Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

Sara said, “We made it.”

Indeed we did. “Where’s the marina?”

She glanced at her guide book. “Take a right.”

Cayo Guillermo wasn’t as developed as Cayo Coco, and there was almost no traffic on the narrow road, except for bicycles and Coco cabs. I saw a sign ahead that said: MARINA MARLIN, and I turned into a gravel parking area and stopped.

The marina was a collection of decent-looking buildings along the shoreline, including a big open shed where the fishermen brought their catch to be weighed and photographed while they told fish stories and had a brew. I noticed, off to the left, a shabbier structure flying the Cuban flag, and I assumed this was the government Port of Entry building. In fact, there were four olive drab military-type vehicles in front of the building, and I saw a wooden sign that said: GUARDA FRONTERA. And under that, it said, MINISTERO DEL INTERIOR — same as Villa Marista prison. These assholes were everywhere.

As I watched the building, a guy in an olive green uniform came out, got into one of the vehicles, and began driving toward us. I drove the wagon toward the main marina building, but I saw the guy give us a glance as he passed by.

Some of the docks were visible behind the marina and there weren’t many boats tied. I looked at my watch. It was a little after 1 P.M., and the fleet should still be out. Unless it was in Florida. “I’ll go see what I can find out. You stay with the cargo.”

She said something to me in Spanish that I didn’t understand, but I got her point. “Adios, and good luck.”

She got out of the wagon, walked to the main marina building, and went inside.

Well, this was another one of those moments on which hung the fate of this mission and our own fate. If the fleet had been ordered out of Cuba, we’d be joining the balseros on a raft tonight.

I saw a boat anchored about a hundred yards from the marina — a 100-footer, painted gray, and though I couldn’t see the markings, I saw a Cuban flag flying from its stern, and on its rear deck was a gun turret. That was not a fishing boat.

It occurred to me, again, that too much of this mission relied too heavily on a series of events over which we had little or no control. I would have liked a plan that didn’t depend so much on vaya con Dios.

Another military guy came out of the government building, looked at the American station wagon, then got into his vehicle and drove off. Must be lunch time. And here we were parked right next to a Guarda Frontera and customs and immigration facility whose employees made a living asking for your passport. Pasaporte, señor? What was my name again?

Sara came out of the marina and I couldn’t tell from her face if she had good news or if we were swimming home.

She got into the wagon and said, “Good news. Fishy Business is now in third place.”

I never thought third place would be good news. “They’d catch up if they had a few more days. Okay, where to?”

“Melia Hotel. Down the road a few hundred yards.”

I pulled out of the parking area and turned right on the sand-swept road.

The first hotel we came to was the Grand Carib, then a place called the Iberostar Daiquiri, which reminded me that I needed a drink.

“Turn here.”

I pulled into the long palm-lined driveway of the Melia Hotel, a complex of pink stucco buildings with lush landscaping. This was where the three fishermen were staying while Jack and Felipe lived on the boat, and it was where Sara and I would meet our Cayo Guillermo contact tonight at 7. If he — or she — showed.

Sara, confirming what she’d been told about the Melia, said, “For a nice tip, we can park here tonight in the circular driveway and keep an eye on the wagon from those windows, which are the lobby bar.”

Well, when I pictured this scene after my cemetery briefing, I saw me sitting here in a truck with sixty million dollars in the back. I suppose I should be grateful I got this far. But would I have accepted this job if I knew the sixty million was optional? No. But I might have if they’d told me about the Villa Marista bones.

“Mac? Let’s go.”

“Okay... but now that we’re Canadians, we can get a room here right now and take turns showering and getting some sleep while one of us hangs out in the bar.” Though I didn’t know how we were going to have sex with that plan. “We’ll pay cash.”

“Sounds tempting, but we also need to show visas, and show our means of arrival and departure.”

“Okay, then let’s just go to the bar.”

“We’re not supposed to be here until seven and we’ll follow the plan.” She added, “I have a place we can go. Take a right on the road.”

Sara had obviously been instructed on what to do here and what not to do. All I knew — from Sara in the cemetery — was Melia Hotel lobby bar, 7 P.M. And I guess that was all I needed to know until I needed to know more.

I pulled out of the Melia Hotel and turned right on the beach road. We passed a hotel called the Sol Club, which seemed to be the last hotel on the road. Ahead was an expanse of low tropical growth, punctuated by palm trees, and to our right was the white sand beach and the Atlantic Ocean, where I’d be tonight if everything went according to the plan we’d hear at 7.

We came to the end of the road and a wooden sign that said: PLAYA PILAR. Sara said, “Named after Hemingway’s boat.”

“I never would have guessed.”

“He named his boat for his heroine in For Whom the Bell Tolls. Would you name a boat for me?”

“Of course.” If I had a boat. Anna?

I pulled into the sandy parking area, which was hidden from the road by high bushes, and stopped under a palm tree. There were a few other cars in the parking area, and closer to the water was a long blue building with a thatched roof that looked like a beach bar and restaurant.

Sara said, “We can kill some time here and still keep an eye on the wagon from the back deck.”

Obviously someone had done a recon, which encouraged me to believe that someone knew what they were doing.

We got out of the wagon and retrieved our backpacks from the rear seat. I pulled the Glock out of my belt and shoved it in my pack.

We walked into the restaurant, called Ranchón Playa Pilar, and through a beach bar called Hemingway, which was no surprise. We went out back to a raised wooden deck where a few people sat at plastic tables, mostly couples in their thirties, and others ranging in age from old to young, and in color from pale to lobster red. I could smell french fries.

There was no waitstaff around, so we seated ourselves at a table with a good view of the beach and the Roadmaster. At the other end of the wooden deck was a couple with three children, and the kids were running around, being obnoxious.

Sara said, “I’d like to have children.”

“I’ll have the fries.”

I looked out at the water, which was partially blocked by high sand dunes. There were wooden walkways going out to the beach, and someone had built a lookout tower where I saw people with binoculars and cameras. This was a nice piece of the world.

So we sat there, smelling the fries and salt air, and listening to the surf and the hyperactive children. We could have been anywhere on holiday in the Caribbean or South Florida. But we weren’t. We were, in fact, in Cuba, where, as Sara once said, the police state is not always apparent.

I noticed that the dozen or so customers were dressed in casual beach attire, including bare feet, whereas Sara and I were dressed more like hikers, complete with boots. Also, I was fairly sure I was the only person on the deck with a gun in my backpack. Fitting into your environment is more a matter of state of mind than of attire, and trying to be inconspicuous draws attention.