The Cuban Affair

  Antonio listened impassively, then said, “Your Spanish is more than ‘un poco.’ ”

  Sara said to me, “Let’s go.” She stood.

  I said to Sara, “Let’s let Antonio tell us why he thinks the police are interested in you.”

  She hesitated, then sat and shot me a very annoyed look.

  I said to Antonio, “You’re on, amigo.”

  He lit another cigarette and said to me—not Sara—“She had a problem at the airport.”

  Did he get that info from Alison? Or the police? “I didn’t see any problem at the airport, and she never mentioned a problem to me.”

  “She had three hundred thousand pesos with her.”

  Well, he could have only gotten that from the police. “That’s not illegal.”

  “It is suspicious.”

  “If you’d been with us today—or if you’ve spoken to Lope— you’d know that Miss Ortega made a donation, in pesos, to the Matanzas Seminary.”

  “Yes, and very kind of her. But the police are interested in the remainder of the money.”

  “It’s all for Cuban charities. But let’s back up. Explain how you know what happened at the airport.”

  “I thought you understood this. My job puts me in contact with tourists—mostly American. The police find this useful, so they ask me to tell them if I see or hear anything that seems suspicious. In some cases they ask me to watch a certain person”—he glanced at Sara—“who they already suspect of criminal or political activities.”

  “And why would the police suspect Sara Ortega of anything?”

  “They don’t tell me everything. But in addition to the problem at the airport, they also told me she has been to Cuba once before. And she is Cuban.”

  Sara interjected, “Cuban American.”

  I asked, “Have you done this before? Telling American tourists—Cuban Americans—that the police were interested in them? And then asking for money?”

  “You have asked enough questions.”

  “Sorry, I’ve got more. What are you telling the police about Miss Ortega?”

  “I am telling them the truth—that she has made some insulting remarks about Cuban socialism.”

  “Did you also tell the police you had a personal interest in Miss Ortega?”

  He smiled. “I don’t tell them everything. But I told them she is having a holiday romance.”

  “Is that why you invited me to come along?”

  “I invited you to come along because the police are now interested in you.”

  He must have told the police that I had questioned F.C.’s marlin trophy. Also, he knew that Sara would not meet him alone. “Why are they interested in me?”

  “Because you and Miss Ortega have disappeared together for lengths of time. You said you were going to Floridita after the Riviera Hotel, but you were not there, as I discovered, and you spent the night out of your assigned hotel. You also left the group after the Museum of the Revolution. All of that is suspicious, and that is what I told the police.”

  “Did you also tell them that Miss Ortega and I just met on this trip?”

  “So you say.”

  Antonio was probably very selective about what he told the police, which is what police informants do to curry favor. It’s also what assholes do.

  He continued, “I also told the police that Miss Ortega was inquiring about an unauthorized visit to the beach.”

  “And you told them, of course, that you offered to drive her to a nude beach.”

  He looked at Sara, perhaps thinking about what could have been—if I hadn’t entered the picture. In fact, Antonio had probably pictured a different meeting here with Sara Ortega, and without me. He would have let her know that the police were interested in her, and told her how he could help her and what she could do for him to return the favor. Good fantasy, but at some point Antonio realized that Sara Ortega wasn’t the kind of woman to be frightened out of her clothes. Then I entered the picture and his fantasy of taking her home morphed into the more realistic possibility of taking five hundred dollars home. Well, ironically, he was onto something, but he hadn’t mentioned Pescando Por la Paz, or my meeting Jack Colby at the Nacional, so my guilt seemed to be by association with Miss Ortega, whose guilt was a result of her birth.

  I said to Antonio, “You haven’t told us anything we haven’t already figured out. So . . . I’ll buy the drinks and contribute to your group tip at the end of the tour.”

  “The end of the tour for you is closer than you think.”

  Why did I know he was going to say that? “Does that mean we’re going to be expelled?”

  “Unfortunately it means something else.”

  I wonder what that could be.

  Antonio chain-lit another cigarette and told us, “As you know, there are those in America and in Cuba who are not in favor of normalizing relations. The regime itself is ambivalent about normalization. Perhaps frightened of what it means.”

  Neither Sara nor I replied, and he went on, “You may have heard that there was an anti-American demonstration at the pier when the fishing fleet arrived.”

  As a matter of fact I did hear that, but I replied, “That’s not good for improving relations.”

  “No, and this was not a spontaneous demonstration. It was . . .”

  “Staged?”

  “Yes. Staged. By the Ministry of the Interior.” He looked at Sara. “As I’m sure Miss Ortega knows, they are a very powerful ministry in Cuba, responsible for internal security, the border guard, and the police. They are also very much opposed to normalizing relations. They are afraid of”—he pointed north—“what is over there.”

  “The Conch Republic?”

  He seemed confused. “America. That is the reality that is coming. But the Ministry of the Interior is looking for an incident that will refreeze the Cuban Thaw and keep the Americans away—and the incident, unfortunately, will be the arrest of Miss Ortega. And you.”

