Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

I recalled the last time I’d seen The Maine here, the night before Jack drove me to Miami International Airport. I think I’d had a premonition then that I’d never see her again, but that had more to do with me not making it home than The Maine not making it home.

I thought, too, of the time that Carlos, Eduardo, and Sara had come walking down this dock, and Jack saying, “Hey! She’s a looker.” He should have added, “I see trouble coming.” Not that it would have made a difference.

I didn’t feel like going home, so I sat on the dock with my back to a piling and stared out at the water and the sky and smelled the salt air, which always reminds me of being a kid in Maine.

It seemed to me that there was a purpose to all that happened, and the purpose was to free me of all my worldly possessions, my debts and obligations, and also to free myself from what had become the equivalent of my job on Wall Street.

Also, I’d more than fulfilled my wish to have a new adventure. I could have done without the shoot-out in the mangrove swamp or the drive-by shooting with the Zhuk, and for sure I could have done without the 30mm cannon fire. But everything was within my skill set, and a return to combat duty was just what an Army shrink would have ordered to make me healthy and happy. The best cure for post-traumatic stress is new stress.

And now I needed to decide what to do next, which I would do tomorrow. Or the next day. My road trip to Maine sounded good.

I think I drifted a bit, and in those unguarded minutes of half-sleep, Sara’s face and voice crept into my thoughts.

I’d obviously fallen hard, but the reality was that we had not a single thing going for us outside of Cuba. Holiday romances can be intense, but as the old song said, too many moonlight kisses seem to cool in the warmth of the sun.

Aside from the good sex, there was the question of trust. I don’t know as much about women as I think I do, but I was fairly sure that Sara’s lies were situational, a requirement of the mission, and not who she was. That’s why she gave me a copy of the treasure map: to show she trusted me, but also to atone for her lies. I could forgive the lies she’d been instructed to tell me, and the lies of omission — except the lies about Felipe, which were more personal than professional — and she’d lied to him, too. And that could be a peek into the future. And what the hell was she doing in Miami?

So I should consider myself lucky that I’d dodged that bullet along with the others. Mac was free at last.

The sky was getting lighter and the gulls were squawking.

I stood, yawned, and stretched. I’d spent a lot of nights sleeping on my boat, but not many sleeping on the dock.

Charter Boat Row was coming alive and I saw crews and captains getting their boats ready for customers who’d be along in an hour or so. Now that I was not part of this, I could admit it wasn’t so bad, and I would miss it.

I took a last look at The Maine ’s empty slip, and I pictured her there, then I turned to walk back along the dock to go home for a cup of coffee and start packing for Maine. Did I own a sweater?

At first I thought I was still half asleep, or my brain was still conjuring up ghost images, or maybe like a lot of guys who’ve loved and lost, I was seeing her face on every woman walking by. But the woman walking toward me on the dock was wearing white jeans, a blue Polo shirt, and a baseball cap. She had a nice stride.

She waved to me and called out, “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”

We didn’t exactly run into each other’s arms, but we did move pretty fast, and within a few seconds we were embracing, and she said, “Permission to come aboard.”

“Welcome aboard.”

Corny, I know. But... what the hell.

All good fiction is based on fact, and I am fortunate to know people who know more things than I can find on the Internet.

First, I’d like to thank a man who I met in Cuba, and who gave it to me straight about contemporary Cuban politics, culture, and life. He wishes to remain anonymous for obvious reasons, but he’s given himself the code name “Lola.” Thank you, Lola, wherever you are, and take care.

There are many nautical scenes in this book, and growing up on Long Island I know many weekend sailors. I asked four of them to read and vet the scenes set on the high seas. Any mistakes in those scenes are mine alone.

First, thanks to my longtime friend Tom Eschmann, who, like my main character, “Mac,” has fished and sailed the waters of Key West, and there’s little that Tom doesn’t know about boats. Tom is not only an avid fisherman and a great sailor, he’s also an avid reader of fiction, and this happy combination has helped me lend realism to these scenes.

Similarly, my childhood friend Dan Barbiero has spent what amounts to years on the water. Dan (Yale ’66) and his wife, Helen, accompanied me and my wife to Cuba on our Yale educational travel trip, and we learned a lot about Cuban rum and other things. To help me research this book, Dan took lots of notes and many pictures of daiquiris and mojitos, and a few photos of Havana. Thanks, Dan and Helen, for making the trip lively.

I’ve often thanked and acknowledged my great friend John Kennedy, labor arbitrator, and former Deputy Police Commissioner of Nassau County (NY) and Member of the New York State Bar, for sharing with me his expertise in criminal justice and the law. And now I’d like to thank John for sharing his knowledge of the sea. John is a true Renaissance man.

My fourth sailor, Dave Westermann, is also a great friend, a great lawyer, and a great sailor. Weekend cruises with Dave on Long Island Sound and around Manhattan Island on his luxury cabin cruiser that I helped pay for have been a mixture of business and pleasure, and tax deductible to the extent allowed by law.

After thirty-five years with the same publisher, you may have noticed that I am now published by Simon & Schuster, a venerable institution in New York publishing, where I was welcomed with open arms, as though my reputation had not preceded me. Most welcoming were Carolyn Reidy, President and CEO, Jonathan Karp, President and Publisher, and my new and terrific editor, Marysue Rucci, whose own reputation as an excellent editor and author wrangler is well deserved. Thanks to everyone at S&S for making the transition easy and fun.

I would not have been at Simon & Schuster if it weren’t for the efforts and good advice of my savvy and hardworking literary agents, Jenn Joel and Sloan Harris of ICM Partners. Jenn and Sloan love the written word and it shows in the passion they bring to their profession. Sometimes we even talk about money.

This book is peppered with Spanish, and my Spanish is limited to “Corona, por favor,” but I was fortunate to have Spanish speaker Yadira Gallop-Marquez working down the hall from my writing office. Gracias, Yadira, for your patience and your time.

My good friend Michael Smerconish, novelist, journalist, TV and radio host, and political gadfly, was kind enough to share with me his experiences in Cuba, which inspired some of the scenes in this book. Thanks, Michael, for your years of support and enthusiasm for my writing.

As I’ve done in my last dozen or so books, I want to take this opportunity to thank my two fabulous assistants, Dianne Francis and Patricia Chichester. If it’s true that no one wants to see how sausages or laws are made, then it’s doubly true that no reader wants to see how books are written. It’s not pretty. But someone has to see this, and Dianne and Patricia see me, hear me, and put up with me during my many months of sausage-making. Truly, this book would not have happened without them. Thanks again, and know I am appreciative.