“And if anyone had been curious and opened the suitcase stored with him?”
“Tragic for him. The locks could not be opened by any stranger without the case blowing up in his face.”
“And who left these cases for you to collect?”
“Various agents, helped by some sympathisers. They are accustomed to leaving suitcases and parcels for someone else to pick up. My department has quite a lot of experience in these matters. Don’t look so surprised. I have directed so many people to move between countries and continents that surely I know how to arrange my own travel.” He paused, smiled slightly again. “Do you understand all I’ve been saying? Or shall we go back into English? You now know that my accent is Spanish, and not Cuban or Puerto Rican or any other variety. Isn’t that so?”
That was so. But it was better to keep using Spanish; this man talked more freely in it. Reid ignored the smile. “You know,” he said softly, “you’re so damned smart, I don’t think you need anyone’s help to complete your escape.” And if you hadn’t dropped the word “defector”, he thought as he stared at those unreadable eyes, I wouldn’t have spent another two minutes on you; you aren’t the kind of refugee who needs any aid or comfort. What are you—defector, or agent for Castro’s Cuba? “In any case, there isn’t much you can expect here, except a bed and food and new clothes. That’s all Tavita ever provided, first to her brother, then to his friends, and then to friends of his friends. It has been mostly a family affair.”
“I know that. Don’t worry; I kept this ‘family affair’, as you call it, out of our files. It seemed to me, when I first discovered it, that it could have its uses. Tavita does owe me her brother’s life. But to be quite frank, I didn’t come here to ask Tavita’s help. I want yours.”
“Mine?”
“You have an organisation behind you. The CIA. That is what I need now. Fully, organised help.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” Reid stubbed out the cigarette that was almost singeing a fingernail, glanced at his watch. Pablo’s dance was over. From the courtyard came a muted minor scale. Miguel and his song about blighted love seemed very far away. “I think I’d better return to my friend,” Reid said, rising. “Tavita would like you to leave. Find someone else to help you. We can’t.”
The man hadn’t moved. “Sit down,” he said quietly. “Do you think I am here to spy on you? I tell you the truth. I am a defector.”
“Then go to the American Embassy. Ask them for help. Come to think of it, why didn’t you slip into the United States and defect right there?”
“Because I do not intend to live in the United States. I do not wish to spend the rest of my life evading exiled Cubans, or Castro’s agents, or—” He paused, then ended, “Or the KGB.”
Now, wondered Reid quickly, how had Soviet Intelligence come slipping in there? And which branch of it—internal security or foreign espionage? He sat down again. “Why not add some of Mao’s boys to the list?”
“Your renegades, your black revolutionaries, your visiting students from friendly foreign countries? Yes, there are plenty of them around in your United States.” He reached over the table suddenly, picked up Reid’s lighter. “Always obedient, always helpful,” he went on as he turned the lighter over in his hands. It was made of dark polished steel, with a small brass insigne on its smooth surface for sole decoration. “What’s this?” he asked, examining it. “Oh, yes, Air Force. Of course.” He glanced up quickly at Reid, but the American seemed to be little interested; he was still waiting for a direct answer to his question. “Yes, the Chinese communists would be curious, too. If they knew I was alive.”
“Oh—so you’re dead, are you?” Reid put a cigarette between his lips.
“Assassinated in Mexico.”
Reid held out a hand for his lighter. “Now how did that happen?”
The man balanced the lighter in his hand, then tossed it back. “The fishing boat on which I was meeting two Mexican comrades exploded and burned.”
Reid lit his cigarette, dropped the lighter back on the table beside his pack. “Just five minutes after you timed your departure?”
The man studied Reid deliberately. For a moment, Reid wondered if he had pushed too far: obviously, if any acid comments were going to be handed out, this man would insist on dealing them. The man said coldly, “Ten minutes.”
“And no questions asked?”
“Immediately? No, I think not. There was an attempt on my life last year. In Havana. I used that incident to make my death acceptable. Of course—once investigations are made and cannot uncover who ordered my execution—there could be serious doubts. Unless I accomplish what I mean to do: drop completely out of sight, stay out of sight, have no floating rumours attached to my name. Then my death will be accepted as accidental. Now you understand why I don’t walk into your Embassy and ask for help? Or make contact with old friends who are left alive in Spain?”
“By ‘friends’ you mean communists?”
“The others were never my friends,” the man said contemptuously.
“Then why did you make contact with Tavita?” And what worries me, Reid was thinking, is that this man has involved her in helping an enemy of the state; what worries me is that she may be in additional danger if any of his friends connect her with him.
“She never had any politics that mattered. She was only a child—seven or eight years old when I was last in Málaga. No one will connect me with Tavita. That is what worries you? I assure you, it is as much in my interest as it is in hers that we remain unconnected.”
“But her brother—”
“Yes, I was a close friend of her brother. He was many years older than she was, the head of her family. I helped him to escape to Madrid in 1937 when Franco’s troops took Málaga. I helped him to escape again in 1939. Then we followed different roads. I was sent to Moscow. He went to Mexico, then to Cuba. And there he changed. He was one of those socialists who like to feel they have been betrayed: it nourishes their sense of martyrdom.”
