Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

Indeed we are. And there was a payment due.

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... but 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.”