Havana Harvest (29 page)

The man handed him his papers. “Good luck.” And that was that.

So much for the Interpol “to-be-watched for” list,
thought Lonsdale as he waited for the shuttle to take him to the Bristol Hotel, just around the corner. “Here we go again,” he murmured. “I had better start worrying about surveillance again.” Being cut off from head office, and out of favor, he had no way of finding out who may be looking for him: the CIA for not turning up at the office as ordered, the Cubans because he was messing with Casas, or the Colombians who must, by now, be wondering what Fernandez, their contact with Cuba, was up to.

The bus arrived and he got on. Off it went from Terminal 2 to Terminal 1, with Lonsdale standing in the rear door watching for pursuit. Although there didn't seem to be any, he wanted to be sure, so he waited until the passengers embarking at Terminal 1 were all on board, then got off at the very last second. Nobody followed, and Lonsdale melted into the crowd.

He took the escalator to the departure level, bought himself a ticket to Montreal on a Québecair fight leaving within forty minutes, and repaired to the washrooms to change underwear and freshen up. His instincts were insisting that time was running out on him.

At Montreal's Dorval Airport he exchanged Schwartz's elegant cashmere overcoat for the ill-fitting but warm and water-resistant coat he'd bought in Montreal. Details, details, but he knew that this garment, rather than Schwartz's, would be the one to keep him dry should he have to walk in the rain.

By half past eight he was in a cab on his way to Micheline's apartment reasonably certain he was not being followed. Again, to be sure, he made the driver drop him two blocks from her apartment.

Before reaching the building he circled the little park opposite it then cut across, striding purposefully, sample case in hand, just another working stiff on his way home after staying late at the office. He didn't even glance at Le Sanctuaire's main entrance as he rounded the corner and headed down the street leading away from the building. He continued for one bloc, turned right for two blocs, then right again, to fetch up against the rear of Le Sanctuaire, opposite the garage entrance.

He sprinted across the street, down the ramp leading to the garage door, slammed the access card Micheline had given him into its slot and prayed for the heavy overhead door to open. It did.

Lonsdale was through in a fash and, turning immediately to his left, took refuge behind a fat pillar. He waited, listening intently for footsteps, but heard none. After thirty seconds, the door began to close and Lonsdale took off toward the elevators, hoping the noise of the closing door would mask the clatter of his footsteps. About ten yards from the elevator door he hid behind a pillar once more and willed himself to remain stock-still. He listened intently for a full minute, but could hear no one.

He strode over to the elevator door and tried to open it. It was locked!

“Shit!” He'd forgotten that a special key was needed to get in. “It's the details that will kill you every time,” he cursed silently and fished through the keys Micheline had given him. “Good girl,” he murmured when he spotted the funny-looking Abloy key he needed. “You're better at this than me.”

She lived on the twelfth foor, but he took the elevator only to floor number ten and used the stairs for the rest. Although he felt ridiculous about doing it, he tiptoed up the remaining two flights with great caution, still watching out for pursuit. He continued on tiptoes until he reached her kitchen door. Like the last time, he listened to what was going on in the apartment. There was no one in the kitchen even though the lights were on. He tried the door. It was locked.

Using her key, he entered, closing the door softly behind him. He put his sample case down, took a quick step forward, and shed his hat and coat. Then, by pure instinct, he picked up a large knife from the kitchen counter and tiptoed into the unlit dining room.

The area was separated from the living room by sliding doors, which Micheline liked to keep open to make
le salon
seem more spacious. Lonsdale could clearly hear what was going on.

“—his own safety,” he heard a familiar-sounding male voice say.

Micheline answered: “But I've told you a dozen times already that I have no idea where he is. I have not seen him or heard from him for two weeks.”

“Yes, you did tell me that, but can you remember what day that was?”

“I think it was a Thursday, but I'm not sure.”

“Was it the Thursday before Mr. Siddiqui was killed?”

