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God bless the CocoTaxi, he thought, enjoying the warm feel of her.
As they drove through Old Havana’s narrow streets with its brightly-colored buildings and overhanging balconies, Hollis soaked it all in. Monuments, open-air bazaars, Spanish colonial architecture and vintage cars were everywhere. The city was faded glamour meets colonial-era reconstruction.
“It’s like a city trapped in time,” she said. “Why are there so many classic cars?”
Salsa music floated on the air as Dylan leaned into her ear. “Cuba is literally a rolling car museum. Back in the day, Fidel Castro placed a ban on foreign vehicle imports. It’s been lifted, but it’s still too expensive for the locals to afford a new car.”
She tried to focus on his words, but when he was that close and she felt his warm breath on her ear, Hollis felt her stomach flip. And, God, he smelled good. That salty sea air and whatever soap he used was driving her crazy. She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed hard.
Maybe coming to Cuba with Dylan Ford wasn’t such a good idea.
Don’t be silly, she told herself.You’re quite capable of going to the library and getting a dive in without ripping his clothes off and pouncing on him. A little self-control, Hollis. Jesus. We’ll be back home by tonight.
The Cuban National Archives was a large brick building that sat on a hill overlooking the city and contained over 500 years of the island’s history.
In a back room, off limits to the public, Hollis and Dylan sat at a table across from a bespectacled, slightly dusty-looking Salvador Rodriguez. After greeting her father’s old friend and introducing Dylan, Hollis watched Salvador gather several stacks of loosely-bound records and set them on the table. The yellow, deteriorating papers practically disintegrated before them.
“These are amazing,” Hollis said. She wore gloves to protect the pages from the oils on her hands and carefully turned a page full of holes and bleeding ink.
“You can see why it’s so important that we translate them as soon as possible.” Salvador showed them a specific page that looked on the verge of crumbling to dust. “The survivor accounts should help you re-navigate the course. They mention specific landmarks, time spent adrift and descriptions about the beach where they were found.”
“If we can take that information and work backwards, we’ll get a good estimate of where the Santa Lucia sank.”
“Exactly,” Salvador said. “I believe she’s further out and deeper than the others from the fleet. And, 300 years and shifting currents have spread her far and wide. You’re going to need to get your hands on some very good equipment.”
“We got that covered,” Dylan said. “Actually, I wanted to test some new stuff here. I’ve heard Cuba has some good caves with lots of lost loot.”
“Go to Viñales,” Salvador suggested. “It’s home to some of the best caves in Cuba. The underground lakes and grottos were used as hiding places for valuables whenever the Spanish raided. Tides, shifting sands and collapses resulted in many lost treasures.”
“I’ve never done any cave-diving,” Hollis said and her dark eyes flashed with excitement.
“There are also too many tourists and closed-off areas in the main section. But, there’s an abandoned well that you can use to access the cave system. Only locals know about it.”
“Is it safe?” Dylan asked.
Salvador shrugged. “Eh, since when is cave diving ever safe?”
“It’s not,” Dylan agreed. “Especially if you don’t know what you’re doing.” He looked at Hollis and she frowned. “But, we’ll just stay in the open caverns and not go too deep.”
“Very wise,” Salvador said. “Also, Viñales grows much of the tobacco that goes into our iconic cigars. Make sure to pick some up.”
“I plan to,” Dylan said with a smile.
Then, Salvador handed Hollis a stack of translations and Dylan a set of keys. “Take my car,” he offered. “It beats bouncing around in a Cocotaxi.”
“Thank you, Salvador. That’s very kind of you.”
“I’m so sorry about your father, Hollis,” he said, and she hugged him. “He was a good man.”
“He was the best.”
Dylan shook hands with Salvador. “Appreciate your help,” he said.
“Be careful,” Salvador said, as they headed out.
Ten minutes later, Dylan and Hollis cruised along a back road in a two-tone, baby-blue 1956 Buick Special convertible, their dive gear and equipment in the back seat. The Cuban countryside was a completely different world from the hustle and bustle of Havana. They passed mogotes, towering limestone rocks with a circular top covered in flora and fauna, coffee and tobacco fields and sleepy-looking farmers who led their horse and cart. Despite the thick, humid heat, the lush greenery was stunning.
“Forty-sixty,” Dylan said, throwing out the new figure with a confident grin.
