Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“Sí, señora.”

Sara ordered a daiquiri — just like in Toronto — and I ordered a diet Coke so I could keep a clear head.

Sara said to me, “You should be trying something local.” She said to the waitress, “Please give this gentleman a Cuba Libre.” She asked me, “Have you ever had one?”

I smiled. “Once. On my boat.”

The waitress left to get our drinks and Sara asked, “Do you sail?”

“I’m a fisherman.”

“What do you fish for?”

“Peace.”

“That’s good.”

She looked at me. “I’m Sara Ortega. Do you love me?”

“I do.”

She leaned toward me. “Can we start all over?”

Meaning, can I put all the bullshit behind me? Why not? Life is short. “Sure.”

“The only lies you’re going to hear from me tonight or ever again are what I say to Felipe.”

I remembered a similar promise, but I replied, “Okay.”

“Are we going to be together when we get back?”

“I’d like that... but... you know, sometimes when people are thrown into a dangerous situation together—”

“They see what the other person is made of. I like what I’ve seen.” She looked at me.

“Me too.” I’ve done a great job. Sara, too.

Our drinks came and we touched glasses. Here’s looking at you, kid. Cue the soundtrack.

I said, “I assume I’m supposed to know that you and Felipe are an item.”

She nodded. “I was supposed to tell you.”

“When?”

“After we landed at the airport.”

I seemed to recall that when we took a walk at the Nacional, on our first day in Havana, she’d told me she didn’t have a boyfriend, which contradicted what she’d said on my boat when she told me she did have a boyfriend. But she later confessed — after sex — that, actually, she had a boyfriend. I should have written this down.

She reminded me, “I did tell you.”

“I appreciate your honesty.” I suggested, “Sometimes a name helps.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

Good question. If I’d known I was cuckolding Felipe, a teammate, would I have gone to bed with her?

“Mac?”

“It’s a moot question.”

“You sound like Carlos. That’s what lawyers say.”

“I’ve never been so insulted.”

“Let’s change the subject.”

That’s what women say. But I didn’t say that.

She sat back in her chair and confessed, “I’m a little nervous.”

“Drink up.”

“I think he’s going to take one look at us—”

“He already knows. Or he thinks he knows. Or he’s just pissed off that we’ve been together, day and night, for a week.”

She nodded.

“Let’s stick to business. And the business is getting the hell out of here without getting killed.” I assured her, “He knows that, and that’s his primary concern tonight. You are his secondary concern.”

“You know how to make a woman feel special.”

I agreed, “I’m a hopeless romantic.”

I also mentioned my concern about being recognized if our photos were being circulated, or broadcast on TV.

Sara had obviously thought about that — or been briefed — and replied, “The average Cuban wants nothing to do with the police, and they would only be good citizens if the police were looking for a murderer or rapist. They don’t care about enemies of the regime.” She added, “Most Cubans like Americans.”

“We’re Canadians.”

She continued, “The chivatos are another matter, but as you saw with Antonio, most chivatos would like to shake you down before they called the police.” She also reminded me, “There are few if any chivatos in the resort islands.”

“It only takes one.” I asked her, “What if the Ministry of the Interior has offered an actual monetary reward for information leading to our arrest?”

She didn’t reply immediately, then said, “Well... that would be a problem.” She added, “But we won’t be sitting here long after we meet our contact... Felipe.” She explained, “The tournament has booked an extra room at the Melia and Felipe is supposed to have a key, and that’s where we’re going to hide out — and freshen up — until we’re ready to leave here and get our cargo aboard the boat.”

“Okay. And who stays here to watch our cargo, and who goes up to the room?”

“We can work that out when Felipe gets here.”

That should be interesting. I know I don’t want to shower with Felipe. I asked, “Am I fully briefed now?”

“Felipe has information that I don’t have, such as how to get us and the cargo onboard.”

“Right.” Regarding our vehicle, if one of our amigos back in Havana was voluntarily or involuntarily talking to the police about a black ’53 Buick Roadmaster station wagon, we’d have a major problem, second only to the problem of the police connecting me to Fishy Business. We needed to get the Buick out of sight as soon as possible. And the faster we got on the water, the better.

Sara had seated herself so she could see the station wagon through the window and also the lobby entrance. I had my back to both, so I wouldn’t know when our contact — Felipe — arrived until I saw the happy and surprised expression on Sara’s face. Or not so happy if it was the police.

She kept looking at her watch. “He’s late.”

“He’s probably having a few drinks before he gets here.”

“Is that what you would do?”

“I may have done that on similar occasions.”

She looked at me. “You’re cool without being too macho.”

“It’s okay to be honest. As long as you’re fearless.”

She smiled, then looked over my shoulder, and I knew Felipe had arrived.

Sara said to me, “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you.”

She stood, smiled, and said, “Well, look who’s here.”

I stood and turned around. It was Felipe. What a surprise.

Felipe, wearing jeans, sandals, and a silly tropical shirt with a pineapple motif, walked up to us.

He glanced at me, then tried out his smile on Sara and said, “It’s good to see you here.” And he really did look happy. And relieved to see that his girlfriend was alive and well. He didn’t seem as thrilled to see me alive.

This was supposed to look like a serendipitous meeting, so Felipe and Sara did a hug and double-cheek kiss, then he turned to me and put out his hand. We shook and he said, “I haven’t seen you since Key West. How are you?”

I’m glad he didn’t ask me what I’ve been up to. “I’m well. And you look well.”

“Thank you. And you look...”

Unshaven, unkempt, and maybe a bit guilty.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Have a seat,” I said.

He summoned the waitress, whom he seemed to know because he’d been coming here looking for us for the last few nights.

Felipe ordered a daiquiri, which is a close cousin to a pink squirrel, and I knew I could beat him up. Sara and I ordered another round. What the hell?

While the waitress was still there, he asked Sara, “So what brings you to Cayo Guillermo?”

“You.”

He smiled, but clearly he was trying to figure out if I’d seen her naked.

Felipe was looking tan and fit. He was younger than me and younger than Sara, and I wondered what she saw in him. I had no idea what Felipe did for a living when he wasn’t the first mate on Fishy Business , but I had the impression he could have worked in retail. Maybe ladies’ handbags.

He looked around to see if we were alone, then asked Sara, “How did you make out?”

“Good and bad.”

“Tell me the bad.”

“We didn’t get to Camagüey.”

He didn’t look happy. “What happened?”