Reid glanced at his watch. Outside, the song had ended. A dance was beginning. “Did you have contact with him in Cuba?”
“No. I watched him closely. But we never met.”
“When did you arrive in Cuba?”
“1963.”
“Why?”
“In order to take charge of one of our departments there that had become—well, let us say it was careless, inept. It needed reorganisation.”
“You were an agent for the KGB?”
“I am a member of the KGB.”
Reid noted the correction and was impressed. He also noted the use of the present tense, and was disturbed. In another session, he thought, I’ll have that clarified. But now—he glanced again at his watch—now he must get the essentials. “Name?”
“Which of them?” The man was amused by the increased tempo. Perhaps he was taking it as proof that he was accepted. “To Tavita, I am Tomás Fuentes.”
“Why was there an attempt on your life?”
“There have been procedural disagreements within the department. I lost the argument. Meanwhile.”
Meanwhile... A revealing word, thought Reid, when spoken with such bitterness. Was this man a defector in the real sense? Or was he simply playing for time—some months, perhaps even a year—until he was proved right? If he actually hoped for some kind of reinstatement, then he would give nothing away that was of any importance. Let’s keep talking, decided Reid, and see how much he is willing to tell. He asked, “Disagreements? Between orthodox and revisionist factions in your department?” And the answer to that would at least indicate just where this man stood.
Perhaps Fuentes guessed the reason for Reid’s question. Or he welcomed a chance to cut the American down a little. “That is being much too simplistic. There are no revisionists in the department. There cannot be. Or it would cease to exist. And that’s the reason that made my position extremely insecure: I was represented as revisionist. Not true. But my chief opponent was a Cub
an, and we were, after all, in Cuba. Also, he had been most helpful to Moscow in the death of Che Guevara, while I had advised Guevara—privately, of course—not to go to Bolivia. Oh, I had no illusions about the man. He had veered far left, toward the Chinese faction; he did not believe that we could achieve our ends quickly enough by peaceful coexistence. He was too much of an anarchist, and therefore unreliable. But there were safer ways of dealing with him. So, I was against the Bolivian project. I insisted on the realities: it was not possible at that time to open another Vietnam. My mistake was that I overestimated world opinion, Señor Reid. I had feared your newspapers would headline the lack of Bolivian communist support for the Guevara forces. No communist party disobeys its directives; if they had been told to support Guevara, they would have done so. I also overestimated Guevara himself. I thought he would react violently once he discovered he had been sent on a lost mission.” He paused. “When you contact Washington—”
“First,” Reid said, “I need some short but definite answers.”
“But I’ve told you—”
“Not enough. You say you are Fuentes, a member of the KGB, sent to supervise some branch of your department that has been established in Cuba. You say you are afraid for your life, and you’ve given me a reason for your flight. But the Che Guevara incident, if true, is three years old. What is the reason for leaving Cuba now?”
Fuentes stared at him coldly. “Further disagreements. And because of the Guevara incident, my position has been weakened. The suggestions of my opponents have been favoured in directives from Moscow. They are now in operation. I foresee great danger to the department. And when trouble comes, I do not intend to be held responsible for something I disapproved of.”
Moral scruples? At least, thought Reid, this may be more pleasant to hear. “And that was?”
“The widening of our selection of recruits.”
Reid’s brief touch of sympathy faded. “You are afraid your standards will deteriorate?”
“Not that. Our training is of the best. No one is chosen unless he has the necessary courage and determination. But once he graduates, he may give us unexpected trouble unless we are sure of him psychologically. With increasing numbers of graduating students, that is not always possible. Some of them get tired of waiting. They may want action before we judge it is time for action. The younger they are, the more impatient. They want to prove how clever they are. In other words, they could become agents out of control.” Fuentes was talking rapidly, the words pouring out as if he had declared them several times before, and from the irritation in his voice it was obvious that no one had listened to him. “That creates several problems. The greatest of these is adverse publicity.”
“Surely your propaganda experts can come to the rescue,” Reid said bitterly. “Blue is yellow, and purple is green. They know how to colour the picture.”
“A propaganda machine is only as effective as people are stupid. We cannot assume that we will always be saved by the simplemindedness of our enemies. To attract any publicity is a fatal mistake for my department. We must not seem to exist.”
“And what are you?”
“The Thirteenth Department of the Foreign Intelligence Directorate.”
Reid froze. In spite of the heat of the room, he felt chilled. The beads of perspiration on his brow were cold. “So Department Thirteen is still active,” he said, trying to speak casually, almost succeeding.
Fuentes was delighted with the effect he had produced. “Not even Khrushchev would interfere with it. Fortunately. There is more opportunity for it now than ever. So you see, Señor Reid, I am a defector of considerable value. You agree?”
Reid only stared at him. Department Thirteen had two divisions. One of them dealt with assassination. The other organised terror: bombs in cities, fires in warehouses and harbours, destruction of railways and bridges, sabotage of defence industries and installations, general violence and the creation of fear.
