Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“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.

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.

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.”