The Cuban Affair

  The 90-horse engine didn’t have much more in it, so I maintained my speed, and the headlights got closer. Sara had said the Tráficos used mostly Toyota SUVs, and some of them were unmarked, but I couldn’t make out what was behind us.

  She was staring at her sideview mirror. “I can’t tell.”

  The vehicle got closer and it was in the right-hand lane, about fifty feet behind me, and now I could see that it was a small SUV. I tried to see if there was anyone riding with the driver, but his headlights were glaring and I couldn’t see through his windshield. “How many cops ride in a car?”

  “Usually two. But sometimes one.”

  I could take out one guy easily enough, but a second guy could be a problem.

  The vehicle was less than thirty feet behind us now. He had three other lanes to use but he wasn’t using them.

  I didn’t know who this was, but what I knew for sure was that if it was a cop, he was going to pull us over. And he didn’t need any reason other than to see who was driving the American car at three in the morning.

  Sara said, optimistically, “If it’s a police car and he pulls us over, I’ll speak to him and offer to pay a fine for speeding. That usually does it.”

  Actually, I would speak to him. A Glock 9mm speaks every language.

  “Mac?”

  “What if he asks to see what’s in the rear?”

  She didn’t reply.

  I had no idea if Antonio had alerted the police that Sara was missing, or if he was sitting in the lobby bar of the Parque Central at 2:30 A.M., waiting for his date, torn between his duty and his dick. Hopefully his dick said be patient. But there were a lot of other things that could have gone wrong in Havana—like Chico or Flavio selling us out, or Eduardo singing in the hot seat—and if the police were looking for two Americanos in a Buick wagon, these guys behind us could be waiting for other police cars to arrive, or there could be a roadblock ahead. So I needed to deal with this now. “I assume they have radios.”

  “Yes . . . but they’re not always reliable . . . They rely on their cell phones.”

  The headlights were even closer now and I knew I had to force the situation, so I slowed down and veered toward the shoulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m seeing what he does.”

  “Mac . . .”

  I came to a stop on the shoulder, drew my Glock, and cranked down my window. “Get down.” But she sat there.

  The headlights were less than twenty feet away, and the vehicle was slowing to a stop on the deserted highway.

  My instincts said that the police in Cuba were not used to approaching a car driven by armed desperados, and they probably sauntered over to you with a shitty attitude and their gun in the holster. If so, I should be able to take care of this. But if they were looking specifically for us, they’d have guns in hand.

  The vehicle came to a stop on the highway, and its hazard lights began flashing. I looked over my shoulder and saw that it was definitely an SUV, but its headlights were glaring and I couldn’t see if it had police markings, or how many people were in the vehicle. And no one was getting out. Was he waiting for reinforcements?

  Sara said in almost a whisper, “You’re supposed to get out of your car and go over to them.”

  That would actually make it easier. I stuck the Glock under my shirt and was about to exit the wagon when the SUV suddenly pulled abreast of us, and I drew the Glock as its passenger window rolled down.

  Before I had to make the decision to fire first and answer questions later, a middle-aged lady with a British accent asked, “Are you all right?”

  I took a deep breath. “We’re fine. How about you?”

  “Oh . . . Are you American?”

  “Canadians, actually.” I glanced at Sara, who was sitting with her eyes closed, breathing hard.

  There was a man in the driver’s seat and he leaned past the lady and said, “We’re trying to get to Santa Clara. No bloody road signs. I think we missed it.”

  “It’s up ahead.”

  Sara leaned over. “It can’t be more than five or ten kilometers.”

  “Thank you.” He asked, “Are you having trouble?”

  “Just stopped for a wee pee,” I replied.

  “Oh . . . All right, then. Carry on.”

  The lady said, “I love your car.”

  And off they went, to discover Cuba for themselves.

  Sara opened the door and I asked, “Where are you going?”

  “For a wee pee.”

  “I think I’ll join you.”

