet you in the breakfast room.”

“Be nice to Antonio today.”

“He doesn’t expect me to be nice. He expects me to be good.”

She left and I undressed and got into the shower, which was warm today. A sign from God.


I sat in the breakfast room with my coffee, waiting for Sara. Antonio was not there, but Tad was, and he got up from his table and came over. “How are you feeling?”

“I wish that toilet on the bus was working.”

“We can stop at a farmacia and get you something.”

“I just need some gummy rice. But thanks.”

“Will Sara be joining us?”

“She will.”

Tad sat, uninvited. “May I be honest with you?”

“Sure.”

“You and Sara have missed a lot of this trip.”

You ain’t seen nothing yet.

“I need to file a final report with the Office of Foreign Assets Control, and your and Sara’s absences, if they continue, can cause the Yale educational travel group — and both of you — some problems.”

“Sorry, Tad. I certainly don’t want any problems with the Office of Foreign Assets Control. But you understand that we’re having a... sort of romance, and she — we — want some time alone.”

“I understand that, but—”

“How are you doing with Alison?”

“But you’ve agreed to the conditions—”

“I promise that you won’t have to worry about us for the rest of the trip.”

“All right. Thank you.” He hesitated, then said, “Antonio has asked me and Alison about both of you.”

“Really?”

“Is there... any problem I should know about?”

“That’s very kind of you to ask.”

“Well...?”

Well, this might be an opportunity to cover our tracks and also cover our asses. “This is Cuba, Tad. And Sara Ortega is anti-Castro, and Antonio is a chivato. Do you know what that is?”

“I do.”

“So next time he asks about us, tell him to go fuck himself.”

“I...”

I leaned toward him. “If Sara and I should fail to appear one morning, do us a favor and call the embassy.”

Tad seemed speechless. And a bit pale. Finally, he said, “Maybe you should leave the country.”

“We’re thinking about it.”

“All right... can I help?”

Tad was really okay. And I knew he’d call the embassy when Sara and I didn’t show up tomorrow morning. And the embassy would call the Ministry of the Interior, who would deny having us in their custody — which might be true, but maybe not. In any case, I think I covered most of the bases, and gave Tad two plausible reasons for our disappearance — prisoners of love or prisoners of the state.

“Maybe you should visit the embassy today,” he suggested.

That wasn’t possible if Antonio was telling the truth about Sara and me being on a watch list, and in any case the embassy was only a Hail Mary option. Camagüey was the next stop. I said, “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

“Well... this is Cuba...”

“Right. Do me a favor and don’t mention this to anyone. You and I and Sara can talk tomorrow.”

“All right.”

“I hope my and Sara’s problems don’t get the group kicked out of the country.”

He seemed distraught.

“I’m going to get some gummy rice. Would you like some?”

He looked at me. “No...” He stood. “I’m sorry about all this.”

“Not your fault. And by the way, Lope is also a chivato and he understands English.”

Tad looked a bit paler. He nodded and went back to his table and sat with Alison. I really didn’t understand why he hadn’t nailed her yet. Maybe he lacked self-confidence.

Sara came into the breakfast room, looking refreshed and pretty in tight white jeans, a blue Polo shirt, and a baseball cap — the same outfit she’d worn when she stepped onto my boat a million years ago. I recalled thinking how great it would be if we had sex.

She sat. “I’m starving.”

“Let’s get some gummy rice.”

“Some... what?”

“Tad asked how we were feeling.”

“Oh.”

I filled her in about my conversation with Tad. I concluded, “Tad is aware that because of your bad attitude toward the regime, you and I may be in the crosshairs of the police.”

“I’m not sure you should have told him that.”

“When we don’t show up for roll call tomorrow morning, he’ll contact the embassy and tell them what I just told him.”

“I like the original plan of leaving him a note saying we went to the beach and we’ll be back in time for the return flight.”

“That’s Plan A. Plan B covers the possibility that we might become guests of the Ministry of the Interior.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “You’re either very smart, or... you’re outsmarting yourself.”

“I know the answer to that.”

“You need to consult me before you change the plan.”

“Tactics and strategy need to change in quick response to battlefield realities. That’s why you hired me.”

She nodded.

“Did you leave an envelope for Antonio?”

“I did. My last dollars.”

“I know where there’s more.”

She stood. “Are you getting breakfast?”

“Just bring me some gummy rice. And get some for yourself.”

Sara went to the buffet.

I sipped my coffee. In the civilian world, we say that life is about choices. In the military, we use the word “decisions,” which seem to have more weight, and more consequences, than choices. In the case of choices, the right ones will eventually make you healthy, wealthy, and happy. With decisions, the wrong ones have a way of being instantly unforgiving.

Well, if I was going to die here, it wouldn’t be because I got blindsided by some asshole with a rocket-propelled grenade; it would be because I made a few bad decisions, the first being to let Sara Ortega make bad choices.

And yet... Sara had that one thing that was indispensable for success in life and in battle — self-confidence. And also a belief that God and justice were on her side. So how could I go wrong following her to the end of the rainbow, where sixty million dollars sat in a cave waiting for us? Teamwork makes the dream work.

Chapter 38

Sara and I sat in the middle of the bus. José was our driver again, and Antonio hopped aboard with a new spring in his step and six years’ pay in his pocket, with visions of more in his head. Not to mention his date with the insolent and beautiful Sara Ortega. He’d show the Miami Beach Bitch who was boss.

“Today,” said Antonio, “we go to the Forbidden Zone.” He explained, “Vedado means ‘Forbidden Zone,’ and in the old days Vedado was a hunting preserve outside the city walls of Havana, reserved exclusively for the upper classes.”

Who gives a shit?

Antonio prattled on as the bus made its way along the Malecón into the Vedado district. Now and then he would try to make eye contact with me, maybe to assure himself that we had a deal. Or maybe to let me know that when he was fucking Sara, he was also fucking me. He barely looked at Sara. Asshole.

Tad sat quietly and seemed to be still distraught. He glanced at Antonio a few times, seeing him in a different light. Tad had discovered Cuba for himself — and it wasn’t all about the rhumba.

Sara took my hand. “We’re halfway home.”

So was Amelia Earhart.

We drove past the Monument to the Victims of The Maine, and Antonio said, “After the failed Bay of Pigs Invasion, the people of Havana ripped the American eagle from the monument, and there is now a plaque there that reads: ‘To the victims of The Maine, who were sacrificed by imperialist greed in its eagerness to seize the island of Cuba.’ ”

Must be something lost in the translation.

We passed by the Plaza of Dignity, which included the Anti-Imperialist Forum, and this inspired Antonio to go into an anti-imperialist spiel.

Antonio, as I always suspected, was a Commie for convenience, an opportunistic chivato, an enthusiastic scammer, and a full-time amoral pig. I would have no problem putting a bullet in his head.

We drove past the American Embassy and I noticed the Cuban police who were posted outside the gates. Quite possibly they had my and Sara’s names on a list, and our photos from the airport. We weren’t exactly on the lam yet, or on the most wanted list, but if we believed Antonio, we weren’t getting into our embassy — or out of this country — without his help.

“And now,” said Antonio, “on your right you will see the statue of Lenin,” which turned out to be John Lennon, not Vladimir Lenin. The Yalies laughed and Antonio smiled. He was in a good mood this morning.

The bus zigzagged through the streets of Vedado so that we could see and appreciate the accomplishments of Cuban socialism, and we stopped at a memorial to the American Communist spies Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, which I had always wanted to see.

The bus drove through the gates of a huge cemetery, the Necrópolis Cristóbal Colón, a.k.a. Christopher Columbus, which held, said Antonio, over five hundred major mausoleums, chapels, vaults, and galleries, and thousands of tombstones. If I had my Glock, this would be a good place to whack Antonio. Not that it would solve any problems. But it would make me feel good.

“The rich and famous, the colonial aristocrats, the war heroes, the merchants, the artists and writers — they all rest here alongside the martyrs of the revolution,” said Antonio as though he were trying to sell us a plot. “In the end, death is the great equalizer.”

