Comrades in Miami

by Jose Latour

  The special agent turned to Smith, a smile dancing on his lips. McLellan reached for the remote and pressed a button. The frozen frame showed the backs of Pardo and Victoria.

  They were sitting in the living area, Smith and McLellan in armchairs, Steil and Hart on a sofa, all facing the TV. Each held a can of soda; Hart had handed them around minutes earlier. No sooner had Steil made Victoria and Pardo’s positive identification than Smith placed his Coke on the coffee table, pulled a cell phone out, and pressed keys. Three pairs of eyes went to him.

  “Positive ID, begin search,” he ordered after a moment. He punched a button to end the transmission and slipped the phone into the pocket of his suit coat.

  “You don’t know where they are?” asked Steil in full amazement.

  “No,” said Smith.

  There were several moments of silence. Steil wondered whether he should ask the next question that came to mind and stole a look at Smith. Nearly sixty, five-foot-nine or so, and 150 to 160 pounds, his sandy, half-inch-long stuck-up hair was rather thin at the top. Dark, short, thick eyebrows hovered over gray, or green, eyes, depending on the light. The rubicund full face had few wrinkles, something Steil judged remarkable considering the guy’s line of business. He clipped his fingernails short. Dark suit, white dress shirt, light blue tie, highly polished black lace-up shoes. A classic, including the Coke and the crew cut. Probably liked books by Mickey Spillane and songs by Frank Sinatra. Army background? Steil wondered. Probably. Judging from the respectful looks Hart and McLellan were giving him, the dude obviously was at least a notch or two above them in the federal government’s hierarchy.

  “How come?” Steil said, breaking the pause.

  “They approached two other houses first, rang but weren’t admitted. That made our people curious. But when they heard her pitch, they assumed they were recent immigrants trying to make an honest buck. No reason to tail such people.”

  Steil nodded. The schemers. Now they were needles in a haystack. Over two million resided in Greater Miami.

  “And how did you come to suspect they might be the same people that approached me in Havana?”

  Smith tilted his head in Hart’s direction. “Brent figured it out. You don’t easily come across strangers in Bay Harbor. Sometimes a week goes by without any outsider driving by or pacing out that particular block,” he said, nodding toward the TV screen. “So, our watchers feel like hooraying and waving the flag when someone does appear, have something to show for their efforts, know what I mean? Even if it’s nothing more than a couple of drifters who will work for food.”

  Steil liked Smith’s style: easygoing, restrained, no tough-guy scowl or big-shot attitude. Hart and McLellan believed the number of times a day they pissed was top secret.

  “Yesterday evening they gave Brent the descriptions of these two birds,” Smith went on. “He compared them with the descriptions you gave of the Havana couple, found a close match. This morning he asked for the tape to be taken to the office.”

  Steil nodded. He wondered if the bureau had checked INS records for Cubans who had arrived in Miami in the last few days, had asked the U.S. Interests Section in Havana whether Berta and Capdevila had applied for and obtained visas. Maybe they were here legally. Cuban officials had recently been admitted to sign trade deals. But he was loath to be too inquisitive lest it get him more involved.

  “Now, Steil, this roundabout way of reconnoitering the territory gives these two away,” Smith said. “There’s no doubt: They are full-fledged enemy agents who pose a serious security risk to this country.”

  “You think so?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Steil scratched the back of his head and appeared puzzled. “I suspected they were State Security agents when they approached me in Cuba. I suppose that video confirms it. What I can’t figure is this spoof they did. What were they after?”

  “Check the place out,” Smith said. “Entrances, exits, traffic, surveillance cameras, that sort of thing.”

  “But suppose Maria had said ‘Sure, come on in, I want you to clean my pool?’”

  Smith smiled condescendingly. “Would’ve tickled the hell out of them. Seeing the layout of the house, meeting her in person, would make planning ahead much easier. They would’ve cleaned the pool, collected their money, and got out not believing their luck.”