  We finished our business and got back on the road. I could see the taillights of the British couple up ahead and I closed the distance.

  Sara said, “That was the most frightening five minutes of my life.”

  I wished I could say the same. “You were very cool,” I assured her.

  She stayed silent, then asked, “If they were police, what would you have done?”

  “Killed them.”

  She had no reply.

  I kept a few hundred yards behind our fellow tourists, and I saw now that the terrain was getting more hilly and the countryside was very dark.

  Sara took Eduardo’s cigar from her pocket, lit it with Jack’s Zippo, then took a long drag and passed it to me.

  We shared the cigar as we drove in silence. She said, “We might not be so lucky next time.”

  “Let’s avoid a next time.”

  Sara was looking at the map. “The exit should be coming up.”

  In fact, I could see the brake lights of our British friends, then their right-hand turn signal.

  I closed the gap and followed them onto the exit, which was marked but unlit. At the end of the exit ramp was a T-intersection, but no sign. The Brits turned left.

  Sara looked up from her map. “Santa Clara is to the left. The middle of nowhere is to the right.”

  I ditched the cigar and turned right onto a dark, narrow road and drove slowly down a hill. There was a small lake to my left, but if there were any houses along this road, they weren’t lit or visible, and there wasn’t a single light in the distance.

  Sara said, “The area around Santa Clara was once known for its tobacco. I think most of the farms are abandoned, so maybe we can find an empty house or barn.”

  “Right.”

  My head beams illuminated the potholed road, but the glare reduced my night vision, so I turned off the headlights, and the moonlight now revealed bare fields, surrounded by low hills.

  Sara checked her map. “Nothing on this road until a place called Osvaldo Herrera, about ten kilometers.”

  “Okay.” I continued slowly with my headlights off, looking for cover and concealment, just like in my Humvee in Allfuckedupistan.

  We went another few hundred yards, and over the next rise Sara spotted a large building up ahead.

  As we got closer, we could see that it was a wooden barn-like structure with a partially collapsed roof. There was a dirt path leading to it and I turned onto the path and drove into the building through a doorless opening. I shut off the engine and the night became very quiet.

  Sara got out, leaving her door open, and I did the same and looked around. I could see the sky through the holes in the roof, but I couldn’t see any window openings. I smelled the faint odor of tobacco, and Sara said, “This was a tobacco-drying shed.”

  “Wasn’t there a tobacco farm on the Yale itinerary for today?”

  “Yes.”

  Coincidence? Or a great cosmic joke? “Check it off.”

  As Sara inspected our accommodations, I went outside and reconned the surrounding terrain. I still couldn’t see a single light in the distance, and I was fairly sure that no one had seen us drive in, and that no one would be calling the police tonight. There might, however, be some activity here in the morning, so we had to get back on the highway at the crack of dawn.

  I came around to the open doorway and noticed my tire marks on the dirt path, so I looked for some fallen
vegetation to cover my tracks. There wasn’t much around, but the moon would set soon, and darkness was the best concealment.

  Sara came out of the barn and asked in a whisper, “What are you doing?”

  “Earning my pay.”

  “Come inside.” She took my arm and led me back into the barn.

  It was past 3 A.M., so we had less than four hours until dawn, then we could get back on the road.

  Sara said, “Let’s get some sleep. You want the front seat or back?”

  Obviously she had never camped out in a combat zone. “I’ll stand watch for the next two hours, then wake you to relieve me, and give you the gun. You’ll wake me at first light, and we’ll leave here as soon as we don’t need to use our headlights.”

  She stayed quiet a moment, then said, “All right.” She asked, “Can I have a kiss?”

  I don’t normally kiss the guards that I post, but I made an exception and we kissed good-night. She climbed into the rear seat of the Buick Roadmaster and shut the door without making a noise.

  The barn door was missing, so I sat on the dirt floor with my back resting against the Buick’s rear bumper, and drew my Glock, facing the open doorway.

