“Which is exactly what the regime is afraid of. There’s nothing in it for them, and they’ll pick some fight with the U.S., or . . . arrest some Americans on trumped-up charges in order to set back the process.”
“Is that what you’d like to see?”
“Yes, to be honest.”
“Well, as long as it isn’t us who are arrested.”
She didn’t reply, so I changed the subject. “I’m not sure I’m understanding our supposed relationship.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. As you know, we need to look like we’re having a holiday romance, so that when we disappear—”
“I understand. Happens to me on every vacation.”
“Yes, I’m sure, but not with a tour group in a police state. So to keep Tad and Alison from panicking and calling the embassy, we’ll leave them a note saying we’ve gone to the beach in Mayabeque Province—which is not where we’re going, of course—and we’ll be back in time for the return flight. As Carlos probably told you, we’ll leave our luggage in our rooms as though we’re coming back.”
“Right.”
She continued, “But even if Tad and Alison don’t call the embassy, our Cuban tour guide will report our disappearance to the authorities, who may or may not consider this a serious issue, and may or may not circulate our names and our airport photos to the police in Mayabeque—or all the provinces.”
“I’m listening.”
“Europeans, Canadians, and South Americans are allowed to travel independently around the country, so we won’t stick out in the countryside, and even if we’re stopped by the police I can probably talk us out of getting arrested.” She glanced at me. “We’re just starry-eyed lovers, off on a romantic getaway.”
“Hot as chili peppers.”
She smiled, then said, “We’ll probably be expelled, or possibly just returned to the group.”
“Sort of like catch and release.”
“I like your sense of humor.”
“Thank you. Here’s what’s not funny—if we have the sixty million dollars on us when we’re stopped—”
“Obviously that would be a problem. That’s the critical period—between the cave and The Maine.”
“Right. And if we get arrested with sixty million American dollars, you’ll get your wish about an incident that would set back diplomatic relations.”
“I don’t think our arrest would be enough to refreeze the Cuban Thaw. We’d also have to be executed.”
I saw she was smiling, but I didn’t think that was actually funny.
She said, “We need to take it a step at a time, and worry about it a step at a time. We need to be smarter than the police. Very soon we will be on The Maine, with the money, heading for Key West. That’s what I see in our future, and that’s what you need to see.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Good.”
“And by the way,” I asked, “do you know how we’re going to get the money onboard The Maine?”
“I don’t know at this time.”
“And when do you think you’ll know?”
She stayed silent a moment, then said, “Our contact in Havana will lead us to our contact in Camagüey Province, then my map will lead us to the cave, and a road will lead us to Cayo Guillermo.”
“I got that. How do we get the last five yards over the goal line?”
“We’ll find out when we get to Cayo Guillermo.” She reminded me, “This is all compartmentalized. Fire walls.”
Obviously there was a contact person in Cayo Guillermo, but Sara wasn’t sharing that at this time. So I returned to my more immediate concern and asked, “Am I supposed to romance you? Or vice versa?”
She glanced at me. “Let me fall all over you—as unbelievable as that may seem to our group.”
Was I supposed to smile? I asked, “When do we begin our charade?”
“We start tonight at the cocktail reception. By day four, which is Sunday, when the Pescando Por la Paz fleet leaves Havana for Cayo Guillermo, we’ll be having a romance.”
“Let me make sure I understand—”
“We’ll be sleeping together. Is that all right with you?”
“Let me think. Okay.”
“Good.”
And I get paid for this. There must be a catch.
She stayed silent a moment, then said, “I like you. So it is okay.”
I didn’t reply.
She glanced at me. “And you?”
“Just part of the job.”
“That was going to be my line.”
“You intrigue me.”
“Good enough.”
“And I like you.”
We strolled on in silence, then against my better judgement I said, “I thought you had a boyfriend.”
“I thought you had a boyfriend.”
“Just kidding.”
“Good. Then neither of us has a boyfriend.”
We walked up the sloping grass toward the hotel and reached the pavilion. I said, “I’m lunching in the bar. Join me.”
“We need to stay with the group.”
“I’m grouped out. See you on the bus.”
“Thank you for a nice walk.” She entered the pavilion and I could hear Tad say, “There you are. Have you seen . . . what’s his name?” The roster-snatcher.
I continued across the terrace, where a few dozen turistas were drinking mojitos.
I found the bar called the Hall of Fame and ordered a Corona but settled for a local brew called Bucanero. There was a pirate on the label, which was appropriate for the eight-CUC price. I gave the bartender a ten and sat in a club chair. The patrons were mostly cigar-smoking men, prosperous-looking, maybe South Americans. For sure no Cuban could afford this place, and if they could they wouldn’t want to advertise it.
A young lady in fishnet stockings approached with a cigar tray. “Cigar, se?or?”
“Sure.” I picked out a Cohiba and the young lady clipped my tip and lit me up. Twenty CUCs. What the hell. I’d be lighting my cigars with fifties in a few weeks.
I sat back, drank my beer, and smoked my cigar, surveying the opulent room whose walls were covered with photos of the famous people who’d stayed here in happier times. I wish I’d been at that 1946 Sinatra concert.
But back to the present. Sara Ortega. That was a pleasant surprise.
CHAPTER 16
We arrived at our hotel, the Parque Central, which, as the name suggested, was across from a park in Central Havana.
We filed off the bus, collected our luggage, and entered the hotel, a fairly new building with an atrium lobby surrounded by a mezzanine level that could be reached by a sweeping staircase.
Most of the lobby was a cocktail lounge with a long bar off to the left. I saw that many of the tables were occupied by cigar smokers, filling the air with a not-unpleasant smell, though many of the Yalies seemed horrified. Hey, it’s 1959. Deal with it.
We were checked in as a group by clerks who had never heard of the hospitality industry, but mojitos were handed out to make up for the inefficiency and indifference.
Tad and Alison bailed out, leaving their flock of poor little lambs to fend for themselves—but not before Tad reminded us, “Welcome cocktail party and dinner on the rooftop terrace at five-thirty.”
That was where Sara was going to start falling all over me, so I should take a shower and get there on time.
Sara got her room key and wheeled her bag past me without a glance.