Indeed it is.

The bus continued slowly through the vast marble orchard, past Greco-Roman temples, miniature castles, and mausoleums embellished with cherubs and angels, and even an Egyptian pyramid. It occurred to me that the dead of Havana had better housing than the living.

The bus stopped in a plaza near a Byzantine-styled church, and we all got off.

Antonio gave us his cemetery lecture, peppered with Marxist observations about the extravagance of the rich, even in death. Turns out you can take it with you.

Antonio said, “You may explore on your own. Please be back on the bus in thirty minutes.” He added, “Miss Ortega, I don’t want to come looking for you.” He smiled, and a few of the Yalies laughed.

Sara did not reply to Antonio, but said to me, “I’d actually like to meet him in my room tonight.”

I pictured Antonio in Sara’s bed with the lamp cord wrapped around his nuts and the other end plugged into the socket. I said, “The best revenge is leaving him standing at your door with a deflated ego and an inflated pepino.”

She smiled.

The Yale group separated into smaller groups and began wandering through the cemetery, which was laid out in a grid with wide avenidas, calles, and plazas, the city of the dead.

Sara took my arm and led me past an imposing mausoleum of the Spanish royal family to a smaller burial vault whose inscription read: AMELIA GOYRI DE LA HOZ. Carved in marble was the figure of a woman with a baby in her arms. About a dozen people stood or knelt around the tomb, which was piled with hundreds of fresh flowers.

Sara said, “This is the tomb of La Milagrosa — the Miraculous One.”

“Right.”

“She died in childbirth on May 3, 1901, and was buried here with her stillborn child at her feet. For many years after her death her grieving husband visited the grave several times a day. He would always take hold of one of those brass rings on the tomb and knock when he arrived, then back away as he left so he could see her resting place for as long as possible.”

In fact, a number of people who approached the tomb were doing just that.

Sara stood silently, looking at the tomb, then said, “After her husband died, Amelia’s sarcophagus was opened and her body was found to be incorrupt — a sign of sanctity in the Catholic faith. And the baby that had been laid at her feet was now found cradled in her arms.”

Okay.

“Since then, she has been called La Milagrosa, and if you pray to her for a miracle, it will be granted.”

We should have come here sooner.

Sara approached the tomb, knocked three times with the brass ring, then knelt with a dozen others, mostly women. She prayed, made the sign of the cross, then stood and walked away backward, still facing the tomb.

She took my arm and we strolled down a tree-shaded lane between the tombs and statues. She said, “Many childless women pray at Señora Goyri’s tomb for a pregnancy.”

“Excuse me, but that’s not a miracle I would have prayed for.”

She smiled. “Relax. I prayed for a successful mission and a safe journey home.”

That would be a miracle.

We wandered around the necropolis, which was filled with tour groups, and every time we passed some of our Yale group, I said to Sara, “I see dead people.”

She didn’t think that was funny, but she seemed in a better mood than last night after Antonio’s proposition. In fact, she said, “I’m happy to put Havana behind us and get on the road to Camagüey.”

“Assuming we don’t meet our Havana contact in the next few hours, how do we get to Camagüey?”

“Carlos had a contingency plan.”

“Which is?”

“A livery service in Miramar used by foreign business people that will take us anywhere we want to go in Cuba. Cash, no questions asked, and no record of the trip.”

I wish I’d known this last night, when I was trying to talk her into taking a taxi to Cayo Guillermo.

Sara added, “When we get to Camagüey, we become backpackers — and cave explorers.”

“Okay. And how do we get the dozen steamer trunks to Cayo Guillermo?”

“You steal a truck.”

“Right.”

“From Camagüey to Cayo is about a hundred and eighty miles. We can make that in three or four hours.”

“And what do we do when we get to Cayo Guillermo?”

She stayed silent a moment, then replied, “We go to a resort hotel called the Melia and sit in the lobby bar.”

Well, I knew that someone must know what Sara and I were supposed to do in Cayo Guillermo. Turns out it’s Sara.

“At seven P.M. each day, starting last night, there will be someone in the lobby bar who knows what we look like and who will approach us.”

“ID phrase?”

“He — or she — will say, ‘It’s good to see you here.’ ”

Indeed it would be.

“He or she will tell us the plan to get the goods onboard The Maine.”

“Okay.”

Sara continued, “The Melia Hotel’s clientele are mostly European and Canadian tourists, so we’ll fit in.”

“And where do we park the truck with sixty million dollars while we’re having a drink?”

“I’m told we can see the hotel parking area from the lobby bar. Or you can stay in the truck with your gun.”

“Can I get a roadie?”

“We’ll play this by ear when we get to the hotel.”

I had more questions, but she’d told me enough — the last piece of this plan — to carry on without her, which was why she was telling me this. “Okay. I get it.”

She took my hand and we continued through the quiet cemetery, then turned back toward where the bus was parked.

Aside from the tomb of La Milagrosa, there weren’t many locals visiting graves on this Monday morning, and we were alone on the path except for a guy in a black shirt coming toward us. He was about thirty, tall and lean, and he wore wraparound sunglasses. I said to Sara, “I saw that guy near the bus.”

She looked at him as he approached, then let go of my hand and we slowed our pace.

As the guy got within ten feet of us, he looked around, then stopped.

Well, I didn’t want my back to this guy, so we, too, stopped, about five feet from him. The three of us stood there, then Sara said to him, “Buenos días.”

He returned the greeting, then said to her in English, “Are you interested in Cuban pottery?”

Chapter 39

As the bus made its way from the cemetery to the Parque Central, Tad reminded us that our afternoon was on our own — for meaningful independent cultural experiences — until our 5 P.M. lecture given by Professor Nalebuff. Then to dinner at 6:30 at Mama Inés.

“Chef Erasmo,” said Antonio, “has cooked for Fidel Castro and Hugo Chávez. Also Jane Fonda, Jack Nicholson, and Jimmy Carter.”

All of whom got the senior citizen discount.

Well, our much-anticipated meeting with our man in Havana wasn’t as interesting as Sara’s meeting with Marcelo on the Malecón. Our guy just handed Sara a flyer advertising a nightclub called Cabaret Las Vegas. This is the kind of thing you toss in the next trash can, but the man said the magic words, so Sara scanned the flyer as we walked toward the bus, then handed it to me.

Written in pencil on the flyer was an address: Calle 37 № 570, El Vedado. And a time, 22 h, which five years in the Army taught me meant 10 P.M.

Sara said that this would be where we would meet our Havana contact, who would give us our instructions for meeting our contact in Camagüey, and provide our means of transportation.

Or sell us pottery. I asked, “Should we thank La Milagrosa for this timely miracle?”

“I already have.”

“Right.”

We committed the address to memory and Sara made confetti out of the flyer and dropped it into a storm drain on our way to the bus. As we boarded, Antonio said to Sara and me, “We will meet in the rear of the lobby.”

My dance card was filling up.


Our tour bus pulled up to the Hotel Parque Central and Alison advised, “Dress at Mama Inés is casual.”

Which was good, because we’d be living and sleeping in the same clothes for awhile.

We filed off the bus and Sara and I walked to the rear of the lobby, where Antonio joined us. Tad noticed, and he hesitated before he got on the elevator. I was sure this was going to be his last trip to Cuba. Mine, too.

Antonio looked at Sara. “Thank you for the envelope.” He patted the side pocket of his tight black pants. “And I have good news for you. I made calls last night and you will be expected at the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal tomorrow morning at seven.” He glanced around and said in a conspiratorial voice, “A man named Ramón will meet you at the entrance and walk you through passport control and onto the British cruise ship The Braemar, which sails at nine for Bridgetown in Barbados.” He looked at Sara. “I assume you wish to be on that ship?”

She nodded. “We do.”

“Good. You will be ticketed onboard and pay for your passage with a credit card.” He smiled. “I am your travel agent. And your guardian angel who will give Ramón a thousand dollars to pay people who will get you through security.”

The only possible response to all that bullshit was, “Muchas gracias.”

