I was about to stand, but then Antonio said, “You understand that I am giving you your life—your freedom.” He looked at Sara and they made eye contact.
He said something to her in Spanish, and though I don’t understand Spanish, I knew exactly what he was saying.
She took a breath, and I thought she was going to unload on him, but she controlled her voice and spoke to him in an almost meek tone, and shook her head. Antonio said something else to her and she nodded and replied.
He looked at me, maybe trying to see if I got what the deal was. I glanced at Sara and she said, “It’s okay.”
She stood and looked at me. “It’s time to go.”
I stood, but Antonio remained seated and said to Sara, “You should not have come back.”
She nodded.
“But I will get you out of here.”
Again, she nodded.
I took her arm and we left. Pharrell was singing, “Because I’m happy . . .”
CHAPTER 36
We stood in the dark, quiet street. I asked, “Did I hear what I think I heard?”
She nodded. “He told me there were rooms available there. But I told him I couldn’t do that with you sitting there while I was with him.”
“How long do you think it would have taken?”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Sorry.”
“But we agreed he’d come to my room tomorrow night—at about midnight.”
“Okay. And he thinks he has a deal?”
“He thinks I’m frightened. And he thinks I will enjoy myself.”
“I can’t believe that slimeball actually did that—even in Spanish—with me sitting there.”
She looked back at Rolando. “He thinks I’m just a loose woman, and that you and I are just casual lovers. He also thinks that you’d agree I could sleep with him if it was a choice between imprisonment or escape from Cuba.” She added, “I said I’d speak to you, and I was sure you’d agree with that.”
“I guess we should have seen that coming.”
“I did. From day one.” She said, “We need to leave tomorrow night.”
“Right.” I didn’t think we were being watched, but to be safe I said, “We shouldn’t retrieve your backpack tonight.”
She glanced down the street at the abandoned house, then looked at the bridge over the river. “All right. Let’s walk to Miramar and get a taxi.”
We walked onto the footpath of the narrow bridge that spanned the Río Almendares, and from here Miramar looked like a pleasant 1950s Florida suburb. I could see why the international community and the Communist elite would want to live here, away from the two million less fortunate souls who were crowded into the decay of Havana.
We came off the bridge and turned into a palm-lined street of pastel-colored houses. The streets of Miramar were laid out in a grid, and Sara seemed to know the area. We turned north and she said, “The main thoroughfare, Avenida Quinta, is up here and we can find a taxi.”
We continued and I said, “You noticed that Antonio again mentioned the Pescando Por la Paz.”
Sara had no response.
“It’s possible that the police may suspect my connection or they may discover the connection through their background investigation. And if they do, they’ll be waiting for us when we get to Cayo Guillermo.”
“We’ll worry about that when we get there.”
That strategy wasn’t in my training manual, but the problems with this mission—including Eduardo running down memory lane—were piling up so fast that it wasn’t worth arguing about.
Sara looked at the well-kept houses along the road. “These Communist pigs have beach clubs, good food, and access to foreign goods that the Cuban people can only dream about.”
“I’m sure they’re wracked with guilt.”
“They’re hypocritical shit eaters.”
And if the regime was overthrown, the exiles would be back, living in Miramar. I could see Carlos opening a branch office here. “You need to focus on the mission. Not the residents of Miramar.”
“Don’t lecture me. You’re not Cuban.”
“I’m not lecturing you. I’m telling you—put the hate on hold and think about why we’re here and how to get the hell out of here.”
She didn’t reply.
I took my own advice and thought about all the curve balls that had been thrown at us since we stepped off the plane. God was trying to tell us something. And I thought I knew what it was. I asked, “How long would it take us to drive from here directly to Cayo Guillermo?”
Sara didn’t reply.
“How long?”
“Maybe eight hours.”
“For a few hundred bucks we can find a taxi to take us to Cayo tonight, and we could be there before dawn, get onboard The Maine before they go fishing, and be in Key West in time for happy hour.”
She took my hand as we walked. “You said the road home goes through Camagüey.”
“I did say that. But that was before Antonio told us that the police were coming for us—or that the fleet could be ordered to leave.”
“Why would you believe any of that?”
“Because it could be true.” I also reminded her, “You have a date with him tomorrow night, so tonight is a good time to leave Havana.”
She let go of my hand and didn’t reply.
We came to Avenida Quinta, which was divided by a median and flanked with tropical trees and lined with mansions. A few taxis slowed, then drove on. “So, do we want a taxi to the hotel, or a taxi to Cayo?”
“We leave tomorrow night for Camagüey Province.”
“Listen to me. Even if Antonio is wrong about the fleet being ordered to leave, or even if he’s lying about the police arresting us, or us being on a watch list, let’s assume he wasn’t lying about the police investigating our backgrounds. And if the police discover the connection between me and Fishy Business, and if we leave for Camagüey tomorrow, by the time we get to Cayo Guillermo they’ll be waiting there for us. And not only will they get us, they’ll get the money. And the property deeds, and . . . whatever the other thing is.” I asked, “Do you understand all of that? And do you understand what they will do to you in a Cuban prison?”
She stayed silent, then said, “You can go to Cayo Guillermo if you want. And when you get there, you can either wait for me, or you, Jack, and Felipe can sail off with my transportation home.”
Well, whatever was driving her was too powerful to stop with logic, facts, or even fear. “All right . . . you’ve shamed me into keeping my promise.”
“This will go well.” She took my hand. “I feel safe with you.”
I wish I could say the same.
She pointed up the avenue. “Over there is the Museum of the Ministry of the Interior, which is on our tour. The museum pokes fun at all the CIA’s attempts to kill Castro.”
“I’m surprised the exploding cigars didn’t work.”
“The history of American intervention in Cuba is a history of failure.”
I had the same thought back in Key West.
“But we—you and I—are going to turn that around.”
“Right. Taxi?”
She nodded.
I stepped into the street and hailed a passing cab, a nice late-model Toyota that didn’t smell like bleu cheese.