  I wasn’t sure if Antonio was telling the truth, or if he was trying to frighten us into a big tip. “There is absolutely nothing in my background that has anything to do with Cuba.”

  “So you say. But I know the police are investigating your background. Through the Internet. And through sources in Key West. And they are also investigating Miss Ortega’s activities in Miami.”

  That sucked. Well, I had taken down my website when I sold The Maine, but the police might still be able to find something to connect me to Fishy Business. As for Sara, she’d told me she kept a low profile in Miami. I glanced at her and she seemed cool and composed.

  Antonio continued, “I’m not sure when this arrest will happen. But you will probably get a late-night knock on your doors . . . or one door if you are sleeping together.” He added, “They like to do these things when you are most vulnerable—in your beds—and when everyone else is asleep.” He looked at Sara, then at me, waiting for a reaction.

  I asked him, “If the police don’t tell you much, why did they tell you all this?”

  I think Antonio expected a more agitated response from us, and he stayed silent, then replied, “They told me to make myself available for the police interrogation, where I will denounce both of you and write a statement.”

  “Okay, if we buy all that—for five hundred dollars—what are we supposed to do with this information?”

  “You need to get out of Cuba.”

  “If we do that, the police will suspect that you tipped us off.”

  “And if they arrest you, you will tell them that I betrayed them.”

  “We wouldn’t do that to you, amigo.”

  “Of course you would. I am playing a very dangerous game. So it is as important for me as it is for you that you get out of the country.”

  My bullshit detector was beeping, but I said, “Okay, so how do we get out of Cuba?”

  He didn’t take that as a rhetorical question, and answered, “I have made inquiries and I can get you both on a British cruise ship leaving Havana in two
days. It is sailing to Bridgetown, Barbados.”

  Well, that was the second boat ride out of here that I was offered this week. This one sounded too good to be true, but I asked, “How much?”

  He seemed to be thinking about that, then replied, “Whatever is left of Miss Ortega’s three hundred thousand pesos, and an additional thousand American dollars—which I will need for bribes at the pier.”

  Antonio was good at upselling. Five hundred for the advertised special, but for another thousand, plus all our pesos, he’ll throw in a cruise to Barbados.

  Sara said, “We need to think about this.”

  “There is not much to think about. And I will need your answer tomorrow, by noon. I will also need the thousand dollars tomorrow to make the travel arrangements, and then the three hundred thousand pesos when I can assure you of your passage on the ship.”

  Neither Sara nor I replied, so Antonio continued his sales pitch. “Because of the American embargo, no ship of any nation that comes to Cuba may enter a U.S. port for six months after visiting Cuba, so there are not many cruise ships in Cuban ports, but fortunately, this British ship—The Braemar—never enters American waters and is now in Havana.” He continued, “Many Americans come to Cuba by flying to Bridgetown, which is the home port of The Braemar, so there should be no difficulties in getting you onboard for the return voyage to Bridgetown.”

  “Then why do we need you?”

  “To get you through security and passport control—where your names are now on a watch list.”

  Thanks for that, asshole.

  “This is your only opportunity to leave this island.”

  “We understand. And you’ll have our answer tomorrow.”

  Antonio also advised us, “Calling your embassy will put your State Department in a difficult position at this time of sensitive diplomatic negotiations.”

  Should I tell him that Sara Ortega and the Secretary of State were practically classmates at Yale?

  “And if you try to get into the embassy, the police will stop you and discover that you are on the watch list, and arrest you.”

  Should I remind Antonio that Richard Neville wanted to be arrested? He’d get more out of it than me or Sara.

  Antonio also told us, “If you were to be arrested—or if you were to somehow escape from Cuba—your tour group will be expelled. This has happened before. Also, as in the past, to increase tensions, the regime will cancel many goodwill exchanges, including, for instance, the Fishing for Peace tournament.”

  And why did he mention that? To see if I reacted? This was not good news, but I didn’t comment and said, “You understand that Miss Ortega and I are tourists who have just met. We are here with a licensed group to experience Cuban culture, not to overthrow the regime.”

  He smiled, then said patiently, “In Cuba, guilt or innocence is not important. Politics are important. Let me remind you that your compatriot Alan Gross received a fifteen-year sentence for spying and spent five years in prison, and he was innocent.”

  “Apparently he didn’t have someone like you to tip him off.”

  “You are fortunate to have me.”

  “In America we say, with friends like you I don’t need enemies.”

  He seemed uncertain if that was an insult or a compliment. He looked at us. “Despite our differences, I actually like you both, and I’m happy to be in a position to help you out of your difficulties.”

  “Which you helped get us into.” I asked, “Anything else?”

  “My five hundred dollars—which, you will agree, I have earned.”

  “It will be in an envelope at the front desk tomorrow morning.”

  “And the thousand dollars for bribes.”

  “Same envelope.”

  I was about to stand, but then Antonio said, “You understand that I am giving you your life—your freedom.” He looked at Sara and they made eye contact.

  He said something to her in Spanish, and though I don’t understand Spanish, I knew exactly what he was saying.