“De nada.” He continued, “It’s a two-day cruise to Bridgetown, and when you arrive there” — he smiled again — “you can continue your Caribbean holiday in Barbados.”

Nothing could top my Cuba vacation.

He advised us, “You should leave a message for Tad and Alison tomorrow morning that you are not feeling well and will remain in your rooms.”

“We know that.”

“Also, it would not be good for you to be seen leaving the hotel with your luggage, so you will leave it in your rooms, as though you are going out for a morning walk.”

“Good thinking.”

“You can buy what you need on the ship.”

Actually, we’ll be on our way to Camagüey Province to find sixty million dollars. And Antonio would be explaining to his police pals that the two Americanos disappeared during the night. Maybe they’d beat him up.

“Ramón has a description of you both. He is a short man, about sixty years old, and he will be wearing the green uniform of the security guards.”

But he’s actually an undercover agent for the Ministry of the Interior, and he has our photos from the airport.

“All you will need are your passports and your exit visas.” He asked, “Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

He looked at us and said, insincerely, “I’m sorry about this, but you have been caught up in historical events — a chess game played in Havana and Washington — and you are the innocent pawns.”

No, we’re actually guilty of something, but you don’t know what it is, asshole.

He informed us, “I need to see Ramón tonight, so I will not be at the dinner, but...” He glanced at me, then said to Sara, “I think I will see you later for the three hundred thousand pesos.”

What a deal. He gets laid, gets paid, and walks away, leaving us to get arrested.

Sara said to him, “I will see you later.” Then she said something to him in Spanish.

Antonio nodded, then looked at me. “I don’t think I should apologize. Do you?”

“I think you should leave.”

But he didn’t and said, “This is Cuba. My country. And you are lucky I am getting you out of here. So instead of your arrogance, I think perhaps you should thank me.”

Well, since he wasn’t going to fuck Sara, and since we were going to fuck him, I said, “Thank you.” I added, “Gracias.”

“De nada.” He smiled, then said to Sara, “I look forward to tonight,” and left.

She said softly, “I hate him.”

“Put the hate on hold.” Though, to be honest, if I had him alone I’d probably snap his neck. I asked her, “What time are you entertaining Antonio?”

“I confirmed midnight.”

Well, that would give us a little head start in getting out of Havana.

I asked her, “What other meaningful Cuban cultural experience would you like to have now?”

“We need to get my backpack.”

“Right. And we need to recon Calle 37.”

We went out into the heat of the city and took a Coco cab to the Vedado district, then walked to Calle 37, which was a street of nondescript buildings that looked like warehouses or auto repair shops. Number 570 was a ramshackle stucco building with an old wooden barn-like garage door, barred windows, and a rusty steel entrance door.

Sara said, “This looks like a place where there’d be a vehicle for us.”

I was reminded of the garage where the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre took place, but I didn’t share that thought with her.

There was no possibility that we were being watched or followed, so we headed toward Rolando’s to retrieve her backpack.

It was a fifteen-minute walk to the residential district, which appeared different in the daylight but no less deserted, and we still looked like we didn’t belong there. It was possible, I thought, that we’d been seen last night by the ubiquitous neighborhood vigilantes and chivatos, and that the police were staking out the area and waiting for us behind the wall. So, señor and señorita, are you looking for this backpack with the gun and the pesos? I mentioned this to Sara and she replied, “Chivatos turn in their friends and neighbors to the police, but they’d never turn in any evidence of a crime if it was worth more than two dollars.”

Right. In other words, if you see something, say something — unless you see that it’s worth money. Patriotism doesn’t buy the beans.

The low wall came into view and Sara suddenly picked up her pace, vaulted over the wall, then reappeared a few seconds later with the backpack, scrambled onto the sidewalk, and kept walking. The police did not pop out of the bushes.

As we headed for the bridge over the Río Almendares, I pulled the Glock out of her backpack and stuck it in my belt under my Polo shirt. We were traveling hot again.

As we crossed the bridge, I wrestled with the idea of dropping the hot gun in the cool river. But then I thought about our meeting tonight in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre garage, and our road trip into the Cuban heart of darkness, and our rendezvous in Cayo — and I recalled Jack’s wise T-shirt words, “Better to have a gun and not need it than to need a gun and not have it.”

We looked less conspicuous in Miramar, and we retraced our path to Avenida Quinta and hailed a taxi. We were back at the hotel by four o’clock, hot, sweaty, and tired, but happy in the way that a successful but uneventful recon patrol makes you feel.


Sara went to her room to shower and change into clothes that would be appropriate for both the Mama Inés restaurant and what could be a week in the boondocks, trying to look like a backpacker. I did the same, saying adios to my discount luggage and dirty clothes except for my sweat-stained Hemingway T-shirt, which I put in a plastic bag and stuffed in my backpack.

I strapped on my fanny pack containing the Glock and the extra magazines and left the room with a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, then went down to the meeting room where the Yalies were assembling for Professor Nalebuff’s lecture on Cuban-American relations. On his next trip here Nalebuff could add a footnote about Dan MacCormick and Sara Ortega. Arrested and executed? Or escaped with the Batista-era loot and living happily ever after? I took a seat and waited for Sara.

Professor Nalebuff took the podium and began, “This is the story of David and Goliath, Cuba and America. It is the story of a long love-hate relationship that spans the centuries, a story that is both heartbreaking and hopeful.”

I noticed that Richard Neville was taking notes, and I had no doubt that Professor Nalebuff’s eloquent words would find their way into Neville’s next novel. Plagiarism is the sincerest form of flattery.

Sara appeared at the door with her backpack, wearing black jeans, a dark green T-shirt, and hiking boots, and she had her shoulder bag, presumably packed with pesos. I was similarly dressed in blue jeans, a gray gym shirt, and boots. Our backpacks didn’t draw any attention because some of our group carried their packs on the bus, day and night.

Sara sat next to me and I asked, “Did you pack a bathing suit?”

So we listened to Professor Nalebuff tell us, in scholarly language, what I’d concluded before I even got here — Cuba and America had been fucking each other so long that we both must be getting something out of it.

Professor Nalebuff concluded, “If both sides act with goodwill, and if neither country causes or exploits a diplomatic incident, the future looks promising.”

Should I tell him that the diplomatic incident was sitting in front of him?


As Sara and I descended the sweeping staircase into the lobby, she said, “Since we’re not coming back tonight, we need to leave a note now for Tad and Alison to get in the morning.”

“No note. Let them think we may have been detained by the police.” I added, “Which may be true.”

She didn’t reply.

As the Yalies filed out of the hotel to board the bus, I stopped at the front desk, took the plastic bag out of my backpack, and gave it to the desk clerk. “This is for Señor Neville. Please have it delivered to his room tonight.” I gave the clerk a five.

“Si, señor.” He made a note of it and asked, “Your name?”

“He’ll know who it’s from.”

Sara and I exited the hotel, and she asked me, “What was that?”

“My Hemingway T-shirt.”

“This is no time for jokes.”

“It’s good for my head.”

“You need to grow up.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have an exploding cigar to leave for Antonio.” I asked her, “Did you leave a note in your room for him?”

“I left a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door.”

I pictured Antonio arriving at midnight with a smile and a stiffy. Sorry, amigo. Go fuck yourself.

We boarded the bus and I saw that the driver was now Lope — Antonio’s eyes and ears when he was absent. Well, that could be a problem when Sara and I didn’t return to the bus after dinner. But I had a new teammate — Tad — who would cover for us. Or at least give us a head start.

Tad did a head count and the bus pulled away.

Within ten minutes we were in the Old Town, and we pulled up to Mama Inés restaurant, which was located in a colonial building a few blocks from the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal where Sara and I were expected at 7 in the morning. But we had other travel plans — if all went well at Calle 37.

The restaurant was dark and crowded, and the Yale group was assigned several tables. Sara and I found ourselves sitting with two young couples who should have been wearing T-shirts that said: “Clueless.” We made small talk and I was surprised to discover that these college-educated Americans didn’t completely comprehend that Cuba was a police state.

