Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

She patted her shoulder bag. “And the pesos.”

“Don’t leave the map or the money in your room safe or the hotel safe. And be careful of what you say in your room.”

“I know that.”

“Good. Do you have any idea of how, where, or when our man in Havana will contact us?”

She put down her brandy glass. “Well, not here. But last time I was in Havana, a man just came up to me one night on the Malecón and said, ‘Would you be interested in some historical artifacts?’ ” She added, unnecessarily, “That was the sign — the identification phrase.”

Unless he was really selling historical artifacts. “Were you supposed to be walking on the Malecón that night?”

“No. It was just an impulse.” She explained, “It was after a group dinner in the Riviera Hotel. I needed a walk.”

“So this guy must have known that you’d be at the Riviera, and what you looked like.”

“Our friends in Miami were able to get him a photo of me and the Yale itinerary.”

“How?”

“Through a Cuban American tourist.”

“Okay... and what was the purpose of making this contact?”

“Just to see if it worked. A sort of dry run for the next time I came to Havana. I was also here to familiarize myself with the city. Also, we were still exploring ways to get the money out of the country.” She looked at me. “Now we have you and your boat.”

“I sold the boat to Carlos. It’s now Fishy Business.”

“I know that.” She assured me, “Carlos thinks of everything.”

“He thinks he does.” I returned to the subject and asked, “Did you meet your second contact in the countryside?”

“I wish I could have. But as you can see, no one can leave the group, even for a day—”

“Right. So this guy came up to you on the Malecón—”

“Marcelo. We walked along the seawall, just talking... to see if we were being followed — or got arrested.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“He was nice. He gave me some tips on Cuban slang, local customs, and how the police operate.”

“Did you buy any historical artifacts?”

“No, but I bought him a drink in the Nacional, slipped him two hundred thousand pesos, and took a taxi back to the Parque Central.” She added, “I wasn’t arrested, but for all I know, he was.”

“If he was, you would have been.”

“Unless they were just following him to see if we made contact again.”

I looked at her. “Do you have any formal training in this sort of thing?”

“No... not formal. But I was briefed.”

“By whom?”

“By a retired CIA officer. A Cuban American.” She asked, “What is your training?”

“You tell me.”

She hesitated, then said, “We know you took some Defense Intelligence Agency courses.”

“You’ll be happy to know I passed one of them.”

She smiled.

“What else do you know about me?”

“Everything that’s in the public record. School, Army, bad credit score.” She smiled again.

I continued, “Rented house, old van, credit card debt.”

“But no bank loan on The Maine.”

“Right.”

“You could leave here tomorrow and start a new life.”

“I could. But that’s not what I promised you.”

She smiled. “At least I know you’ll be here until Sunday.”

I returned the smile, then reminded her, “I’m in Cuba to make three million dollars.”

“But you thought you were going to the Cayman Islands.”

Funny.

She asked, “What do you know about me?”

“Virtually nothing. But I like your smile.”

“Did you see my work on my website?”

“I did. You have talent.”

“And you have good taste.”

And don’t forget balls. I returned to the subject and asked, “Could Marcelo be our contact again?”

“I have no idea.”

“What is the ID this time?”

“It’s ‘Are you interested in Cuban pottery?’ ”

“Spanish or English?”

“English.”

“Do you have a countersign?”

“No.”

“Then your contact is sure of who you are.”

“Obviously, or he wouldn’t be approaching me.”

“Unless he was just a guy struck by your beauty.”

“Then he’d have a better line than that.”

“Right. Okay, do you or your contact have a code word for, ‘I am under duress — being followed, wearing a wire, and being made to do this’?”

“No...”

“You should. Does the contact know my name or what I look like?”

“No name or photo. Just a description.” She looked at me and smiled. “Tall, dark, and handsome.”

We made eye contact. “And following you around like a puppy dog.”

“That’s right. In any case, it’s me, not you, who he — or she — will contact.”

“Okay.” It seemed to me that these people knew what they were doing, up to a point. I asked, “What is our contact in Havana going to do for us to earn his pesos?”

“Two things. First, give us the name and location of our contact in Camagüey Province. Then give us a means of getting there.”

“Such as?”

“Travel in Cuba is difficult — but our contact will get us to Camagüey. Safely.”

“All right. Then we meet our Camagüey contact. What is he or she going to do for us?”

“He or she will give us a safe house, and a truck to transport the goods to Cayo Guillermo. And some tools to get into the cave.”

“Good. And you trust these people?”

“They are Cuban patriots. They hate the regime.”

“And I assume they have no idea that we’re looking for sixty million in cash.”

“They have been told that I’m recovering a box of important documents — property deeds, bank records, and other paperwork that has no intrinsic value.”

“Right. You don’t want to tempt them to double-cross us.”

Sara had no reply to that, but said, “In fact, there is a trunk of such paperwork that we need to take with us.” She explained, “In my grandfather’s bank vault there were land grants going back to the Spanish kings and queens, property deeds for houses, factories, plantations, hotels, and apartment buildings — all potentially worth more than sixty million dollars. Much more.”

That was exciting. Except for the word “potentially.” I’ll take the sixty million in American dollars.

She continued, “Carlos and other attorneys will present all this documentation to an appropriate court and file a claim for this stolen property on behalf of their clients.”

“That won’t make the Cuban government very happy.”

“The hell with them.” She added, “It will make the Cuban exiles happy.”

“Right. Okay, and I assume the deed to your grandfather’s house is in the cave?”

“Actually, he smuggled it out. I have it in Miami.”

Maybe she should have brought it with her for when we visited the house. Along with an eviction notice. But I sensed this was an emotional subject for Sara Ortega, so I left that alone.

I thought about all she’d said regarding our contacts and what they were going to do for us. There was some obvious danger in making these contacts, but that came with the territory. I gave this mission a 50/50 chance of success.

Sara put her hand on mine. “It will go well.” She assured me, “The secret police are not as efficient as they’d like you to think.”

“Famous last words.”

“They are good at one thing — instilling fear. And fear paralyzes the people.” She looked at me. “I am not afraid.”

“It’s okay to be afraid.”

“And you? Now that you’re here — do you feel fear?”

“Yes. A nice healthy fear.”

“You’re honest.”

“We need to be.”

She nodded.