Havana Harvest

by Robert Landori

  Casas shrugged as he wondered yet again why Fidel thought that, however brave, an Argentine doctor was qualified to take on the job of being president of the Cuban National Bank and then, having screwed up, become minister of industry.

  “Che never really understood that our basic industries were agriculture and tourism. We're not, and never will be, an industrialized nation,” Casas had kept repeating to his colleagues at meetings of the Central Committee of the Cuban Communist Party.

  Nor did they listen to him when he pleaded against state-directed economic planning, even after he had told them about what he had seen in the USSR while studying at the Staff College in Moscow: the quickest way to destroy individual initiative and wreck an economy was to give bureaucrats the power to make decisions that should be made by entrepreneurs.

  Everyone, even his idol Fidel, had thought of him as just an ambitious, talented military commander, without ideas and opinions about anything other than matters military.

  If they only knew how wrong they were.

  The arrival of his daughters brought Casas back to the present. As he embraced each in turn, he held her a second or two longer and tighter than usual, praying that what he was attempting to do would work out well, at least for his children. As for himself, he saw with clarity that he was in a lose-lose situation. Whatever the outcome, he would be forever disgraced.

  Casas doted on his daughters. They were the light of his life, his main reason for continuing to struggle on in hopes that he could make a difference and that their life would be easier than his had been. They were young—Maria eleven, Rebecca sixteen—not old enough to be married.

  With his father dead, and no brothers or sisters, Casas's entire family consisted of the people present in his house that fateful Sunday afternoon.

  Deputy minister of the Interior, Oscar De la Fuente y Bravo, came by the house an hour after Casas's daughters had left. De la Fuente was one of Fidel's confidants, and like Casas, he had distinguished himself in la clandestinidad—the revolutionary underground. But there the similarity ended. People meeting Casas for the first time would come away feeling that he was tough and principled while De la Fuente left the impression of being pliable and a bit of a buffoon because he was short and rather podgy and blinked often behind glasses with very large frames that made him look like an owl.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth. De la Fuente was tougher than Casas, more focused, more self-centered, and more ruthless.

  Dressed in regulation verde y olivo summer fatigues and combat boots, the balding, middle-aged De la Fuente was sweating.

  “Café?” he asked De la Fuenta then led his guest to the kitchen, the safest room in the house for private conversation, which Casas had electronically swept that morning to neutralized the listening devices G2, Castro's secret police, routinely installed in prominent people's homes.

  “Si, por favor—y fuerte.” It was clear De la Fuente was upset. “And while you're at it, make it a double.”

  “What's up?” Casas asked, as he took two coffee cups from a cabinet. When De la Fuente had called earlier, requesting an immediate meeting, Casas had known very well why, but he pretended complete ignorance. “I didn't expect to see you before Tuesday, and especially not in my home. I just got in from overseas and was hoping for a quiet day or two with the family since I seldom have the opportunity to be with them.”

  “It couldn't wait, Patricio.” De la Fuente's tone was unfriendly, curt. “Fernandez has gone missing.”

  “What!” Casas, expecting the news and relieved to hear that his plan was working, spun around to face his guest and feigned great consternation. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure, I'm sure. He has failed to make the scheduled contact in Jamaica.”

  “Maybe he's just late, gone off whoring somewhere.” Casas tried to sound hopeful. “He's been late before.”

  “But not by forty-eight hours. Besides, our Miami contacts report they think they saw him there. Apparently he came in from Grand Cayman on Friday night.”

  “Why the hell would he do that?”

  “Who knows? Maybe for money, or because he's chicken, or fed up, or just confused.”

  “Confused?”

  “Yeah, confused. You should know; you're his commander, not me.” De la Fuente never missed an opportunity to needle.

  The cheap shot hit home, but Casas forced himself to stay cool. “Come off it, Oscar! Now's not the time for the two of us to get into a pissing contest. If Fernandez has gone AWOL then we are all in danger.”

  “All of us?”

  “Yes, all Cubans, our revolution, and our country. Think of the propaganda value of the information he can give the Americans. Fidel the drug dealer, Cuba the drug center of the Caribbean, Medellin and Matanzas: sister cities of sin, members of the international drug cartel.” He shook his head in disgust. “What a disgrace.”

  De la Fuente said nothing. Casas put some sugar into his guest's cup then poured himself a generous helping of rum and topped it off with Coke. What a joke, he thought. I'm drinking a Cuba libre while calmly discussing the event I'm orchestrating to bring down Fidel's regime.

  De la Fuente took the steaming cup from Casas then watched the general gulp down the stiff drink he'd poured himself. “Ease off on the booze, Patricio. We've got some hard decisions to make.” De la Fuente was already working on a plan to extricate the two of them, or at least himself, from a potentially very dangerous situation. “The way I see it we have a maximum of a month's grace.”

  The general was incredulous. “As long as that? How come?”

  “Before doing anything, the Americans will want to double-check everything Fernandez tells them.”

  “Or might tell them. We don't even know for sure where he is, or whether he's telling them anything.”

  “Assume the worst. Assume he's been singing like a canary since Saturday morning.”

