I took a last drag on my cigar and dropped it over the side, then looked out toward Havana. Close, and yes, cigars. As for escaping from the Yalies, that would be much easier than escaping from the police and the military when we were reported missing. Also, there was the problem of how to get sixty million dollars—and maybe gold and jewels, which are heavier than paper—to Cayo Guillermo, then onboard The Maine. But these were the devilish details that we’d figure out or find out in Cuba. The Army likes to have detailed plans for everything, but everyone knows that even the best battle plans fall apart as soon as the first shot is fired. Then it’s improvisation, instinct, and initiative that save the day. A little luck helps, too.
Sara continued, “There’s a Yale educational group going to Cuba on October twenty-second. I’m signed up for it. So are you. I assume your passport is in order, but you haven’t completed your paperwork for your visa.”
“Did I put down a deposit?”
“You did. With a money order. You’ll need to pay the balance.”
“The word ‘presumptuous’ comes to mind.”
“Let’s call it optimism.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I go without you.”
“How would you get the money out of the country without my boat?”
“There are other ways, as I discovered when I was in Cuba.”
“Then you don’t need me.”
“Not good ways, as I also discovered. The Pescando Por la Paz is the best way.” She explained, “It’s perfect cover, and if we can get the money onboard The Maine . . . let’s say hidden in boxes of provisions, then we don’t have to resort to other methods that could be dangerous.”
This whole idea was dangerous, but I didn’t mention it.
She continued, “Also, sailing back to Key West with the tournament fleet won’t present any problems regarding the Coast Guard or customs.”
Right. We wouldn’t want to get that far and have our sixty million confiscated at the dock. This was sounding easier every minute—or so she thought. The irony was that Sara was being honest with me, but not with herself.
She continued her pitch. “Yale groups go to Cuba two or three times a year. And there are other educational groups I can join. But this group tour, coming at the time of the fishing tournament, is a happy coincidence . . . a gift from God.” She added, “You—and your boat—are the last piece in this plan.”
Well, that sounded like pressure. This was a persuasive lady. I’d buy a boat from her and consider it a gift from God. But I wasn’t sure I’d risk my life for her, or for the money. Also, there was another piece of the plan she hadn’t addressed, and I asked, “If I said yes, how would you and I travel?”
“An authorized charter flight from Miami to José Martí Airport in Havana with the Yale group and other travel groups onboard.” She added, “The Yale group is booked at a good foreign-owned hotel in Havana.”
That wasn’t actually the question I was asking. “Are we traveling . . . as friends?”
She seemed almost embarrassed, then recovered and said, “We won’t even know each other until we meet on the tour.” She added to be clear, “Separate rooms.”
Well, if I said yes, at least I couldn’t be accused of thinking with my dick.
I waited for her to dangle the possibility of something more that might clinch the deal, but she said, “I have a boyfriend.”
“Me too. This is Key West.”
She smiled. “I’ve heard otherwise.”
They really did their homework.
She continued, “As for the Pescando Por la Paz, Carlos has entered another ship in the tournament to hold a place. He can substitute The Maine for that ship.”
That answered the question of why I never heard I was in the tournament. I was feeling like a rock star with a conniving manager who was booking me on a tour that I didn’t know about—and didn’t want to go on.
Sara also informed me, “Friends of Carlos chartered your boat in August.”
I thought back to August and remembered two Cuban American couples on a fishing trip.
“They said you were a good captain.”
“They’re right.”
“They also said you have guns onboard.”
In fact, I have a 9mm Glock, and Jack has a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver that we can use if we’re taking a shark onboard. Also onboard was a Browning 12-gauge shotgun for bird and skeet shooting, and an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle for protection. There are a lot of drug smugglers in the Straits and you don’t want to run into them, but if you do, you need to be prepared. Bottom line, my arsenal is for sport, business, and protection against bad guys, which I guess could include Cuban gunboats.
Sara said, “Carlos says your guns can legally stay onboard in Havana and Cayo Guillermo if Mr. Colby declares them and doesn’t bring them ashore. That is maritime law.”
“Okay.”
“But someone may have to bring a pistol ashore.”
“Not happening.”
“We can discuss that later.”
“What else do I need to know that will get me arrested in Cuba?”
“Only what I’ve just told you.” She admitted, “I have no specific details of anything else. This is compartmentalized information, doled out as we need to know it—in case we’re questioned by the police in Cuba. You understand?”
I nodded, wondering what Sara did for a living when she wasn’t designing monuments. I mean, you don’t usually hear “compartmentalized information” from architects or many other people. Maybe she read spy novels. I asked, “How do you know our Havana contact is not being watched by the police?”
“In a police state, the people learn how to identify the secret police and how to lose them.” She reminded me, “I had no problem meeting my contact last year.”
Sara, having survived one trip into the heart of darkness, was a bit cocky. I’ve been there myself. And I have the wounds to prove it.
She also let me know, “There’s a possibility that when we get to Havana, we won’t be able to meet our contact. Or if we do, he or she will advise us, or get word to us, that it’s too dangerous to continue, and the mission will be aborted. If that’s the case, you’ll be paid fifty thousand dollars for your time and trouble.”
“Do I have to look at architecture for the rest of the tour?”
“You’ll find all the cultural aspects of the trip interesting.” She also told me, “If the mission is on, but you change your mind in Havana—”
“That will not happen.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Okay, if we’re in Havana without a mission, will you go drinking and dancing with me?”
“It would be my pleasure.” She made a show of looking at her watch. “We’re going back to Miami tonight.”
“Why don’t you stay in Key West?”
“People are waiting for us in Miami.”
“Okay.” I stood.
She also stood. “I’d like your answer now.”
“You’ll have it before we dock. I have to speak to Jack.”
“All he needs to know is what he needs to know.”
“Carlos made that clear.” I asked, “Will I be seeing Eduardo again?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I enjoy his company.”
She stayed silent, then said, “He’s an avid fisherman.”
“He should fish in safe waters.”
She nodded. “We’ll see.”
I called out to Jack, “We’re heading back!” I said to Sara, “If you think of anything else I need to know, tell me before we dock.”
“There is nothing else, except . . .”
“Yes?”
“I like your designer T-shirt.” She smiled and tapped my chest. The hook was in.
She also said, “I feel confident that I can put my life in your hands. You survived two combat tours and you can survive Cuba.”
“Well . . . it’s not the same. I commanded a hundred well-trained men in Afghanistan, armed to the teeth, and each man was watching the other guy’s back. In Cuba, it would be only me and you.”
“But you have balls.”