Fuentes was saying, “When you contact Washington, I would advise you not to trust your usual methods of communication. Messages can be intercepted. And codes can be broken easily and quickly by computers. I suggest a courier: yourself in fact. Señor Reid—are you listening to me?”
Sure I’m listening, Reid thought grimly. Department Thirteen... I’m out of my depth. This is far beyond me, and I know it. But I’ll keep listening. And I’ll keep you talking. “You mean I take three days away from the wine business? Fly to Washington and back?”
“Why not? It ensures complete security. And you must go direct to the top—or quite near the top. Robert O’Connor is the man you need. He thinks he is an expert on Department Thirteen. He has specialised on Cuba. He will certainly know me—as Carlos Vado. You will tell him that Vado can give him the names of certain agents, now placed and waiting in the United States. In exchange, he will arrange to get me secretly to Switzerland, supply me with money and necessary papers. And that is all. There is to be no surveillance once I reach Switzerland—I know exactly where I shall go, what identity I shall adopt. I need no further help.”
“Which division was yours in Department Thirteen, by the way?” This time, Reid had managed to be completely casual. “Assassination or terror?”
“Assassination. I supervised the selection and training of recruits.”
“And it is being expanded?” Reid went on quietly. “Why?”
“Both divisions are being expanded. Terror is of course a diversionary activity, but it does create the necessary—”
“Why?” Reid insisted. “Why expanded? What are they preparing for?”
“Just what you are preparing for. The year 1976. The two hundredth anniversary of the United States. An interesting target date.” Fuentes almost smiled as he watched the American’s face, tight with shock. “And there is a good chance of success, with the way the United States is going these days,” he added in the same calm business-like voice.
By God, thought Reid, he’s enjoying this. “Civil war? Is that what you are planning for us?”
“Let us say: an end to your system of government. And frankly, we do not need to plan too much—not at this stage. Now, we only need to supervise, to guide and counsel and support.”
Recruit and propagandise and train, thought Reid. And civil war it would be.
Fuentes was still watching the American’s face. “You don’t believe it can be done?”
“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Reid said, his anger breaking loose.
Fuentes was silent. Then he said, “I’ll give you a demonstration of my credibility. And of my good faith. Come to the balcony.” He rose, moved over to the curtains. “I told you that there were three men down in that courtyard who would be capable of killing me. I ought to know. Two of them attended our school in Cuba, went to Moscow for final instruction. The third is a Lithuanian who has assumed a Swedish identity. He is a painter, with a studio at Fuengirola not far from here. Popular with foreign wanderers, most of them political innocents.”
Reid said, rising to his feet, his left hand slipping into his trouser pocket and gripping the duplicate lighter, “Just a second! Open the curtains as I put out this lamp.” He switched off the lamp on the table, heard the scrape of curtain rings as he exchanged lighters. Too bad he had to do that now, but there might not be another chance. He came quickly over to the window, seeing his way by the hint of light from the courtyard. Fuentes was unfastening the catch on the shutters. “Most of them political innocents? And the others?”
“They are his special charges. His mission is to superintend the safe arrivals and departures of our agents in transit through Málaga. He also makes a report on them. I had several of these in my files.” Fuentes opened the shutters gently. “You’ll see him at the back-corner table with the two Americans.”
Reid put out a hand, stopped the opening shutters. “No need,” he said, dropping his voice. “I saw the men. But there were four of them in that corner.” And then, for the first time in ten minutes,
he was aware of the music. This was Tavita’s dance. Constanza’s alegria must be over, and he hadn’t even noticed.
“One of them left—the young man with the beard. A quarrel, I think. I don’t know him. Possibly a pickup, someone to lend an authentic touch.” Then Fuentes stood listening to the music, too. His face was lost in memories. “So many years,” he said softly. “So many, many years.”
“I must leave.” Reid pressed the shutters together, fastened them. It was difficult with the exchanged lighter in his right hand, but he hadn’t dared risk slipping it into his pocket. “Turn on the light after I close the curtains,” he warned. Behind him, the lamp was switched on as he drew the curtains roughly together. He came back to the centre of the room, where Fuentes now stood looking down at the table.
“Their names?” Reid asked.
“The three men in the courtyard?”
Slight hesitation. Fuentes was debating whether he’d give this much information at this stage.
“Names,” Reid repeated.
“Gustaf Torrens is the one with the Swedish passport. The Americans, according to their passports, are Edmund Pitt, black; Lee Laner, white.”
“When do they arrive in the States? And where?”
“Later,” Fuentes said. “We’ll save these details for later. I’ll give you them at our next meeting.”
So, thought Reid, no more information at this session. To be continued... He frowned, took a few thoughtful paces around the room, his hands jammed into his pockets, his head bent. “All right,” he said, accepting Fuentes’ decision. “Now you get back to your own quarters. I’ll see you there when the show is over.” His hands came out of his pockets as he stepped briskly over to the door.
Message From Malaga Page 4