Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“No. But there’s a way around showing our passports.”

“Do I need my wallet or do I need my gun?”

“Neither.” She pulled two blue passports out of her pocket and handed one to me.

I glanced at it and saw it was a Canadian passport, which was a lot more authentic-looking than my Conch Republic passport. I thumbed open the cover and looked at the photo, which was the same as my real passport photo. But my name was now Jonathan Richard Mills. The passport was issued in Toronto. I didn’t even remember being there. “Where did you get this?”

“Amigos.”

“Right.” I looked at the passport pages and saw a few exit and entry stamps. I didn’t know I’d been to London’s Heathrow Airport.

She said, “These passports will withstand visual scrutiny at the toll booth, but not a passport scanner at an airport.”

I reminded her, “We’re sailing home.” I also reminded her, “Our airport photos are probably being circulated, and mine looks a lot like this one.”

“Hopefully, the Ministry of the Interior forgot the Cayo Coco causeway toll booth. And if not, just smile at the toll collector and say buenos días as he’s glancing at your Canadian passport and taking your two CUCs.”

“Okay.” I looked at the solitary toll booth that was placed in the middle of the road so that the toll taker could collect from the drivers in either direction. “Do they have SunPass here?”

“Give him a sunny smile.”

“Right.” I asked, “What’s your name?”

She handed me her Canadian passport. “Anna Teresa Mills. We’re married.”

“When did that happen?”

“That explains my Latina appearance if someone is thinking about the face matching the name.”

“Right.” And obviously someone back in the U.S. thought about it. “Do you speak Spanish?”

“Un poco.”

“Is this going to work?”

“Mac, if you can’t get past a toll booth, we should turn around.”

I didn’t know architects could be so cool and calm. But then I remembered she’d been briefed — or trained — by a retired CIA guy... or maybe not retired.

As we approached the toll booth, a pickup truck pulled in front of me from a side road, and in the bed of the truck were about a dozen men and women, joking and smoking.

Sara said, “Day workers.”

I felt like I was home.

The toll booth guy waved the truck through, but I knew we had to stop.

Sara said, “Don’t offer the passports. Let him ask.”

I pulled up to the booth, smiled, and said to the uniformed toll taker, “Buenos días,” as I handed the guy two CUCs.

“Buenos días, señor... y señorita.” He hesitated, then said, “Pasaporte, por favor.”

I gave him the two passports, which he flipped through, then glanced at me, then bent his head to get a look at Anna Teresa, who was leaning toward the window, smiling at him.

He said something in Spanish and handed me the passports. Adios.

I proceeded onto the causeway. “I’m glad he didn’t ask to see what was in the back.”

“This is not a border crossing.” She added, “I was told this was easy.”

I didn’t ask who told her that, but I said, “Well, we can beat the toll when we leave here.”

The two causeway lanes weren’t much wider than a single lane, and there were no guardrails on the road, which was built on piles of rock. A truck came toward me, and we both had to squeeze to the side, and I thought one of us was going to wind up in the Bay of Dogs. An accident would not be good. “How long is this?”

“I told you. Fifteen kilometers.” She suggested, “Enjoy it.”

I kept my speed down and continued on the causeway, which reminded me of the Overseas Highway where I’d begun this vacation. Gulls and pelicans swept back and forth over the road, and the bay was alive with waterfowl.

Sara said, “I’d like to come back here someday.”

I’d like to get out of here tonight.

The causeway continued in an almost straight line across the bay and I could now see the shoreline of Cayo Coco in the distance.

I thought back to the uniformed toll booth collector, which made me think back to the uniformed passport guy at José Martí Airport — the guy who called ahead and had Sara stopped. I said, “The police could be waiting for us on the other end.”

“There’s not much we can do about it now.”

“Right.” U-turns were not an option.

I could see a jetliner making its slow approach into the island airport, and as it got lower I saw the Air Canada maple leaf logo on its tail. And this brought home the fact that for the rest of the world, Cuba was just a holiday destination. For us, it was a legacy of the Cold War, a place where Americans were loved or hated, depending on who you ran into.

As we got closer to the end of the causeway, I could see what looked like mangrove swamps along the shore. The causeway curved left and I had a clear view of the road that went inland. I looked for police activity on the road, but it appeared to be clear. “I think we’re okay.”

Sara, who had seemed cool as a frozen daiquiri, now took a deep breath. Then, out of the clear blue Cuban sky she asked me, “What did you mean when you said, ‘Give me a call, or stop by the Green Parrot’?”

Well, I guess what I meant was that we were going our separate ways. Freudian slip?

“Mac?”

“Just a dumb joke.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“Right.” Had she been brooding this whole time? I mean, we had more immediate problems.

She said, “If we get out of here alive—”

Like that problem.

“—we’ll have a bond that can never be broken.”

Did her boyfriend have a gun?

“Do you believe that?”

“I do.” I let her know, “The bonds I formed in combat will be with me all my life.” Though I wasn’t having sex with those guys.

“Do you love me?”

“I do.”

“That’s what I needed to know... in case we get... separated.”

“And you?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

We held hands as we drove off the causeway onto Cayo Coco and continued on a narrow tree-shaded road.

“Turn left for Cayo Guillermo.”

Next stop, Key West, Florida, U.S.A.

Cayo Coco, the largest of the islands in the archipelago, seemed to be in the midst of a construction boom, with hotels and cottages rising along the white beaches. This was a different Cuba, and I wondered if all this foreign investment was in anticipation of the arrival of the Americans. If so, the investors might have a longer wait than they thought.

Sara was looking at a map in her Cuba guide book. “Stay on this road for the Cayo Guillermo causeway.”

“Okay.” I spotted a few vintage American cars, which I assumed were taxis, and in fact, an older couple tried to wave me down. I waved back. “Dave Katz should come here.”

“Who’s that?”

“A taxi driver in Key West.”

“ We should come back here. On your boat.”

Did she mean the same boat that we were going to use to escape from Cuba? “I think we’ll be unwelcome here after our Miami press conference.”

She didn’t reply.

I drove onto the Cayo Guillermo causeway, which was lined with anglers, and I saw that one guy had caught a red snapper. “You like sushi?”

“Don’t talk about food.”

The sand banks and shallows along the causeway were pink with hundreds of swaying flamingos, and Sara said, “This is breathtaking.”

“It is.”

The short causeway ended and we were now in Cayo Guillermo — not the end of our journey, but maybe the beginning of the end. And that depended on the Pescando Por la Paz fleet still being here. And we’d know that in about ten minutes.