Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

And how had the skulls survived the bonfire? According to what Eduardo had been told, the skulls, and especially the teeth, were difficult to burn, so they were to be pulverized before burning. And according to Eduardo, this presented an opportunity and an incentive to someone — maybe a worker or a guard or someone who opposed the regime and recognized the potential value and importance of these skulls — to smuggle them out of Villa Marista. For money. Or for truth and justice. Or both.

I saw signs for José Martí Airport, which brought back memories of my arrival when I stepped off the plane a virgin, hoping to make my fortune in Cuba. And hoping to get laid. One out of two ain’t bad.

Sara said, “Turn here.”

I turned left where a sign pointed to A-1, and we came to a ramp that took us to the eastbound lanes of the Autopista. If we drove through the night, we’d be in Cayo Guillermo at about 7 or 8 A.M. And at about 7 p.m., we’d meet our contact in the lobby bar of the Melia Hotel, then sometime in the night we’d get this cargo aboard The Maine and set sail for Key West. What could possibly go wrong?

The divided highway had four lanes in both directions and the pavement was good, though the road lighting was not — which was also good; the darker the better. There wasn’t much traffic heading away from Havana, but enough so that we didn’t look like the only vehicle on the road. But later, as we got farther into the interior, and into the early-morning hours, we might actually be the only vehicle on the highway — certainly the only ’53 Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon, which, even in a country of vintage American cars, would attract almost as much attention as Sara Ortega in a tight dress walking down Calle Obispo at two in the morning.

I mentioned my concern to Sara — without the analogy — and she assured me, “According to Marcelo, the Tráficos — the highway patrol — are underfunded, and they don’t want to burn gas or put miles on their cars if they don’t have to.”

Good that Sara learned so much from Marcelo last year. But all it takes is one Tráfico waking up from his backseat siesta to cause a problem.

She reminded me, “You have a gun.”

“Right.” And I’d use it if I had to.

I pushed the wagon up to what I estimated as sixty miles an hour and it handled okay, despite its ethnically diverse body parts. Which made me think again of our cargo, and do some fact checking.

I wasn’t sure how Eduardo knew that those property deeds were hidden in a church in Havana, and not in the cave at Camagüey as Sara had told me. I could assume that Eduardo knew Sara’s father and/or grandfather, though he didn’t say that, and neither did Sara. Eduardo also didn’t tell me or Sara how the skulls from Villa Marista came into his possession, though the less we knew about that the better. Bottom line, there was a lot of dark matter that held this universe together.

In any case, those exhumed skulls were now sitting next to a trunk of exhumed documents that were to be reunited with the families who’d lost their property, and the skulls were to be reunited with the families who’d lost and loved these men in life. There was something in this for everyone. Mostly loss, unfortunately, but also maybe hope and closure.

We continued on the straight highway, and I hadn’t seen a police car yet, though I’d seen military vehicles in the oncoming lanes. The Buick dashboard had lots of old gauges and instruments, but none of them were working, so for all I knew the engine was overheating, the oil pressure was dropping, and the generator had stopped working. A mechanical problem on the road was basically a survival problem.

“You’re not saying much.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Are you angry?”

“No. I’m saving that for when we’re on the boat.”

She put her hand on my arm. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

Didn’t we have this conversation?

“Mac? You understand why I had to lie.”

“I can answer that question if you can answer the question of what you actually knew and when you actually knew it.”

“I honestly wasn’t sure that Eduardo would be here... or that we weren’t going to Camagüey. Or that either of those trunks would be waiting for us in Havana...”

I didn’t reply.

“I really thought we’d be able to fulfill my grandfather’s promise to his clients.”

Not to mention her promise to me of three million dollars. I thought back to my boat, to when she was pitching this to me. It was, as I suspected, a story too well told, but... “I can believe that Carlos and Eduardo were not completely honest with you. And we both know that you weren’t completely honest with me.”

She didn’t respond directly but said, “What we’re doing... it’s important... and sometimes the ends justify the means.”

I had a flashback to some bad days in Kandahar Province, and I advised her, “Don’t become what you’re fighting.”

She nodded.

“Are there any new surprises in Cayo Guillermo that I should know about?”

She stayed silent for a few seconds, then replied, “When you ask a question like that, you know the answer.”

“Then why would I ask?”

“The answers are all there. I told you, you’re very smart. You just need to take what you know and come to a conclusion.”

This was sounding like Cuban Zen. “Is it something that will please me more than the money?”

“No.”

So that ruled out me killing time on a nude beach in Cayo Guillermo before our 7 P.M. rendezvous at the hotel. Well, I didn’t want to ruin my surprise, so I dropped the subject.

We drove in silence, then Sara said, “I am sorry about the money.”

Not as sorry as I am. But right from the beginning the money seemed more illusion than reality; like El Dorado, the City of Gold, shimmering in the distant hills. How many men died looking for that?

I said, “I’m sure that the exiles and their families will be even sorrier to hear that their money is still in Cuba.”

“We’re going to come back for the money someday. Soon.” She asked, “Will you come with me?”

“No.”

“Think about it.”

“Okay. No.”

“Think again.”

“Maybe.”

“You have adventure in your soul.”

And rocks in my head.

It was 1 A.M., and the traffic was thinning, and there were fewer signs of human habitation along the highway. The terrain was getting hilly and I noticed that the engine strained on the uphill. Was it ironic that this wagon was powered by a boat engine? Was it Karma? Or was it just Chico’s cheapest option? Well, you get what you pay for. Except in Cuba.

Sara said, “Two things have made this trip more important than money.”

“The day at the organic farm, and—?”

“ Us , Mac. We found each other.”

“Right.” With some complications.

“And we are bringing home the remains of those men.”

No argument there. But like everything else in this country, there was undoubtedly a price tag on those skulls, and that made me think of a nation of people who were so desperate that they had become accomplished scammers to survive. Like Antonio. And it occurred to me that maybe those skulls weren’t those of American POWs murdered in Villa Marista prison; that some con artists had capitalized on the story and sold Eduardo and his friends a bill of goods and seventeen random skulls. There was no shortage of executed prisoners in Cuba, and no shortage of Cuban American exiles who’d believe anything that would help topple the regime. But would Eduardo be so gullible? Well, when — or if — we got those skulls out of Cuba, we’d find out, scientifically, what we’d risked our lives for.