Havana Harvest (32 page)

It was one of those fragrant and lush nights for which Southern Florida is justly famous: waves quietly lapping at the sandy shore, the sea like a mirror from afar, reflecting the silver dish of a full moon frolicking in the water.

Fernandez felt almost at home. The beaches along Florida's west coast were similar in texture, smell, sound, and atmosphere to the beaches of his youth along Cuba's Costa Habanera, las Playas del Este. Sitting on the veranda of his rented cabana, he looked out over the sparkling, velvety sea, and allowed the tensions of the last two years to ebb out of him.

Then he shuddered, remembering how he had murdered the clerk in Grand Cayman. He went back into the cabana to fix himself another stiff Cuba Libre with real
ron añejo
and real Coca-Cola.

Yes, the girl had definitely been the key to moving the money. Because the Cubans were charging a thousand dollars per kilo for drugs passing through their territorial waters, the Colombians could get a ton of the stuff into the States in exchange for the up front payment of a million bucks. They would transfer the money to one of the Cayman bank accounts a few days after a ship, laden with the drugs, left their country and would then wait for word from the ship's captain advising that he was approaching Cuba. The Cuban Coast Guard would allow the ship to enter Cuban territorial waters, but would not allow unloading or departure without permission from the army's liaison officer.

This officer, who was also the army's liaison officer with the Ministry of the Interior, was none other than Fernandez, who coordinated operations from a special communications unit.

Once the drugs were in Cuban waters the Colombians would telephone the girl in the stationery store and give her a series of numbers—the relevant bank account and passport numbers—which meant nothing to her, but which she would inscribe under the front dust cover flap of a copy of
A Businessman's Guide to the Cayman Islands.
She would then wait for someone with the right password to show up and ask for the book.

The Cubans, advised of the ship's name via shortwave radio, would watch for it and dispatch a courier to Grand Cayman on the day before it entered Cuban waters. Thus, on the day the ship entered Cuban “territory,” Castro's people would be in a position to take control of the money in the Cayman bank. If the Cuban side would then refuse to let the drug ship discharge its cargo into the cigarette boats that came blasting out of Florida to meet it, the Colombians could take retaliatory measures in Grand Cayman against the Cuban courier. But since the schedule called for two drug shipments per month neither side wished to see the operation discontinued. There was just too much money at stake.

Fernandez figured that, by now, the balance in Department Z's Panamanian bank account must exceed thirty million dollars.

Remembering, Fernandez shook his head in disbelief and took another sip of his drink.
Twenty four million dollars a year or more they could have made for years and years if someone hadn't gotten greedy. Why could the big shots not sort things out amongst themselves? Why did they have to involve me, a lowly captain?

The trouble had started about three months after he'd taken over running the logistics of the show. They had successfully completed eight transactions without major problems and everything seemed to be pointing toward a long and profitable business relationship with the Colombians when the shit hit the fan and the minister had sent for him.

He had gone to the top floor of the Ministry of the Revolutionary Armed Forces with trepidation, but with a clear conscience. Proud of his work, he had been certain the minister wanted at best to commend him for his efforts, at worst to get more detailed information about what was going on.

Before allowing him to enter the minister's office, they had frisked him, taken his sidearm away, and X-rayed him to make sure he had nothing on him that he could use to harm Cuba's second most powerful man. They had then escorted him into the great man's office. The minister did not greet him, which emphasized the difference in rank between them.

“I see you've been working for General Casas for over three years,” the minister had said, flipping through Fernandez's personnel file on his desk. “He has given you four citations during those years: two for bravery and two for exceptional service to the nation.”

“That is correct, Comandante,” Fernandez had replied, looking squarely into the eyes of the short, pockmark-faced man sitting opposite him. The minister had nodded at Fernandez's escorts who withdrew.

The minister's demeanor had immediately changed. He became affable. “Sit down, Captain. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or a soft drink?”

“No thank you, Comandante. Nothing.” All Fernandez had wanted was to get through the meeting quickly and to get the hell as far away as possible from this dangerous little man who was being too solicitous by half.

“Very well then. I hear you've continued the good work by concentrating your logistical talents on reorganizing a new operation in Department Z.”

“That is also correct, Comandante.”

“I don't want to know any details, so stop fretting,” the Minister had then said, thereby adding to Fernandez's discomfiture. “All I want to know, Captain, and without a hint of a doubt, that the money, all of the money, generated by this little caper finds its way into the coffers of the government and nowhere else. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, Comandante,” said Fernandez automatically though not sure what his superior was hinting at.

The minister continued as though he had read Fernandez's thoughts. “I want you to work with me on this directly, Captain. I repeat, I need to know how the money flow is being handled and that there's no hanky-panky.”

Fernandez had been mystified. “But surely, Comandante, the comrades at the Ministry of the Interior are already doing this. They have the setup, the checks and balances, to make sure everything is as it should be.”

“Do you think I have not taken this into consideration?” The minister had looked at Fernandez over his half-moon glasses. “Do you think you'd be sitting here if I was sure these people were doing their job properly?”

“Do you mean to say, Comandante, that the Ministry of the Interior—”

“Captain, do not speculate. That's an order.” The voice had no longer been solicitous, not even friendly. “Here is what I want. First, a detailed written report about the money flow, and second, a rough calculation of how much money has been generated so far. Get your report done within the month and submit it to me directly. Keep your mouth shut about this meeting, and remember, it is possible in our army to skip a rank when being promoted.” The minister had allowed himself a fleeting smile. “Do you take my meaning?”

