“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.
I said to the driver, “Hotel Parque Central.”
Sara said something to him and they had a brief conversation in Spanish. She said into my ear, “I asked him to take us to a casa particular in Vedado — a private house that rents rooms, usually with no questions asked.” She added, “We don’t want to risk a knock on the door tonight. And I don’t want an early visit from Antonio.” She took my hand. “We’ll go back to the hotel in the morning and join the group. Then, after the group dinner, we retrieve my backpack and go to Camagüey.”
“Okay.”
The driver took the tunnel that went under the Río Almendares and drove into Vedado. Sara exchanged a few words with him, then said to me, “I told him — Tomás — that we were Canadian Embassy staff, married to other people, and we needed a very discreet casa that didn’t ask for passports.”
“I think you’ve done this before.”
Well, to look the part, Sara put her arms around me and we started making out like caribou in heat. I glanced at Tomás, who was adjusting his rearview mirror. He didn’t know Canadians were so hot.
Within a few minutes we pulled up to a small stucco house, nearly hidden by vegetation. Tomás got out and knocked on the door. The way our luck was running, this was probably Antonio’s house.
An elderly lady came to the door, and she and Tomás exchanged words, then Tomás motioned for us to join them. We got out of the taxi and Sara and the old lady — Camila — chatted for a minute, and Sara said to me, “This is good. Give him a twenty.”
I gave Tomás a month’s pay, and he gave me a wink and wished us buenas noches. Camila didn’t ask about luggage or passports and she invited us inside as she scanned the block, then closed the door and locked it.
The casa’s front room was small and shabby, but neat and clean. On the wall was a nice black-and-white photograph of a young Fidel Castro. Camila showed us the baño and the small kitchen where, said Sara, we could have coffee in the morning, no charge. The price for the room was five CUCs, up front, and I gave Camila a ten, which made her happy, and she offered us some leftover rice and beans if we were hungry.
“Ask her if she has any Canadian Club.”
Sara said something to her, and Camila poured us two glasses of rum, compliments of the house.
Camila showed us to our room, a tiny space filled with a double bed and a wooden bench. A small barred window let hot, humid air into the room. On the wall facing the bed — where the flat-screen TV should be — was a crucifix.