  “I see.” Then Steil considered a possible aftereffect. “But that would’ve given Maria a good reason to get pretty mad if the same people came to collect the money.”

  “Someone else may do the collecting.”

  Again Steil nodded. This was getting too complicated for him. McLellan finished his soda and crushed the can. Hart sipped from his. Elliot became aware that neither man had uttered a word after Smith made his phone call.

  “But I don’t think they pose a serious security risk to the United States,” the Cuban opined. “They didn’t strike me as being the kind of people who plant bombs or crash planes against buildings.”

  “Leave the assessment of what kind of security risk they pose to us, Steil,” deadpanned Smith, a steely nuance in his voice now. “We’ll handle that. But you’d make it a lot easier for us if you help us some more.”

  “What do you think I’m doing here?” raising his hands palms upward.

  “I know. And we value highly all you’ve done. Listen, Steil, let’s cut the bullshit. I understand your position. We are a pain in your ass; you’ve put in long hours and haven’t made a buck from this. You feel like telling us to go break somebody else’s balls but refrain from saying it ’cause you are a resident here and don’t want to risk getting your residence revoked. We understand all that. We are not stupid, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Okay. Now try to see it from where we sit. You were and are working for the widow of the man who started this, or that the Cubans claim started this, we don’t know yet. You were going to Cuba; you are fluent in English. With that candidate at hand, would it be sensible to approach anyone else?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Exactly. So it’s not like we singled you out from a hundred prospective candidates, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then, what about helping us out some more?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “We want you to call the widow and ask her to see you. We think she’ll say sure, drop over. She may think it’s some business matter you want to discuss. Then you tell her you feel guilty for having left her holding the bag in this XEMIC situation, are sorry for that, and are willing to help her out if she needs any assistance to deal with it.”

  Steil grunted, looked at the floor, smiled, and shook his head. “She’ll think I’m in cahoots with those two,” pointing to the screen.

  “Don’t anticipate what’s going to happen. She may say ‘Yes, help me out,’ or ‘Thanks, no, I’ll take care of it.’ Leave it to her.”

  “Okay. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  “We’d appreciate it if you’d call her tonight. From here. We’d like to hear what her reaction is.”

  “Isn’t it a little late?” stealing a look at his watch.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay. Where’s the phone?” He straightened up.

  …

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” Victoria scoffed, then did a stretch.

  “C’mon, you are free now. And you know I can keep a secret.”

  It was May 2, Thursday, 9:55 P.M. They were sitting on the loveseat of a single efficiency room at the Comfort Inn on 3860 Tollgate Boulevard in Naples, Florida. One hundred and eight miles away, FBI agents were patiently, but by now somewhat worriedly, trying to learn where the couple had holed up. Twenty-six hours had gone by since the desk clerk at the Lexington had quite forthcomingly identified Pardo and Victoria the moment he was shown the photos printed from the surveillance video. Those two had checked out early in the morning of May 1 without leaving a forwarding address, the clerk had gabbed.
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br />   Not knowing that the FBI had launched a manhunt after them, the couple had kept to their original plan of spending the least possible time in Miami and traveled to Naples, their designated base of operations. Making conversation after a nice meal, Pardo wanted to learn more about Cuban espionage in Miami and about Pola Negri in particular.

  Why do I still feel like I should keep this to myself? Victoria wondered. Because lifelong habits are hard to shed, she told herself. Her husband, on the other hand, meant more to her than any other person ever had. Anyway, by now a lot of her former colleagues were suspecting that she was babbling to the enemy. She would not, though. All she wanted was to quit and be free to roam the world. Thanks to Pardo, she would achieve that and live comfortably the rest of her life. Victoria supported her head on the back of the loveseat and, looking at the ceiling, began telling the story.

