I walked west along the nearly deserted beach, then came around to the tip of the island and continued along the southern shore, but I ran into a mangrove swamp and headed inland. Sometimes you need to recon the terrain, and sometimes you need to do a one-man recon of your head.
I made my way through the bush for awhile before I realized I was half asleep and still walking. I used to be good at sleepwalking on forced night marches, but I had no objective today except to be alone, so I found a patch of clear ground under a tall palm and sat.
I pulled my Glock from my pack, stuck it under my shirt, and leaned back against the tree trunk. It was hot inland, and buggy, so I didn’t expect company.
Thinking back on all this, I should have suspected that Sara’s boyfriend in Miami was none other than Felipe. The clues, as I said, were there, but I wasn’t putting them together. And not because I’m dense, but because I didn’t want to go there. My mother used to call this willful ignorance. She still does.
Well, I’ve been in situations like this before, but this was the first time the boyfriend was going to be onboard the boat we’d all have to share on our midnight run. Me, Jack, Felipe, and Sara. We’d have to figure out the sleeping arrangements. Could be awkward, even though we were all going to pretend that I’d been a perfect gentleman in Cuba.
I understood why Sara had lied, and I understood that she was conflicted, and that at some point she’d made up her mind about Felipe. But the only way this wasn’t going to be a problem in Cayo Guillermo was if she and I had never made it here, as she said. But here we were, against all odds.
Side two of this triangle was Felipe. I really didn’t give a shit that he was half crazy with jealousy because his girlfriend was alone with me in Cuba. But as a guy, I could sympathize with him. I actually liked him when I met him in Key West. He seemed competent, assured, and trustworthy. But thinking back, I realized now that he was sizing me up, probably trying to guess if I was the kind of guy who’d try to pop his girlfriend. If I’d known what the situation was, I would have assured him that I wasn’t that kind of guy. But no one told me, so I didn’t have the chance to be noble. Instead, I had a chance to get laid.
And why, I wondered, did no one tell me that Sara and Felipe were an item? Maybe Sara was supposed to tell me. And if not her, why not Carlos or Eduardo? Well, maybe because they really wanted me to come onboard, to use a nautical term, and Sara Ortega was one of many shiny lures. Sara, though, did say she had a boyfriend. She just couldn’t remember his name.
Bottom line, this mission was important to Eduardo, Carlos, and their amigos, and they’d do or say anything to make it happen. I could only imagine what they’d said to Felipe to make him agree to send his girlfriend on a dangerous mission with a handsome stranger. And what did Sara say to assure Felipe that she’d keep her legs crossed? I suspect there were promises made and talk of issues larger and more important than two people. And maybe a large cash payment to Felipe, to help him with his jealousy. And no one was really thinking about this moment when it all came together.
And then there was Sara, the object of many men’s affection—me, Felipe, Eduardo, and of course Antonio. Carlos liked her, too, but Carlos was all business. Love is a subparagraph in the contract.
But Sara, I was sure, had thought all this out more than she let on—and maybe more than she knew. She’d teased and flirted a bit on my boat, and I understood what she was doing. And long before we got to Havana, she knew we’d wind up in bed. I mean, I wasn’t sure, but she was. And she told me, matter-of-factly on day one in Havana at the Hotel Nacional, that we had a date. So at least she wasn’t pretending to me or to herself that she had been seduced. She was in fact, as I knew, making a deal with me: sex for reliability and commitment to the mission.
But when you make a deal like that, there are unintended consequences. Like falling in love. I think that’s what happened.
Now we needed to come full circle, back to the mission, and make sure that hearts full of passion, jealousy, and hate didn’t screw it up in the last act. Key West was in sight. Except it would be me at the helm with Jack. And Felipe and Sara would be sitting on the bow—or in a stateroom together. Should I make a captain’s rule—no screwing onboard?
It should be an interesting cruise. But first, cocktails at 7. Then a midnight escape past Cuban gunboats.
I closed one eye and went into that half-sleep that I’d perfected in the Army, with one hand on my gun and one half of my brain awake and alert.
My last conscious thought was that Sara really believed she was in love with me in Cuba—palm trees, danger, daiquiris, moonlight, and love songs. We’d see how this played out in Key West and Miami. But first we had to get there.
CHAPTER 50
I woke from my afternoon siesta, stuck my Glock in my backpack, and made my way through the bush to the road that led to the Melia Hotel.
It was just past 6 P.M., the sun was low on the horizon, and the beach road was deserted. I guessed it was about two miles to the Melia, and I could make it in less than half an hour if I picked up my pace and if a police car didn’t offer me a lift.
On that subject, I felt just a bit guilty about leaving Sara on her own, but she could take care of herself, and splitting up really was a good tactical move. Also, she’d pissed me off.
I’d had no startling revelations during my half-sleep, no subconscious insights or fuzzy feelings, and no epiphany when I woke up. I was actually still pissed off.
And what pisses me off is when people lie to me, and I was also pissed off at Carlos and Eduardo. Carlos had a lot of explaining to do when I got back. Eduardo was a dead man walking, so he got a pass.
If I thought about it, Felipe was the guy who’d been totally bullshitted. And there was more bullshit to come for Felipe.
I passed the Sol Club, and I could see the Melia ahead, set back from the road. I checked my watch. It was 6:30. I noticed that the sun set a little earlier here than in Havana. I also noticed that the sky was dark with fast-moving clouds.
I picked up my pace and walked up the palm-lined driveway of the hotel, hot, sweaty, and looking for the Buick in the circular driveway—but I didn’t see it. Shit.
I was about to ask a car park guy if he’d seen a beautiful lady in a beautiful American car, when I spotted the Buick pulling up. Sara saw me, but stayed in the wagon and spoke to one of the attendants in Spanish, then gave him some folding money and parked the car herself in the driveway. She got out with her backpack, locked the doors, kept the keys, and walked over to me.
I didn’t know what to expect, but she said, “I was worried sick about you.”
“I’m fine. How about you?”
“Do you care?”