I changed the subject to sports, and as we waited for our drinks, Sara commented that she and I were going to take a walk along the Malecón after dinner and share a bottle of wine on the beach — which accounted for our backpacks if anyone wondered.

Mama Inés’ clientele, aside from the Yale group, looked like Europeans and some Latin Americans with money. The last Cuban who could afford this place was probably Fidel Castro. More importantly, I didn’t see anyone who looked like they were interested in us.

Dinner was good and our four tablemates got smarter with rum, and one of them told us that Cuba was a Communist country.

Sara glanced at her watch and said in my ear, “Let’s leave.”

“It’s early for our ten o’clock.”

“I want to take a last walk through the Old Town.”

“Okay.”

We stood, wished everyone a good evening, and collected our backpacks. I went to Tad’s table where he was sitting with Professor Nalebuff, the Nevilles, and Alison. I was actually going to miss them. I congratulated the professor on an informative lecture and told Tad and Alison, “Sara and I are going to take a walk on the Malecón, so we won’t be on the bus.”

Tad looked at me with concern. “Be careful.”

I reminded him, “Havana is a safe city.”

He had no reply, but Alison, who I was sure had been briefed by Tad, said to us, “Don’t stay out too late.”

“We’ll stay hydrated,” I assured her. I said to the Nevilles, “You should try a place called Rolando’s tonight, in the Vedado district. Very authentic. Forty-cent drinks and no Hemingway.”

Cindy Neville gave me a nice smile. Richard grunted.

I asked Tad, “What’s on the agenda tomorrow?”

“It’s in your itinerary. The Museo de Bellas Artes, then a tobacco farm in the afternoon.”

We were getting out of here none too soon. “See you in the morning.” I really hoped Alison and Tad hooked up. Life is short.

We left Mama Inés, and also left behind our new alum chums, who, without their knowing, had provided us with some laughs, good cover, and even some degree of safety in the herd.

So, I’d had my last lecture in Havana, my last meeting with Antonio, and my last supper. We were now on the road to Camagüey, Cayo, and home. Hopefully richer and definitely wiser.

Our bus was parked down the street, and we turned in the opposite direction and began walking through the Old Town, toward the Forbidden Zone.

Chapter 40

We walked down Calle Obispo, past the Last National Bank of Grandpa, then past Sara’s ancestral home for what was most likely the last time in either of our lives. We also passed by Floridita, the scene of one of our many fateful — and probably stupid — decisions that had brought us to this moment.

I had no sense that we were being followed, but outside of Floridita were two black-bereted policemen who gave us the once-over as we passed by, reminding me that Sara attracted attention and that I was carrying a gun that would put me away for a decade or two.

Sara, too, realized we were shiny fish among sharks and said, “We need a taxi.”

“Right.” I spotted a blue Chevy Impala, circa 1958, cruising the street and I waved him down.

She said to me, “There’s actually something I wanted you to see before we leave Havana.”

There was really nothing in this city that I wanted to see except 57 °Calle 37, but we had time. “Okay.”

We got into the plush rear seat of the big old Impala and Sara exchanged a few words with the young driver, Paco, then said to me, “I told him we want to sightsee. He gets thirty dollars an hour.”

“How much does he charge to outrun the police?”

“With or without a shoot-out?”

Funny. I liked Sara Ortega.

Sara spoke to Paco and we drove out of the Old Town, onto Avenida Salvador Allende, then toward the Plaza of the Revolution. I was starting to get to know the city, and when that happens in a screwed-up place, it’s time to leave. Also, there were so many streets named for revolutionary dates — Avenida 20 de Mayo, Calle 19 de Mayo — that you needed a calendar instead of a road map.

Anyway, we cruised past the Plaza of the Revolution and headed south, toward the airport. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

We continued south and within fifteen minutes were in a district of the city called 10 October, another date that will live in obscurity.

Paco seemed as mystified as I was about why we were in this nondescript suburb, but Sara was directing him through the dark streets, and she said to him, “Calle La Vibora,” then to me, “The Street of the Viper.”

I’ll bet this isn’t on the Yale tour.

We came to a long iron fence on our right, and beyond the fence I could see a complex of tan-colored buildings set among palm trees and open lawns, which looked like a college campus.

Paco seemed to recognize the complex and he glanced quizzically at Sara, who said, “Dobla a la derecha.” He turned right, and she said, “Detente,” but Paco kept going, and Sara said, “Detente!” and he stopped.

She told him to wait, then took her shoulder bag and backpack and got out of the car. I did the same and we stood near the front gates, where four uniformed men stood with submachine guns. The sign out front said: MINISTERIO DEL INTERIOR, and DPTO. SEGURIDAD DEL ESTADO, which I translated as Department of State Security.

I asked, “What is this place?”

“Villa Marista prison.”

She crossed the Street of the Viper and I followed her to the other side, putting some distance between ourselves and the guards.

Paco was still stopped near the main gate, close to the guards, but he suddenly took off like he was wanted for something. He drove down the street, but then did a U-turn and stopped a few hundred feet from us and shut off his lights.

Sara was staring at the prison, and I inquired, “Why are we here?”

“I wanted you to see this.”

“Okay. I see it. Let’s go.”

But she stood where she was and said, “This is where we could wind up — if we ever made it out of the Ministry of the Interior in Revolution Plaza.”

“Actually, we could wind up here now if those guards come across the street and ask what we’re doing here and what’s in our backpacks.”

“Fuck them.”

Sara was going into her Fuck Them I Hate Them mode. Not good.

She said, “Villa Marista was originally a Catholic boys’ school, run by the Marist Brothers.”

Now it’s run by the Castro Brothers.

“The regime expropriated the school and kicked out the Marists and the students, and turned this campus into a hell on earth.”

Which it may have already been when it was a Catholic boys’ school.

“It’s a pleasant-looking place, so you wouldn’t know what goes on in there.” So she told me, “Physical and psychological torture... things that destroy the soul before the bullet is fired into the back of your head.”

I glanced at the four armed guards, who were looking at us, then glanced at the Chevy to make sure it was still there.

“The State Security Police are headquartered here, and the prison holds no criminals — only political prisoners. Enemies of the state. There are no visitors allowed, and the few prisoners who are released from here are the walking dead. Examples to others who might dare to oppose the regime.”

I put my hand on Sara’s shoulder and said, “Paco is waiting.”

But she continued, “In the early 1960s, Castro invited the Soviet KGB to Villa Marista to teach the State Security Police the finer points of psychological torture and interrogation using psychoactive drugs. Then the Cuban torturers were sent to Vietnam to continue their practice on American prisoners of war in the Hanoi Hilton and other North Vietnamese prisons. The torturers then came back to Cuba.”

I recalled what Carlos said on my boat about Villa Marista and I knew what Sara was going to say.

“They brought with them seventeen American POWs who were secretly imprisoned in Villa Marista for advanced experiments with drugs.”

It was hard to imagine being taken prisoner in Vietnam, tortured there, then being shipped to Cuba for more of the same. And these men must have known they were less than a hundred miles from America. And that they would never go home.

Sara continued, “Most of these seventeen men died, or were as good as dead, and those who survived were shot here in 1973 when the Vietnam War ended. The American POWs in Vietnam were returned home, but these seventeen soldiers and airmen in Villa Marista were listed by the Pentagon as missing in action, though there is solid evidence that they had once been prisoners in North Vietnam — one of them was even identified in a photograph that showed Fidel Castro visiting a prisoner-of-war camp in North Vietnam. And now we know, from Cuban prison guards who have defected to the U.S., that these missing American POWs were here, died here, or were murdered here, and were buried in an unmarked common grave on the grounds of Villa Marista.”

If I actually had post-traumatic stress disorder, something like this could spark an episode. In fact, I had a brief flashback to a moment when... if one or two things had gone differently, I’d have been in the hands of the Taliban... or... I’d have put a bullet in my head.

