Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

She said, “I told him you were my older brother.”

“Thanks.”

“And we were taking the American car to Havana to sell it.”

“Good thinking.” Bullshit must come naturally here.

We found the entrance to the eastbound lanes of the Autopista, and within a few minutes we were cruising along at an estimated sixty miles an hour.

There was some early-morning traffic going in both directions, mostly trucks and vans, and though there were no vintage American cars on the highway, no one was gawking at us.

I noticed a group of people on the side of the highway, waving at us, and I said to Sara, “Friendly people here.”

“They’re hitchhikers, Mac. They’re waving pesos at us.”

“I see an opportunity to pay for our gas.”

“Public transportation is a catastrophe. The people are so desperate that they rely on hitching a ride in anything that moves, and the government has set up botellas — hitching spots — where government workers are assigned to decide who gets to ride in any vehicles that stop.” She added, “Life is very hard here.”

Actually, it sucked.

We continued on the Autopista. The sky was clear, as it had been every day since we’d landed in Havana, but on the far horizon I saw black clouds gathering.

I said, “I hope they’ve had good weather for the tournament.”

“Do you enjoy fishing?”

“I don’t fish. My customers fish.”

“But do you enjoy what you do?”

If I did, I wouldn’t be on the Autopista. “I like being on the water.”

“My condo overlooks the water.”

“So does my boat.”

“Tonight we go for a midnight cruise on The Maine.”

“Looking forward to that.”

We were making good time, but there was no hurry. We had time to kill. I thought about Jack and Felipe and the three fishermen who should be out on the water now, competing with the nine other boats. This was day four of the Pescando Por la Paz, but today was the last day for Fishy Business , one way or the other. Jack and Felipe had been waiting for us, but they didn’t know when — or if — we’d show up. I wondered if Jack was worried about me — or worried about his money. Well, I had two surprises for him; I made it, and the money didn’t. Actually we didn’t even know if the fleet was still there. I said, “Turn on the radio. Maybe we can hear something about the tournament.”

She turned on the vacuum tube radio and static filled the car. She figured out that the chrome dial tuned in the stations and she played with it for awhile, but all I heard was Cuban music, and a few excited people who Sara said were shit eaters spouting propaganda.

About twenty miles out of Santa Clara, we hit a bump and the radio went dead and Sara shut it off. “We’ll try again later.”

“No news is good news.”

“Here’s some bad news. I see a police car in my sideview mirror.”

I looked in my rearview and saw the green-and-white Toyota SUV about a hundred yards behind us in the inside lane of the highway, which was now down to three lanes. I was in the middle lane, behind a big truck, and I moved into the outside lane, pushed the pedal to the metal, and slowly came abreast of the truck, blocking the Tráfico’s view of me. I stayed next to the truck and saw the police car move ahead at a high speed in the inside lane. I dropped back and put the Buick behind the truck again.

Well, this was going to be a cat-and-mouse game for the next three or four hours. We actually had no reason to believe that the police were looking for a 1953 Buick Roadmaster wagon, but by now — 8 A.M. — we had lots of reasons to believe they were looking for Sara Ortega and Daniel MacCormick, who had gone missing from the Parque Central. So I shouldn’t play too much cat-and-mouse with my driving and draw attention to ourselves.

We were definitely in the hills now, and the 90-horsepower was straining on the upgrades. Sara looked at her map. “The next big town is Sancti Spíritus, another half hour or so, then about thirty kilometers farther, the Autopista ends.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“The regime ran out of money when the Soviets pulled out. But we have a few options to get us farther east, then north to the causeway that will take us to Cayo Coco and Cayo Guillermo.” She looked at the map. “There’s the old highway, called the Carretera Central, that continues east into Camagüey Province.”

“We’ll remember that for next time.”

“Or this time.”

I glanced at her and saw she had a piece of paper in her hand that she put in my lap. I looked at it and saw it was in fact our treasure map. Copy number three, which she forgot to tell me or Eduardo about.

“That’s yours,” she said. “For next time — or this time.”

I didn’t reply.

“It’s your call.”

“We don’t have our contact info for Camagüey.”

“We don’t need that. We have the map.”

“We need a truck.”

“Steal one.”

Well, the lady had balls. Or lots of bluff. “We don’t know if the money is still in the cave.”

“We’ll find out when we get there.”

“I guess the question is, do we take the risk?”

“We’re already in a high-risk situation, Mac. You may have noticed.”

“I did. But now I’m thinking about not putting our cargo at further risk.”

“I’ll let you answer that question.”

“All right... well, life’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

She didn’t reply.

I drove on, thinking about my three million dollars, which had suddenly reappeared. If we could get to Camagüey Province without getting caught, we could steal a truck, ditch this Buick, find the cave, and drive to Cayo Guillermo with twelve steamer trunks stuffed with cash, then meet our contact tomorrow night, if in fact he or she was at the Melia Hotel every night at 7, as instructed. This could be doable. “How far is it to Camagüey Province?”

She glanced at the map. “About a hundred fifty kilometers to the border of the province. Then... we follow your map to the cave.”

“Okay...” So, putting aside the logistics and the suicidal nature of this detour, I had to consider the cargo we already had, and also wonder if Sara was bluffing or serious. Was she trying to make amends for the aborted mission? “I’ll think about it.”

“We’ll be in a city called Ciego de Ávila in about an hour. That’s where we need to head north toward the Cayo Coco causeway. Or continue east toward Camagüey.”

So, causeway or Camagüey? The first option was easier and safer, but my monetary reward would be much smaller. The second option, if it worked, would be a clean sweep — the contents of the cave, plus what I already had in the back of the wagon, and whatever else I could squeeze out of Carlos in Miami. I said, “Eduardo voted no on this. How do you vote?”

“This is your decision, Mac. And if you decide to go for it, I’m with you. And if you decide not to, I don’t want to hear about the three million dollars — ever.”

Comprende? Well, I give her credit for clarity and balls.

“Whatever you decide, the map is yours. I trust you to let me know if you plan a future trip to Cuba.”

“You know I wouldn’t—”

“I said I trust you.”

“Thank you. I’ll make a decision before we get to Diego Devilla.”

“Ciego de Ávila.”

“Whichever comes first.”

We continued on through the highlands of Santa Clara, which were starkly beautiful and which in no way resembled the mountains of Afghanistan, except for their quiet, brooding presence above the dangerous road.

We drove in silence and passed the exit for Sancti Spíritus. About ten minutes later the highway went to two lanes and Sara said, “The Autopista will end in a few kilometers. We need to get on the CC — the Carretera Central — and continue east to Ciego de Ávila.”