Havana Harvest (52 page)

When Lonsdale came to again he felt much better. His headache was gone, his thigh hurt less, but his raging thirst remained. The captain with the submachine-gun was still very much present. By the light coming through the barred windows, Lonsdale estimated it was late afternoon, some twelve hours after commencement of the extraction operation and pretty well the last moment for coordinating damage control. Whether the Cuban government was interested in damage control remained to be seen.

As if on cue, the door opened and four efficient-looking sergeants appeared, armed to the teeth. They surrounded Lonsdale's bed. The captain backed up against the wall and a female lieutenant-interpreter entered to search the room and the adjoining bathroom. Satisfied, she disappeared and came back within minutes with an unassuming-looking, short, paunchy man wearing a forage cap. Everyone saluted except Lonsdale. His arms were tied to the bed.

The captain placed the chair beside Lonsdale's bed and the man in the cap sat down.

“How is the Fat Man?” he asked.

“I think, well. Quite recovered from his recent bout with food poisoning.”

“You said he sent you. Explain.”

Lonsdale looked at the man, his eyes hard and cold. “Gladly, provided someone first gives me a large cold glass of water for which I've been asking for the last four hours, and you untie my left arm so that I can scratch my nose, which is itching.”

The man in the cap smiled frostily. “I admire your style Lonsdale, but don't push your luck.” He nodded to the lieutenant who untied Lonsdale, gave him a glass of water, then scurried away. Lonsdale emptied the glass, stretched luxuriously, and scratched his nose. “Thank you, Comandante. Now that we know each other better, may I make a request for the benefit of both of us?”

“What?” The word sounded like a pistol shot. Raul Castro no longer felt like playing nice guy.

“We should have our talk in private because we may wish to touch on subjects of a very delicate nature.”

The minister nodded and his entourage withdrew, except for the captain. Lonsdale remained silent and Castro became impatient. “Get on with it,” he snapped.

“Not until the captain also leaves,” Lonsdale said and lay back on his pillow. His thigh was beginning to hurt again.

Castro shook his head. “He stays. He's my man.”

“And also the minister of the Interior's,” Lonsdale bluffed. The captain turned crimson with rage, but Raul Castro had second thoughts. “Leave us,” he commanded and the man withdrew.

Lonsdale got to the point immediately. “Comandante, your side and mine need to coordinate the content of a statement to the media about what happened in the tunnel this morning.”

“Nothing happened. There was an accident, a number of cars caught fire, the wounded were evacuated by helicopter, and one of the helicopters crashed, killing among others Oscar De la Fuente, one of the witnesses in the Casas trial. The trial was delayed by a day, but will resume tomorrow at eight in the morning.”

“And who will be your star witness?”

“General Casas, who else. Tomorrow he will continue his confession and assume total responsibility for the drug-smuggling operation to the complete exoneration of our government.”

“And how will you get your hands on General Casas?”

“That's where you come in Lonsdale.” Castro got up. “You go home, he comes home. I'll get you a telephone and you can make the necessary arrangements.”

“No, Comandante, I won't make that call. Not after all the effort I put into this operation.”

The Cuban shrugged and put on his cap. “Suit yourself. The witness on the stand tomorrow is either Casas or yourself. Neither appearance will enhance the reputation of the Agency.”

Lonsdale's mind was racing. With De la Fuente dead Casas was the only one who could exonerate the Cuban government credibly. Lonsdale's testimony in a Cuban court might blacken the Agency's name, but not whitewash the Castro regime.

No, the
Comandante
was bluffing. Or was he asking for a way to save face?

“Putting me on the witness stand is good neither for your side nor ours. It's a lose-lose situation in which you are likely to lose more than we.”

“How so?”

“The Agency will deny ever having heard of me. It will then reveal my true identity as a crazed ex-employee, working as a mercenary for the Medellin cartel. You will respond by vilifying poor Casas who is the least guilty of all of us. We will counter with a campaign designed to smear you by pointing out that the Revolution is an abject failure from the economic point of view, with most families depending for survival on the dollars their relatives send them from abroad.”

Lonsdale took a deep breath and continued. “Incensed, you will retaliate, claiming the United States is amoral, corrupt, and oppressive of minorities; whereupon our president, reaching for the high ground, will point out that a so-called Revolutionary government, which claims to embrace high moral standards is not in a position to accuse its neighbors of immorality when its leaders—Cienfuegos, Huber Matos, Piñeda, Dorticos, Cisneiros, Abrantes, Torralba, and now, Casas and others yet unnamed—have a habit of disappearing, committing suicide, or ending up accused of corruption and treason.” Lonsdale fell back on his pillows.

His little speech had exhausted him.

The comandante's reaction was laconic. “So what? Business as usual! But not for you. After your trial we will probably put you away for life, if we don't shoot you.”

Lonsdale licked his lips. He was thirsty again. “Do you really believe the Cuban people will idly stand by after they discover that yet another one of their tormentors, and yours, I might add, who has been making their lives miserable all these years, is getting away scot-free?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Raul Castro narrowed his eyes. “Casas was not tormenting the people and certainly not me. On the contrary, he was a popular hero and an excellent soldier.”

“I'm not talking about Casas, but your nemesis and prime adversary, the present minister of the Interior.”

“What has he got to do with all of this?” Raul Castro sat down again.