Sara glanced at me. “I thought that you, as a veteran, would want to say a prayer for the souls of these seventeen American prisoners of war who died here, alone and with no one knowing their fate.”

She took my hand and we bowed our heads. We didn’t have many missing men in the Afghan war, but I thought of the nearly two thousand men who were still missing in Vietnam, and I thought of Jack, and my father, and the other men I knew who’d served in that war. And I prayed for all of them. Which I had never done before.

One of the prison guards began shouting at us and making menacing motions with his rifle.

Sara said softly, “Amen,” then, “Fuck him.” She retrieved her cell phone from her shoulder bag and took a photo of me with Villa Marista prison in the background. “So you’ll remember.”

The guard was not happy.

We turned and walked down the street toward our waiting car.

She asked, “Do you understand why we came here?”

“To honor the dead.”

She didn’t reply, and as we walked, I recalled what she had said outside the Catedral de San Cristóbal: The bones need to come home..., which, now that I was here, made more sense if it was these bones, not Christopher Columbus’ bones, that she was referring to. I recalled again Carlos’ words on my boat about Villa Marista, which I’d thought was just an offhand remark. And Sara’s words in bed. You’ll be very pleased with the other reason we’re here. And what I concluded from all this was that the Cuban exile groups who were opposed to the Thaw had plans to rekindle these unconfirmed stories about American POWs being tortured and murdered in Cuba, and to demand the return of the bodies — and to fire up the American public and the politicians and upset the ongoing diplomatic negotiations.

“Do you understand?”

“I think I do. But...”

“More later.”

There always is.

Chapter 41

Sara told Paco to take us to Bollywood, an Indian restaurant on Calle 35, which she’d chosen for the location, not the cuisine.

Paco dropped us off and I gave him a hundred CUCs, which he had earned for not abandoning us at Villa Marista. And if he was a rat and called the police, they’d be looking for us at Bollywood. Staying ahead of the police in a police state was an intellectual challenge. And a bit of twisted fun.

Paco pulled away and I looked at my watch. We had ten minutes to walk to Calle 37, Number 570. If this was a Cuban Monopoly game, we’d just gotten out of jail free, and I hoped the next card we drew at Calle 37 said Go to Camagüey and Collect Sixty Million Dollars.

Sara and I walked in silence through the dark streets, then she said, “I went to Villa Marista the last time I was here... It is the evil heart of an evil monster.” She added, “The world needs to know.”

“Right.” But does the world — or the American public or the politicians — care enough to cause a major rift in the ongoing diplomatic negotiations? If we actually had the names of those seventeen men, then, yes, it would be big news. Well, more later, as Sara said.

We reached Calle 37 and began walking toward 570 at the end of the dimly lit block. I took the Glock out of my fanny pack and stuck it under my shirt.

As we approached the garage I noticed a movement in the shadows under the flickering streetlight, and as we got closer I saw a man sitting in a chair near the steel door. Sara and I continued at the same pace and now I could hear music — “Dos Gardenias” — coming from somewhere.

We stopped a few feet from the man in the chair, who was smoking a cigar, drinking a Bucanero, and listening to an old tape player that sat on the sidewalk. He seemed lost in the music, and Sara said, “Buenas noches.”

He turned his head toward us. “Buenas noches.”

The guy was old, with white hair and white stubble on his face, and he wore a tank top that was wet with sweat or beer. A walking cane leaned against the wall.

He drew on his cigar and asked in English, “What are you looking for?”

Sara replied, “Pottery.”

He nodded. “You have come to the right place.”

That’s always good to hear when you’re in a foreign city, walking at night to an address that a strange man handed to you in a cemetery.

The old man — obviously the lookout — grabbed the walking cane and smacked it hard three times against the steel door, then said, “Go in. They are waiting for you.”

High-tech security. I led the way, and as I passed the old man he tapped my stomach with his cane and said, “You don’t need that,” referring to my gun, not my gut. Well, I liked the Glock where it was and I opened the rusty door, which creaked on cue. Sara was right behind me and I heard the old man say, “Bolt the door.”

Sara bolted the door as I peered into the dimly lit space, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see that this was indeed a garage, or an auto repair shop. Car parts — mufflers, exhaust pipes, hoods, and doors — lay strewn on the floor, and acetylene torches sat on a work bench. An engine hung from the ceiling on chains, reminding me for some reason of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. If it wasn’t for my Glock, this could be a scary place.

I spotted a movement at the far end of the shop and saw two men coming toward us. One of them said in English, “Welcome to Chico’s Chop Shop.” The other man said nothing.

Sara strode toward them — getting in the way of my line of fire — and they all shook hands and chatted in Spanish as I covered the rear and checked out the dark corners in the cavernous space. I noticed a few motorcycles, which might be our transportation to Camagüey.

Sara and her new friends came toward me and she introduced me to Chico, a scruffily dressed man of about fifty with recently degreased hands, and a younger guy named Flavio, who was neatly dressed, handsome, and clearly nervous about something. Nervous people make me nervous.

Chico said to me, in nearly perfect English, “I have a car for you. Do you have a hundred and fifty thousand pesos for me?”

Recalling that Cubans liked clever conversation, I replied, “Is this an authorized dealership?”

He laughed. “He told me you had a sense of humor.”

“Who told you?”

He didn’t reply and led me and Sara across the shop to an old Buick station wagon. Flavio stayed behind.

“This is a beauty,” said Chico, sounding like he’d once worked in a used car lot in Miami. “A real cream puff. A piece of history.”

Actually, it looked like a piece of shit.

“It’s a fifty-three Roadmaster Estate Wagon. I got it from a little old lady in Miramar who only drove it on weekends since her husband was arrested in 1959.” He laughed.

Did I just enter the Twilight Zone?

I asked, “Does this thing run?”

“Like a rabbit. Take a look.”

Sara and I slipped off our backpacks and moved closer to the Buick wagon, which had recently been spray-painted in black, except for the original wood paneling that looked like it might have termites. The iconic Buick chromework was pitted, but none of the windows were broken and the headlights and taillights were intact. I asked, “Who are these plates registered to?”

“The little old lady.” He added, “They’re not hot.”

I didn’t reply.

He assured me, “This is not the U.S., señor. The police don’t have computers in their cars to check plates.” He also assured me, “You won’t get stopped.”

Famous last words.

I glanced around the shop. “You got anything newer? Like a red Porsche convertible?”

“For another hundred thousand pesos, I got a ten-year-old Honda Civic. But they told me you needed a wagon, or a van or an SUV.”

“Who told you—?”

“Because you got some stuff to haul.”

Obviously this station wagon couldn’t haul a dozen steamer trunks. “What stuff?”

“How do I know?” He opened the Buick’s hood and said, “Take a look at this motor. You know what this is?”

I peered under the hood. “No. Do you?”

“It’s a Perkins ninety-horsepower boat motor. Completely rebuilt.” Chico smiled. “I got the suspension from a Russian military jeep, and I rebuilt the steering with some Kia parts. The transmission is from a Hyundai, five years old, the shocks are from a Renault truck, and the disc brakes are from a Mercedes.” He informed me, “This is what we call a Frankenstein car.”

“Because it kills people?”

He laughed and said to Sara, “He’s funny.”

She had no response.

I looked at the tires. “How’s the rubber?”

“Tires are something you can buy new in Cuba. You got four Goodyears imported from Mexico. Cost me a fortune. Don’t kick them.”

“Spare?”

“Don’t get a flat.”

Chico opened the driver’s door. “The interior is original.”

“I see that.”

“Sorry, the interior lights don’t work.” He slid behind the wheel and hit the brakes. “See the brake lights?”

“I do.”

He demonstrated that the turn signals and headlights also worked, then started the engine, which sounded good, though I wasn’t sure the 90-horsepower could move this monster.

Chico called out over the sound of the engine, “Purrs like a kitten.”

“Can I take it for a test drive?”

“Sure. After you buy it.” He turned on the windshield wipers, then blasted the horn and shouted, “Get that donkey outta my way!”

