Havana Harvest (2 page)

Too young to have fought in the Sierra Maestra with Fidel, Fernandez was nevertheless a child of the Revolution, having known no regime but Castro's. The precocious son of a garage mechanic, he had enrolled in the communist pioneer movement at age ten, on the first anniversary of Fidel's coming to power, motivated neither by economics nor politics. He was simply tired of watching
los ricos, los gusanos
, in their fancy cars whizzing past his father's garage on their way to the luxuries of
la playa
: sun, sand, good food and drink, and the companionship of beautiful women.

He, too, wanted to see the world.

The remarkable leadership qualities that he developed in high school got Fernandez elected class president. Politically reliable, physically strong, with excellent eye-hand coordination, mechanically gifted, and able to score consistently high marks, Fernandez was given the option on graduation of going to university or enrolling in Cuba's regular army, a great honor. He signed up for ten years instead of five and was promptly sent to university to study engineering as part of his army education.

He finished university with fine grades, was assigned to a logistical unit, and was sent overseas, first to Nicaragua, then to Algeria, where he demonstrated exceptional organizational abilities, and finally to Angola, where he showed himself to be a tough, brave soldier and a good leader. Having re-enlisted, he was in the second year of his second ten-year tour of duty in the army and well on his way to becoming a major.

By two o'clock, Fernandez was en route to Grand Cayman's imposing Bank of Credit and Commerce International building. The modern, four-storey edifice housed one of BCCI's most important branches on the ground foor, and the bank's western hemisphere headquarters on the two foors above.

Worried about being identified as a regular customer of the BCCI—in fact, worried about being taken to be a “regular” of anything—Fernandez left his car in the nearby parking lot of Thompson's Bakery rather than in the bank's. He walked back to the town library, crossed the street, and was in the manager's office at exactly quarter to three, as arranged. Though perspiring lightly, he felt confident wearing the Cayman businessman's de rigueur uniform: designer slacks, long-sleeved shirt, and tie.

“May I see the statement for account number 02-110-7063,” he said in fawless English.

“Certainly, Sir,” Mr. Chowdry, the manager, replied after consulting his computer. “But, first, may I see your passport?” Fernandez obliged. The passport he had been given was authentic, but with a phony name and a doctored photograph—his. The manager inserted the document into the decoder on his desk, smiled, and handed it back to Fernandez. He made a few quick keyboard strokes and then said, “I'll have your statement printed in a jiffy.”

“Great,” said Fernandez, beginning to relax. “What's the latest I can transfer money?”

“Four, Sir.”

Fernandez looked at his watch. “Then we still have time to get a transaction done today.”

“By all means.”

“And when would the money reach its destination?”

“That depends on the payee bank.”

“The payee bank?”

“Yes, Sir, the bank to which you wish to transfer the money.”

“I want to wire some money to your branch in Panama.”

“Oh, that's easy.” The manager smiled warmly, happy that BCCI would not lose a depositor. “Panama will have the money almost instantaneously. We'll send it by coded telex.”

“Could you get it there by three-thirty?” Panama was an hour behind Cayman and there would still be time in the Canal City to secure the funds before closing time there.

It was the manager's turn to look at his watch. “I think so, but I'll have to charge you for rush service.” He smiled engagingly.

Fernandez nodded. “That's OK, as long as the charge is reasonable.”

“One-eighth of one percent of the amount to be transferred.” The manager tore off the printout, glanced at it, and then looked back at Fernandez.

“That's too much.” The Cuban was angry. “One-twentieth of one percent is the maximum I'm willing to pay.”

“That is impossible, quite impossible.”

Fernandez got up and held out his hand for the statement. “There's no rush. We'll do it the regular way.” He made as if to leave.

The manager caved in as Fernandez had known he would. “Let's make it one-tenth of one percent.” That was a thousand dollars on a million dollar transfer, requiring all often minutes' work.

“Let's make it a fat seven hundred and fifty dollars,” Fernandez retorted.

The manager handed him the two sheets. “It's a deal. Now, can I please have the details so we can make sure the money gets there before closing?”

Fernandez was surprised when the banker handed him the information for two accounts and not one; the primary account and a recently opened sub-account.

He took his time examining the documents. The sub-account held a million U.S. dollars, which had been deposited in cash the day before. This concerned him greatly because he had been told that he was the only person who could access the 7063 account, and the account was supposed to be set up to accept money via wire transfers only, never cash deposits. Obviously, someone using the same name printed in the fake passport he was using had opened and deposited a million dollars into a sub-account. The question was, why?

The number of the sub-account also drew his attention. Unlike the numbers of his other accounts, which were all made up of numerals, the sub-account number included letters: 4321ETEV. Suddenly, he realized the letters in the account number were a message: “ETEV” backwards was “VETE,” Spanish for
go away
!

