Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“Me too.”

“But you are an asshole.”

“Don’t piss me off. I got a gun. And you don’t.” He thought that was funny.

We sat in silence awhile, enjoying our beers and cigars. A D.J. set up his electronics and played a Sinatra album. Jack was hungry and we got a bar menu and ordered Cuban sandwiches. Frank sang “That’s Life.”

On that subject, I asked Jack, “What happened to the lady you married?”

“She got sick.”

“Children?”

“No.”

“Who are your next of kin?”

“I got a sister in New Jersey.”

“You have a will?”

“Nope.”

“If you don’t make it, how can I find your sister?”

“If I don’t make it, neither will you.”

“Let’s say I make it home, Jack, with the money. How do I get your money to your sister?”

“If you get that lucky, you keep it.”

“Okay. How do I find your sister to let her know you’re dead?”

“You sound like an officer.”

“I’m trying to sound like a friend.”

He finished his beer, then looked off into space.

I changed the subject and asked, “How’s the weather look this week?”

“Next couple of days look okay for fishing. But there’s a tropical depression brewing out in the Atlantic.”

It was the end of the hurricane season, but the Caribbean had been unusually hot for October. “Keep an eye on that.”

“We all are.” He asked, “Why is Havana so much fucking hotter than Key West?”

“Must be the women.”

He laughed. “Yeah. Felipe said if you stick a candle in a Mexican woman it comes out melted. Stick a candle in a Cuban woman and it comes out lit.”

Glad to hear they were bonding. I asked, “Any mechanical issues with the boat?”

“Nope.”

“When are your three fishermen flying to Mexico?”

“They go to Havana Airport right after the last day of fishing. They miss the awards dinner and all that shit.”

“When does the fleet sail for home?”

“About nine the next morning.” He looked at me. “I can develop a mechanical problem and wait for you past nine.”

I had no idea what time or even what day Sara and I would get to Cayo Guillermo, or what the security situation was at the marina, or who’d been bribed, or who might need to be taken out, or who, if anyone, was in Cayo to assist us. As a tactical matter it wasn’t important for me to know any of this right now, but from a psychological point of view it’s always good to visualize the path home.

“Mac?”

“You sail with the fleet. But thanks.”

“Hey, this has nothing to do with you or your girlfriend. This has to do with my money.”

“So if I show up in Cayo without the money—”

“I leave you on the dock.” He did a finger wave and smiled. “Adios, amigo.”

“You’re a tough guy, Jack.”

“Don’t take it personally. And by the way, asshole, you promised the boat to me if you got killed, and then you sold it to fucking Carlos.”

“If you make it back, he’ll be happy to sign it over to you in exchange for you keeping your mouth shut. And if we both get killed, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Jack had no response to that and knocked the ash off his cigar.

Sinatra was singing “New York, New York,” which was where I’d like to be right now.

Well, the time had come to move from future problems to present problems. “Listen to me.” I looked around to be sure no one else was listening. “It’s possible that the police are interested in me and Sara.”

He looked at me.

“If the police question you, here or in Cayo Guillermo, you can say you’ve heard of me in Key West, but you don’t know anything about me being in Cuba, and you don’t know anything about me selling my boat. You never heard of Sara Ortega and you’re just a hired hand. And if they tell you they’ve got me or Sara in jail and we told them otherwise, you stick to your story, ’cause that’s all you got.”

He nodded.

“If you get questioned in Havana, demand a call to the embassy. If you’re in Cayo Guillermo and something smells fishier than the fish, you can tell Felipe what I just told you — if he hasn’t already told you the same thing — and you and Felipe go out fishing with your customers and keep going.”

Jack looked at me. “Why do you think the police are interested in you and Sara?”

I wanted to be honest with Jack, but I honestly didn’t know if this mission was coming apart, or if Sara and I were overreacting, or misinterpreting Antonio’s bullshit. And I wouldn’t know until we met him tomorrow night, and by that time Jack would be in Cayo Guillermo. I asked him, “You remember getting paranoid five hours into a patrol when nothing was happening?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s God’s way of saying this isn’t a walk in the park. Keep your head out of your ass.”

“Okay. But that don’t answer the question.”

“Right.” So I briefed him about Sara’s problems at the airport, and about our Cuban tour guide, Antonio, and Antonio’s interest in Sara. “It could be a personal interest, but maybe something else.”

“Sounds like he just wants to fuck her.”

“Right. But it’s also possible that this guy is a police informant.”

“Yeah?”

I explained that tour guides in Cuba sometimes reported to the police, and I also told Jack, “Antonio mentioned the Pescando Por la Paz a few times. And he knows I’m a Key West fisherman.”

“How’d he know that?”

“He asked our American tour guide about me.”

“Yeah? So this guy’s a snoop and a stoolie.”

“And a lousy tour guide.”

Jack thought about all this and concluded, “You should kill Antonio.”

“He’s not that bad of a tour guide.” I told Jack, “I’m meeting this guy in a bar tomorrow night. I think he’s playing a double game. He wants five hundred dollars to tell me what the game is.”

“Okay. Then follow him home and shoot him in the head. End of game.”

“I think it might be easier for me and Sara to just get out of Havana and head out to where the money is stashed.”

“Maybe tomorrow night is a trap.”

“The secret police in Cuba don’t have to waste time with traps.”

“I told you this place was fucked up.” He also reminded me, “It would be easier to rob a bank in Miami for three million dollars.”

“That’s illegal. This is not. This is fun.”

Jack laughed. “You’re fucked up.”

“Me? You just told me to blow a guy’s brains out.”

“Just a suggestion. Do what you think you gotta do.”

“Thank you.”

The D.J. was playing Dean Martin now, and we sat in silence awhile, then I asked, “Did the security people who came aboard ask to see the boat’s registration?”

“Yeah... One of them checked it against the hull numbers.”

The registration certificate didn’t show the previous owner — me — though that information was available from the state of Florida if you were someone in law enforcement who had a legitimate need to see it. But that didn’t include the Cuban secret police. That was the good news.

Jack, however, had some other news. “A few of the crew on the other boats are from Key West, and they know you just sold The Maine, which is now Fishy Business.”

“Let’s just assume the police are not asking questions about any of this. But ask the other crews to give you a heads-up if they are.” I added, “And tell them: Don’t remember The Maine.”

Jack leaned toward me. “Maybe you and Sara should think about getting out of Cuba.”

“And you should think about becoming a millionaire.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“You’ll never know if I go home.”