The man was obviously nuts, but he seemed like the happiest man I’d seen in Havana. And I guess that was because Chico worked for Chico.

He shut off the engine and slid out of the car. “Okay, keys are in there. You got a full tank of gas, but the gauge reads empty. None of the instruments work, but you don’t need them. Radio works, but the tubes are a little loose, so it might cut out when you hit a bump. Give it a whack. It has a cigarette lighter that still works.”

“Where is the air-conditioner control?”

“In the Honda.” He laughed.

Well, we could do this all night, but we were both running out of one-liners. I looked at Sara, who nodded.

I asked Chico, “Can you do better than one-fifty?”

“If I restored her, I could sell her for five hundred thousand. Only six hundred of these babies made in Detroit. As is, she’s yours for one-fifty.” He added, “That includes sales tax and dealer prep.” He laughed.

“Okay... sold.”

“You got a beauty there.”

“Right.” Bride of Frankenstein.

“Come into my office.”

Sara and I followed Chico to a table in the rear of his man cave. Flavio seemed to have disappeared.

Chico slid some beer bottles and coffee cups to the side. “Hundred and fifty. Gas is on me.”

Sara pulled a wad of five-hundred-peso notes from her shoulder bag and she and Chico began counting.

Well, we had a vehicle that could hopefully get us to Camagüey, but we didn’t have a name or address in Camagüey, and I didn’t think Chico had that for us. Maybe Flavio. This wasn’t playing out as I’d imagined, but nothing had so far — including us needing a station wagon to haul something. Maybe pickaxes for the cave.

Sara and Chico re-counted the equivalent of about six thousand dollars, leaving us enough, I guess, to give to our contact in Camagüey for the truck we’d need to transport the dozen steamer trunks to Cayo Guillermo. Which, now that I saw Chico’s sub rosa chop shop, raised the question of why Chico wasn’t told we needed a truck. I mean, this guy could build a sixteen-wheeler out of Legos. There was something missing here. Like who told Chico I had a sense of humor.

The recount was done and we all shook hands as Chico stuffed the pesos in his pockets.

I asked him, “Does this vehicle have a registration?”

“The only paperwork, señor, is the pesos.”

“Right.” No use asking about insurance or an inspection sticker. The good news was that there was no paper trail here — no car rental agency and no limo or taxi driver who might have the police on their speed dial. There was only Chico. And Flavio. And I guess we trusted them.

Chico found three clean glasses and poured us all a little white rum. We clinked. “Salud!”

He looked at the bulge in my shirt and said, “I don’t know who you are, or why you need a car, or where you’re going. And I don’t want to know. But I was told you could be trusted to forget where you got this car if you’re stopped by the police.”

“And I don’t know who you are, señor, but if you don’t tell, I won’t tell.”

He looked at Sara, and she said something to him in Spanish and he nodded.

Chico wished us buenas noches, walked over to an old Harley, kick-started it, and headed for the garage door. Flavio reappeared from the shadows and opened one side of the barn door just in time for Chico to exit his unnamed dealership. If it was his. Flavio closed and bolted the door.

I glanced at Sara, who hadn’t said much since we’d gotten here. I was anxious to get on the road, but first we needed the contact info for our person in Camagüey, and I assumed we’d get it from Flavio, but he came over to us and said, “Someone will meet you here.”

No use asking who, so I asked, “When?”

“Soon. And I wish you good luck.”

I guess he was leaving. He looked like he needed a drink.

Sara said to him, “Thank you for being here.”

“Marcelo wishes it could have been him. But they are watching him.”

“Perhaps next time.”

“He sends his regards.”

“And mine to him.”

He bid us good evening, turned, and walked toward the door.

Well, I was getting that outsider feeling again, like you get when a woman invites you to meet her family and they’re all talking about people you don’t know, and not talking about the crazy uncle in the attic.

I asked, “Who is he? And why was he here?”

“He was here to make sure everything went well with Chico.” She added, “He’s new to our organization. Unknown to the police.”

“He looked like he’d crack like an egg if the police got hold of him.”

She didn’t reply.

I looked at my watch. We’d been here about forty minutes. My training emphasized leaving a meeting place as soon as you’ve done a deal with the locals. But now we were waiting for someone. Maybe the local police.

Meanwhile, I scanned the shop to see if there were any side or back doors, then I went to the front door, opened it, and confirmed that our beer-guzzling lookout was still there — the tape was playing a nice guitar solo — and I closed and bolted the door. Not that the bolts or the old man were going to keep out the police, but they would give us a few seconds to react. I walked back to Sara, who was now looking at our new car. I asked her, “What’s going on here?”

“We’re waiting for someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“And who told Chico we needed a station wagon, and that I had a sense of humor?”

“Eduardo.”

But it wasn’t Sara who said that. It was Eduardo.

Chapter 42

So, Eduardo Valazquez was our man in Havana.

I had no idea where he’d been lurking — maybe the baño — and I looked at Sara, who didn’t seem overly surprised to see him. In fact, I wasn’t completely surprised myself.

He was wearing the same outfit I’d last seen him wearing on my boat — sandals, black pants, and a white guayabera shirt, but no gold cross, which would attract attention in Cuba.

He went to Sara and they embraced. “You look well,” he said to her. “Are you well?”

“Sí.”

Eduardo looked at me. “Have you been taking good care of her?”

“Sí.”

Eduardo walked over to the Buick and put his hand on the fender. “Beautiful. My father had an Oldsmobile.”

Those were the days. Well, Eduardo was beginning his walk down memory lane in Chico’s Chop Shop. He had apparently given Felipe the slip — or more likely, he just told Felipe to go sit in a corner. Eduardo was the boss. And, I guess, the brains behind all of this.

He lifted the wagon’s rear window and looked into the storage space. “This will be good.”

“For what?”

He didn’t reply.

I had the impression I wasn’t supposed to speak unless spoken to, and Sara, too, wasn’t saying anything. I get impatient with old people, especially if they’re screwing up my schedule and my life. It was almost 11 P.M., and about midnight Antonio would be knocking on Sara’s door with his woody, then he’d probably use the house phone to call her room and probably my room, then he’d get a manager to open Ms. Ortega’s door. Then he might call his police comandante. Or maybe he’d wait for Sara in the lobby, not believing she’d jilted him after all he’d done for her to get her out of Cuba. In any case, we needed to get on the road before we were the subjects of a police search.

Eduardo walked over to Chico’s all-purpose table and bar and poured himself a white rum, inviting us to join him. Sara and I declined. He then produced three Cohibas in aluminum tubes and gave one to me and one to Sara.

He took a lighter out of his pocket — a Zippo — and held it in the palm of his hand. He looked at me and said, “This is a gift to you from Señor Colby.” He handed it to me and I looked at the lighter. It was indeed Jack’s Zippo. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil...

Well, apparently Jack — like Felipe — couldn’t keep Eduardo from jumping ship, and apparently, too, Eduardo told both of them he was going to meet us. I wasn’t happy when I’d learned he’d stowed away on The Maine, and I wasn’t sure I should be thrilled to discover he was our contact.

Eduardo said, “Perhaps not a gift, but a good-luck charm. He wants it returned to him when you meet in Cayo Guillermo.”

“I’ll be there.” ... for I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley.

Eduardo uncased his cigar, but Sara and I said we’d save ours for the road. I lit Eduardo up with the Zippo. Just like old times on my boat.

He let out a stream of white smoke and said, “They taste better here.”

Actually, they tasted better in the U.S., where the cigars were illegal and we were legal. On that subject, I let him know, “I’d like to get moving.”

He stared off into space, then said, “Havana does not look as I remember her... She has gotten... shabby. And the people... Where is the joy I remember in Old Havana?”

I took that as a rhetorical question, but Sara replied, “It is gone. But the people’s hearts will come to life again.”

I had the impression they’d had conversations like this before. Not that I cared, but Sara and Eduardo, like all exiles and the children of exiles, romanticized the old days and the old country, which in the case of Cuba had been run by the most corrupt thugs in the Western Hemisphere. The current regime was long past its expiration date, but the damage had been done, and I couldn’t imagine what was next for this unblessed island. Nor did I care. Well, maybe I did.

