Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

Antonio said we could go inside the Catedral if we wanted. Ten minutes.

Sara said, “Let’s go.”

“Yes, dear.”

There were a number of tourists inside the dark cathedral and a few locals were on their knees in front of the baroque altar. Sara, of course, wanted to pray.

I haven’t prayed since Afghanistan, and then only when there was incoming, but Sara was insistent, and I followed her to the altar rail. This whole day would have played out differently if I’d kept my pepino in my chinos. On the other hand, if I hadn’t yet scored, I’d now be on my knees, praying for it.

Sara knelt, made the sign of the cross, and prayed silently. Out of respect, I clasped my hands and bowed my head. And while I was at it, I prayed that we’d both get out of here alive — and that one of us would not get pregnant.

She crossed herself again, stood, turned, and took my hand. We walked down the side aisle, past racks of flickering votive candles. She stopped and lit one, then continued on.

Outside in the bright sunlight she said, “I prayed for our success here and lit a candle for the soul of my grandfather.”

“That’s very nice.”

Antonio told us that we would visit three more plazas in the Old Town before lunch.

Dios m í o.

We walked to a harbor fort, the ancient Castillo de la Real Fuerza, which was uphill all the way, and we ascended a rampart lined with ancient cannons from which we could see the harbor channel. We were alone, and Sara pointed to a building about four hundred meters away. “That’s the Sierra Maestra Terminal, and that’s the pier where the fishing fleet is going to dock. But I don’t see any boats, and I don’t see any activity in the plaza that looks like a welcoming ceremony.”

I didn’t need my binoculars to confirm that.

She said, “I hope it hasn’t been cancelled.” She reminded me, unnecessarily, “Everything depends on the Pescando Por la Paz.”

Actually, everything depended on a chain of events that we had little or no control over. I reassured her, “Even if the fleet left Key West at first light, and maintained a fleet speed of twenty knots, they wouldn’t reach Havana until about eleven, earliest.” I looked at my watch. “It’s just past ten now.”

“All right... Carlos said if we didn’t see it on the news, we needed to verify the fleet’s arrival ourselves.” She added, “He also said he’d try to get a phone or fax message to me at the hotel if the tournament was delayed or cancelled.”

Carlos never told me that, but there were lots of things that Carlos hadn’t told me, as I was finding out from Sara. In any case, it was time for me to share something, so I told her, “I’m actually meeting Jack tonight.”

She looked at me. “Carlos didn’t want—”

“Carlos didn’t want you to sleep with me. We don’t care what Carlos wants.”

“You agreed to follow orders, Captain. I’m not going to let you compromise the mission.”

I had a flashback to the ops bunker. Everyone who gave orders from the rear seemed to think they knew what was going on at the front. Well, if you’re not standing next to me when the shit is flying, you don’t know what’s going on. “I agreed to do the job. My way.”

“There’s no reason for you to meet him.”

“There are lots of reasons.”

“What?”

“To be sure they’ve arrived, as you just said.”

“If I don’t hear from Carlos, we can find out by coming to the pier later.”

“I need to exchange info with Jack. And have a beer.” I added, “We may never see each other again.”

She thought about that, then asked, “Where are you meeting him?”

“At a prearranged place. It’s safe.”

“What time?”

“Six.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

She looked at me and we locked eyeballs. Finally, she said, “All right... do what you have to do. But make sure you’re not followed, and make sure he wasn’t followed. There can’t be a connection between—”

“I passed that class.”

She seemed a bit miffed. Glad I got laid last night.

In fact, she seemed to be thinking the same thing and said, “That’s what happens when you sleep with a man. They step all over you.”

“Not if they want an encore.”

“I should have waited until Sunday.”

“I’m free Sunday.”

“I should have listened to Carlos.”

“You have to listen to your heart. Not your lawyer.”

“And what organ are you listening to, señor?”

“My heart.” Dick, too.

She looked at me. “I believe you.”

We kissed and made up. Sex changes the rules and the dynamics. You get some control, but you lose some control. That’s life.

I scanned the horizon with my binoculars, but there were no boats heading for the harbor.

I had a few other things on my mind and I asked her, “How well do you know Felipe?”

“I’ve met him. Carlos and Eduardo know him.”

“Can we assume that Carlos or Eduardo have vetted him?”

“Felipe is actually the grandnephew of Eduardo.” She added, “We try to keep these things in the family. Like the Mafia does. If you can’t trust family, you can’t trust anyone.”

She hasn’t met my family. But maybe she would. That should be interesting. I said, “I would have worried less about Felipe if someone had told me who he was.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “We rarely include... outsiders in our business. And when we do, we don’t say more than we have to about... anything.”

People who know the Scots say we’re clannish, and the MacCormicks, who are of the Clan Campbell, can be that way. But I suspect that the Cubans make the Scots look inclusive.

Sara took my hand and said, “We have a special relationship now.” She smiled. “You’re practically one of the family. You’ll see when we get back to Miami and we have a big party to celebrate.”

I pictured myself partying in Miami wearing a guayabera and my clan kilt. More to the point, this mission was like an onion that needed to be peeled away, layer by layer. There had to be an easier way to get laid and make three million dollars.

At the base of the old fort was the Plaza de Armas, which was lined with royal palms, and the group took cover from the sun while Antonio gave a history lesson. I didn’t want to bring up the subject of Antonio again, but I asked Sara, “How did Antonio know you were here before?”

“I don’t know... I mentioned it to Alison, and she must have said something to him.”

Or Antonio had some info from the police, who would have copies of our visa applications, which were filled with information.

Sara looked at Antonio, who was now texting. “Why is he asking about us?”

“We don’t know that he is.”

“And why did he quote those Hemingway lines to you? ‘The Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out.’ ”

“Don’t know.”

“I’ll be happy when we get out of Havana.”

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Antonio led us to a pedestrian street called Calle Obispo — the Street of the Bishop — lined with old shops and some new, trendy stores, art galleries, and cafés. Creeping capitalism.

Sara stopped and we let the Yalies go on. She looked across the street at a large neo-classical stone and stucco building with a white portal that was decorated with carved four-leaved clovers for some reason. The building seemed derelict, though there were official-looking signs and revolutionary posters in the grimy windows. I knew this was her grandfather’s bank.

She said, “I can picture him walking to work every morning, dressed in his dark suit and tie.” She added, “The Habaneros dressed well in those days. Well... the gentlemen and ladies did. Despite the heat, and no air-conditioning. It was important to look good.”