“Defnitely before.”

“You sure?”

Lonsdale stepped into the living room. “Leave the poor woman alone,” he said “or risk having yourself killed dead with a kitchen knife.” Turning to the startled man sitting in an armchair in front of him, he held the object in his hand high. “What the hell are you doing here, James Morton, and how did you find out about Micheline?”

Try as he would, Morton could not stop himself from laughing. All was well with the world. Lonsdale had come in from the cold in more ways than one.

The man seemed to be in love again.

Tuesday
Washington, DC

Lonsdale had barely had time to give Micheline a peck on the cheek before Morton had him back at St. Hubert Airport and on their way to Washington in the Agency's plane. During the flight Morton had been uncharacteristically reserved, insisting that he hold his questions until they met Smythe the next day.

Lonsdale got to bed at three a.m., nine in the morning in Budapest. He had managed five hours' restless sleep before having to drag himself to the great man's offce.

“Sit down, Lonsdale, and listen. I owe you an explanation and an apology.” Smythe was not in character. He was being gracious to the point where he even offered glasses of his favorite branch water to Morton and Lonsdale. “I hate that bearded bastard in Havana with a passion, and I want him the hell outta there. I'm doing my darndest to accelerate his political demise short of killin', him and I'm having a devil of a time.”

Lonsdale bristled, but a glance from Morton made him hold his tongue. “About two years ago the then-director of Central Intelligence asked for my support for a highly imaginative, but extremely risky plan to dislodge Dr. Castro. Risky for the agent running the operation in Havana, risky for the government of these United States because of the possibility of the scheme backfring on us if it were discovered by Dr. Castro's intelligence apparatus prematurely, risky for the CIA because, if improperly implemented, it would make the Agency a laughingstock worldwide.”

Director Smythe leaned back in his chair and paused for effect. “Most importantly, the plan represented a risk for me because the operation would never have been authorized by the president without my backing, and its failure he would surely lay at my feet.” He glanced at Lonsdale. “Now don't get all itchy and uppity. I know what you're thinkin'.”

“And what may that be, Sir?”

“That success, on the other hand, would guarantee my confrmation as director of Central Intelligence. And you're right.” Smythe went so far as to wink at Lonsdale. “So I was on the horns of a dilemma. Should I trust you two with details, or should I keep things strictly on a need-to-know basis?” He sighed. “Manpower-wise, apart from the communications boys at Langley, there were originally only fve people involved: the agent on the ground and his control, plus the DCI, of course, me, and the president. The agent—let's call him Charley—had warned us that it would take about two years to get things goin' and he was right.” Warming to his subject, the senator began to pace about.

“Charley was really cookin', and we only needed another three to four months before we could pull the trigger and kiss Dr. Castro adios. And then–” He turned to Morton, “Why don't you take it from here and tell your man what happened then.” Smythe rounded his desk and sank heavily into his chair.

“And then,” Morton picked up effortlessly from where the old man had left off. “Fernandez happened. He bolted, and the CIA contact at the INS in Miami got us involved before anybody could stop him from doing so.” Morton looked very uncomfortable. “Director Smythe didn't fnd out about our being in the picture until the day you left for Montreal, chomping at the bit to get at General Casas. By then the INS man had done what he had been trained to do.”

“And called you.” Lonsdale made himself sound matter-of-fact, but inside, he was seething.
Yet another cluster fuck
, he thought,
due to the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing.

“That is correct.”

“And asked you to suggest a way to turn to the director's advantage my unwelcome intrusion into an operation about which I still know nothing.”

“Bingo,” interrupted Smythe, chortling with self-satisfaction. “Your boss then came up with a doozer.” He winked at Lonsdale again. “I've got to hand it to him. He's a genius at manipulating folks. You have a reputation of being the original eager beaver, someone who, once he gets his teeth into something never lets go. So, Morton here came up with the idea of using psychology on you.”