Eduardo contemplated his cigar, then asked us, “How are things?”

I beat Sara to a response and said, “We had a little problem.”

He nodded. “Yes, I heard this from Señor Colby.”

So Señor Colby couldn’t keep his mouth shut about our meeting, or what was said there. Wait until I get my hands on his skinny neck.

Eduardo looked at me. “But you were not supposed to meet him.”

“Why not?”

“For reasons of security.”

“Excuse me, but you are the biggest security problem so far.”

He ignored that and continued, “But I’m happy he gave you—” He tapped my belly bulge, which must be a Cuban custom. “I was going to bring that to you.”

“He saved you the trouble.”

“So you had this problem with... your tour guide.”

“We’ve put that problem behind us and now we need to get on the road.” I added, “I assume you have the Camagüey contact information for us.”

He didn’t reply, and he was annoying me, so I said, “I hope you don’t think you’re coming with us.”

“I am walking home.”

“Well, good luck with that. And if you get picked up by the police—”

“I have a cyanide capsule with me.”

That’s good news.

“They will never take me alive.”

Bite hard.

Sara said to Eduardo, “Please come with us. We will all go home together.”

“I am home.” He refilled his glass and drew on his cigar, then looked at me, then at Sara — and I knew that look. He asked, “Are you... working well together?”

Yes, I’m fucking her.

Sara replied, “Mac has been extraordinary.”

“Good. We made a good choice.” He added, “I admire the American Army. Excellent training. Men who are trustworthy and keep their word.”

“Thank you.”

“Men like Mr. Colby.” He looked me in the eye. “Mister Colby seems to think you and Sara have formed a romantic attachment.”

Thanks, Jack. Asshole. Or was the old fox just baiting me?

Sara didn’t help the situation by turning red. She blushes too easily.

Eduardo looked at her. “You are committed to a man in Miami.”

This isn’t Miami, señor. I couldn’t believe the old boy was hung up on this. I mean, we’re on the lam in an f-ing police state with our lives on the line and... Well, officer and gentleman that I am, I said, “Señor Valazquez, I assure you that Sara has been faithful to... whoever.”

“Do you both swear to this?”

“I do.”

Sara hesitated, but said, “I swear.”

I didn’t think he believed us, but he had the answer he wanted, so now we could talk about sixty million dollars.

He changed the subject and asked Sara, “Do you understand how you are to make your contact in Cayo Guillermo?”

Sara replied, “The Melia Hotel lobby bar, any night after seven P.M.”

“Correct. And your contact will say, ‘It is good to see you here.’ ” He stared at Sara for some reason, as though she’d once forgotten an ID phrase.

She nodded.

He let us know, “The three fishermen are staying at the Melia. Felipe and Señor Colby are sleeping on the boat. So when you make your escape in the darkness, the fishermen will not be onboard — they will be in their beds.”

Innocent as sleeping babies. But with some explaining to do to the police about their missing tournament boat. Hopefully, they’d just be allowed to fly to Mexico City. But if they were jailed, Eduardo and his amigos would have their diplomatic incident, and the fishermen would just be collateral damage. Señor Valazquez and his amigos played rough. And I’d keep that in mind.

He looked at me. “Do I have your word that you will continue this mission even if... something should happen to Sara?”

“If I’m alive and able, I will be at the Melia Hotel in Cayo Guillermo.”

“Good.”

I seemed to be the only one who understood that we needed to get out of here, and I said, “If there’s nothing else, we’re ready to go. We need the contact information for Camagüey.”

He ignored me again and asked, “Do you think the police have made any connection between you and the boat?”

Sara replied, “We don’t think so. But it’s possible they’ll discover something if they’re making inquiries.”

Eduardo nodded. “This was always a concern.”

I asked him, “Do you have any way to contact our person in Cayo?”

“No.” He added, “I don’t know who he is.”

Then how do you know it’s a he? “Do you have any way to contact Felipe?”

“I have no way to contact anyone. Including you. So when we part, this is all in the hands of God.”

I prefer Verizon to keep me in touch. But this was one of those unguided missions, like a rocket that you have no command or control of, and no communication with after it’s launched. It would be good to know what was going on in Cayo Guillermo — like if the tournament had been cancelled and the fleet was gone, or if the police were waiting there for us — but we weren’t going to know anything until we got to the Melia Hotel. If we made it that far.

Eduardo returned to the subject of Antonio and said, “Mister Colby told me you were to meet this man — this tour guide.”

Jeez, Jack. Did Eduardo waterboard him? Or get him drunk? Or was Jack trying to get this mission scrubbed?

“What did you learn at this meeting?”

Sara replied, “We learned we were on a police watch list.” She added, “But this man is a liar and a scammer. He wanted money.”

And some love. But not worth mentioning.

Eduardo nodded, but didn’t reply.

I wondered if Eduardo was thinking about aborting this mission. Sara and I had talked ourselves into pressing on, but Eduardo might now be thinking otherwise. In fact, he said, “Perhaps the money is not that important.”

I assured him, “It is to me.”

“There are things more important than money.”

“I agree. And money can buy all those things.”

He looked at me. “We are motivated by something greater than money.”

“I’m not.”

“Our life’s goal is to destroy this regime.”

“That takes money.”

Sara said to Eduardo, “I have taken Mac to Villa Marista.”

He nodded and looked at me. “So you understand.”

Something was getting lost in the translation, but in the back of my mind maybe I did understand.

Eduardo changed the subject again and asked Sara, “Did you see your grandfather’s bank?”

“I did. I showed it to Mac.”

Three times.

“And your home?”

“Yes.”

“I, too, walked to see it.” He shook his head. “Very sad. It made me unhappy.” Eduardo Valazquez walking around Havana made me unhappy. And standing here made me unhappy. I looked at Sara and tapped my watch.

She nodded.

Eduardo said to me, “Another of our goals is to return the property that was stolen by the Communists to the rightful owners.”

“Sara has mentioned that.”

Eduardo walked over to a work bench where a tarp covered something big. Sara joined him, and I followed.

Eduardo said, “Flavio has delivered something here for you.” He pulled away the tarp, revealing two medium-sized steamer trunks. They’d fit nicely in the Buick wagon.

He stuck his cigar in his mouth, took a key out of his pocket, and opened the padlock on one of the trunks, then lifted the lid. The trunk was crammed with paper, but not the green kind.

Eduardo said, “This is worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”

I knew what this was, and so did Sara, but Eduardo told us, “Land deeds, property titles... records of the true ownership of houses, plantations, farms, factories, apartment buildings... banks... all nationalized — stolen — by the regime.”

I said, “I thought this stuff was in the cave in Camagüey.”

“It never left Havana.” He looked at Sara. “Your grandfather chose to hide it separately from the money.” He smiled. “He was a careful man who believed that one should not put all of one’s assets in one basket.”

She nodded.

He also explained to me, “Almost all Cubans believed that the Castro regime would not last more than a year. That the Americans would not allow a Communist country to exist off its shores.”

Why not? We’ve got California and Vermont.

“Cubans who escaped to Miami thought they would be back in a year.” He looked at Sara. “As did your grandfather. So he gave this trunk to his trusted priest, who hid it in a burial vault beneath his church in the Old Town, where it has remained until this morning.”

I guess there was no room in the burial vault for twelve steamer trunks filled with money. Which would have made our job a little easier. Assuming the Catholic Church had no use for the money.

In any case, we now had to haul these two trunks of paper to Camagüey, in a sixty-year-old station wagon. No big deal, but... I wish they had FedEx here.

Eduardo took a wad of tri-folded paper out of the trunk. The paper was yellowed, maybe brittle, and it was bound with a green ribbon, which he untied, then opened the papers and spread them carefully on the work bench. “Ah... yes. This is a título de propiedad... a property deed which shows that Señor Alfredo Xavier Gomez is the legal owner of an apartamento... an apartment building on Calle San Rafael, in Vedado.”