“Comandante, listen.” Lonsdale could see Castro was interested. “Consider the following scenario. Oscar De la Fuente and his father-in-law, Jesus Montalba, the minister of the Interior, hatch a scheme whereby, using elements of the Cuban Army, Coast Guard, and the Ministry of the Interior, start cooperating with the Medellin Cartel in smuggling drugs into the United States. They need a high-ranking officer to help them liaise with the army, so they dupe General Casas into assisting them.”

The minister did not move. Lonsdale went on: “Their scheme comes to light, Casas and De la Fuente are arrested. De la Fuente has money outside the country earmarked for saving him in case something goes wrong. He pays the Medellin cartel to get him out. The cartel retains the services of the notorious Bernard Lands, me, rogue ex-CIA agent living in Argentina, who attempts a rescue, during which De la Fuente, Lands, and one of Lands' men die, as do two of your helicopter personnel and some of your soldiers. Casas escapes and disappears, probably killed by the Colombians. Your Army Intelligence unit, which now takes over the investigation, discovers a Panamanian bank account where Montalba's and De la Fuente's illicit profits are being accumulated. One of the transfers leads to a bank account linked to Montalba with over a million dollars in it.”

Castro was mesmerized. “You can prove all this?”

“Most of it. The
Barbara,
which is the same ship the Cartel uses to smuggle drugs, was also used in the rescue attempt. Lands, me, did exist once, and I can easily provide irrefutable proof of that. As for Lands and the cartel being in cahoots and hatching the extraction scheme—well, there's a clear trail leading to proof of that. The CIA knows of the Panamanian bank account with all its relevant transactions listed, and it has details of a decade-old Montalba bank account outside Panama with corresponding entries in it. The CIA will corroborate this story and everybody will come out of this mess more or less unscathed.”

“Can you give me concrete proof here and now that such a Montalba account exists?”

“Of course I can. You know damned well that I know where all the bodies are buried.”

“Then why don't I just keep you here and make you sweat a little so you tell me everything you know?”

Lonsdale shrugged. “You've tried pentothal and it didn't work because my hypnotic block against it is still in place. You can try torturing me, but that'll take time. I'll hold out for three days, and even if I did break it wouldn't help. I know the general picture, but not the details. By then you will have run out of time and the press would find out about what was happening to me here, and about Montalba. The Montalba business would be given a very Cuban-government-involvement type spin, which you don't want.”

“If pentothal doesn't work on you, how did I find out who you were? Notice, I called you by your name right off the bat.” Raul Castro sounded self-assured.

“You did, indeed, call me by a name, a name your friend Director Smythe knows me by. He told the Fat Man who then passed it on to you.”

“Which brings me to the Fat Man,” said Raul Castro, musing. “With all these new developments he has become a liability.”

Lonsdale said nothing.

Thursday, January 4
Washington, DC

It was half-past midnight. Morton was preparing for bed when the alarm on the hotline telephone began to wail. He picked up the handset on the second ring.

“May I speak to the Liquor Merchant please,” said the well-known voice, and Morton's legs went weak. Logic had convinced him that Lonsdale was dead.

“I am the Liquor Merchant,” he managed to croak, then pulled himself together and began the drill. “Who is calling please?”

“This is the Boy Scout. Do you have a first name?” The question meant Lonsdale was not being coerced into what he was doing.

“My first name is Samuel.”

“Samuel the Liquor Merchant.” This reconfirmed that all was well at Lonsdale's end and that “normal” conversation could commence. “How is Sparky?” Lonsdale inquired. In other words, how were things on the
Barbara
? (Sparky was the code name of the senior satellite imaging technician charged with taking over should Lonsdale fail to return.)

“He is well, but busy. The full delegation, lead by the Indian and Mr. Easter, has arrived and is being entertained as we speak.” This meant that Casas, Gal, and the others were safely on board the
Barbara
and on their way to Florida where, as prearranged, they would be met by Morton's people.

“Mr. Waterhouse has lost interest in the deal, so he won't be coming.” Lonsdale was telling Morton that De la Fuente was dead.

“I'm sorry to hear that. To tell the truth, I understood you were no longer interested either, but I'm glad you've changed your mind.”

“It was my new business associate who revived my interest and persuaded me to call, but, of course, he will want his pound of flesh.” Lonsdale was rather pleased with the metaphor.

“Can you give me some parameters?”

Lonsdale looked at Raul Castro sitting next to the interpreter who was listening in on the conversation. When the interpreter caught up, Castro nodded and Lonsdale continued.

“He is very interested in all aspects of the Belgian file. Do you have the details?” In other words, has Morton obtained all the relevant information on Montalba's Swiss bank account?

“Yes, I do. And it is quite complete.”

“Good.” Lonsdale let out a sigh of relief. “Bring it with you to our meeting.”

“Where and when?” Morton asked, his excitement rising. Lonsdale was talking about an exchange: information for prisoners.

“In Cayman at Owen Roberts Airport at noon today. My new business associate will be with me, as will be the Russian.” “The Russian” was Ivan Spiegel.

“Got it. Owen Roberts at noon. You, the Russian, and your new friend. Anything else?”

“Two things. One: your company will have to agree to refrain from commenting on certain recent events.”

“No problem there.”

“Two: clear things at Owen Roberts so we can talk without problems. I presume you will be flying in by company plane.”