She nodded. “You may be right.” She said, “We need to discuss a few things about tonight. But first bring your map here and I’ll decipher it for you.”
I looked at my watch. It was almost 5 P.M. and I didn’t want to be late for my six o’clock with Jack, so I suggested we talk in the shower, and we got out of our sweaty clothes.
The shower was freezing, but I left the water running in case my room was bugged, and I turned on the water in the bathtub, which, as per Tad, was warm. We climbed into the tub, facing each other.
Sara leaned toward me and said, “On your way to where you’re meeting Jack, I want you to swing by the cruise terminal. If the fleet isn’t in, you’ll come directly back here.”
“No, I go see if Jack shows up at our meeting place.”
“Why—?”
“Because the fleet could have been delayed. Or if the government wants to low-key the arrival, it could have been diverted to someplace out of town, like the Hemingway Marina.”
“All right... but when you get to where you’re meeting Jack, call me from a pay phone and leave a message at the front desk. The message will be either, ‘We’re having a drink,’ or, ‘He’s not here yet.’ ”
I watched the water rising above my periscope.
“Are you listening to me?”
“I am.”
“If he’s there, I’ll know that the fleet is in. But if he hasn’t shown up by seven, you’ll leave and meet me here in the lounge. And on the way back here, you’ll swing by the cruise terminal again.”
I was going to wait for Jack at the Nacional, but I said, “Sí, comandante,” so I could get laid.
“And make sure you’re not followed.” She informed me, “The best way to do that in Havana is to take a Coco cab.” She explained, “You have clear visibility all around, and the Coco cabs take shortcuts through back alleys and narrow streets that cars can’t use.”
Same in Kabul.
“And I don’t have to tell you not to give your driver your actual destination, and get out a few blocks before.”
“Right.” The water was now starting to float Sara’s tub toys, so I turned it off, but the running shower provided some background noise.
She reminded me, unnecessarily, “If The Maine — Fishy Business — is not in Cuba, then we have no way to get the money out of here.”
I pointed out, “We don’t have the money yet.” I asked her, “Aside from the money, how about the other thing that will please me? Is it bigger than a bread box? And can we get it out of Cuba without a truck and a boat?”
“I shouldn’t have told you about that.”
“You should tell me what it is.”
“I can’t.” We made eye contact and she said, “The important thing tonight is to see if the fleet is in.”
“Right. And if the fleet is in, and Jack confirms to me that they’re going to Cayo Guillermo, then we’re in business — and then we need to think about if we’re going to wait in Havana for our contact, or head off on our own to Camagüey. We also need to meet Antonio to see what he’s selling.”
She thought about all that, then said, “Carlos, Eduardo, and I were very confident that we had a perfect plan...”
“It’s a wonderful plan,” I assured her. “That’s why I agreed to it. Unfortunately, none of it has gone right. And, by the way, it never does. So we have to make it go right.”
“I like your can-do attitude.”
And I liked that she was back on track. “We make a good team,” I agreed. “And that’s why you hired me.”
I lay back and closed my eyes. This was a pleasant moment, and I enjoyed sharing the warm tub with a friend and teammate.
I felt Sara’s fingers fondling my bolas and I smiled.
My teammate said, “Now that I have you by the balls, where are you meeting Jack?”
Funny. I think. I reminded her, “The less you know—”
“I need to know in case I need to get hold of you.”
“You’ve already got hold — don’t squeeze. The Nacional. Hall of Fame bar.”
She released my bolas and said, “If Jack doesn’t show up and you don’t see the fleet at the Sierra Maestra Terminal, we’ll take a taxi to the Hemingway Marina.”
“Okay.”
“Have we covered all contingencies?”
“And some.”
I don’t recall life without cell phones, voice mail, texting, and the Internet, but in the good old days — according to my parents — all plans, contingencies, and meeting places had to be discussed and understood before people parted or hung up the phone, and my generation was spoiled, they said, and lazy, irresponsible, and too dependent on technology, including electric toothbrushes, and if anyone moved my dinner plate six inches to the left, I’d starve to death.
Well, my five years in the Army proved my parents wrong. I could survive without my iPhone.
“What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking that if we have Plan B and Plan C, we now need Plan A.”
“Which is...?”
“Insert Tab A into Slot B.”
“I fell right into that one.”
“You did.”
So we made love in the tub. Good meeting.
Sara sat in bed wearing one of my clean T-shirts, with the TV tuned to Tele Rebelde and the volume turned up to cover our words. As I got dressed in slacks and a sports jacket, she said, “Be careful, and don’t forget to call.”
I looked at her. “If I don’t call by seven — or if my message is, ‘Don’t wait up for me’ — that means I’m in the company of the police.”
She didn’t reply.
“Go directly to the U.S. Embassy and get yourself inside — one way or the other. Meanwhile, go find some company in the lounge so you don’t get that knock on the door.” I added, “That’s the last contingency.”
She nodded.
I assured her, “All will go well tonight. See you at Floridita at nine.”
“Say hello to Jack.”
“You’ll see him in Cayo Guillermo.”
“Come here.”
I went to the bed and we kissed. She said to me, “I’m going to call my friend in Miami now.”
“Use the phone in the business center.” And keep it short.
I went down to the lobby, where I exchanged five hundred dollars for CUCs at the cashier’s desk, then I went outside and found a Coco cab. “Malecón, por favor.”
And off I went in the little motorized tricycle.
Well, next time I get bored with life I’ll try hang gliding.
Chapter 31
My little Coco cab was weaving through traffic, so there was no way anyone could have been following me unless he was the Lone Ranger mounted on Silver. Nevertheless, I did not swing by the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal. If Jack was in Havana, I’d know soon enough. Plus, I was running late.
It was still daylight but the Malecón was already hopping on this steamy Saturday evening and the seawall looked like the world’s longest pickup bar.
I told the driver to pull over, gave him ten CUCs, and began walking, past beggars, poets and drunks, and a group of Americans who looked like the cyclone had just blown them in from Kansas.
I turned onto a side street, and continued to the long drive that led to the front of the hotel. I checked my watch: 6:15 P.M.
I entered the Nacional for the third time in as many days and stopped at the front desk to see if Jack — or Sara — had left a message, but they hadn’t. I walked into the high-ceilinged Hall of Fame bar, which was filled with a haze of cigar smoke. I scanned the crowded room but I didn’t see Jack.
I asked the maître d’ for a table, and for ten CUCs he remembered a cancellation and escorted me to a small table under a photo of Mickey Mantle.