Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“Are you obligated to call the embassy if someone breaks the rules?”

“I... Well, last year the embassy wasn’t open. But... why do you ask?”

“I was hoping I could go scuba diving while I’m here.”

“Sorry, you can’t.” He added, “It would cause all of us trouble.”

“But no problem with a bordello?”

He again forced a smile. “I don’t think they exist here. But if you discover otherwise, let me know.”

I smiled. Tad was really okay — just a little uptight and anxious about his responsibilities as a group leader in a police state. I hoped he handled it well when Sara and I disappeared. Bye-bye license.

We chatted a bit, and Tad asked me, “What do you do for a living?”

Good question. And that’s what I was asked on my visa application. Carlos and I both knew that my cover story — my legend, in Intel parlance — should be close to the truth in case the Cuban authorities did a background check. You don’t want to be caught in an unnecessary lie, so Carlos and I agreed that my occupation was “fisherman,” and there was no way anyone would connect “fisherman” to the Pescando Por la Paz, especially now that I wasn’t the registered owner of a boat in the tournament.

“Mister MacCormick?”

Also, Tad would have photocopies of everyone’s Yale travel application, so I replied, “I’m a fisherman.”

“I see. Well, I hate to say this to you, but Cuba is a fisherman’s paradise. Though not for you.”

“Maybe next time I’m here.”

“Eventually Americans can come here as tourists with no restrictions.”

“Can’t wait.”

Well, I had set the stage, delivered a few lines, and it was time to exit left. “See you at cocktails.”

I took my beer to a cocktail table in the lobby and surveyed the lounge. A few of our group had drifted in, but not Sara.

Carlos, in his briefing, had told me that the hotels used by Americans were under surveillance by undercover agents from the Orwellian Ministry of the Interior. But because Cuban citizens were generally not allowed in the hotels for foreigners, these surveillance men tried to look like Latin American tourists or businessmen. I should be able to spot them, Carlos said, by their cheap clothing, bad manners, or by the fact that they never paid for their drinks. Sounded more like a scene from an Inspector Clouseau movie than Big Brother in Cuba. But maybe I should listen to Carlos.

As I was sitting there, it hit me — I was in Communist Cuba, where paranoia was a survival tool. And at some point in the next ten days, I was going to be either rich in America, or in jail here, or worse. Also, I was going to have sex with a woman I barely knew — not a first, but exciting nonetheless.

Regarding Sara, empathy is not one of my strong points, but I thought about the risks she was taking. She had much stronger motivations for being here than I did, but that didn’t diminish her courage. In fact, to be less empathetic, her motivations could lead her into some risk-taking that I wouldn’t approve of. Beware of people who are ready to die for a cause — especially if they’re your team leader.

And finally, I knew, as Sara did, that sleeping with me was actually not part of the job, and that our romance could easily be faked — and that was the original script that she and Carlos had probably worked out, thus the made-up boyfriend. But Sara had changed the script and changed her mind, and not only was she willing to die for her cause, she was also willing to... well, fuck for it. That’s a dedicated woman.

And what Sara wanted from me in exchange for sex was loyalty, reliability, and commitment. Men in combat bond in other ways. Women in dangerous situations with a male partner have figured out that the sexual bond can usually keep the idiot in line.

Or maybe she actually liked me. As unbelievable as that seems. And that could lead to a whole different set of problems. Especially if the feeling was mutual.

I finished my beer and checked my watch. Cocktails in fifteen minutes.

As in a war zone, I had a sense of heightened awareness, coupled with a contradictory sense of unreality. Like, this can’t be happening. But it was, and as I promised Sara on The Maine , if I got here I wouldn’t go back on my word. I’m all in, as we used to say in the U.S. Army. Good to go.

Sex, money, and adventure. Does it get any better than that?

The upscale open-air rooftop restaurant was in a new wing of the hotel, and it could have been in Miami Beach. The winds of change were blowing in Cuba, but not the trade winds, and it was still hot and humid.

I’m usually on time for cocktails and chicks, but about half our group had not yet arrived, including Sara. Tad, Alison, and Professor Nalebuff were standing near a potted palm, talking to a tall guy with long, swept-back hair and tight pants who I guessed was our Cuban guide.

Everyone looked refreshed after their long day of airports, bureaucratic bullshit, and tropical heat. Cold showers are invigorating. As per our Travel Tips, the men in our group wore sports jackets, but no ties. The ladies had repaired their makeup and seemed cool and comfortable in nice summer dresses.

A waiter came up to me with a tray of mojitos, which like the daiquiri had been invented in Cuba and probably should have stayed here. But to get some gas in the tank, I took one.

I noticed that Richard Neville was mopping his brow with a handkerchief and also downing a mojito while simultaneously grabbing hors d’oeuvres from passing waitresses and somehow managing to smoke a cigarette. Amazing. His pretty wife, Cindy, was alone, staring out over the parapet at the lighted city, sipping a mojito. Under other circumstances I would have joined her, but I was about to be swept off my feet by Sara Ortega.

I spotted a bar and walked over to it. Former combat infantry officers don’t drink cocktails that come in primary colors with little umbrellas in them, so I gave my mojito to the bartender and ordered a vodka on the rocks.

Sara suddenly appeared beside me and said to the bartender, “May I have a Cuba Libre?” She added, “Por favor.”

She seemed to notice me for the first time and said, “Excuse me, what did you order?”

“Vodka.”

“You should be trying something local.” She said to the bartender, “Please give this gentleman a Cuba Libre.” She asked me, “Have you ever had one?” She smiled.

Playacting is fun. “Once. On my boat.”

“Do you sail?”

“I’m a fisherman.”

“What do you fish for?”

“Peace.”

“That’s good.” She put out her hand. “Sara Ortega.”

“Daniel MacCormick.” We shook, and I reminded her, “We met at the airport and took a picture together in the plaza.”

“Your arm was sweaty.”

Sara was wearing a white, off-the-shoulder silk dress that reached down to the straps of her patrician sandals. Her lipstick was that frosty pink that used to drive me crazy when I was a teenager.

The bartender gave us our Cuba Libres and I raised my glass. “To new adventures.”

We touched glasses. Here’s looking at you, kid.

She asked, “What brings you to Cuba?”

“Curiosity. How about you?”

“I’m looking for something.”

“I hope you find it.”

“I will.”

She walked to the parapet and gazed out over the city. “It’s beautiful from up here. But down there, not everything is beautiful.”

“I noticed.”

“But still romantic in a strange way.”

Sara pointed out some of the landmarks of the city, then drew my attention to the harbor. “You can see the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal on the far side of that plaza.” She stepped out of character and said, “We saw this on Google Earth.”