Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“If it has, you should thank Antonio for letting us know.” I added, “He may be reporting to the police, but he knows nothing. And if he’s fishing for something, he’s not using the right bait.”

“But why is he fishing?”

Good question, and I’d thought about that. “Well, it could be that you came to his attention as a Cuban American, and he’s trying to be a good chivato, making himself sound important to the police.”

She didn’t seem satisfied with my explanation, so I continued, “It’s also possible that the immigration or customs people at the airport notified the police about you, and the police checked to see who the tour guide was for this group and told the guide — Antonio — to keep an eye on Sara Ortega.” I reminded her, “You’re supposed to be giving your three hundred thousand pesos to charities. And maybe that’s why you’re on their radar.” Or there was a leak in Miami, and if that was the case, the game was over.

She looked at me. “You’re either very cool, or you have your head up your ass.”

Which reminded me of an old Army saying — “If you’re taking intense fire and you’re keeping cool while everyone around you is scared shitless, then you’re not fully understanding the situation.” I didn’t think that was the case here.

“Do you think Antonio believes we just met?”

“We did just meet. You need to believe your cover story.” Recalling my unpleasant hours in a mock interrogation cell, I added, “We’d be questioned in separate rooms and our stories need to match.”

“I know that.”

Our ten minutes of architectural appreciation were up, and Antonio called the group together. “Now to lunch.”

We followed Antonio out of the plaza and into a street that led back to Centro.

Something had changed in Sara’s positive attitude, and it probably had to do with last night. That’s what happens when you have something to live for.

We walked in silence awhile, then Sara asked me, “Is it at all possible that the police have made a connection between you and Fishy Business?”

“Anything is possible. But let’s trust Carlos on this.”

“I do. But...”

“Even if the police somehow discover that I once owned one of the tournament boats, that’s all they know. They may find it curious, or suspicious, but that doesn’t lead them to any conclusions about why I’m in Cuba.”

“No... but it could lead them to questioning you about that coincidence.”

“You can be sure I’ve already thought of the right answers.”

Clearly Sara was worried, so I let her know, “I don’t see, hear, or sense anything that endangers us or the mission. If I do, I’ll let you know.”

We stood facing each other. She said, “This is Cuba, Mac. Not Afghanistan. The first sign of danger here is usually a midnight knock on your door.”

“You’re the one who said that the only thing the secret police are good at is instilling fear.”

“Well... sometimes they get lucky.” She thought a moment and said, “Maybe the money is not worth our lives—”

“It’s not all about the money. It’s also about stealing something from under their ugly noses. Remember? It’s about finishing what your grandfather started. And, as I just discovered, it’s also about something that’s going to please me, whatever that is.”

“All right... let me think about this.”

“Let me know before I meet Jack so I can tell him if you and I are leaving Cuba early.”

“All right... and if the tournament has been cancelled, then the decision has already been made for us.”

Borrowing from her book, I said, “It will be a sign from God.”

“No, it will be a decision made by the Cuban or American government.”

“That too.”

We looked up the street but the group had disappeared. “We lost them. Let’s find a place for a cold beer.”

She took her itinerary out of her bag. “Lunch is at Los Nardos. I know where that is.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Come on. Tad will be in a panic if he thinks we’re missing.”

“Good training for him when we do go missing.”

We took our time walking, and on the way I ran all this through my mind. I couldn’t get a tight grip on Antonio, but if I had ten minutes alone with him in one of these back alleys, I’d have some answers. But as Sara pointed out, this was not Afghanistan, where I could be very insistent with the locals about answering my questions.

Anyway, it was easy to make a good case for abandoning this mission and getting out of Cuba. But I told Sara that if I came here, I wouldn’t back out. So this was her decision. And if she was influenced by my assurances and we got arrested, it wouldn’t be the first time I miscalculated.

She took my hand as we walked and said, “I’m not afraid of death, Mac. I’m afraid that the police will arrest us — here or in Camagüey — find the map, and... make us confess... I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to let everyone down.”

“You won’t.”

“Also... I feel responsible for getting you into this.”

“I understand the responsibility of command. But I knew what I was getting into.” Well, not all of it. There are always surprises.

“In the Army... if you gave an order that... caused a death...”

“Shit happens.” I added, “I wasn’t back in the rear phoning in orders, I was right there at the front, and that’s where you’re at now.”

She glanced at me, then said, “All right... if I say we leave, it’s my decision. If I say we go forward...”

“I promise I won’t blame you if we wind up dead or in jail. But I won’t be happy.”

She forced a smile, then said, “Most men in this situation would jump at the chance to go home, collect fifty thousand dollars, and tell their friends they slept with a woman in Havana who paid for their vacation.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Well, thank you for listening. I’ll let you know before you meet Jack.”

“Okay, and if we’re not going to Camagüey, I do not want to spend another week with the Yale educational tour.”

“It won’t kill you.”

“It might.”

She understood that I wasn’t making a joke and agreed, “If we’re being watched, it would be good to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

“Correct.”

“But it’s difficult... There are no commercial flights to the U.S.... but maybe we can get a ticket to Mexico or Canada.”

“Even if we do, we may be on a watch list at the airport.”

“We seem to be running out of options,” she said.

“We never had many options. And when that happens, you just push on.”

“To Camagüey.”

“Correct.”

“With or without meeting our contact here.”

“Correct.”

“We’re back to where we started,” she concluded.

“When we got on that plane in Miami, there was no turning back.”

“No, there wasn’t,” she agreed.

“The road home goes through Camagüey Province, the cave, Cayo Guillermo, and The Maine.”

We arrived late for lunch at Los Nardos, a small restaurant on the edge of the Old Town. Our group was already seated, filling up most of the tables, but Antonio had thoughtfully saved two seats for us at his small table, and we sat opposite the Nevilles.

Pretty Cindy Neville said to me, “I like your T-shirt.”

Well, Richard did not. Nor did he like me — once he realized he had no chance with Sara Ortega. Plus he’d had to see where Hemingway drank at the Ambos Mundos hotel. He was having a bad day. He should only know what kind of day I was having.

Cindy said, “Richard wouldn’t let me buy him a Hemingway T-shirt at Finca Vigía or Ambos Mundos.”