As for timing, the Pescando Por la Paz fleet of ten boats was scheduled to leave Key West on Saturday the twenty-fourth, two days after my and Sara’s Thursday flight to Havana with the Yale group. The tournament crews and fishermen would spend Saturday night in Havana for their goodwill visit, but Carlos was emphatic that neither Sara nor I would meet up with anyone from The Maine. Jack, however, wanted to buy me a drink in Havana, so we made a date to rendezvous at the famous Hotel Nacional bar. Carlos doesn’t give the orders.
Carlos had also brought with him an article from the Miami Herald about the Pescando Por la Paz, and I’d seen similar articles in the Key West Citizen. The Cuban Thaw had been big news recently, and though most editorials and articles had been favorable, the hard-core Cuban exile community remained adamantly opposed to Washington’s softening of American policy that had been in effect for over half a century. Basically, people like Carlos, Eduardo, and their amigos wanted F.C. and his brother Raúl gone—preferably dead—before any normalization took place. I myself had no strong opinion on that, as I told Carlos in the Green Parrot.
Also, I’d done due diligence and checked out Carlos’ website and Googled him, and he was legit in the context of who he said he was—a rock star lawyer for the anti-Castro groups in Miami, and he was not shy about it online.
I’d also checked out Sara Ortega’s professional website. She worked for a small boutique architectural firm and she had talent. Maybe, after I was rich, I’d hire her to build me a house somewhere. Her Facebook page didn’t show much, not even a mention of her boyfriend, and there wasn’t much about her on Google.
As for Eduardo Valazquez, he didn’t exist on the Internet, but that wasn’t unusual for a man of his age and occupation. He had, however, been mentioned in a few newspaper articles about the Cuban exile community—if this was the same Eduardo Valazquez—and I could see why he was not welcome in Castro’s Cuba.
Bottom line about Internet sleuthing is that it’s good as far as it goes, but you needed to take most of it with a grain of salt, and you needed some context to interpret what you read. In any case, my due diligence, for what it was worth, hadn’t spotted any red flags, and here I was in Pepe’s.
As for research and Intel about the People’s Republic of Cuba, as I said, I’d convinced myself that this trip wasn’t going to happen, so I didn’t do much of what the Army called “Country Orientation.” How much do you need to know about a place that sucks? More to the point, Carlos had given me a very good briefing, and he’d also assured me that Sara Ortega would be my main source of in-country information, and that aside from the Yale info packet and a Cuba travel guide there wasn’t much I needed to read. Carlos also pointed out that I wasn’t hired for my knowledge of Cuba; I was hired for my knowledge of survival in a hostile environment, i.e., Sara Ortega had the brains, Daniel MacCormick had the balls. Should work.
I’d also asked Carlos about the plan to get me, Sara, and the money aboard The Maine in Cayo Guillermo, and he assured me, “We will have the plan in place before you get to Cayo.”
“And how will I—or Sara—know what the plan is?”
“We will get word to you—and Sara.”
I didn’t bother to ask him how he’d do that, or when, and we both knew that if the Cuban police were hooking up electrodes to my testicles, it was best if I didn’t have this information.
Carlos also informed me, “We want no connection between you and The Maine, so I have the paperwork with me to buy your boat.”
“How much?”
“I have a certified check for the exact amount of your bank loan, payable to your bank.”
Well, now that I could dump this albatross, I wasn’t sure I wanted to part with her, but Carlos assured me, “There is a buy-back clause in the contract, and when you return from Cuba, you can buy your boat back for the same price.”
“Less if it has bullet holes in it.”
He ignored that and said, “The chances of the Cuban authorities somehow connecting Daniel MacCormick the tourist and Daniel MacCormick the owner of The Maine are very slim, but if they do, it might arouse suspicion.”
“I got that.”
He then presented me with a sales contract, some registration paperwork, and the check payable to my bank and drawn on the Sunset Corporation, whatever that was.
“And to be extra cautious,” said Carlos, “I’ve renamed the boat in the tournament paperwork.”
“It’s your boat.”
“And I will have the new name painted on the boat.” He smiled. “The Maine is now Fishy Business.”
“I like it.” But it would always be The Maine to me. And if I did buy it back, I’d have The Maine repainted on it, in gold, and sail it to Portland.
So I signed the paperwork and sold The Maine to the Sunset Corporation. In my next life, I want to be a Cuban American lawyer in Miami with an attaché case full of tricks.
And finally, Carlos had not forgotten the charter fee, and he gave me a certified check for thirty thousand dollars, which I split with Jack. Carlos also gave me a Cuba travel guide as a parting gift.
I congratulated Carlos on his new boat, and his last words to me and Jack before he and Felipe left Key West were, “Vayan con Dios.”
And Jack’s last words after he dropped me off at the airport were, “See you in Havana.”
And mine to him were, “Don’t wreck Carlos’ boat.” I also told him to use some of his money to buy four appropriately sized bulletproof vests.
* * *
I was working on my third beer and second bowl of nachos, half watching the Mets vs. Cubs playoff game on the TV above the bar while I flipped through my Yale travel packet. I glanced at a sheet of paper titled: Thirty Frequently Asked Questions, and read Number One: Everyone says it is illegal to travel to Cuba. Is this trip legal?
Yes was the expected answer. If it was No, there couldn’t be twenty-nine more questions. But for me and Sara Ortega only part of it was legal.
I read on: This program differs from more traditional trips in that every hour must be accounted for. Even the time you spend trying to seduce one of the ladies in your travel group. Well, no, it didn’t say that. But maybe it was implied.
I finished my beer and had a nacho. There were about thirty people in our group according to the roster in my travel packet, and I was happy to discover that I didn’t know any of them. Except, of course, Sara Ortega of Miami, who was actually sitting at a table about twenty feet from me with two ladies who looked very serious and studious, and dressed to repel a second glance.
Sara, however, was wearing a pale blue sleeveless dress that barely covered her knees and loafers that she’d slipped off under the table.