A disinterested waitress came to our table and we ordered brandies.
Sara asked, “Did you enjoy the evening?”
“I enjoyed being with you.”
She smiled. “You’re an easy pickup.”
“I’m following your script.” I changed the subject and said, “Antonio is an asshole.”
“You were giving him some competition.”
Definitely a bit sassy. Maybe I bring that out in women. I advised her, “Be careful of him.”
“I know that. And I assume Carlos briefed you about the chivatos — the police informants?”
“He did.”
“And about the undercover agents from the Ministry of the Interior who hang around the hotels?”
“He did.”
“Cuba looks deceptively like any Caribbean tropical paradise, and the police state is not always apparent, so some people let their guard down.”
“I hear you.”
We checked our cell phones, but we had no service, though we exchanged phone numbers in case Verizon put a cell tower on the roof this week. “I’ll send you the photos of us in front of the Buick.”
She smiled.
I said, “Good question about the beach.”
“Thank you.”
“What was that about desnudo and playa?”
She smiled again. “So you recognize important words in Spanish.” She translated, “He said there was a nude beach in Mayabeque, for foreigners only, but he would be allowed to go as my private guide.” She added, “He has a car.”
“Pig.”
“I hope you’re not the jealous type.”
I didn’t think I was, but I had my moments. More to the point, when Sara and I went missing, Antonio would report the beach conversation to the police, which would hopefully lead them on a wild-goose chase.
Our brandy came, and we sat in silence, listening to a medley from “South Pacific.”
She looked at me. “Now that you’re here, are you having second thoughts?”
“I’m here at least until Sunday.”
She forced a smile.
A few other people from our group drifted into the lounge looking for either a hostess or the No Smoking section, neither of which existed. I scanned the tables, trying to spot an undercover agent, but everyone looked like an American tourist.
Carlos had also told me that some of the rooms were bugged, and that those rooms were usually given to journalists, foreign government officials, and others who had come to the attention of Cuban state security. That might include Sara Ortega, so this was a good time and place to talk about something more important than Antonio and nude beaches. I asked Sara, “Where is your hiking map?”
She patted her shoulder bag. “And the pesos.”
“Don’t leave the map or the money in your room safe or the hotel safe. And be careful of what you say in your room.”
“I know that.”
“Good. Do you have any idea of how, where, or when our man in Havana will contact us?”
She put down her brandy glass. “Well, not here. But last time I was in Havana, a man just came up to me one night on the Malecón and said, ‘Would you be interested in some historical artifacts?’ ” She added, unnecessarily, “That was the sign — the identification phrase.”
Unless he was really selling historical artifacts. “Were you supposed to be walking on the Malecón that night?”
“No. It was just an impulse.” She explained, “It was after a group dinner in the Riviera Hotel. I needed a walk.”
“So this guy must have known that you’d be at the Riviera, and what you looked like.”
“Our friends in Miami were able to get him a photo of me and the Yale itinerary.”
“How?”
“Through a Cuban American tourist.”
“Okay... and what was the purpose of making this contact?”
“Just to see if it worked. A sort of dry run for the next time I came to Havana. I was also here to familiarize myself with the city. Also, we were still exploring ways to get the money out of the country.” She looked at me. “Now we have you and your boat.”
“I sold the boat to Carlos. It’s now Fishy Business.”
“I know that.” She assured me, “Carlos thinks of everything.”
“He thinks he does.” I returned to the subject and asked, “Did you meet your second contact in the countryside?”
“I wish I could have. But as you can see, no one can leave the group, even for a day—”
“Right. So this guy came up to you on the Malecón—”
“Marcelo. We walked along the seawall, just talking... to see if we were being followed — or got arrested.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“He was nice. He gave me some tips on Cuban slang, local customs, and how the police operate.”
“Did you buy any historical artifacts?”
“No, but I bought him a drink in the Nacional, slipped him two hundred thousand pesos, and took a taxi back to the Parque Central.” She added, “I wasn’t arrested, but for all I know, he was.”
“If he was, you would have been.”
“Unless they were just following him to see if we made contact again.”
I looked at her. “Do you have any formal training in this sort of thing?”
“No... not formal. But I was briefed.”
“By whom?”
“By a retired CIA officer. A Cuban American.” She asked, “What is your training?”
“You tell me.”
She hesitated, then said, “We know you took some Defense Intelligence Agency courses.”
“You’ll be happy to know I passed one of them.”
She smiled.
“What else do you know about me?”
“Everything that’s in the public record. School, Army, bad credit score.” She smiled again.
I continued, “Rented house, old van, credit card debt.”
“But no bank loan on The Maine.”
“Right.”
“You could leave here tomorrow and start a new life.”
“I could. But that’s not what I promised you.”
She smiled. “At least I know you’ll be here until Sunday.”
I returned the smile, then reminded her, “I’m in Cuba to make three million dollars.”
“But you thought you were going to the Cayman Islands.”
Funny.
She asked, “What do you know about me?”
“Virtually nothing. But I like your smile.”
“Did you see my work on my website?”
“I did. You have talent.”
“And you have good taste.”
And don’t forget balls. I returned to the subject and asked, “Could Marcelo be our contact again?”
“I have no idea.”
“What is the ID this time?”
“It’s ‘Are you interested in Cuban pottery?’ ”
“Spanish or English?”
“English.”
“Do you have a countersign?”
“No.”
“Then your contact is sure of who you are.”
“Obviously, or he wouldn’t be approaching me.”
“Unless he was just a guy struck by your beauty.”
“Then he’d have a better line than that.”
“Right. Okay, do you or your contact have a code word for, ‘I am under duress — being followed, wearing a wire, and being made to do this’?”
“No...”
“You should. Does the contact know my name or what I look like?”
“No name or photo. Just a description.” She looked at me and smiled. “Tall, dark, and handsome.”
We made eye contact. “And following you around like a puppy dog.”
“That’s right. In any case, it’s me, not you, who he — or she — will contact.”
“Okay.” It seemed to me that these people knew what they were doing, up to a point. I asked, “What is our contact in Havana going to do for us to earn his pesos?”