  She took a breath, and I thought she was going to unload on him, but she controlled her voice and spoke to him in an almost meek tone, and shook her head. Antonio said something else to her and she nodded and replied.

  He looked at me, maybe trying to see if I got what the deal was. I glanced at Sara and she said, “It’s okay.”

  She stood and looked at me. “It’s time to go.”

  I stood, but Antonio remained seated and said to Sara, “You should not have come back.”

  She nodded.

  “But I will get you out of here.”

  Again, she nodded.

  I took her arm and we left. Pharrell was singing, “Because I’m happy . . .”

  CHAPTER 36

  We stood in the dark, quiet street. I asked, “Did I hear what I think I heard?”

  She nodded. “He told me there were rooms available there. But I told him I couldn’t do that with you sitting there while I was with him.”

  “How long do you think it would have taken?”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “Sorry.”

  “But we agreed he’d come to my room tomorrow night—at about midnight.”

  “Okay. And he thinks he has a deal?”

  “He thinks I’m frightened. And he thinks I will enjoy myself.”

  “I can’t believe that slimeball actually did that—even in Spanish—with me sitting there.”

  She looked back at Rolando. “He thinks I’m just a loose woman, and that you and I are just casual lovers. He also thinks that you’d agree I could sleep with him if it was a choice between imprisonment or escape from Cuba.” She added, “I said I’d speak to you, and I was sure you’d agree with that.”

  “I guess we should have seen that coming.”

  “I did. From day one.” She said, “We need to leave tomorrow night.”

  “Right.” I didn’t think we were being watched, but to be safe I said, “We shouldn’t retrieve your backpack tonight.”

  She glanced down the street at the abandoned house, then looked at the bridge over the river. “All right. Let’s walk to Miramar and get a taxi.”

  We walked onto the footpath of the narrow bridge that spanned the Río Almendares, and from here Miramar looked like a pleasant 1950s Florida suburb. I could see why the international community and the Communist elite would want to live here, away from the two million less fortunate souls who were crowded into the decay of Havana.

  We came off the bridge and turned into a palm-lined street of pastel-colored houses. The streets of Miramar were laid out in a grid, and Sara seemed to know the area. We turned north and she said, “The main thoroughfare, Avenida Quinta, is up here and we can find a taxi.”

  We continued and I said, “You noticed that Antonio again mentioned the Pescando Por la Paz.”

  Sara had no response.

  “It’s possible that the police may suspect my connection or they may discover the connection through their background investigation. And if they do, they’ll be waiting for us when we get to Cayo Guillermo.”

  “We’ll worry about that when we get there.”

  That strategy wasn’t in my training manual, but the problems with this mission—including Eduardo running down memory lane—were piling up so fast that it wasn’t worth arguing about.

  Sara looked at the well-kept houses along the road. “These Communist pigs have beach clubs, good food, and access to foreign goods that the Cuban people can only dream about.”

  “I’m sure they’re wracked with guilt.”

  “They’re hypocritical shit eaters.”

  And if the regime was overthrown, the exiles would be back, living in Miramar. I could see Carlos opening a branch office here. “You need to focus on the mission. Not the residents of Miramar.”

  “Don’t lecture me. You’re not Cuban.”

  “I’m not lecturing you. I’m telling you—put the hate on hold and think about why we’re here and how to get the hell out of her
e.”

  She didn’t reply.

  I took my own advice and thought about all the curve balls that had been thrown at us since we stepped off the plane. God was trying to tell us something. And I thought I knew what it was. I asked, “How long would it take us to drive from here directly to Cayo Guillermo?”

  Sara didn’t reply.

  “How long?”

  “Maybe eight hours.”

  “For a few hundred bucks we can find a taxi to take us to Cayo tonight, and we could be there before dawn, get onboard The Maine before they go fishing, and be in Key West in time for happy hour.”

  She took my hand as we walked. “You said the road home goes through Camagüey.”

  “I did say that. But that was before Antonio told us that the police were coming for us—or that the fleet could be ordered to leave.”

  “Why would you believe any of that?”

  “Because it could be true.” I also reminded her, “You have a date with him tomorrow night, so tonight is a good time to leave Havana.”

  She let go of my hand and didn’t reply.

  We came to Avenida Quinta, which was divided by a median and flanked with tropical trees and lined with mansions. A few taxis slowed, then drove on. “So, do we want a taxi to the hotel, or a taxi to Cayo?”

  “We leave tomorrow night for Camagüey Province.”

  “Listen to me. Even if Antonio is wrong about the fleet being ordered to leave, or even if he’s lying about the police arresting us, or us being on a watch list, let’s assume he wasn’t lying about the police investigating our backgrounds. And if the police discover the connection between me and Fishy Business, and if we leave for Camagüey tomorrow, by the time we get to Cayo Guillermo they’ll be waiting there for us. And not only will they get us, they’ll get the money. And the property deeds, and . . . whatever the other thing is.” I asked, “Do you understand all of that? And do you understand what they will do to you in a Cuban prison?”