  Well, it had already been a long day and a longer night and I should be tired, and I probably was, but I was fully alert. I remember this feeling in Cantstandthishit Province.

  The moon was setting and the sky was dark, and there was no breeze. Tree frogs croaked nearby and a night bird sang in the distance.

  I stared out the open doorway into the darkness, watching for a movement, listening for the sound of a motor or a footstep, or the sound of too much silence.

  It’s always good to visualize the path home, so I did. If we could get through this night and get to Cayo Guillermo in the morning without getting stopped by the police, we were a boat ride from home.

  * * *

  An hour passed, then another, and a false dawn lit up the eastern sky, then sunlight peeked over a distant hill and spread over the empty fields.

  Sara came out of the wagon. “I thought you were going to wake me.”

  “I wanted to see this sunrise.”

  She nodded. “Our next sunrise will be on the water. We’ll see it together.”

  “We will.” I stood. “Time to go.”

  CHAPTER 46

  We found a servicentro on the outskirts of Santa Clara. You don’t pump your own in Cuba, so an attendant filled us up with petróleo especial at about six bucks a gallon, which is pricey if you make twenty dollars a month.

  Sara got out of the wagon and spoke with the young attendant as he pumped, and he seemed more interested in her than the vintage Buick or me sitting behind the wheel with my face in the road map. More importantly, the guy seemed at ease, joking and laughing, and not looking at us like he’d seen our photographs somewhere.

  Sara paid with pesos and got back in the wagon. The pump showed we took fifty-eight liters, about fifteen gallons, and even though I didn’t know how many gallons the tank held, I was sure we could make it to Cayo Guillermo on this tank.

  I pulled away and Sara said, “I told him I was from Baracoa. That’s on the remote eastern tip of the island, where the accents are very different.”

  I didn’t think she could pass as a native, especially with her Teva hiking boots, but the young man seemed like he’d believe anything she said as he was pushing his nozzle into her tank and pumping her up with petróleo especial while thinking of something else.

  She said, “I told him you were my older brother.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And we were taking the American car to Havana to sell it.”

  “Good thinking.” Bullshit must come naturally here.

  We found the entrance to the eastbound lanes of the Autopista, and within a few minutes we were cruising along at an estimated sixty miles an hour.

  There was some early-morning traffic going in both directions, mostly trucks and vans, and though there were no vintage American cars on the highway, no one was gawking at us.

  I noticed a group of people on the side of the highway, waving at us, and I said to Sara, “Friendly people here.”

  “They’re hitchhikers, Mac. They’re waving pesos at us.”

  “I see an opportunity to pay for our gas.”

  “Public transportation is a catastrophe. The people are so desperate that they rely on hitching a ride in anything that moves, and the government has set up botellas—hitching spots—where government workers are assigned to decide who gets to ride in any vehicles that stop.” She added, “Life is very hard here.”

  Actually, it sucked.

  We continued on the Autopista. The sky was clear, as it had been every day since we’d landed in Havana, but on the far horizon I saw black clouds gathering.

  I said, “I hope they’ve had good weather for the tournament.”

  “Do you enjoy fishing?”

  “I don’t fish. My customers fish.”

  “But do you enjoy what you do?”

  If I did, I wouldn’t be on the Autopista. “I like being on the water.”

  “My condo overlooks the water.”

  “So does my boat.”

  “Tonight we go for a midnight cruise on The Maine.”

  “Looking forward to that.”

  We were making good time, but there was no hurry. We had time to kill. I thought about Jack and Felipe and the three fishermen who should be out on the water now, competing with the nine other boats. This was day four of the Pescando Por la Paz, but today was the last day for Fishy Business, one way or the other. Jack and Felipe had been waiting for us, but they didn’t know when—or if—we’d show up. I wondered if Jack was worried about me—or worried about his money. Well, I had two surprises for him; I made it, and the money didn’t. Actually we didn’t even know if the fleet was still there. I said, “Turn on the radio. Maybe we can hear something about the tournament.”

