Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“No note. Let them think we may have been detained by the police.” I added, “Which may be true.”

She didn’t reply.

As the Yalies filed out of the hotel to board the bus, I stopped at the front desk, took the plastic bag out of my backpack, and gave it to the desk clerk. “This is for Señor Neville. Please have it delivered to his room tonight.” I gave the clerk a five.

“Si, señor.” He made a note of it and asked, “Your name?”

“He’ll know who it’s from.”

Sara and I exited the hotel, and she asked me, “What was that?”

“My Hemingway T-shirt.”

“This is no time for jokes.”

“It’s good for my head.”

“You need to grow up.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have an exploding cigar to leave for Antonio.” I asked her, “Did you leave a note in your room for him?”

“I left a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door.”

I pictured Antonio arriving at midnight with a smile and a stiffy. Sorry, amigo. Go fuck yourself.

We boarded the bus and I saw that the driver was now Lope — Antonio’s eyes and ears when he was absent. Well, that could be a problem when Sara and I didn’t return to the bus after dinner. But I had a new teammate — Tad — who would cover for us. Or at least give us a head start.

Tad did a head count and the bus pulled away.

Within ten minutes we were in the Old Town, and we pulled up to Mama Inés restaurant, which was located in a colonial building a few blocks from the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal where Sara and I were expected at 7 in the morning. But we had other travel plans — if all went well at Calle 37.

The restaurant was dark and crowded, and the Yale group was assigned several tables. Sara and I found ourselves sitting with two young couples who should have been wearing T-shirts that said: “Clueless.” We made small talk and I was surprised to discover that these college-educated Americans didn’t completely comprehend that Cuba was a police state.

I changed the subject to sports, and as we waited for our drinks, Sara commented that she and I were going to take a walk along the Malecón after dinner and share a bottle of wine on the beach — which accounted for our backpacks if anyone wondered.

Mama Inés’ clientele, aside from the Yale group, looked like Europeans and some Latin Americans with money. The last Cuban who could afford this place was probably Fidel Castro. More importantly, I didn’t see anyone who looked like they were interested in us.

Dinner was good and our four tablemates got smarter with rum, and one of them told us that Cuba was a Communist country.

Sara glanced at her watch and said in my ear, “Let’s leave.”

“It’s early for our ten o’clock.”

“I want to take a last walk through the Old Town.”

“Okay.”

We stood, wished everyone a good evening, and collected our backpacks. I went to Tad’s table where he was sitting with Professor Nalebuff, the Nevilles, and Alison. I was actually going to miss them. I congratulated the professor on an informative lecture and told Tad and Alison, “Sara and I are going to take a walk on the Malecón, so we won’t be on the bus.”

Tad looked at me with concern. “Be careful.”

I reminded him, “Havana is a safe city.”

He had no reply, but Alison, who I was sure had been briefed by Tad, said to us, “Don’t stay out too late.”

“We’ll stay hydrated,” I assured her. I said to the Nevilles, “You should try a place called Rolando’s tonight, in the Vedado district. Very authentic. Forty-cent drinks and no Hemingway.”

Cindy Neville gave me a nice smile. Richard grunted.

I asked Tad, “What’s on the agenda tomorrow?”

“It’s in your itinerary. The Museo de Bellas Artes, then a tobacco farm in the afternoon.”

We were getting out of here none too soon. “See you in the morning.” I really hoped Alison and Tad hooked up. Life is short.

We left Mama Inés, and also left behind our new alum chums, who, without their knowing, had provided us with some laughs, good cover, and even some degree of safety in the herd.

So, I’d had my last lecture in Havana, my last meeting with Antonio, and my last supper. We were now on the road to Camagüey, Cayo, and home. Hopefully richer and definitely wiser.

Our bus was parked down the street, and we turned in the opposite direction and began walking through the Old Town, toward the Forbidden Zone.

We walked down Calle Obispo, past the Last National Bank of Grandpa, then past Sara’s ancestral home for what was most likely the last time in either of our lives. We also passed by Floridita, the scene of one of our many fateful — and probably stupid — decisions that had brought us to this moment.

I had no sense that we were being followed, but outside of Floridita were two black-bereted policemen who gave us the once-over as we passed by, reminding me that Sara attracted attention and that I was carrying a gun that would put me away for a decade or two.

Sara, too, realized we were shiny fish among sharks and said, “We need a taxi.”

“Right.” I spotted a blue Chevy Impala, circa 1958, cruising the street and I waved him down.

She said to me, “There’s actually something I wanted you to see before we leave Havana.”

There was really nothing in this city that I wanted to see except 57 °Calle 37, but we had time. “Okay.”

We got into the plush rear seat of the big old Impala and Sara exchanged a few words with the young driver, Paco, then said to me, “I told him we want to sightsee. He gets thirty dollars an hour.”

“How much does he charge to outrun the police?”

“With or without a shoot-out?”

Funny. I liked Sara Ortega.

Sara spoke to Paco and we drove out of the Old Town, onto Avenida Salvador Allende, then toward the Plaza of the Revolution. I was starting to get to know the city, and when that happens in a screwed-up place, it’s time to leave. Also, there were so many streets named for revolutionary dates — Avenida 20 de Mayo, Calle 19 de Mayo — that you needed a calendar instead of a road map.

Anyway, we cruised past the Plaza of the Revolution and headed south, toward the airport. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

We continued south and within fifteen minutes were in a district of the city called 10 October, another date that will live in obscurity.

Paco seemed as mystified as I was about why we were in this nondescript suburb, but Sara was directing him through the dark streets, and she said to him, “Calle La Vibora,” then to me, “The Street of the Viper.”

I’ll bet this isn’t on the Yale tour.

We came to a long iron fence on our right, and beyond the fence I could see a complex of tan-colored buildings set among palm trees and open lawns, which looked like a college campus.

Paco seemed to recognize the complex and he glanced quizzically at Sara, who said, “Dobla a la derecha.” He turned right, and she said, “Detente,” but Paco kept going, and Sara said, “Detente!” and he stopped.

She told him to wait, then took her shoulder bag and backpack and got out of the car. I did the same and we stood near the front gates, where four uniformed men stood with submachine guns. The sign out front said: MINISTERIO DEL INTERIOR, and DPTO. SEGURIDAD DEL ESTADO, which I translated as Department of State Security.

I asked, “What is this place?”

“Villa Marista prison.”

She crossed the Street of the Viper and I followed her to the other side, putting some distance between ourselves and the guards.

Paco was still stopped near the main gate, close to the guards, but he suddenly took off like he was wanted for something. He drove down the street, but then did a U-turn and stopped a few hundred feet from us and shut off his lights.