  “OK then, one month.”

  “A month during which we have to fnd Fernandez so we can neutralize him. The Americans will then have no credible witness to back up their story. His death will slow them down and give us more time. Besides, killing him while he's in the care of the U.S. security people will signal other would-be defectors that the Revolution's reach is long and that there is no way of betraying it with impunity, not even by running to the CIA for protection.”

  “Big deal.” Casas persisted. His plan did not include the death of Fernandez. On the contrary: he needed very much for the captain to remain alive. “The information from Fernandez will allow the CIA to retrace then reveal our activities and they'll find enough people to corroborate the story, even with Fernandez dead.”

  “Ah, but they will not be able to prove complicity by the Cuban government.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of the second thing we will have to arrange to happen.”

  “And what's that?”

  “We have to arrange for a number of mid–level operatives under my command to become aware of the drug operation. Men friendly with each other, sort of a buddy network, so that when the Americans go public with their story we can say that the operation was conceived and executed by a group of greedy, disgruntled midlevel employees of the Ministry of the Interior, who, motivated by the promise of huge sums of money, betrayed the Revolution, La Patria, and Fidel. We will also have to plant damaging evidence in their homes, their bank accounts, and with their friends.”

  Casas was skeptical. “What about the army?”

  “Who gave you your initial assignment?”

  “Raul, when Department Z came into being.”

  “Consider this then, Patricio,” De la Fuente lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “From the outside the drug operation will appear to be just an extension of Department Z, an unauthorized extension created by a bunch of selfsh traitors to the cause. It will be easy for Fidel to dissociate himself from this illegal extension created by a group of disloyal officials.”

  “But
we both know that this is not so!” Casas was incensed. “The drug operation was authorized by the Revolutionary government itself, to speed the downfall of the United States”

  “And for the foreign currency it generates, which we need so badly to keep Department Z going.”

  “Department Z is a success thanks to the few dedicated men who have worked in it from the beginning.” Casas insisted. “Now you're proposing to involve more people, totally innocent people, so that in the end you can throw them to the wolves.” Angry now, Casas slammed his glass down on the marble counter. It shattered.

  De la Fuente took no notice. “Remember the Sierra Maestra, Patricio, and the sacrifices our people were required to make in la clandestinidad. We have fought hard and are fighting still to show that our way is the right way. You, as a soldier, know that in a fight one is at times required to sacrifice the lives of innocent men.”

  “But not to save one's own neck!”

  “Patricio, stop and think for a moment. We have to achieve two things that are mutually exclusive. Somehow we must try to save our own necks while, at the same time, saving the reputation of the Revolution.”

  “And you think your way will achieve this?” Still upset, Casas kicked at the shards of glass at his feet.

  De la Fuente, sensing that he was winning, continued the conspiratorial approach. “Be reasonable, socio,” he said quietly, pretending to have overlooked the other man's emotional outburst. “You were appointed liaison to Department Z by Raul. The link to Fidel and to the Revolutionary Council is thus through two people only: you and me. It is our duty—and there are no options here—so I repeat, it is our duty to make sure this link never comes to light.”

  Casas said nothing for a while. Then he began talking, as if to himself. “I guess Fernandez must die.” He pretended to agree because not to do so would have aroused suspicion. “Fernandez was present, at least once, when drugs were discussed by me at the highest levels of the army command, the highest levels, Oscar!” Casas wiped the palms of his hands on his jeans and looked pensively at his guest. “How about your people Oscar, how many are involved?”

  “About half a dozen, a third of the original group in Department Z. They're all middle management. The rest know nothing about the drugs, but will be gradually sucked in during the month to come; I'll see to that.”

  Casas waited. He knew what De la Fuente would have to say next, but he wanted him to have to say it the hard way, without help. De la Fuente did just that. “The third thing we have to do, perhaps the hardest, is to make sure we, ourselves, are covered. If the action is traced to us, and it might be, we have to be prepared, first to deny knowledge of it and then to swear, once it is proven that we did definitely know, that Fidel and the government knew nothing.”

  “Our word will carry no weight. Nobody will believe us.” Casas was bewildered. The conversation was taking a turn he did not expect. “More will be needed than pious protestations of innocence.”

  “You are right.” Leaning close to his colleague De la Fuente fixed him with a merciless stare. “We will have to persuade Fidel to put us on trial, an open trial, well-publicized throughout the world, in which we will say that we were the ones to have thought up and organized the scheme.”

  “You mean we are to volunteer to take all the blame? The world will never believe that a lowly brigadier general and a deputy minister of the Interior could carry out such a complex operation without Fidel and the revolutionary government finding out about it.” Very concerned, the general stopped talking.

  De la Fuente moved in for the kill. “Think about it, Patricio.” His face was very close to Casas's now. Both men were sweating nervously. Beads of perspiration stood out on De la Fuente's balding head. Casas's hands were clammy and he felt mildly sick. He was beginning to realize what his comrade-in-arms was getting at. “The government will own up to creating Department Z in a flash but will deny knowledge of the drug operation and will be glad to find two scapegoats—us—on whom they can blame the whole thing. More so if there are no witnesses to contradict.”

