Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

And why, I wondered, did no one tell me that Sara and Felipe were an item? Maybe Sara was supposed to tell me. And if not her, why not Carlos or Eduardo? Well, maybe because they really wanted me to come onboard, to use a nautical term, and Sara Ortega was one of many shiny lures. Sara, though, did say she had a boyfriend. She just couldn’t remember his name.

Bottom line, this mission was important to Eduardo, Carlos, and their amigos, and they’d do or say anything to make it happen. I could only imagine what they’d said to Felipe to make him agree to send his girlfriend on a dangerous mission with a handsome stranger. And what did Sara say to assure Felipe that she’d keep her legs crossed? I suspect there were promises made and talk of issues larger and more important than two people. And maybe a large cash payment to Felipe, to help him with his jealousy. And no one was really thinking about this moment when it all came together.

And then there was Sara, the object of many men’s affection — me, Felipe, Eduardo, and of course Antonio. Carlos liked her, too, but Carlos was all business. Love is a subparagraph in the contract.

But Sara, I was sure, had thought all this out more than she let on — and maybe more than she knew. She’d teased and flirted a bit on my boat, and I understood what she was doing. And long before we got to Havana, she knew we’d wind up in bed. I mean, I wasn’t sure, but she was. And she told me, matter-of-factly on day one in Havana at the Hotel Nacional, that we had a date. So at least she wasn’t pretending to me or to herself that she had been seduced. She was in fact, as I knew, making a deal with me: sex for reliability and commitment to the mission.

But when you make a deal like that, there are unintended consequences. Like falling in love. I think that’s what happened.

Now we needed to come full circle, back to the mission, and make sure that hearts full of passion, jealousy, and hate didn’t screw it up in the last act. Key West was in sight. Except it would be me at the helm with Jack. And Felipe and Sara would be sitting on the bow — or in a stateroom together. Should I make a captain’s rule — no screwing onboard?

It should be an interesting cruise. But first, cocktails at 7. Then a midnight escape past Cuban gunboats.

I closed one eye and went into that half-sleep that I’d perfected in the Army, with one hand on my gun and one half of my brain awake and alert.

My last conscious thought was that Sara really believed she was in love with me in Cuba — palm trees, danger, daiquiris, moonlight, and love songs. We’d see how this played out in Key West and Miami. But first we had to get there.

I woke from my afternoon siesta, stuck my Glock in my backpack, and made my way through the bush to the road that led to the Melia Hotel.

It was just past 6 P.M., the sun was low on the horizon, and the beach road was deserted. I guessed it was about two miles to the Melia, and I could make it in less than half an hour if I picked up my pace and if a police car didn’t offer me a lift.

On that subject, I felt just a bit guilty about leaving Sara on her own, but she could take care of herself, and splitting up really was a good tactical move. Also, she’d pissed me off.

I’d had no startling revelations during my half-sleep, no subconscious insights or fuzzy feelings, and no epiphany when I woke up. I was actually still pissed off.

And what pisses me off is when people lie to me, and I was also pissed off at Carlos and Eduardo. Carlos had a lot of explaining to do when I got back. Eduardo was a dead man walking, so he got a pass.

If I thought about it, Felipe was the guy who’d been totally bullshitted. And there was more bullshit to come for Felipe.

I passed the Sol Club, and I could see the Melia ahead, set back from the road. I checked my watch. It was 6:30. I noticed that the sun set a little earlier here than in Havana. I also noticed that the sky was dark with fast-moving clouds.

I picked up my pace and walked up the palm-lined driveway of the hotel, hot, sweaty, and looking for the Buick in the circular driveway — but I didn’t see it. Shit.

I was about to ask a car park guy if he’d seen a beautiful lady in a beautiful American car, when I spotted the Buick pulling up. Sara saw me, but stayed in the wagon and spoke to one of the attendants in Spanish, then gave him some folding money and parked the car herself in the driveway. She got out with her backpack, locked the doors, kept the keys, and walked over to me.

I didn’t know what to expect, but she said, “I was worried sick about you.”

“I’m fine. How about you?”

“Do you care?”

This was going to be a long night. “Let’s get a drink.”

We walked into the hotel and found the lobby bar, a dimly lit place called Las Orquídeas, The Orchids, though there wasn’t an orchid in sight. There were, however, lots of empty cocktail tables and chairs, and Sara asked the hostess, in English, to seat us by the window because she wanted a view of her Buick that had seventeen skulls and título de propiedades in the back, though she didn’t explain all that.

We put our backpacks on the floor and sat in facing armchairs, leaving a seat for Felipe to form a triangle.

Sara said, “I was afraid you weren’t going to show up.”

“Where was I going to go?”

“I thought you were going to pick up a woman on the beach.”

Why didn’t I think of that?

“I was also worried you’d get stopped.”

It occurred to me that this mission could proceed without me. “That would have solved at least one problem.”

She leaned toward me. “If you didn’t show up here, I would have searched every inch of this island for you.”

“Same here.”

She sat back in her seat and glanced at her watch, then looked around the lounge. “Most of the guests are in the outdoor bar at this hour, and it’s usually empty here.”

I wasn’t overly impressed that Carlos — or someone — had sent an advance party to scout out the terrain. But I was again encouraged that there was a plan to get us out of here.

Regarding that, assuming Sara and I were the subjects of a police hunt, it wasn’t entirely safe to be meeting Felipe in a public place. The original plan anticipated that our disappearance from the Yale group might trigger a police response, but it would have been a low-priority search for two hot tamales missing from their tour group, and the police would have had fun searching the nude beaches around Havana. But because of shithead Antonio, Sara Ortega and Daniel MacCormick were now suspected of... whatever. And here we were in the bar of the Melia Hotel, and I wondered if our airport photos were appearing on Tele Rebelde.

Well, the lounge lighting was romantically dim, and the last week had changed our appearance a bit, so I didn’t think the waitress was going to start screaming, “Here are the Americanos they’re looking for!” We’d see soon enough.

Sara was staring at me and I flashed a phony smile.

“Where did you go?” she asked accusingly.

“I took a walk. How about you?”

“I stayed where you left me until I got kicked out at five, then I sat in the wagon and cried and worried about you.”

Daniel MacCormick, you are a true and total shit. “I just needed a walk.”

“Don’t do that again.” She added, “You stuck me with the bill.”

“I’ll buy tonight.” Unless Felipe is buying.

A waitress in a sort of sarong came by, wished us good evening, and didn’t start screaming for the police. She asked, “Are you guests of the hotel?”

Sara replied, “We’re at the Sol Club. We’ll pay in CUCs.”