Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

Actually, I’ve had a few months where a twenty-dollar profit would look good. That’s Capitalism.

Eduardo continued, “The people are hungry. There is malnutrition.”

“Sorry to hear that. But to return to the topic of security and this... mission being compromised—”

“You think like a military man,” Eduardo said. “That’s good.”

“Right. So—”

“There is always a chance that we will be betrayed. I will not lie to you. We have lost people in Cuba.”

I had a flashback to the battalion ops bunker where some colonel was saying, “I won’t lie to you, Mac. This is going to be tough.”

I looked at the cabin and saw that Jack was still there, having a smoke. I could see the flickering light of the TV coming from the stateroom below. Maybe Carlos was watching reruns of “I Love Lucy.”

This might be a good time to announce that the sunset cruise was over.

Sara said, “I’d understand if you didn’t want to go to Havana with me. There’s an element of danger, and maybe the money isn’t enough of an incentive. But for me, it’s personal, so I’m going.”

“How is sixty million dollars personal?”

“The money will be returned to those it belongs to — including my family. And some of it will go to our cause. And, of course, you will be paid.” She added, “Carlos says you want five million. Will you take three?”

“Let’s talk about the element of danger.”

“We’ll come to that. But first, now that you know who we are, we’d like you to know how we became who we are.” She nodded to Eduardo.

Well, as I said, I could almost guess Eduardo’s history, but I know that the Cuban exiles like to tell their story, and he began, “My father, Enrique, was a landowner in Cuba. Mostly sugar plantations and sugar mills. When Castro took power, my father and my older brother, also Enrique, were arrested, held in prison, starved, then shot by firing squad. Their last words, according to witnesses, were ‘Viva Cuba.’ ”

Eduardo paused, then continued, “The Communist bastards would sometimes drug those who were to be executed so they had no last words. Or they would starve them, or even bleed them. They wanted no martyrs, no defiant words at the execution wall.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“But there’s more. My mother and I were forced out of our home into communal barracks, and sent to work in the fields we once owned. My sister, who was ten years of age, became ill and was taken from us and never seen again. My mother died of overwork — or maybe a broken heart. With my family all gone... there was no reason to stay, so I escaped and made my way to a coastal village, where I and a few others stole a small sailboat. But there was no wind and we were six days at sea. An American Coast Guard cutter saw us and brought us aboard, as they did in those days before the rules changed, and they took us to the Coast Guard station in Key West.” He paused, then said, “I will be forever grateful.”

And forever pissed off. And who could blame him? I didn’t grow up in South Florida, but I’ve been here long enough to hear similar horror stories from people of Eduardo’s age. Like Holocaust survivors, they’re not forgetting, and there’s no reason they should. But it’s a heavy thing to live with. I didn’t know what to say, except, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I believe that God saved me so I could bring justice to all who have suffered at the hands of these godless monsters.”

I really didn’t want to engage in this conversation, but I asked Eduardo, “If you and your friends ever overthrew the regime, would you take revenge? Like shoot Communists?”

“Every one of them.”

Sara interjected, “All we want is justice. The return of our property, and the right to return to Cuba. We seek the establishment of human rights, and the freedoms we have here.”

That should be easy after Eduardo shoots all the Commies.

Eduardo said, “Sara has designed a beautiful monument to be built in Havana, dedicated to all the martyrs who have been murdered by the regime.”

I’m never sure what to say when I’m in the presence of anyone who’s committed to a cause. My mother says I’m self-absorbed. She’s probably right. But I had to say something appropriate to what I’d just heard, so I said, “I hope you get to build that.”

Sara finished her rum, then said to me, “As for my family, my grandfather was a bank president, working for an American bank in Havana. I can’t tell you his name or the name of the bank and you’ll understand why.”

Eduardo’s cigar had gone out and Sara relit it with her own. There was some obvious affection between them. She continued, “My grandfather often said that most people in Cuba were in denial about Castro’s forces, which were growing stronger in the Sierra Maestra mountains. And the Batista government and the newspapers mocked the revolutionaries, and my grandfather said there was a false sense of security in Havana.”

Substitute Kabul for Havana and I’ve been there.

“But my grandfather was a smart man and he could tell that the days of the Batista government were numbered even before Castro’s forces moved out of the mountains toward Havana.”

All this talk about Castro, Batista, and 1959 made me think about The Godfather Part II, which I’d just seen again on TV a few weeks ago at 2 A.M. I remembered that Michael Corleone had come to the same conclusion as Sara’s grandfather: Batista was finished.

Sara continued, “My grandfather gathered all the American and Canadian dollars in his bank, and also jewelry and gold coins kept in the safe deposit boxes. He also asked his customers to transfer their other assets to his bank so he could have it all flown to his bank’s headquarters in America. Everything was packaged individually with the names of the depositors on the packages, and receipts were issued by my grandfather.” She looked at me. “This money never got out of Cuba.”

“And here we are.”

She nodded. “There were also land deeds and other monetary instruments in these packages, as well as about sixty million dollars in currency, which was a lot of money in 1958.”

“It’s actually a lot of money now.”

“Yes, but then it was worth almost a billion dollars in today’s money.” As the granddaughter of a banker, she reminded me, “There is over half a century of lost interest on that money.”

“That’s what happens to money when you hide it under the mattress.”

“It’s actually hidden in a cave.”

“I’m not sure I want to know that.”

“There are over twenty thousand caves in Cuba. Cuba is riddled with caves.”

“And I assume you know the one where your grandfather deposited his clients’ assets.”

She nodded.

“How do you know that no one’s made a withdrawal?”

Eduardo replied, “The cave was sealed by Sara’s grandfather. It is still sealed.”

I didn’t ask him how he knew the cave was still sealed, but he must know or we wouldn’t be talking about going to Cuba. I was starting to see a picture of me with a pick ax.

Sara poured herself a Coke and continued, “On New Year’s Day 1959, Castro’s forces entered Havana and Batista fled the country. My grandfather wasn’t immediately arrested because he worked for the American bank, and Castro was telling the world that his revolution was not Communist. Which, of course, was bullshit.”

The obscenity coming from Sara’s nice lips caught me by surprise and I smiled, but she wasn’t smiling, so I nodded.

“My grandfather was questioned by the revolutionary police about the bank’s assets, and he said that his wealthy depositors had sent their money out of the country months before because they were frightened about the revolution. He actually kept a second set of books to show to the police. In fact, a few wealthy Cubans had gotten their money out, but most delayed too long in getting themselves out.”