“I’ll let him know the time.”
She glanced at me. “Okay . . . and Carlos will come back to Key West in a few days—at your convenience—to speak to you and Jack about the tournament. And to get a copy of Jack’s passport and some information on The Maine. He’ll have the permit for the tournament and a check to charter your boat.” She smiled. “Secret missions begin with boring details.”
“It’s good when they end that way, too.”
She looked at me. “This will go well.”
That’s probably what they said about the Bay of Pigs Invasion. Not to mention the CIA’s hundreds of attempts to kill Castro. And let’s not forget the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Mariel Boatlift, and the trade embargo.
As Jack might say, the U.S. and Cuba have been fucking each other so long that they both must be getting something out of it.
But we were now on the verge of a new era—the Cuban Thaw. But before that happened I had a chance to do what so many other Americans, including the Mafia and the CIA, had done before me—try to fuck Cuba. I probably had as much chance of doing that as I had of fucking Sara Ortega.
“Why are you smiling?”
“It must be the rum.”
“Then have another. I like your smile.”
“You too.”
We had another, and she said, “Our next drink will be in Havana.”
And maybe our last.
PART II
CHAPTER 11
It was about 8 P.M., and I was sitting at the bar in Pepe’s, a Mexican chain restaurant located in Concourse E of Miami International Airport, drinking a Corona and looking through my Yale travel packet. Probably I should have read this stuff a few weeks ago when Carlos gave it to me in his toney South Beach office, but I kept thinking that this Cuba trip wasn’t going to happen. Well, it was happening. Tomorrow morning. So, as the Yale Travel Tips suggested, I was staying at the airport hotel, located in the concourse about thirty feet from where I was now having a few beers. The Yale group would assemble in the hotel lobby at zero-dark-thirty—5:30 a.m. to be exact.
Jack had driven me to the airport earlier via the Overseas Highway in my Ford Econoline van, which is not my first choice of a midlife-crisis vehicle, but it’s what you need if you own a charter fishing boat. In a few weeks I’ll be trading in the van for a Porsche 911.
Anyway, I had used the drive time to rebrief Jack about his part in the Cuban caper, and I reminded him to pick up the extra ammo before he sailed.
I’d also reminded Jack not to top off in Cayo Guillermo because we’d want The Maine as light as possible if we needed speed when leaving—though stealth is what we wanted. Earlier in the week I’d given Jack a refresher course on the ship’s electronics, so hopefully he could find Havana before he wound up in Puerto Rico. In fact, though, if he just followed the other boats in the tournament fleet he should have no problems.
Jack, while not overly enthused about his Cuban adventure, looked forward to his half-million-dollar cut—though he was conflicted about getting shot at to earn his other half million in combat pay. I promised him, “They don’t have to hit you. I’ll pay you even if they miss.”
Jack suggested I go fuck myself, then asked me how we were going to get the loot aboard The Maine, and I told him, “I haven’t been briefed yet.”
“When you find out, let me know.”
“Someone will let you know—when you need to know.”
“And what if I don’t like the plan?”
“Whatever the plan is, Jack, I’m sure you won’t like it.”
“This is where I could get killed.”
“Or get rich.”
“Or neither. ’Cause I don’t think you’re gonna make it to the boat with the loot.”
“Problem solved.”
I ordered another beer from the barmaid, Tina, and returned to my thoughts. Before you go on any mission, you need to understand what you know, identify what you don’t know, and try to guess what could go wrong. And finally, getting there is only half the fun; you need a clear path home.
So, to replay the last few weeks, after I met Carlos in Miami, he’d come back to Key West, as promised, and Jack and I met him aboard The Maine. Carlos had brought with him the paperwork and permit for The Maine to sail to Cuba with the tournament, and also brought with him The Maine’s new first mate, a young Cuban American named Felipe who seemed competent, and who also seemed to know that this wasn’t about fishing for peace. I didn’t know what they were paying Felipe, but I hope it included combat pay.
Felipe and Jack had hit it off—as long as Felipe understood that Jack was the captain—and they arranged to take The Maine out for a practice run. Felipe had promised me he was familiar with the boat’s electronics.
I’d asked Carlos about the three fishermen who were ostensibly chartering my boat, and he assured me they were actual sports fishermen who knew a rod from a reel so they wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Also, these three men, whom Carlos identified only as “three amigos,” had made arrangements to fly out of Cuba on the last day of the tournament with a destination of Mexico City. The three fishermen were going to stay at a local hotel in Cayo Guillermo, so if The Maine was sneaking out at night before the tournament ended, the fishermen would not be onboard to complicate things if we got into a shoot-out. So there would be only Felipe onboard for me and Jack to deal with if this was a double-cross. And of course, Sara would be aboard.
I had also asked Carlos if Eduardo had any intention of being onboard The Maine and Carlos said no, because Eduardo was persona non grata in Cuba and would be arrested if he stepped ashore—or if Cuban authorities came onboard and checked his ID. So despite my thought that Eduardo wanted to join us, it seemed that he would not see Cuba on this trip—and probably not in his lifetime.
I had also told Carlos about the letters to be opened in the event of my or Jack’s unexplained death or disappearance, and Carlos responded, “I would expect you to do that. But you can trust us.”