Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

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

“Did you see your grandparents’ house?”

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

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

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

“I went to Bowdoin.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

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

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

I assumed I was already booked.

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

“What time is cocktails?”

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

“As long as they hear the toilet flushing.”

“Please be serious.”

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

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

“And they take us to the cave?”

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

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

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

“And how about the next part?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The devil is in the details.”

“It always is.”

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

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

“Did I put down a deposit?”

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

“The word ‘presumptuous’ comes to mind.”

“Let’s call it optimism.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I go without you.”

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

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

“Then you don’t need me.”

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

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

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

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