The Cuban Affair Page 7

  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, bu
t 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.