Lucky man. Though he was probably dead by now. I hoped we weren’t going to go through all of this.

Eduardo refolded the deed, tied it, and put it back in the trunk, then stared at the mass of legal documents. “Who knows what is in here? Historical land grants. Deeds to entire factories, mansions, plantations... all stolen.”

Goes to show you what a piece of paper is worth. Unless it’s a U.S. Treasury note. “Okay, so—”

“You—” He pointed to me. “You and Sara will bring all this to America on your boat.”

“Right.”

“The exile organizations have kept lists of people and families who claim property in Cuba. These deeds will be returned to the rightful owners and heirs.”

This might be a bad analogy, but it was like telling people you’d found their Confederate war bonds.

But hope springs eternal and Eduardo said to us, or to himself, “There will come a day when the owners and their heirs can claim their property.” He reminded us, “It has happened when the Communists were overthrown in Eastern Europe. And with property stolen by the Nazis. It will happen in Cuba.”

Possible. But I wouldn’t buy those deeds even at a ninety percent discount with my American dollars from the cave. “Okay, so let’s load this up—”

He looked at me. “We will need you — and Sara — to publicly verify how you came into possession of these two trunks.”

I was hoping to keep a low profile with my — and Jack’s — three million dollars. “What do you mean?”

“We are planning a big press conference in Miami. We have good friends in the Miami media.”

“I’m sort of modest—”

“There will be attorneys at the press conference who represent the families whose property was stolen. Now that we have legal proof of ownership, we will file claims in Federal court.”

“Right.” Carlos would be busy for the next decade. “Sounds good. But I’ll take a pass on the press conference—”

“This is an important story — an exciting story. You and Sara traveling to Cuba—”

“Hold on, amigo. No one told me about this.”

“You will be famous.”

“I want to be rich.”

“You will be good on television. You are an attractive couple.”

No argument there. But I had this vision of being shot at the press conference by her jealous Cuban boyfriend. I glanced at her again and she looked away. I didn’t think this relationship was going to travel well.

Eduardo was caught up in his excitement. “We will tell the story of the Pescando Por la Paz, The Maine, Fishy Business—”

“I’ll bet the regime doesn’t renew that fishing license.” Or the Yale educational travel license.

“I have spoken to Jack about this, and he has agreed to interviews.”

Really? Well, Jack missed his three minutes of fame when he came ashore in Havana looking for the brass band and the TV cameras and found instead an anti-American demonstration. Also, I wondered when Eduardo had spoken to Jack about this. After I met Jack? Or before? Jack never mentioned this to me at the Nacional.

More importantly, these documents had less to do with returning the property to the owners and more to do with creating legal issues that could derail the diplomatic negotiations now taking place. I would have mentioned this, but we all understood that.

Meanwhile, I was still in Chico’s Chop Shop, along with Sara, Eduardo, two trunks of títulos, and my new Buick. And it was a long way to Camagüey and Cayo Guillermo. I said to Eduardo, “I need the contact information in Camagüey.” I looked at him. “Now, por favor.”

“I hope you will agree to be part of this story.”

“Sure, I’m in. Let’s go.”

“You have what is called credibility as an American with no ties to the anti-Castro organizations.”

“Don’t forget photogenic.”

“And a man who is a wounded combat veteran. An officer who has received many medals.”

I wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything. “Look, Eduardo, with or without me at the press conference, or me appearing on the morning news, what you have here” — I motioned to the trunks — “speaks for itself. Don’t oversell it.”

He didn’t reply, and I continued, “My concern is the sixty million dollars. First, getting it, second, getting it and us out of Cuba, third, getting my cut, and fourth, we should all shut our mouths about the money or we could get it taken away by the U.S. government, who could put it in escrow while the negotiations go on for the next fifty years.”

Again, he didn’t reply, and I looked at Sara, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during Eduardo’s monologues. “Do you agree?”

Apparently she didn’t. I looked at Eduardo. “What’s happening?”

He got right to the point for a change and said, “You are not going to Camagüey.”

Did I see that coming? “Why not?”

“Because it is dangerous.”

“It was dangerous yesterday. And last week.”

“It could be more dangerous today. Or tomorrow.”

“You don’t know that. That’s for me and Sara to determine.”

“It is for me to determine. And as you said yourself, the money could compromise our efforts to publicize this—” He motioned toward the trunks. “It would distract from our main objective.”

Well, I guess a dozen trunks filled with sixty million dollars would be more interesting to the American public than worthless paper. “That’s why we shouldn’t advertise the money—”

“And as you know — as you said to Mr. Colby — there is a possibility that the Cuban government will cancel the fishing tournament and send the boats away.”

Was there anything Jack forgot to tell him?

“So time is of the essence.”

I looked at Sara again. Apparently Eduardo’s arguments for scrubbing the mission were more convincing than the ones I or she had already discussed. Though they were the same arguments. But, to be fair, the situation had changed.

In fact, Eduardo said, “We cannot risk losing these documents on a dangerous journey to the cave.”

“All right... but I just lost three million dollars.”

“You will be compensated.”

“How?”

“The fifty thousand dollars you were promised if the mission was aborted. And the title to your half-million-dollar boat, free and clear.”

Which I could rename The Albatross. I would have negotiated with him, but he was sort of a dead man. And maybe I was, too.

Eduardo also told me, “Mister Colby knows he will be compensated for his time and his cooperation in helping us publicize this great legal and moral victory over the regime.”

Jack and I had some talking to do. I looked at Sara. “Did you know we weren’t going to Camagüey?”

“I... knew there was a possibility.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

She looked at me. “Mac... it’s better this way. It’s safer. It’s less than an eight-hour drive to Cayo, with only two trunks. We’ll meet our contact at the Melia tomorrow night, get onboard The Maine, and sail for Key West.”

Right. What was I going to do with three million dollars anyway?

Eduardo said, “Sara did not know what would happen. This decision depended on getting these trunks in our possession before you left for Camagüey. We have the trunks, so you are not going to Camagüey for the money.” He added, “The money has sat there for fifty years. It will be there when we return.”

Right. I couldn’t wait to do this all over again. In fact, count me out. I said, “It’s your show.”

“It is.” Eduardo said to Sara, “The map.”

She walked over to where we’d laid our backpacks and retrieved her map and mine. I hoped she didn’t notice I had packed only one pair of clean underwear.

She brought the maps to us, and Eduardo said, “I see you made a copy.”

“For Mac.”

“Are there any more copies?”

“The original — my grandfather’s — in my possession in Miami.”

Eduardo nodded, and said to me, “Your lighter, please.”

I fired up the Zippo and Sara held both maps to the flame, watched them burn, then dropped them on the floor. They smelled like money burning.

Eduardo advised me, “You will forget the existence of this map.”

“I won’t mention it at the press conference.” I looked at Eduardo, then at Sara. “Are we ready to get out of here?”

Apparently not.

Sara put her hand on my arm, then realized that Eduardo would not like that and drew it away as she said, “You asked me if there was more to this mission than the money.”

“Right... where did I ask you that?” Oh, in bed.

“And there is.”

“Right. The property deeds. The press conference...” I thought back to what Eduardo had said when Sara told him we’d gone to Villa Marista. So you understand. And Eduardo’s mention of my military service. And I now understood that Captain Daniel MacCormick was going to raise the issue of the missing American POWs at that press conference. I hope Sara’s photograph came out good.

She looked at Eduardo and nodded toward the trunk that hadn’t been opened. I assumed it was also filled with property deeds, but Eduardo hesitated and Sara said, “He needs to see this now.”

Eduardo nodded, produced another key, and opened the padlock of the second trunk.

It was Sara who took hold of the lid and said, “Something that will please you more than money.” She raised the lid. “The bones are going home.”

Lying in the trunk were rows of neatly piled skulls, their empty eye sockets staring at eternity, staring at me, and I knew without a doubt that these mortal remains had come from Villa Marista, and that the answers to what happened to seventeen missing Americans were in the DNA of those bones.

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