The Cuban Affair Read online

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

  Sara asked, “What are you thinking?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “We do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Of course.”

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

  “Right.”

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

  “Or justify a stupid one.”

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

  “No, thanks, I’m driving.”

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

  “It’s your boat tonight.”

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

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

  “Fair enough.”

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

  CHAPTER 9

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

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

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

  “Did you see your grandparents’ house?”

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

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

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

  “I went to Bowdoin.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

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

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

  I assumed I was already booked.

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

  “What time is cocktails?”

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

  “As long as they hear the toilet flushi
ng.”

  “Please be serious.”

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

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

  “And they take us to the cave?”

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

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

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

  “And how about the next part?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “The devil is in the details.”

  “It always is.”

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

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

  “Did I put down a deposit?”

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

  “The word ‘presumptuous’ comes to mind.”

  “Let’s call it optimism.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “Then I go without you.”

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

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

  “Then you don’t need me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Me too. This is Key West.”

  She smiled. “I’ve heard otherwise.”

  They really did their homework.

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

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

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

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

  “They said you were a good captain.”

  “They’re right.”

  “They also said you have guns onboard.”

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

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

  “Okay.”

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

  “Not happening.”

  “We can discuss that later.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That will not happen.”

  “I didn’t think so.”