  She turned on the vacuum tube radio and static filled the car. She figured out that the chrome dial tuned in the stations and she played with it for awhile, but all I heard was Cuban music, and a few excited people who Sara said were shit eaters spouting propaganda.

  About twenty miles out of Santa Clara, we hit a bump and the radio went dead and Sara shut it off. “We’ll try again later.”

  “No news is good news.”

  “Here’s some bad news. I see a police car in my sideview mirror.”

  I looked in my rearview and saw the green-and-white Toyota SUV about a hundred yards behind us in the inside lane of the highway, which was now down to three lanes. I was in the middle lane, behind a big truck, and I moved into the outside lane, pushed the pedal to the metal, and slowly came abreast of the truck, blocking the Tráfico’s view of me. I stayed next to the truck and saw the police car move ahead at a high speed in the inside lane. I dropped back and put the Buick behind the truck again.

  Well, this was going to be a cat-and-mouse game for the next three or four hours. We actually had no reason to believe that the police were looking for a 1953 Buick Roadmaster wagon, but by now—8 A.M.—we had lots of reasons to believe they were looking for Sara Ortega and Daniel MacCormick, who had gone missing from the Parque Central. So I shouldn’t play too much cat-and-mouse with my driving and draw attention to ourselves.

  We were definitely in the hills now, and the 90-horsepower was straining on the upgrades. Sara looked at her map. “The next big town is Sancti Spíritus, another half hour or so, then about thirty kilometers farther, the Autopista ends.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “The regime ran out of money when the Soviets pulled out. But we have a few options to get us farther east, then north to the causeway that will take us to Cayo Coco and Cayo Guillermo.” She looked at the map. “There’s the old highway, called the Carretera Central, that continues east into Camagüey Province.”

  “We’ll remember that for next time.”

  “Or this time.”

  I glanced at he
r and saw she had a piece of paper in her hand that she put in my lap. I looked at it and saw it was in fact our treasure map. Copy number three, which she forgot to tell me or Eduardo about.

  “That’s yours,” she said. “For next time—or this time.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “It’s your call.”

  “We don’t have our contact info for Camagüey.”

  “We don’t need that. We have the map.”

  “We need a truck.”

  “Steal one.”

  Well, the lady had balls. Or lots of bluff. “We don’t know if the money is still in the cave.”

  “We’ll find out when we get there.”

  “I guess the question is, do we take the risk?”

  “We’re already in a high-risk situation, Mac. You may have noticed.”

  “I did. But now I’m thinking about not putting our cargo at further risk.”

  “I’ll let you answer that question.”

  “All right . . . well, life’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

  She didn’t reply.

  I drove on, thinking about my three million dollars, which had suddenly reappeared. If we could get to Camagüey Province without getting caught, we could steal a truck, ditch this Buick, find the cave, and drive to Cayo Guillermo with twelve steamer trunks stuffed with cash, then meet our contact tomorrow night, if in fact he or she was at the Melia Hotel every night at 7, as instructed. This could be doable. “How far is it to Camagüey Province?”

  She glanced at the map. “About a hundred fifty kilometers to the border of the province. Then . . . we follow your map to the cave.”

  “Okay . . .” So, putting aside the logistics and the suicidal nature of this detour, I had to consider the cargo we already had, and also wonder if Sara was bluffing or serious. Was she trying to make amends for the aborted mission? “I’ll think about it.”

  “We’ll be in a city called Ciego de Ávila in about an hour. That’s where we need to head north toward the Cayo Coco causeway. Or continue east toward Camagüey.”

  So, causeway or Camagüey? The first option was easier and safer, but my monetary reward would be much smaller. The second option, if it worked, would be a clean sweep—the contents of the cave, plus what I already had in the back of the wagon, and whatever else I could squeeze out of Carlos in Miami. I said, “Eduardo voted no on this. How do you vote?”