“Two things. First, give us the name and location of our contact in Camagüey Province. Then give us a means of getting there.”
“Such as?”
“Travel in Cuba is difficult — but our contact will get us to Camagüey. Safely.”
“All right. Then we meet our Camagüey contact. What is he or she going to do for us?”
“He or she will give us a safe house, and a truck to transport the goods to Cayo Guillermo. And some tools to get into the cave.”
“Good. And you trust these people?”
“They are Cuban patriots. They hate the regime.”
“And I assume they have no idea that we’re looking for sixty million in cash.”
“They have been told that I’m recovering a box of important documents — property deeds, bank records, and other paperwork that has no intrinsic value.”
“Right. You don’t want to tempt them to double-cross us.”
Sara had no reply to that, but said, “In fact, there is a trunk of such paperwork that we need to take with us.” She explained, “In my grandfather’s bank vault there were land grants going back to the Spanish kings and queens, property deeds for houses, factories, plantations, hotels, and apartment buildings — all potentially worth more than sixty million dollars. Much more.”
That was exciting. Except for the word “potentially.” I’ll take the sixty million in American dollars.
She continued, “Carlos and other attorneys will present all this documentation to an appropriate court and file a claim for this stolen property on behalf of their clients.”
“That won’t make the Cuban government very happy.”
“The hell with them.” She added, “It will make the Cuban exiles happy.”
“Right. Okay, and I assume the deed to your grandfather’s house is in the cave?”
“Actually, he smuggled it out. I have it in Miami.”
Maybe she should have brought it with her for when we visited the house. Along with an eviction notice. But I sensed this was an emotional subject for Sara Ortega, so I left that alone.
I thought about all she’d said regarding our contacts and what they were going to do for us. There was some obvious danger in making these contacts, but that came with the territory. I gave this mission a 50/50 chance of success.
Sara put her hand on mine. “It will go well.” She assured me, “The secret police are not as efficient as they’d like you to think.”
“Famous last words.”
“They are good at one thing — instilling fear. And fear paralyzes the people.” She looked at me. “I am not afraid.”
“It’s okay to be afraid.”
“And you? Now that you’re here — do you feel fear?”
“Yes. A nice healthy fear.”
“You’re honest.”
“We need to be.”
She nodded.
Sara looked tired, so I suggested, “Go get some sleep.”
She stood. “You too.”
“I’m right behind you. Room 615 if you need to call me.”
“I’m 535. See you at breakfast.” She walked to the elevators.
The piano player was playing the theme from “Phantom of the Opera.”
Hard to believe I was in Miami this morning, annoyed that they’d under-toasted my bagel.
Chapter 19
I walked into the breakfast room at 7:30 A.M., wearing khakis, a short-sleeved shirt, and running shoes. I spotted a few people from our group, but not Sara. The buffet was American with some Cuban touches, including beans, to propel us through the day. I got a cup of coffee, sat, and waited for Sara.
I’d gotten back to my room at a reasonable hour, but I couldn’t get to sleep so I’d checked out Cuban TV. There were five channels: Tele Rebelde, which was a news channel, CubaVision, an entertainment channel, and two educational channels to put you to sleep. The fifth channel told you to turn off the TV. Actually, there was CNN, in English, and according to my guide book, the satellite signal was pirated by the Cuban government and available only in select hotels and to the Communist elite, leaving the other eleven million news-hungry people on this island dependent on Tele Rebelde — which meant Rebellious, but could be translated as Government Bullshit.
I’d watched a little CNN, which reminded me of why I don’t watch TV news, then I watched a news cycle on Tele Rebelde, looking for a mention of Pescando Por la Paz, but I didn’t see anything. Maybe the regime was trying to decide if this was the kind of event they wanted to cover with reporters and a brass band, or wanted to ignore. If Sara was right, the Cuban government was not enthusiastic about the Cuban Thaw.
I intended to buy a newspaper, but there was no newsstand in the hotel, and no newspapers in the breakfast room, not even Granma, the Communist Party newspaper, which I could pretend to read instead of looking at the door. Where the hell was she? Maybe I should ring her room.
I had the daily itinerary in my pocket and I unfolded it on the table. I read: Hemingway’s house is just as he left it in 1960. Probably because the Commies wouldn’t let Ernest take anything with him when he left.
After Hemingway’s house, we’d go to lunch, then a visit to Vivero Alamar, a co-operative research farm where we’d learn about growing organic food. I wondered what sadist put this together.
“Is this seat taken?”
Before I could reply, Sara sat.
“Good morning,” I said. She was wearing jeans and a white Polo shirt and looked good.
“Have you had breakfast?” she asked.
“I was waiting for you.”
“If you do that, you’ll starve to death.”
“Right. Did you sleep well?”
“No. Did you?”
“I watched Tele Rebelde all night.”
“You should have watched the Cuban soaps on CubaVision. Margaretta is cheating on Francisco again, same as when I was here last year. I don’t know why he doesn’t leave her.”
I smiled, then asked, “Were you here alone?”
“I was.” She stood. “Let’s get something before the bus comes.”
We went to the buffet table, where Richard Neville was cleaning out the breakfast sausage, but he left a strip of bacon for me. Sara piled her plate with fruit and a glob of yogurt.
We sat and she said, “You’ll never see fresh fruit in the countryside.”
“Actually, we will at the organic food farm.”
“That’s all show, and what you see in the hotels is all imported.” She explained, “The farms are government-owned and mostly deserted because the work is backbreaking, still done with animals and human labor. Farmers get the same twenty dollars a month that they’d get pushing a broom in the city, so there’s no incentive to stay on the farm.”
Sorry I mentioned it.
“Ninety percent of the Cuban diet is beans and rice, imported from Vietnam, and even that is rationed.”
I stared at my strip of bacon and my scrambled eggs.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. Eat up.”
I sensed a change in Sara, maybe as a result of her being here, and she was getting herself worked up, like Eduardo. I tried to imagine me returning to an America that had gone into the crapper because of government stupidity... Well, maybe that wasn’t so hard to imagine.
Sara said, “The important thing regarding the Cuban countryside is that most people have moved to the towns and cities. That could be good for us, but maybe bad if we’re the only people driving a vehicle on a lonely road.”
“Right.” I asked her, “Do you know how big this haul is going to be?”
“My grandfather told me it was all packed in steamer trunks.”
“Good. How many trunks?”
She glanced at the nearby tables, which were empty. “A typical steamer trunk filled with hundred-dollar bills will hold about fifteen million dollars, and weigh about four hundred pounds.”