Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“Okay.”

The Autopista petered out and I followed the traffic to the CC, a badly paved road heading east, and joined a line of trucks and buses in the two slow-moving lanes. Hitchhikers lined the road, calling out to the passing vehicles, and a few of them looked like backpackers from somewhere else: blonde hair, young, fearless and clueless, on a great adventure. God bless them. And I hope they never see what I saw when I was their age.

Sara said, “About thirty minutes to Ciego de Ávila.”

I glanced at her and asked, “If we go to Camagüey, what’s in it for you?”

“Two things. The first is to make good on my grandfather’s promise to his clients. The second is to make good on my promise to you.”

That sounded very nice. But that wouldn’t incentivize me to risk my life. “Tell you what — if we go to the cave and find the money, I’ll split my share with you.”

“Thank you. But I’m not doing this for money.”

“Never turn down money you’ve earned.”

“I’m also giving you this choice so I don’t have to hear you complaining about losing three million dollars.”

“That sounds like put up or shut up.”

“Take your pick.”

“Thanks.”

The CC was moving at about forty miles an hour, and I shared the road with lumbering trucks and farm vehicles that were in no hurry. I spotted an old Ford sedan in the oncoming lane, which made me feel less like the only hot dog in a bowl of chili.

Sara glanced at her map. “There’s a ring road around Ciego de Ávila. When we get on it, we can continue to Camagüey, or take the Carretera Norte to the coast.”

I didn’t reply, and we drove on in silence.

We came to the circular road and the moment of truth. The first exit road headed south, then we came to the exit road that continued east to Camagüey. I slowed down and glanced at her, but she had her head back and her eyes closed.

The road to Camagüey beckoned, like the road to El Dorado, and I hesitated, then waved good-bye to my three million dollars and turned onto the Carretera Norte, toward the sea.

I drove for a few minutes, then said, “I’ll buy you a drink at the Melia Hotel.”

She kept her eyes closed, but nodded.

Well... I would have risked it if it was only me. But I wasn’t going to risk Sara’s life, or risk losing the remains of the forgotten dead who had been waiting too long to go home to their families and their nation. Jack would agree. You never leave a body behind.

There wasn’t as much traffic on the Carretera Norte, and the road was mostly downhill, and the highlands were flattening out as we headed to the coast. “How far?”

She opened her eyes and looked at the map. “About thirty kilometers to a town called Morón, then fifteen kilometers on a road that leads to the Cayo Coco causeway.” She added, “The causeway looks about fifteen kilometers long.”

So, to do the math, it was about sixty kilometers to Cayo Coco. Maybe another hour at this speed. I checked my watch. It was just past 11. We should be in Cayo Guillermo at about 12:30. I said, “I think we’re going to make it.”

“There was never any doubt in my mind.”

“Me neither.”

“Do you have any regrets?”

“About what?”

“The money.”

“What money?”

She put her hand on my shoulder. “We’ll come back someday.”

“Give me a call. Or stop by the Green Parrot.”

She didn’t reply.

I took the treasure map off my lap and handed it to her. “Burn this.”

“It’s yours.”

“Then I say burn it.”

She looked at the map. “A great hike through the Camagüey Mountains.” She fired up Jack’s Zippo, touched the flame to the map, and let it fly out the window.

I took my cigar out of my pocket and handed it to her. “We’re in the home stretch.”

We shared our last cigar as we headed for Cayo Guillermo and our rendezvous with Jack, Felipe, Fishy Business , and fate. I wondered when I’d get my surprise.

We drove through the picturesque town of Morón and took a two-lane road that skirted a lake and cut through an expanse of lush and pristine marshland. A flock of pink flamingos settled into the water, fishing for lunch.

There didn’t seem to be anyone else on this road. “Where is everyone?”

Sara took her eyes off the flamingos and replied, “Most people arrive at the resort islands by boat or plane. There are actually direct commercial flights to the airport on Cayo Coco from Toronto and London, and charter flights from all over Europe.”

“What’s the draw?”

“It’s warm and it’s cheap.”

“Right.” The Europeans would go to hell if they could get a cheap charter package.

She continued, “Also, as you know, this is some of the greatest sports fishing in the world.” She smiled. “In fact, I think there’s a fishing tournament going on right now.”

“I hope so.”

“They’re still here, Mac.” She added, “Someday, maybe soon, Americans will be coming here in droves to fish.”

Not if Eduardo and Carlos and their amigos had anything to say about it. But maybe — now that I needed to work for a living again — I could run charters to Cayo Guillermo from Key West. Two nations, one vacation. All I needed was my boat and a new identity.

The road continued through the wetlands, and up ahead I could see blue water, which Sara said was the Bahía de Perros — the Bay of Dogs — and a spit of land jutting out to the horizon.

She said, “That’s the causeway.”

We continued through the wetlands, which were now giving way to the deeper waters of the bay ahead.

She assured me, “Once we’re over the causeway, we won’t attract any attention.”

“What do we do for the next six hours?”

“Whatever we do, we need to stay close to our cargo.”

“I could use a wash. Are there any nude beaches?”

“What did it say in your guide book that you were supposed to read?”

“I didn’t get that far because I didn’t think we’d get this far.”

“Well, let me brief you. First, there’s not much of a Cuban population on the islands except for day workers at the resorts, so there are no neighborhood watch groups. That doesn’t mean there are no chivatos among the hotel and restaurant workers, but almost all the foreigners on the islands are Europeans, Canadians, and Brits, whom the regime does not associate with suspicious activity.”

I didn’t think any of that was in the guide book. That came from someplace else. I suggested, “Let’s be Canadians again.” I got laid last time.

“There is a police presence on the islands, but I’m told it’s light and soft.”

“That’s a nice change. But, as per what I did read in my guide book, Cayo Guillermo is an entry port, so there’ll be port security and patrol boats.” I added, “Getting in by car is easy. Getting out by boat, maybe not so.”

“We’ll find out tonight.”

“And we’ll find out very soon if the fleet is still here or back in Key West.”

“They’re here,” she said.

“If not, is there a Plan B?”

“We’ll find out when we meet our contact.”

“What if he or she doesn’t show up?”

“He’ll be there, and the fleet will be there.”

“We’ll see. And last but not least, there’s the possibility that the police have connected me to Fishy Business, and are waiting for us in Cayo Guillermo.”

“No, they’ll be waiting for us at the toll booth on the causeway where we have to show our passports.”

“No one mentioned toll booths or passports.”

“It was in the guide book that Carlos gave you.”

“Is there a way around the toll booth?”