The senator squinted at his two agents then swung his swivel chair around, turning his back to them. Seemingly addressing the window, he continued: “He figured the less information he gave you the more you'd give chase; the more he ordered you to come home, the less likely you'd be to obey; the less secure you felt, the more determined you'd be to succeed.”

“But to what end?” Lonsdale interrupted “What was I supposed to do differently from what I originally set out to do? How did the plan you had in mind differ from the one Jim and I had worked out? Was the objective not always to get to Casas?”

“Not quite. Almost, but not quite.” Morton's voice was soft. “You see, getting to Casas was only step one.”

“I know, I know.” Lonsdale was no longer bothering to hide his impatience. “First I was to contact Casas, which I did. Next, I was to bring him back here, which I failed to do. I'm sorry—”

“Don't be.” Director Smythe swung around to face them again. “You did good. You did exactly what we wanted you to do. You chased that Cuban soldier right back to mama.”

“I did? Is that what you wanted?”

“Exactly.”

“But what on earth for?”

“Because he's going to help you find the proof we need to show the world what a bad bastard Dr. Castro really is: a drug dealer, money launderer, and cheat!”

“He could have done that easier from here, but I failed to convince him of that.”

“No, he sure as hell could not have. Could he, Morton?”

“No, surely not.”

Exasperated, Lonsdale turned on Morton. “What are you talking about? I thought you and I were clear on this thing from the word go. Either Casas was telling the truth, in which event we had Castro by the balls, or it was a put-up job by the Cubans to suck us in and make us look really stupid. My job was to fnd out whether Casas was on the level, and if in the affrmative, to turn him.”

The director cut in swiftly. “And what did you manage to fnd out?”

“That, in my opinion, he is on the level.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Sir. I'm convinced that the man is sincere, but very concerned about lack of proof linking the drug operation undeniably with the Cuban government.”

“You think there exists any such proof?” Smythe was staring at Lonsdale intently.

“Some, but tenuous.”

“Such as?”

“There was a meeting between the general and his minister at which the drug operation was briefy discussed.”

“Really. That's very interesting. Were there any witnesses?”

“Yes, one. Captain Fernandez, the fellow who bolted and whom we're supposed to be holding in protective custody here, but, whom for some reason, I'm not being allowed to access.” Lonsdale's look at Morton was accusatory.

“Well now, things ain't necessarily always the way they appear to be. Are they, Morton?”

“For sure not, Sir.”

“You did good, Lonsdale, don't you fret,” the senator repeated and allowed himself a feeting smile. “But I wouldn't want you to rely on this story of a meeting with the minister too much. Would you, Morton?”

“No, Sir.”

“And why the hell not, for Christ's sake?” Lonsdale's temper was getting the better of him. “Let's pull in Fernandez and Casas. Let Casas reveal the details of the drug operation on television and let Fernandez corroborate what Casas says, then let's watch Dr. Castro squirm.”

“Atta boy, Lonsdale.” The old man's voice was firm. “Full o' piss and vinegar, eager to get on with the job, as always. There is only one small problem.”

“What's that, Sir?”

“Remember Charley, the agent in situ?”

“What about him?”

Smythe was grinning. He reminded Lonsdale of the Grim Reaper, gleefully waiting for his next victim.

“It so happens that it was Charley who organized this entire drug operation. The Cuban government had nothing to do with it. Castro happens to be innocent for once. In this particular case, he is the designated fall guy.”

Lonsdale felt as if somebody had kicked him in the solar plexus. He felt winded, nauseated, and dizzy. “Charley… the agent in situ… the snake in the grass?” he whispered. “Oh my God, it's Oscar De la Fuente.” What a mess. The naive, idealistic general tricked into participating in an unauthorized drug smuggling operation; Fernandez the trusted factotum, unknowingly running errands for the CIA, the killing of the girl in Cayman, of Siddiqui and Schwartz—because they were witnesses to what?