  “Well, following the collapse of communism in Poland, one of their purged Intelligence case officers approached our guy in Berlin and asked whether we’d be interested in a six-page report he had prepared on the life story, legend, and cover of a good Polish agent based in Miami. He asked for five thousand dollars, although he felt sure the FBI would gladly fork out twenty thousand. He’d sell it to us for a fourth of its value because he had moral scruples about turning the agent over to the enemy. A friendly service would take care of her. And there were so few friends left, the sonofabitch moaned.

  “Our man reported to Papa, who said he was interested, but wouldn’t go above twenty-five hundred. You know Poles drive hard bargains, so this dude said that, considering he was doing business with comrades, he’d accept four thousand, but not one dollar less. Back to Papa, who raised his bid to three thousand. The Pole swore thirty-five hundred was his final word or he’d contact the FBI. Papa ordered our guy to pay the fucking bandit.

  “That’s how we came to know Maria Berkowicz. She was born in 1947, of Jewish descent. She joined the Communist Youth in ’62, was recruited by Polish Counterintelligence in ’65 or ’66, I don’t remember exactly. Graduated from the Institute of English Philology, University of Wroclaw, in ’69. Rated a very promising cadre, she was transferred to Polish Intelligence in 1970 and trained to become an illegal in the West for two years. In October 1972 she was assigned to the Polish mission at the United Nations in New York as a junior office clerk. Following orders, she deserted in 1973. Her center hoped U.S. Intelligence would recruit her and she’d become a double, but once they debriefed her, the CIA lost interest.”

  “Lost interest? The Cold War raging on and they lost interest?” asked Pardo.

  Victoria turned her head and gazed into his eyes.

  “I’m quoting from the report we bought. According to it, after the debriefing took place, neither the CIA nor the FBI expressed any interest in her. Imagine. Such a careful plant, all she could do was visit Polish émigré circles in New York, reporting on what the geezers said.”

  “Let me guess: Then she met Scheindlin.”

  Victoria returned to her previous position, eyes on the ceiling.

  “In ’74, by chance, according to the report. Life is amazing. Two people bump into each other in a certain place at a certain time on a certain day, and an unimaginable chain of events is unleashed.”

  “Like us.”

  “Happens all the time.”

  “And Scheindlin fell for her.”

  “Big time. She asked for instructions. After checking him out, the center told her to cling to the guy as though he were president of the United States. According to the Poles, Scheindlin was Mossad’s resident director in Florida.”

  “No!”

  “An exaggeration, no doubt. I don’t think the Poles ran the kind of operation capable of infiltrating Mossad at the level required to determine who was their top man in Florida. Perhaps Scheindlin collaborated with Mossad on a regular basis. With all those contacts in South America, he would’ve made a good cutout, courier, or bagman. It’s possible. But I think he wasn’t a handler, let alone a resident supervising case officers and networks statewide.”

  “You sure?”

  “Macho, in this business, nobody, ever, is sure of anything.”

  “Right. So when did she marry Scheindlin?”

  “In ’76, a week after his divorce was final. They shacked up together in ’75. He bought the house we saw the other day in ’77, a few months before their daughter was born. I hope she felt something for the man. Must’ve been hard to be married to someone you are not attracted to and spend thirty years pretending.”

  “A lot of money provides a lot of comfort,” he retorted.

  “Yeah, I suppose so.” Victoria lifted her head, straightened up, crossed her legs. “Anyway, by 1992 the lady hadn’t heard from her center since ’89, so she figured she was off the hook. Then our recruiter knocked on her door. Figure of speech.”

  “Wait a second. When did we buy the report?”

  “Must’ve been 1990. I don’t remember exactly.”

  “And we waited two years before putting the squeeze on her?”

  “Don’t forget the ministry imploded in ’89. Reorganization picked up steam in 1990. Then the USSR and the whole socialist bloc went up in smoke. Our once-friendly colleagues, Vadim Bakatin, Markus Wolf, Pruszynski, and birds of a feather started getting very chummy with the NSA. We and the Chinese were the only serious players on the field. Everybody thought we’d go down the drain any minute.”

  “Right.”