  Casas's face turned chalky, and he could hardly restrain the urge to gag. “Whichever way we play this we're dead men,” he whispered.

  “Not quite. We have a month during which to buy insurance.”

  “Insurance? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “We have to make sure we have irrefutable proof that people at the highest level know about the drug thing and have known all along. That way, if they refuse to allow us to go into exile quietly, we'll go on trial, and, at the last moment, we'll bring in a surprise witness to destroy their case.”

  Casas was lost. “Oscar I don't follow your thinking. The government and Raul for sure, and also Fidel, know everything. By neutralizing Fernandez we cut one of the threads of proof we need to save ourselves.”

  De la Fuente interrupted swiftly: “Fernandez adds nothing to our position. His saying that Raul and the rest of the government knew about this thing will be dismissed as baseless slander, lies to save his life. Killing him is necessary to slow down the American investigation and to discredit the CIA even further.” De la Fuente was derisive. “Their only witness . . . dead, killed while in their custody.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” De la Fuente was adamant. “All he can testify to is that you knew about the drugs and maybe Raul, not that Fidel did. If we could get someone other than us two to corroborate what Fernandez will say—if he will say it—that might do the trick, but there is no such person.” De la Fuente thought for a while then added “No, Patricio, to save the government Fernandez has to die. We don't want anybody reliable around who can swear Raul knew everything.” Sweat was pouring down De la Fuente's fushed, red face in rivulets. Casas got him a glass of ice-cold water. “Calm down, Oscar, you'll have a heart attack.”

  His guest took a gulp. “If nobody, not our government and not the yanquis, can prove that Raul knew about the drugs, we're halfway home. All we have to establish is that I didn't know about it either, but that's going to be a bitch. Too many people know that I know. They've gotten relevant orders from me directly.”

  “In writing?”

  “Don't be silly. But there's more than one of them and they'll corroborate each other's stories.” De la Fuente wiped his face and hands with a dishcloth he had picked off the oven door handle. “No, Patricio, there is only one way to save the Revolution, and that's through having us tried in public if necessary. And there's only one way we can save our own skins.”

  “How?” Casas's question was a whisper.

  “We need to have proof that either Fidel or Raul or my father-in-law or all three of them have been in this from the beginning! I know they have and you know they have, but do we have proof? Do we have irrefutable proof?”

  The question troubled Casas. “We have proof that the government has known about Department Z from the word go. It's in the secret minutes, in writing, and everybody signed it. As for the drugs, I never saw anything in writing.” The meaning of what he had just said jolted Casas. “Jesus, Oscar,” he whispered, his eyes wide. “You've compartmentalized this thing so well that even I don't have direct proof of the drug thing being an offcially authorized operation.” He gave his guest a hard, no-nonsense look. “Tell me, Oscar,” his voice had a steely edge. “Tell me truthfully since you're the one who recruited me. Are you on the level, or have you been fucking with us all this time?”

  “What if I have?”

  Casas, beside himself with rage, yanked De la Fuente out of his chair with a swift, merciless movement, tearing the man's shirt in the process. De la Fuente stood his ground silently, until Casas released him.

  “You ought to watch that temper of yours, Patricio,” he finally managed to croak, massaging his throat. “It no longer matters whether the operation is legit. What matters is believable deniability.” He turned on his heels and headed for the door.

  “Oscar!” The word cracked like a pistol shot and made De la F
uente whip around to face his host. “You leave this house now and you're a dead man.”

  The Minister smiled deprecatingly. “Don't be a prick, Patricio. You want me alive, not dead. To keep up the appearances of business as usual, come to the office Tuesday morning as planned, and we'll talk some more. By then I'm sure you will have calmed down.” De la Fuente left before Casas could think of a suitable reply.

  Casas tidied the kitchen and then headed for his favorite spot in the garden, under the mango tree. He needed to think. It concerned him that De la Fuente had not answered the key question of whether the government really knew about the drug operation.

  It was vital that the government know. Believable deniability was of no use to Casas. On the contrary, he wanted the world to see to what depths the revolutionaries had sunk. He wanted it known that they were drug dealers, merchants of death, the allies of pimps and whores. And for this, he needed Fernandez's testimony.

  Casas's disillusionment with the regime had been slow to mature. He had heard the gossip about Che Guevara's excesses as commander of Morro Castle prison, where the Argentine had, supposedly, presided over the execution of a large number of alleged counter-revolutionaries. This had troubled Casas, but he had dismissed the matter because the Bay of Pigs happened and it had been necessary to protect the gains of the Revolution.

  He heard the complaints when he returned from Russia: excessive bureaucratic meddling, the venality of the CDR presidents, cronyism in high places, the rise of a new elite (members of the Cuban Communist Party), inefficient production planning by the state. The list went on and on.

  Give it time, he had told himself, it takes patience to build a new society. But then the suicides began. Close to a dozen of his erstwhile comrades, all idealistic populists, killed themselves, one after the other. In the end, the drug thing had been the proverbial last straw that had broken the camel's back.