Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

Jack laughed, then continued, “These bastards shook us down for twenty bucks from each boat — to help us keep an eye on the boats.”

“You got off easy.”

“If they didn’t have guns, I’d’ve kicked them in the nuts and told them to do their fucking jobs.”

“Right.” But negotiations tend to favor the guy with the submachine gun, as Jack and I learned long ago when we held the guns. I asked him, “When you left the terminal, did you get a brass band?”

“No. But there was a film crew and, like, maybe a few hundred people in this plaza.”

“Friendly?”

“Most of them. They were yelling, ‘Welcome, Americanos,’ and stuff. But there was another group yelling, ‘Yankee, go home,’ and ‘Cuba sí, Yankee no.’ Shit like that. So we got stuck there in front of the terminal.” He took a swig of beer. “Fuck them.”

I could picture this on Cuban TV with some creative film editing. The anti-American demonstration would look like half of Havana. The friendly group — who had somehow gotten word of the fleet’s arrival — wouldn’t be seen on Tele Rebelde. I asked, “Any police? Military?”

“A few cop cars. But the cops just sat there, then a loudspeaker blasted something in Spanish and everybody left.”

End of spontaneous demonstration.

Jack said, “Tell your lady friend this wasn’t the big welcome she talked about.”

Nor the welcome that Antonio had talked about. And that made me wonder how Antonio knew so much about the arrival of the American fleet if it hadn’t been reported on the news. Maybe the same way that the anti-American group knew about it — from the police.

In any case, the news blackout and the staged anti-American protest was a peek into the regime’s mind-set about the Thaw. No big deal, unless the tournament was going to be cancelled. I asked, “Any word about your sail to Cayo Guillermo?”

“We leave at first light.”

“Okay. Before you sail, I want you to get to a pay phone, or borrow a cell phone from a local, and call the Parque Central Hotel.” I gave him my cashier’s receipt that had the hotel phone number on it. “You’ll leave a message for Mr. MacCormick in Room 615. If you’re sailing for Cayo, your message is, ‘My flight is on time.’ If the tournament has been cancelled, your message is, ‘My flight has been cancelled.’ And your name is...” I looked at the cigars. “Cristo.” I asked him, “How copy?”

He smiled at the Army radio lingo. “Solid copy.” He asked, “Why do you think the tournament—?”

“I don’t think anything. But I have no way of knowing if the Commie assholes are going to find an excuse to cancel the tournament.”

“If they do, you might as well go home.”

Easier said than done. On the subject of the Commie assholes finding an excuse to cancel the tournament, I asked, “Did the crews or the fishermen have any trouble on shore with the police or the locals?”

“Not that I know of. We all started out together — maybe fifty of us, and three women fishermen, two not bad-looking — and we hit the bars. We all had these Pescando Por la Paz baseball caps, but I gave mine to a Cuban broad. Everybody in the bars and on the streets was friendly, and we bought lots of drinks for everyone.”

“And a few for yourselves.”

He smiled. “We spread goodwill. Then some of us split up.” He showed me a piece of paper and said, “This is our visitors’ pass or something. We all have to be back on the boats by midnight.”

“Make sure you are.”

“No problem.” Jack was checking out the cigar lady in the fishnet stockings and asked, “Where does a sailor get laid around here?”

Recalling Sara’s lecture on that subject, I informed him, “Being with a prostitute will get you four years in the slammer.”

“That sucks. But how much do they charge?”

“Jack, you’re on an important mission. Keep your dick in your pants.” I should talk. Jack looked unhappy, so I said, “I’m sure you can charm the pants off a señorita after a few drinks and dinner.”

He smiled. “I need a wingman.”

“I have a date.”

“Yeah? Your girlfriend has you on a short leash?”

I ordered two more beers. Jack had his Zippo and we fired up the Monte Cristos.

I asked him, “Did the customs guys search the boat?”

“No. They didn’t even go below. They were happy with their gifts and welcomed us to Cuba.”

“Did you declare the guns?”

“They were stowed in the locker and I forgot them.”

“Okay... Did you remember the extra ammo and the Kevlar vests?”

“Cost me a fortune.” He asked, “Did you find out how we’re getting the money onboard?”

“No, but I’ll find out when Sara and I get to Cayo Guillermo.”

“And how am I supposed to find out?”

“Did you ask Felipe if he knows anything?”

“Yeah. I asked. And he said, no comprende.”

And he could be telling the truth. But not the whole truth. I said to Jack, “I’m sure someone will get word to you — or to Felipe — while you’re in Cayo.”

“How much money is this?”

“Let’s just say we’ll have some heavy lifting to do.”

“What do I do if you don’t show up by the time the fleet sails for home?”

“You and The Maine sail home with the fleet.”

He looked at me. “I can’t do that.”

“That’s an order.”

He watched the smoke rising from his cigar.

“Jack, don’t worry about what you can’t control. You just go and have a nice tournament.” I added, “As for getting me, Sara, and the money onboard, as you saw at the pier, everyone in this country is on the take.”

He reminded me, “You and me spent some time in fucked-up countries like this. You ever been double-crossed by the locals?”

“At least once a week.”

“Me too. So—”

“So if we get double-crossed, we do what we did then. Shoot our way out.”

“You got a gun?”

“No. You do. Four of them.”

“You need a gun before you get to Cayo Guillermo.” He looked at me.

Well, I knew where this was going, and I knew that Jack didn’t have condoms in his fanny pack. “How did you get it past customs?”

“Easier than I thought.” He explained, “The two Cuban guys who came aboard gave us customs forms that we filled out and signed. Nothing to declare. They took the forms and their loot and left.”

I informed Jack, “Having a gun in Cuba is not your constitutional right — it’s your death sentence.”

“Well, sonny, in my country, gun control means using both hands.” He added, “Your Glock will increase the chances of you — and my money — getting to The Maine.”

“And increase my chances of getting arrested if I get stopped and searched on my way out of this bar.”

Jack quoted from one of his T-shirts. “Better to have a gun and not need it than to need a gun and not have it.”

“Right. Okay... thanks.”

“You don’t mean that now, but you might later.” Jack drank his beer and commented, “This shit isn’t half bad. We need this in the States. I can use my million to open a U.S. franchise when the embargo is lifted.”

I reminded him, “Half a million for deployment and half a mil for combat pay if we get shot at.” I also reminded him, “They don’t have to hit you.”

He looked at me through his cigar smoke. “I forgot to tell you — the Glock is costing you half a million.”

“It’s actually my gun.”

“I risked my life getting it to you.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Tell you what, Captain, if you don’t want the gun, I’ll take it back to the boat.”

“I’m surprised you’re not a millionaire already.”