Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

Antonio didn’t look offended that I was suggesting the place was dirty, or that he was going to drug us. Also, Antonio could be wearing a wire, but his pants and shirt were so tight he’d have to have the transmitter up his ass.

I said to him, “We told a few people in our group that we were having drinks with you here.”

“So if you disappear, the police will consider me a suspect. Except the police don’t care if you disappear.”

Right. In fact, the police would be the prime suspects in our disappearance.

Antonio asked, “What did you tell Tad and Alison about your absence tonight?”

“I told them we had Fidel’s revenge.”

He looked at Sara. “Que?”

“Diarrhoea.”

He smiled. “That’s why I was absent today. From eating an American apple.”

Asshole.

The waiter brought our drinks, and I opened the bottles myself. No one proposed a toast.

The sunlight had faded from the western sky, replaced by the lights of Miramar, and ninety miles north, across the Straits, was Key West, where Fantasy Fest was in full swing. Life takes some interesting turns.

Antonio got down to business and asked us, “Do you have the money?”

Sara replied, “It is against Cuban law for us to give you American dollars, and we have no reason to give you anything.”

Antonio turned to me, the voice of reason. “Most of my tip money is in American dollars. It is of no consequence.”

“We have no American dollars with us, but if we’re interested in what you say, I’ll put your tip in an envelope and leave it for you at the hotel.”

“I think you don’t trust me.”

“What was your first clue?”

“I’m taking a big risk to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“You are already at risk.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I can.” He looked at Sara. “I have information that the police are interested in you.”

Well, that was no surprise, and that didn’t seem to include me. Unless Antonio was saving the best for last.

Sara looked Antonio in the eye. “There are not many scams or entrapments that I haven’t heard of in Cuba, including this one.”

Antonio informed us, “If this was a police trap, both of you would already be under arrest. And if you think this is a scam, you will be making a big mistake. Your problem is not me — it is the police.”

“You work for the police,” said Sara.

“Everyone in Cuba has two jobs and two lives.” He added, “And two souls. That is how we survive.” He reminded us, “The Cubans double-cross each other. They sell each other out. In the end, we all work for ourselves.”

Right. Also, Antonio had a serious case of multiple personality disorder, and I wasn’t sure which Antonio had shown up tonight. “Okay, so tonight you sell out your police friends for money, and tomorrow you double-cross us.”

“That is a chance you will have to take.”

“No. I can pass.”

“You can. But that could cost you your freedom.”

Sara said to him, “Look at me.”

He looked at her.

Sara spoke to him in Spanish, and I could hear the words “los vigilantes,” “chivatos,” and “Policía Nacional Revolucionaria,” but not the word for “shit eaters,” so she was controlling herself. I mean, not to engage in ethnic stereotyping, but Miss Ortega had a Cuban temper, especially when speaking to someone she believed was a Commie shit eater who had destroyed Cuba.

Antonio listened impassively, then said, “Your Spanish is more than ‘un poco.’ ”

Sara said to me, “Let’s go.” She stood.

I said to Sara, “Let’s let Antonio tell us why he thinks the police are interested in you.”

She hesitated, then sat and shot me a very annoyed look.

I said to Antonio, “You’re on, amigo.”

He lit another cigarette and said to me — not Sara — “She had a problem at the airport.”

Did he get that info from Alison? Or the police? “I didn’t see any problem at the airport, and she never mentioned a problem to me.”

“She had three hundred thousand pesos with her.”

Well, he could have only gotten that from the police. “That’s not illegal.”

“It is suspicious.”

“If you’d been with us today — or if you’ve spoken to Lope — you’d know that Miss Ortega made a donation, in pesos, to the Matanzas Seminary.”

“Yes, and very kind of her. But the police are interested in the remainder of the money.”

“It’s all for Cuban charities. But let’s back up. Explain how you know what happened at the airport.”

“I thought you understood this. My job puts me in contact with tourists — mostly American. The police find this useful, so they ask me to tell them if I see or hear anything that seems suspicious. In some cases they ask me to watch a certain person” — he glanced at Sara — “who they already suspect of criminal or political activities.”

“And why would the police suspect Sara Ortega of anything?”

“They don’t tell me everything. But in addition to the problem at the airport, they also told me she has been to Cuba once before. And she is Cuban.”

Sara interjected, “Cuban American.”

I asked, “Have you done this before? Telling American tourists — Cuban Americans — that the police were interested in them? And then asking for money?”

“You have asked enough questions.”

“Sorry, I’ve got more. What are you telling the police about Miss Ortega?”

“I am telling them the truth — that she has made some insulting remarks about Cuban socialism.”

“Did you also tell the police you had a personal interest in Miss Ortega?”

He smiled. “I don’t tell them everything. But I told them she is having a holiday romance.”

“Is that why you invited me to come along?”

“I invited you to come along because the police are now interested in you.”

He must have told the police that I had questioned F.C.’s marlin trophy. Also, he knew that Sara would not meet him alone. “Why are they interested in me?”

“Because you and Miss Ortega have disappeared together for lengths of time. You said you were going to Floridita after the Riviera Hotel, but you were not there, as I discovered, and you spent the night out of your assigned hotel. You also left the group after the Museum of the Revolution. All of that is suspicious, and that is what I told the police.”

“Did you also tell them that Miss Ortega and I just met on this trip?”

“So you say.”

Antonio was probably very selective about what he told the police, which is what police informants do to curry favor. It’s also what assholes do.

He continued, “I also told the police that Miss Ortega was inquiring about an unauthorized visit to the beach.”

“And you told them, of course, that you offered to drive her to a nude beach.”

He looked at Sara, perhaps thinking about what could have been — if I hadn’t entered the picture. In fact, Antonio had probably pictured a different meeting here with Sara Ortega, and without me. He would have let her know that the police were interested in her, and told her how he could help her and what she could do for him to return the favor. Good fantasy, but at some point Antonio realized that Sara Ortega wasn’t the kind of woman to be frightened out of her clothes. Then I entered the picture and his fantasy of taking her home morphed into the more realistic possibility of taking five hundred dollars home. Well, ironically, he was onto something, but he hadn’t mentioned Pescando Por la Paz, or my meeting Jack Colby at the Nacional, so my guilt seemed to be by association with Miss Ortega, whose guilt was a result of her birth.

I said to Antonio, “You haven’t told us anything we haven’t already figured out. So... I’ll buy the drinks and contribute to your group tip at the end of the tour.”