  “Besides, we had to check her out, and get a line on Scheindlin and IMLATINEX as well. The possibility that we’d been sold a playback was weighed, too. Why didn’t the Pole put the squeeze on her? He could’ve blackmailed her. The answer to that was he’d been expelled from the service, was known as a case officer to the FBI, and couldn’t gain entrance to the United States. On top of that, he was sixty-two years old and had a serious heart condition. He just wanted to take things easy.

  “Maria didn’t look promising, either. She had never contacted the foundation or any other Cuban exile group, and with her cover and legend, it would have been odd if she had suddenly taken an interest in things Cuban. As it turned out, Cross-Reference reported that her husband had been doing business with XEMIC through Trans-Caribbean Trading since the early seventies. Right off the bat, the manager and the coaches wanted her sitting on our bench.”

  “You were a rookie utility infielder then.”

  “Yeah, still pretty green. She was one of the first profilings I was asked to do.”

  “How did she take it? The recruitment I mean.”

  Victoria rearranged herself on the seat. “She took it well. She’s a pro, you know. I recommended saying to her that she’d been transferred to us, not sold; that her Polish case officer wanted to protect her and help us out. I suggested appealing to her internationalism, her communist ideals as well. Lastra approved my plan. And of course, it worked. It gave her the opportunity to save face, nothing more. She knew what could possibly happen if she refused to collaborate. Therefore, she pretended to go along with the recruiter’s arguments. Bullshit, of course. By the nineties she had probably come to share Orwell’s—and our own—perception of communism. Besides, by then she had lived the good life too many years to still be sorry for the oppressed proletariat.”

  “She been useful?”

  “We wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t.”

  “No, I mean to the Directorate.”

  “So-so. Most important thing she said was the Jewish business community in Miami is planning to invest heavily in Cuba the minute the embargo ends, regardless of who is at the helm. It seems the Israelis exporting the Jagüey citrus are impressed; they send glowing reports to Tel Aviv and the word gets around. Maria affirms she frequently carried out our request to subtly predispose her husband toward Cuba. And Scheindlin became more agreeable to XEMIC’s requests for better terms and conditions since she began working for us. She said her center had overrated his link with Mossad. He had never given her any reason to sus
pect he may be an agent or a handler. Informer? Of course, she said. His age, his life story, he had to be.”

  They fell silent for a while. Pardo gazed pensively at the blank screen of the twenty-five-inch TV set they faced.

  “Why Pola Negri?” he wanted to know next.

  Victoria chuckled, folded her legs under her, and rested her right arm on the back of the loveseat. “When the recruiter went to Havana, she said the woman was suntanned to the point she seemed black, kept referring to her as La Polaca Negra. Then a guy remembered that Pola Negri was Polish. Negri is one vowel away from Negra in Spanish. So, we gave her that code name.”

  “Makes sense now,” Pardo said and got to his feet. He ambled to the refrigerator, got a can of Heineken, and showed it to his wife, a questioning expression on his face.

  “No thanks,” Victoria whispered.

  Pardo returned to the loveseat, popped the tab, sat down, took a pull.

  “I suppose she was placed under Bonis,” he guessed.

  “She changed gardeners, yes.”

  For a few moments Pardo squinted at the floor, considering something. He drank more beer.

  “Is it possible that in ’73 she was turned?” he conjectured.

  “Never say never” was her reply. “Although the consensus reached at the Directorate is that she’s not a double. Had she been one, when the Wasp network was broken, Bonis’s cell would have been broken, too. He has handled her for nine years now, more than enough for the FBI to know how many hairs stick out of his nostrils. The Bonis cell is part of Pitirre, our best Miami network. Pitirre provides almost all the top-quality intelligence we gather there. An all-star team, I tell you. There’s a guy been doing it for thirty-nine years, can you believe it? It’s composed of five three-agent cells, four couriers, three cutouts, a cobbler …”

  “Hey, hold it. What’s a cobbler?”

  “Expert forger. Nothing happened to any member of the Pitirre network. But …”