Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

That was the more important issue. “Hopefully, he’ll alert the embassy, who will call the Ministry of the Interior, who will deny we are in their custody but will be put on notice that the U.S. Embassy is aware of our absence and concerned.”

She nodded.

“Unfortunately, before Tad makes that call, Antonio will have made his call to the police sometime before dawn, and the Ministry of the Interior will e-mail our airport photos to every police station, military installation, airport, and seaport in the country, including Cayo Guillermo.”

She stayed silent, then asked, “Do you think we’re going to make it?”

“We are going to give it our best shot.”

She nodded. “Do you remember what I told you in our room at the Nacional?”

“About...?”

“About us sitting on the bow of your boat, with Jack and Felipe in the cabin, looking at the horizon as Key West comes into view.”

“Right.”

“And I said that our mission is blessed. And that just as you returned home from Afghanistan, you will return home from Cuba.”

“I remember that.”

“You need to believe that. That is what got you home from the war.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “When you are blessed, and when your cause is just, God is with you, and you are strong.”

I nodded. And I recalled something handwritten on a piece of paper that had made the rounds among the troops: Fate whispered to the warrior, “You cannot withstand the coming storm.” And the warrior whispered back, “I am the storm.”

“We’re going home. Jack and Felipe are going home. And the warriors are going home.”

It was about 2:30 A.M., and we were almost three hours out of Havana. I hadn’t seen another vehicle for awhile, and I was feeling conspicuous by their absence.

On another issue, if I was getting about fifteen miles to the gallon, we had, theoretically, enough fuel to drive a few more hours. But that was based on two assumptions: that Chico had topped off the tank, and that he hadn’t swapped the standard twenty- or twenty-five-gallon tank for something smaller.

Also, without a working speedometer or odometer, the math had too many unknowns. But based on my estimated speed of 60 mph, and three hours on the road, I figured we were about one hundred and eighty miles out of Havana — about three hundred kilometers. It was about another three hundred kilometers to Cayo Guillermo, though a lot of that was on secondary roads, and that could take over four hours.

But my main concern at the moment was hearing the engine sputter. Then having a Tráfico stop to see what our problem was.

The interior lights didn’t work, so Sara was reading the road map by the light of her otherwise useless cell phone. “We should be approaching Santa Clara — a fairly big town.”

“Will they have all-night gas stations?”

“Yes. But... us pulling into a gas station at three in the morning might not be a good idea.”

“Right. But I’m not sure of our fuel situation.”

She thought about that and said, “I think we need to get off the road and continue at dawn when we won’t be the only car on the highway.”

We probably had more gas than I thought, but the real issue now was a police car pulling up behind us. “Okay.”

The signage on the Autopista was either nonexistent or unlit, but we looked for the Santa Clara exit.

Meanwhile, Mama Inés’ ropa vieja was just a distant memory and my stomach was growling. “Did you pack anything to eat?”

“I have some chocolate from the minibar that I might share with you.”

“I’ll give you a hundred thousand pesos.”

She retrieved a Kit Kat from her backpack and we split it. I wondered who was going to pick up our minibar charges at the Parque Central. Well, they had our luggage and all our clothes. My suitcase alone was worth at least fifty dollars.

We drove on, and we were definitely pushing our luck regarding police cars. I would have gotten off the road anywhere, but there were deep drainage ditches along the shoulders and we were basically stuck on the limited-access highway until the next exit.

Meanwhile, I was listening for the sputter of the engine, and looking for headlights in my rearview mirror.

And sure enough, I saw headlights cresting the hill behind us. Sara also saw them in her sideview mirror, but didn’t say anything.

The 90-horse engine didn’t have much more in it, so I maintained my speed, and the headlights got closer. Sara had said the Tráficos used mostly Toyota SUVs, and some of them were unmarked, but I couldn’t make out what was behind us.

She was staring at her sideview mirror. “I can’t tell.”

The vehicle got closer and it was in the right-hand lane, about fifty feet behind me, and now I could see that it was a small SUV. I tried to see if there was anyone riding with the driver, but his headlights were glaring and I couldn’t see through his windshield. “How many cops ride in a car?”

“Usually two. But sometimes one.”

I could take out one guy easily enough, but a second guy could be a problem.

The vehicle was less than thirty feet behind us now. He had three other lanes to use but he wasn’t using them.

I didn’t know who this was, but what I knew for sure was that if it was a cop, he was going to pull us over. And he didn’t need any reason other than to see who was driving the American car at three in the morning.

Sara said, optimistically, “If it’s a police car and he pulls us over, I’ll speak to him and offer to pay a fine for speeding. That usually does it.”

Actually, I would speak to him. A Glock 9mm speaks every language.

“Mac?”

“What if he asks to see what’s in the rear?”

She didn’t reply.

I had no idea if Antonio had alerted the police that Sara was missing, or if he was sitting in the lobby bar of the Parque Central at 2:30 A.M., waiting for his date, torn between his duty and his dick. Hopefully his dick said be patient. But there were a lot of other things that could have gone wrong in Havana — like Chico or Flavio selling us out, or Eduardo singing in the hot seat — and if the police were looking for two Americanos in a Buick wagon, these guys behind us could be waiting for other police cars to arrive, or there could be a roadblock ahead. So I needed to deal with this now. “I assume they have radios.”

“Yes... but they’re not always reliable... They rely on their cell phones.”

The headlights were even closer now and I knew I had to force the situation, so I slowed down and veered toward the shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m seeing what he does.”

“Mac...”

I came to a stop on the shoulder, drew my Glock, and cranked down my window. “Get down.” But she sat there.

The headlights were less than twenty feet away, and the vehicle was slowing to a stop on the deserted highway.

My instincts said that the police in Cuba were not used to approaching a car driven by armed desperados, and they probably sauntered over to you with a shitty attitude and their gun in the holster. If so, I should be able to take care of this. But if they were looking specifically for us, they’d have guns in hand.

The vehicle came to a stop on the highway, and its hazard lights began flashing. I looked over my shoulder and saw that it was definitely an SUV, but its headlights were glaring and I couldn’t see if it had police markings, or how many people were in the vehicle. And no one was getting out. Was he waiting for reinforcements?

Sara said in almost a whisper, “You’re supposed to get out of your car and go over to them.”

That would actually make it easier. I stuck the Glock under my shirt and was about to exit the wagon when the SUV suddenly pulled abreast of us, and I drew the Glock as its passenger window rolled down.