Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

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.