The Cuban Affair Page 6

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

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

  “Why don’t you stay in Key West?”

  “People are waiting for us in Miami.”

  “Okay.” I stood.

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

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

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

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

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I enjoy his company.”

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

  “He should fish in safe waters.”

  She nodded. “We’ll see.”

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

  “There is nothing else, except . . .”

  “Yes?”

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

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

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

  “But you have balls.”

  That sort of took me by surprise.

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

  “Sounds like a T-shirt.”

  “Do you have confidence in me?”

  “You seem to have confidence in yourself.”

  “What more do you want?”

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

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

  “I actually regret both.”

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

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

  “Good cruise.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

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

  “Okay.”

  “Are we going to be rich?”

  “Not from fishing.”

  “Are you at least going to get laid?”

  “It didn’t come up.”

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

  “Why?”

  “You need the practice.”

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

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

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

  “I need your decision before we dock.”

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

  “Nothing you don’t already know.”

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

  Indeed we are. And there was a payment due.

  CHAPTER 10

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

  “Close enough.”

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

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

  “No problem.”

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

  Well, that might be the least of my worries.

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

  “You enjoy them.”

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

  “No. How?”

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

  “Pay attention to the depth finder.”

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

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

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

  Jack asked, “What are you thinking about?”

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

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

  “Where did you learn your math?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What bank?”

  I didn’t reply.

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

  “I hope not.”

  “But if we are—?”

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

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

  “It’s three now.”

  “Yeah? I guess it got more dangerous.”

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

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

  Daniel MacCormick died. Boat for sale.

  “Deal?”

  I looked at him. “Deal.”

  We shook.

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

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

  “The one in 1898?”

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

  “Not for me, old man. I wasn’t born.”

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

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

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

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

  Jack asked me, “You trust these people?”

  “My instincts say they’re honorable people.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “They need us.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Not this time.”

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

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

  “Loose lips sink ships.”

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

  Jack had no reply.

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

  Jack nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Jack stared at the screen, but said nothing.

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

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

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

  Interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Jack nodded.

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

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

  Jack stared at the Google image and nodded to himself.

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

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

  She poured two rums and gave one to me.

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

  “I am.”

  “Good. And is Jack with us?”

  “He is.”

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

  “Then what could possibly go wrong?”

  We drank to that.

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

  “Sure.”

  “He’ll let you know the time.”

  “I’ll let him know the time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “It must be the rum.”

  “Then have another. I like your smile.”

  “You too.”

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

  And maybe our last.

  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.