Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“I got that. How do we get the last five yards over the goal line?”

“We’ll find out when we get to Cayo Guillermo.” She reminded me, “This is all compartmentalized. Fire walls.”

Obviously there was a contact person in Cayo Guillermo, but Sara wasn’t sharing that at this time. So I returned to my more immediate concern and asked, “Am I supposed to romance you? Or vice versa?”

She glanced at me. “Let me fall all over you — as unbelievable as that may seem to our group.”

Was I supposed to smile? I asked, “When do we begin our charade?”

“We start tonight at the cocktail reception. By day four, which is Sunday, when the Pescando Por la Paz fleet leaves Havana for Cayo Guillermo, we’ll be having a romance.”

“Let me make sure I understand—”

“We’ll be sleeping together. Is that all right with you?”

“Let me think. Okay.”

“Good.”

And I get paid for this. There must be a catch.

She stayed silent a moment, then said, “I like you. So it is okay.”

I didn’t reply.

She glanced at me. “And you?”

“Just part of the job.”

“That was going to be my line.”

“You intrigue me.”

“Good enough.”

“And I like you.”

We strolled on in silence, then against my better judgement I said, “I thought you had a boyfriend.”

“I thought you had a boyfriend.”

“Just kidding.”

“Good. Then neither of us has a boyfriend.”

We walked up the sloping grass toward the hotel and reached the pavilion. I said, “I’m lunching in the bar. Join me.”

“We need to stay with the group.”

“I’m grouped out. See you on the bus.”

“Thank you for a nice walk.” She entered the pavilion and I could hear Tad say, “There you are. Have you seen... what’s his name?” The roster-snatcher.

I continued across the terrace, where a few dozen turistas were drinking mojitos.

I found the bar called the Hall of Fame and ordered a Corona but settled for a local brew called Bucanero. There was a pirate on the label, which was appropriate for the eight-CUC price. I gave the bartender a ten and sat in a club chair. The patrons were mostly cigar-smoking men, prosperous-looking, maybe South Americans. For sure no Cuban could afford this place, and if they could they wouldn’t want to advertise it.

A young lady in fishnet stockings approached with a cigar tray. “Cigar, señor?”

“Sure.” I picked out a Cohiba and the young lady clipped my tip and lit me up. Twenty CUCs. What the hell. I’d be lighting my cigars with fifties in a few weeks.

I sat back, drank my beer, and smoked my cigar, surveying the opulent room whose walls were covered with photos of the famous people who’d stayed here in happier times. I wish I’d been at that 1946 Sinatra concert.

But back to the present. Sara Ortega. That was a pleasant surprise.

We arrived at our hotel, the Parque Central, which, as the name suggested, was across from a park in Central Havana.

We filed off the bus, collected our luggage, and entered the hotel, a fairly new building with an atrium lobby surrounded by a mezzanine level that could be reached by a sweeping staircase.

Most of the lobby was a cocktail lounge with a long bar off to the left. I saw that many of the tables were occupied by cigar smokers, filling the air with a not-unpleasant smell, though many of the Yalies seemed horrified. Hey, it’s 1959. Deal with it.

We were checked in as a group by clerks who had never heard of the hospitality industry, but mojitos were handed out to make up for the inefficiency and indifference.

Tad and Alison bailed out, leaving their flock of poor little lambs to fend for themselves — but not before Tad reminded us, “Welcome cocktail party and dinner on the rooftop terrace at five-thirty.”

That was where Sara was going to start falling all over me, so I should take a shower and get there on time.

Sara got her room key and wheeled her bag past me without a glance.

I got checked in and went up to the sixth floor and found my room.

The park-view room was clean and functional and had a queen-sized bed and a flat-screen TV. It also had its own safe, which I wouldn’t trust to be safe from the policía. There was a minibar but it was empty.

The room was sweltering and I lowered the temperature, which didn’t seem to do anything. I unpacked my few belongings, got out of my sweaty clothes, and hit the shower. I don’t know why I expected hot water, but cold showers were what I needed to lower my libido until Sunday.

I got dressed in clean clothes, including my blue blazer, and went down to the lobby bar. They didn’t have Corona, so I ordered a Bucanero. Six CUCs. A third of a month’s wages. The only person I recognized from our group was Tad, who was reading a stack of papers at the end of the bar, sipping a bottled water. I sat next to him and asked, “What are you reading?”

He looked up at me. “Oh... Mr....”

“MacCormick. Call me Mac.”

“Okay... these are my lecture notes.” He put his hand on them, and I felt I owed him an explanation for my intemperate roster-snatching, but instead I bought him a Bucanero.

To make conversation as I kept my back to the bar, looking for Sara in the lobby, I told Tad, “My four-star room has no hot water, and the A/C has asthma.”

“Sorry. It’s intermittent.” He gave me a tip. “There’s actually hot water in the sink and the tub. The showers seem to be on a separate system.” As for the A/C, he said, “Mine’s out, too. Havana has power problems.”

“What’s going to happen when a half million spoiled Americans hit this city?”

“God only knows.”

“At least the beer is cold.”

“Usually.”

We chatted a bit as I looked at people getting off the elevators. Tad was actually okay, but he took the opportunity to lecture me, “We missed you at lunch. It’s important that you stay with the group.”

“Why?”

“This is a group tour. If you go off on your own to someplace that we are not licensed to visit — like the beach, or on a boat, or any place that is not considered educational — then we risk losing our educational tour license from the State Department.”

“How does the State Department classify bordellos?”

He actually smiled, then confided, “As a practical matter, you’re free to do what you want after the group dinners.”

“So no bed check?”

“Of course not.” He suggested, “There are some good nightclubs in Havana. I’ll mention them at my first lecture tomorrow night.”

“Great. What’s your lecture about?”

“The history of Cuban music.”

“I don’t want to miss that one.”

“Actually, attendance at the lectures is required.”

I guess TBA didn’t mean what I thought it meant. “Can I see your notes? So I can ask intelligent questions.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“That’s okay. Let me ask you something — there’s a lady in our group, the one I helped with her luggage at the airport, Sara Ortega. Do you know anything about her?”

He shot me a look. “No. I don’t know any of the people in our group.”

“I hope you get to know Alison.”

He ignored that and asked, “Is there anyone from your class in the group?”

“I’m not a Yalie. Can’t you tell?”

He smiled politely.

I asked him, “Did anyone go off on their own last time you were here?”

“No... Well, a couple did go to a Havana beach.”

“Did you have them arrested?”

He forced a smile. “I just spoke to them in private, and I also reiterated the rules to the group at my next lecture.”