Whoever had put the money into the sub-account wanted him to defect, to run, and they knew that a man on the run needed to have money, and lots of it.

Without betraying the turmoil and confusion brewing within him by as much as a twitch of a facial muscle, Fernandez enunciated his words with care. “Thank you. Now here is what I want. Transfer a million dollars to your branch in Panama and give me a million dollars in cash.”

The manager was annoyed. “One million dollars? But … but … it's almost three o'clock!”

“Five to three to be precise, Mr. Chowdry.” Fernandez's voice was cold. “Plenty of time to phone downstairs and make the arrangements.”

While the clerks counted and assembled the money, Fernandez struggled to appear calm and relaxed though inside his nerves were screaming and his mind racing to figure out what was going on. Usually calm in a crisis, he was beginning to panic. He alone was responsible for running the Cuban government's supersecret drug-money bank account, and the secret was now obviously out.
They're going to kill me
, he thought.
Either Cuban Military Intelligence or the Colombians, whose money I'm in the process of taking, or the G2
. Of the three, he probably feared the G2, Castro's notorious secret police, the most.

After almost an hour, the banker announced that his withdrawal package was ready. All of the money would not ft into Fernandez's briefcase, so the banker had provided him with a nondescript paper bag in which to carry the remainder. As he walked back to his car with fear twisting his innards, his head spun with what he had done.

When he reached his room, he threw his gear into a duffle bag, put the money on top of his clothes, and checked out of the hotel.

He sat inside the rental car in the hotel parking lot for a while, toying with the idea of returning the money. Whoever had set up the account would see that he had withdrawn the money, but they would also see that he had returned it. He would just need to come up with a reason for the unusual transaction. Then he remembered that he was possibly in danger, and quickly dismissed the idea of trying to come across as the nice guy. This was not a time to think about others, but to concentrate on saving his own skin. He needed to disappear, which required money—lots of it.

It was also necessary to slow down possible pursuit and for this he required further information.

The clerk locked up the store and left at six sharp. Fernandez followed her along the road toward the airport, first to a gas station, and then to a grocery store. With the engine running to keep cool, he waited in his car and tried to make sense of what was happening.

After twenty minutes had passed, the woman emerged carrying bags of groceries. He trailed her to the Caribbean Paradise condominium complex on the beach south of George Town, and parked far enough away so that he could see into her second-floor condo, which, conveniently, faced the parking lot. He watched for a half-hour before he felt sure she was alone.

It was dusk when Fernandez left his car, the air filled with mosquitoes out in force during their evening feeding frenzy. He sneaked up the stairs and walked slowly by the woman's door. The kitchen window was open and he listened intently, but noise from the TV drowned out all other sounds from inside.

He tried the apartment door. It was not locked; very few doors in Cayman ever were. He slid inside and stood stock-still, listening to the woman rummaging about in the bedroom. When she came out, he grabbed her from behind, his left arm around her throat, his right over her mouth.

“Don't scream or I'll break your neck,” he whispered. She kicked him in the shin and he tightened his grip. “One more stunt like that and you're dead.” She gave up; she was choking.

“Listen to me. I won't hurt you if you help me. I need a few answers, that's all. You tell me what I want to know and you'll never see me again. Understood?” She nodded, and he swiftly shifted his right hand from her mouth to the back of her head. She was a pro; she knew she was beaten. Maybe she could get away with the beginnings of a scream, but he would break her neck a millisecond later.

“What do you want to know?”

“Did you give the account number to anyone else?”

She didn't answer and he increased the pressure. “They'll kill me. You know I'm not supposed to tell anything to anyone,” she finally managed through quick, shallow breaths.

“Who was it?” He began to choke her again.

“I don't know his name. He didn't say.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall and thin and gray.”

“Did he have an accent?”

“He sounded Venezuelan.”

“And who told you he'd be coming?”

“Nobody.”

“Then why did you give him the information?”

“He had the password.”

“When was he here?”

“Yesterday.”

“Can you remember anything else about him?”

The woman shook her head, and Fernandez tightened his hold.

“Answer me,” he whispered fiercely. “Your life depends on it!”

“Wait, wait,” she gasped. “There was one thing. He had a big burn mark on his wrist.”

Fernandez felt his heart sink. His worst fear was becoming reality. “Above his watch?”

“Yes, above his watch.”

Fernandez spun the woman around. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am sure.” Out of breath, she was massaging her bruised throat. “He was tall and thin and gray and had a Venezuelan accent. And he had this burn mark, or skin graft, above his watch on his wrist. He tried to hide it.”

Things suddenly snapped into focus. The man who had made the deposit, the man with the burn mark on his wrist, was his superior officer, General Casas, who was telling him to get out while the getting was still good.