Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“I heard.”

“And they kicked out a tour group.”

I’ll bet I know which group.

“Weren’t you with a group?”

“I was. But then I did independent travel.”

“Did it feel dangerous?”

“Well... I guess it could be. But not for the average tourist.”

“I thought the Cubans wanted better relations.”

“We all have a ways to go.”

She changed the subject. “What are you going to do now, Mac?”

“I was thinking about retiring.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Me too.” She said, “Couple of captains asked me if you were available.”

“I think I’ve had enough of the sea.”

“Lots of guys say that.”

They must also have been shot at by Cuban gunboats.

A guy at the end of the bar wanted another drink and Amber moved off.

I sipped my Corona. It had been five days since my Black Hawk ride to Coast Guard Station Islamorada on Plantation Key. It’s a bit of a blur, but I do remember the second Black Hawk firing a rocket into The Maine and she exploded, burned, and went down. I don’t think I was supposed to see that, and when I asked about it at Islamorada, a Coast Guard officer told me the boat was a hazard to navigation and had to be sent to the bottom. Actually, as I came to understand, The Maine — Fishy Business — was evidence that needed to be buried at sea. She deserved a better fate.

Amber came back and said, “Kitchen’s dumping some fries and wings. You want some?”

“I’m okay.”

Amber looked at me. “You lost some weight. Are you okay?”

“I’m good. How’ve you been?”

“Good.” She found her cigarettes behind the bar. “Mind if I smoke?”

“It’s your bar.”

“I wish.” She lit up and blew a nice smoke ring. She asked, “Did you make it to Fantasy Fest?”

“Missed it.”

“How come?”

“I wasn’t back yet.”

Actually, I was a guest of the Coast Guard on Plantation Key. Along with Jack, Felipe, and Sara. They said we needed medical attention. Actually, only Jack did. The X-ray showed a cracked rib. No big deal. So we wanted out of there, but a Coast Guard doctor said we were quarantined for seventy-two hours, though we were actually being held incommunicado.

On day two, a guy named Keith, who had been with us on the Black Hawk, told us that the Cuban government had implicated me, Sara, Jack, and Felipe in a criminal act that might include murder. This was not good news, but also not unexpected.

The Black Hawks, by the way, were unmarked, as was Keith, and they had nothing to do with the Coast Guard. Keith was in fact a CIA officer, though he never actually said that.

Regarding the murder charges, Keith assured us that we had no extradition treaty with Cuba and this matter could drag on for years. Or be settled diplomatically. In the meantime, Keith was interested in what happened and he needed statements from us, which we said we were happy to give with our lawyers present.

I thought back to what happened in the mangrove swamp. Murder? I could make a case for justifiable homicide. Or even lawful combat. The Guarda Frontera guys were not civilians, and they were armed. On the other hand, I wasn’t a soldier anymore, and we were not at war with Cuba. But... it was Cuba. If the same thing had happened in Sweden, I’d have surrendered. Instead I’d used deadly force. Which was why I was here having a beer at the Green Parrot, and those guys in the mangrove swamp were dead. I did feel some remorse, as well I should. One Human Family. But I would eventually come to terms with what happened in Cuba as I did with what happened in Afghanistan. And as Jack did with Vietnam. Survival is a strong instinct, surrender is not an option, and all combat is justifiable homicide. But you pay a price.

Amber broke into my thoughts. “That guy Carlos who you met here last month came around a few days ago looking for you. Said he went to your house, but you weren’t there.”

“What’d he want?”

“Didn’t say.”

Well, one of these days I needed to talk to Carlos about financial and legal matters, and other things. Did I still have his card?

“He said you weren’t answering your cell phone.” She added, “I tried to call you.”

“Lost my cell in Cuba.” I thought back to our air-sea rescue. Age and infirmity get rescued first, and that was Jack, but he said, “Beauty first,” and Sara went up in the basket, then Jack. Captain goes last and I reminded Felipe that he’d mutinied and wanted to be captain, but he also wanted off The Maine quickly in case the engine blew, so he took the third basket into the chopper, and I went last.

We argued with the crew chief about bringing the two trunks up, but Keith, who seemed to be in charge, said they’d be retrieved by the second Black Hawk. But when we got to Plantation Key and asked for the return of the trunks — our trunks — the story changed, and a Coast Guard officer said they’d gone down with the ship. Which of course was bullshit. And there was more bullshit to come.

Amber glanced at her watch. “Last call.”

“I’m okay.”

As for Carlos, I hope he had insurance on his boat. More importantly, I think he owed me at least fifty grand, and I think I owed him a kick in the nuts. What I knew for sure was that there wasn’t going to be any press conference in Miami. In fact, our new friend Keith strongly suggested to me, Jack, Sara, and Felipe that because of the legal and diplomatic issues we shouldn’t discuss our Cuba trip with anyone — except him. Felipe agreed, and urged me, Jack, and Sara to heed Keith’s advice. Felipe, of course, had worked with Keith’s colleagues — or maybe with Keith himself — on our escape plan from Cuba, and it appeared to me that Felipe was still working for the Company. I mean, you don’t have to read Richard Neville novels to figure that out.

On the more important issue of my money, Eduardo had promised me a consolation prize in lieu of my three million dollars, in exchange for my cooperation and my appearances on radio and TV. But that press conference wasn’t going to happen, and also Eduardo was either dead by now or in a Cuban jail. Or he was wandering around a cemetery. I asked Amber, “What day is this?”

“November second.”

“Day of the Dead.”

“The what?”

“All Souls’ Day. The Spanish call it Day of the Dead.”

“Weird.” She glanced at her watch again. “I gotta run the register and do some stuff. You want to wait? We can go for a beer.”

“I’ll take a rain check.”

“Sure.” She let me know, “I’m off tomorrow.”

“Me too.” I spontaneously suggested, “Let’s go swimming.”

“Sounds good.”

I stood. “I’ll call you.”

“You lost your phone.”

“I have a house phone.” I gave Amber the number. “Call me if you get a better offer.”

“See you tomorrow.”

I went out to Whitehead and began walking toward my house. It was a nice night, the kind of breezy, balmy night you get in the Keys by November, like the nights you get in Portland in summer.

A block from the Parrot was the Zero Mile Marker of U.S. Highway One and I stopped there and looked at the marker, which was actually a standard highway pole with traffic signs attached. The sign on the top said BEGIN, the next one said 1, then NORTH, and finally a small green sign at the bottom said MILE 0.

During the day there’re dozens of tourists here having their pictures taken — thousands every year. And you can get a T-shirt of the sign on Duval. Some people come here believing that the marker has telepathic powers or something, so I stood at the Zero Mile Marker, waiting for some profound thought or a divine message directing me toward the road I needed to take. I thought I heard a voice say, “Go get Amber, get drunk, then take her home and bang her. That will make you feel good.” I don’t think a divine voice would say that. But that’s what I would have heard and done before Sara Ortega.