Fernandez stood up. “I do, absolutely, Comandante. I will, as always, do my best.” He took the minister's meaning only too well. There was a power struggle between the army and the Ministry of the Interior. They both wanted control over the drug money. He saluted, and was about to leave when the minister, bending over his desk, handed him a slip of paper.

“When you're ready, Captain, call this number and ask to see me. A meeting will then be arranged.”

Fernandez had resolved then and there to bolt at the earliest opportunity. Hell, he was being asked to spy on his comrades at the Ministry as well as in the army. To boot, he was also being set up as the fall guy if anything went wrong.

“I did absolutely the right thing,” he murmured as he finished his drink and stretched luxuriously.
I didn't take their money, only the extra amount, which the Colombians or General Casas or whoever had stuck into the account. I even went to the trouble before giving myself up in Miami to telephone the code word to Havana so that the operation could proceed as planned.

As for the other million bucks in the bank account, that money belonged to
La Patria
, so he had told the BCCI to transfer it to the Panamanian bank account, which presumably belonged to or was controlled by the Ministry of the Interior.

Fernandez went deep-sea fishing the next day, something he'd always wanted to do, but could never afford before. By five he was back at his hotel and, having swum his obligatory twenty laps in the pool, was beginning to feel hungry. He planned to drive to Naples soon, have a few drinks at a singles bar, and see what female company he could rustle up for the evening. Then he'd think about dinner, and who knows what else.

He was in no hurry about anything. Back in his room, he _fixed himself a drink, sat down to rest for a few minutes, and let his mind drift.

By now he was sure that the extra money in the account had been deposited by the general himself, not only because of what the girl in the bookstore had said, but also because of Casas's curious insistence four weeks earlier that Fernandez take a turn at being the so-called “Cayman Courier.” This had been very unlike Casas. If at all avoidable, no commander would expose to capture a key man privy to important secrets.

When Fernandez saw the extra money in the bank account he took it as proof positive that his superior officer, as much against dealing in drugs as Fernandez, was trying to send a signal to the outside world through Fernandez about what was going on in Cuba. OK, so Fernandez had done just that, but the sixty-four thousand dollar question was this: how much of the money was he supposed to have taken?

A knock on the door brought him back to the present. “Housekeeping,” the maid called out and tried to open the door with her passkey, but the safety latch was on. “Sorry,” she said through the partially open door, “I'll come back later to turn down the bed and bring you fresh towels.” She sounded Hispanic.

“No, no it's all right.” Fernandez went to the door and opened it. The woman, in her late thirties, was petite, good-looking, and friendly. “Where are you from?” he asked her in Spanish.

“Cuba, Señor,” she answered and came through the door, a bunch of towels draped over her arm.

“Oh really? Where in Cuba?” he asked as she closed the door behind her and headed for the bathroom from which she reemerged a few seconds later.

“I'm sorry Señor” she said as she came toward him. “I didn't hear what you said. The door—”

Fernandez, seated in front of the TV, waved his drink at her. “I asked where you were from in Cuba.” He gave her a big smile. The woman smiled back and took a step toward him. “From Matanzas like you, you treacherous bastard,” she said in an even voice and, as he was scrambling to get to his feet, shot Fernandez through the heart twice with the silencer-equipped Walther PPK she held hidden under the towels.

Thursday
Cozumel, Mexico

Lonsdale and Micheline were vacationing at the Hotel El Presidente, in Cozumel, Mexico, and having a fabulous time. Their room was right on the beach, the food was great, the weather beautiful. They ate, drank, danced, swam, and made sensuous love for four days.

On Wednesday they joined a group of Americans who had chartered a plane for a day-trip to Chichen Itza to view the magnificent ruins there.

Thursday was yet another marvelous day in paradise. They were watching the sunset on their little veranda when a bellboy interrupted them apologetically.
“Señor
, there is an urgent telephone call for you. Please come with me to the lobby and I will show you where you can take the call in private.” There were no phones in the rooms, one of the reasons why Lonsdale had chosen the Hotel El Presidente in the first place.

Lonsdale excused himself and followed the young Mexican.

“Hello?”

“It's me,” the all-too-familiar voice of Jim Morton said by way of greeting. “I've got news you won't like.”

“Never mind that. How did you get this number?”

“Micheline left it with her son in case of an emergency, and this is an emergency.” Morton was all business. “Uncle Sam is still paying your bills; so he has preemptive rights to your time.”

“Cut the crap, Jim.” Lonsdale was annoyed. _“I'm on vacation and just about to go out to dinner. I'm sure whatever you have to say will wait till Monday.”

“It won't.” Morton's voice betrayed his agitation. “Our friend the captain is dead.” He didn't sound happy.

Lonsdale cut in swiftly. “This is not a secure line, so I won't comment further. Besides, I need details.”

“There's a plane on its way for you as we speak. When you get to Miami call me at home from our office there.”

“When will the plane get here?”

“Within the hour.”

“I can't make that timetable Jim. It's physically impossible.”

“I'm not asking you to come to Washington, just to Miami, so we can talk.”

“What do you mean?” Damn Morton. The bugger had a way of reeling him in every time.

“Listen. You're due back at the office on Monday, so go to the Doral Golf and Country Club in Miami and stay there on company expense for three days. On your way to the Doral, stop by the office to talk to me.”

Lonsdale looked at his watch; it was getting on toward seven. “Tell the pilot we'll be at the airport at nine, Cozumel time.”

“That'll put you into Miami at eleven thirty.”

“Arrange for us not to have to go through the usual immigration hassle and have chilled champagne and a sumptuous meal waiting for us in an extraordinarily beautiful suite at the Doral.”