Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“Nothing that greenbacks couldn’t solve.”

“Good... Was there any official welcoming ceremony in the plaza?”

“Not exactly.” I related Jack’s description of what happened.

Sara nodded and said, “The anti-American demonstrators were the BRR — the Brigadas de Respuesta Rápida. The Rapid Response Brigades.”

“What do they rapidly respond to?”

“To whatever the government tells them to respond to.” She explained, “They’re officially sanctioned civilian volunteers who are supposed to look like spontaneous demonstrators. But as I told you, nothing here is spontaneous.”

“Except... love.”

She smiled.

I asked, “Does the BRR turnout mean that the government may cancel the tournament?”

She thought about that, and replied, “The regime is like someone who agreed to host a house party, then changed their mind too late. And we’ll see more of that in the months ahead.” She added, “They’ve been isolated so long that they can’t make decisions. Also, there are pro- and anti-Thaw factions within the regime.”

“So is that a yes or no?”

“If they’re looking for an excuse to cancel the tournament, they’ll find one. But they may be satisfied with the propaganda value of the anti-American demonstration. And they may have another one planned for Cayo Guillermo.”

“Right.” I asked, “How did all the pro-American Cubans know about the fleet’s arrival?”

“Word of mouth, which is bigger than texting here. Or Radio Martí, broadcast from the States if it isn’t being jammed.”

“So Antonio could have heard about Pescando Por la Paz from Radio Martí.”

“Or from the Rapid Response Brigades, whose members include los vigilantes — the chivatos who in turn report to the PNR — the National Revolutionary Police.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“This is a police state, Mac. That’s all you have to remember.”

“Right. Okay, we’ll find out tomorrow night where Antonio gets his information.”

“You still want to meet him?”

“When a local offers to sell you information, you never say no. Even bullshit has some Intel value.”

“All right... What else did you learn from your unauthorized meeting with Jack?”

Well, I’m glad you asked. Where do I start? With the gun? Or with Eduardo? I should save the gun for last. I said to her, “Eduardo has stowed away on the boat.” I looked at her.

She kept eye contact and said, “I was afraid of that.”

“Well, if you — or Carlos — knew that Eduardo might pull a fast one, you should have had someone sit on him in Miami.”

She stayed silent, then explained, “Eduardo is... a powerful man.”

“Right. He pays the bills.”

“It goes beyond that. No one says no to Eduardo.”

“So we’re talking about the Cuban godfather?”

“Sort of.” She forced a smile. “But a nice godfather.”

“Well, if I knew what Don Eduardo was up to, I damn sure wouldn’t have said yes to you about this trip.”

“I don’t blame you for being angry. But I didn’t think he was going to—”

“Well, he did. And if the police get hold of him, we could have a serious problem.”

“He would never—”

“I’ve seen the Afghan police reduce Taliban fighters to whimpering children.”

She had no reply.

“All right. If Eduardo wasn’t Felipe’s... whatever, I would have told Jack to throw him overboard.”

“No you would not—”

“I will protect this mission — and my life and yours and Jack’s — at any cost.”

Sara did not look happy, but she looked convinced.

“Meanwhile, Felipe is watching Eduardo on the boat.” I added, unnecessarily, “I don’t want him running around Havana.”

“He... he wants to walk from Cayo Guillermo to his family home, through the countryside. And to visit the cemetery where his family is buried. On All Souls’ Day — the Day of the Dead. That’s what we do.” She looked at me. “Then he wants to die in Cuba.”

Well, that should be easy. I softened a bit and said, “All right. I get it.”

Thinking back to the sundowners on my boat, and my subsequent meetings with Carlos in Miami and Key West, I’d identified a number of things that could go wrong with this mission, and one of them was Eduardo coming along for the ride. Another was Sara coming to the attention of the authorities, and then there was the problem of me getting involved with Ms. Ortega. Well, that all happened. And now there were new problems, like Antonio, and also the gun, which was a problem only if I got caught with it. But if I followed Jack’s advice, the gun could solve the Antonio problem — though I saw no reason for that. Yet.

To add to these concerns was the possibility that the tournament would be cancelled, and/or we wouldn’t meet our contact. But were those problems? Or safe passes home?

Bottom line, we weren’t even out of Havana yet, and as my Scottish ancestors used to say, “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley,” meaning, “This shit’s not working.” Next was Camagüey, the cave, and Cayo, which were going to be a challenge — if we could get out of Havana.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“The road ahead.”

“I’m feeling more confident about that.”

It must be the daiquiris. I also told her, “I briefed Jack about Antonio and our possible problems with the authorities, and about Antonio mentioning Pescando Por la Paz.”

“All right... and did that spook him?”

“It raised his awareness. If it needed raising.”

“I assume he’s still in.”

“He’s in if I’m in.”

“And you’re in.”

“If you’re in.”

“So we’re all in.”

And all crazy. I finished my beer and she finished her daiquiri, then asked, “Did Jack say anything about Felipe?”

“No... just that Felipe was not happy to find Eduardo under the bed.”

“Felipe can handle his uncle.”

“I hope you’re right. And does Felipe know anything about what’s going to happen in Cayo Guillermo that he’s supposed to pass on to Jack?”

“I don’t know what Felipe knows,” she replied.

“How about Eduardo?”

“Eduardo did not want to know any of the operational details about the mission. His only mission is to go home.”

“He’s going back to Miami on The Maine.”

“Let him—”

“Subject closed.”

She called the waiter over, ordered another round, and asked for a light. I limit myself to a cigar a week in Key West. But here, as in Afghanistan, tobacco was not the primary health issue in terms of life expectancy.

Three guitarists appeared and began strolling around the room, strumming and singing. I recognized a few of the songs from Tad’s lecture. I was really getting my money’s worth on this tour.

Sara leaned toward me. “Are the guns onboard?”

Well, three of them are. One was sitting on my fanny. But I didn’t want to upset her — or excite her — with that news until the right moment. I replied, “They are. And Jack also has four bulletproof vests onboard. Hopefully, we will not need them, or the guns.”

She nodded.

The strolling guitarists arrived at our table and asked for a request. Sara, who I noticed didn’t reveal her fluency in Spanish, said in English, “Please play ‘Dos Gardenias’ from the Buena Vista Social Club.”

The three guitarists seemed happy with that and began playing and singing in Spanish. Not bad.

I looked at my watch: 10:35. We had an hour to get to Dos Hermanos if we wanted to go there. Next stop, Key West.

I looked at Sara smoking her cheroot and she saw me looking at her and winked. I tried to picture us together in Miami, or Key West, or even Maine. The picture looked better if we were in a red Porsche convertible.