Oscar was unfortunately right for all the wrong reasons. To succeed in what he was planning, Casas had no alternative but to help De la Fuente to obtain proof that Fidel and Raul and the whole damn lot of them, were up to their necks in drugs and guilty as hell.
Whether Casas liked it or not, he and De la Fuente were allies in this. Though motivated by different reasons, they wanted to achieve the same end result. Why then did the deputy minister want Fernandez dead? It just did not make sense.
CHAPTER FIVE
De la Fuente got into his Toyota and forced himself to sit still for an entire minute. He knew he was a bad driver under normal conditions, and anger seemed to affect his eye-hand coordination, which made him even more of a menace on the road.
“Two-and-a-half years' work down the drain,” he seethed. “I'm so near to success that I can smell it.” He desperately needed concrete evidence linking Castro to the drug operation, even if he had to manufacture it. Fernandez's testimony alone would never be enough.
But allowing Fernandez to remain alive would jeopardize the big picture. It would blow Operation Adios. He had no choice: to allay Casas's suspicions he had to insist that Fernandez be eliminated.
Like most of Fidel's early supporters, De la Fuente had been a student on July 26, 1953, the day Castro and his comrades had attacked the Moncada barracks. De la Fuente had been well aware of Batista's corruptness, his henchmen's cruelty, his cronies' indifference to the suffering of ordinary Cubans in a land where the rich had all the privileges and the poor were exploited without mercy. His relief was sincere when he heard that Fidel had been sent to prison for what he had done rather than condemned to die.
Castro and his fellow freedom fighters were released after serving two of their ten-year prison sentences and left for Mexico soon thereafter to organize the Cuban revolutionary movement from abroad.
De la Fuente suspected that several of his fellow students at the University of Santiago belonged to the clandestine 26th of July Movement, as Fidel's revolutionary group became known, but his discreet inquiries seemed to fall on deaf ears, and for good reason. De la Fuente's father, a magistrate, was known to be a strong Batista supporter.
Three years after the Moncada incident De la Fuente was taking math tutorials at El Preparatorio Flores in Santiago de Cuba when, one evening, he ran into Roberto Cisneiros, a classmate, who was dating Professor Flores's daughter. They got into an animated discussion, and De la Fuente was invited for dinner at the teacher's house. Thereafter, Cisneiros and De la Fuente met frequently for drinks and coffee. At these meetings Oscar made it clear that his sympathies lay with the rebels and not with his father's cronies. Then, one day, Cisneiros disappeared. His girlfriend told De la Fuente that he had gone underground to help prepare the way for Fidel's return.
De la Fuente was mortified. How could his friend have left him behind? Why was the opportunity to help rid his country of the tyrant Batista being denied to him?
A few days later De la Fuente was abducted by two men, blindfolded, and driven into the countryside to a fidelista safe house. There he was trained in clandestine work: operating shortwave wireless equipment, mastering methods of encoding, and assembling mines and other explosive devices. At the end of his course he was given the addresses of a number of safe houses located in the principal cities of the country, and then driven in the dead of night to Holguien, a town in southeastern Cuba, to start working for Fidel's underground.
Under Cisneiros's direction, De la Fuente carried out his duties with dedication, verve, and great effectiveness.
When Fidel decided to return to Cuba in the Granma, a rundown luxury yacht the revolutionaries had purchased in Mexico, he sent word that he needed a guide familiar with the targeted landing beach near Niguero in Oriente Province. Cisneiros, who knew the area, volunteered to meet Castro and to guide him and his companions into the nearby Sierra Maestra mountain range.
The Granma landed in the wrong place, and its occupants were ambushed by Batista's forces. Of the eighty-two revolutionaries on board, only thirty—including the two Castro brothers and the wounded Che Guevara—made it to the relative safety of the mountains with the help of Cisneiros and his adjutant, De la Fuente.
By the time the rebels triumphed in January 1959, De la Fuente had become one of Castro's trusted collaborators and was rewarded for his loyalty and hard work by el Lider Maximo with a post in the Ministry of the Interior.
But within five years De la Fuente was asking himself serious questions about the direction in which Fidel was taking the revolutionary movement. He understood that to make an omelet one had to break some eggs, but he thought there were altogether too many eggs being broken, some without reason.
On the seventeenth anniversary of the Triumph of the Revolution, a public holiday, De la Fuente got to his office early. He needed to attend to urgent business before joining hundreds of thousands of his compatriots on the Plaza de la Revolucion to hear Fidel speak.
He was hurrying through the composition of his second memo when the phone rang. “Oscar,” said a familiar voice he could not immediately identify. “It's me, Roberto.”
Who the hell is Roberto? De la Fuente asked himself, and how does he have this number?
“Roberto?”
“Coño, pero que te pasa?” The voice insisted. “Don't you recognize my voice? It's me, Roberto Cisneiros.” His former comrade in arms sounded awful.
“I did, I did. It's just that I wanted to be sure. Security, you know,” he added lamely.
“I need to talk to you.”
“All of a sudden, after a couple of years? What's up?”
“I've been sick, Oscar, but you know that. I'm better now, and I need some advice.”
He is looking for a job thought De la Fuente. Cisneiros had been captured and brutally tortured by Batista's secret police a week before the rebels' coming to power. As a result, he had required intermittent psychiatric care during the past decade and was unable to cope with the demands of a steady job. De la Fuente had heard through the grapevine that Cisneiros's wife had divorced him because he was beating her, and that she had taken their two small kids, whom he adored, with her when she moved out.
“When do you want to get together?” De la Fuente felt strong loyalty toward Cisneiros, who had saved his life on more than one occasion.
“How about meeting at the Copelia at eleven? It won't take long, not more than half an hour.”
De la Fuente consulted his watch then looked at the stack of papers in his In basket. “OK, let's do it, but be there at eleven sharp.” The arrangement left him ninety minutes of working time, certainly not enough to finish what he had hoped to accomplish during the day. But a friend was in need of help so he had to reorganize. He figured he'd spend half an hour with his erstwhile comrade and get home by noon for lunch with his wife and kids. Then he'd go back to the office and do some more work, hopefully finishing most, if not all, that was left to do in time to hear Fidel speak.
The Copelia Ice Cream Palace, on the corner of Calle 23 and N, opposite the Havana Libre Hotel, formerly a Hilton, was within two blocs of the Ministry of the Interior. Cisneiros was waiting for him at the entrance.
They lined up to make their choice from the thirty-odd varieties of ice cream the Copelia offered, and then took a table in the section reserved for the nomenklatura, important officials of the government.
Cisneiros looked awful. Dressed in a worn, long-sleeved plaid shirt and faded slacks, his face unshaven, his complexion sallow, his lusterless eyes ringed by dark shadows, he gave the impression of a tortured man down on his luck who had gone without sleep for days.
De la Fuente was so concerned that he could not help blurting out: “Roberto, you look terrible. Are you ill?”
Cisneros grabbed his arm. “It was all for nothing, Oscar, all for nothing,” he whispered.
He spent the next half hour telling De la Fuente about how the Revolution had failed the people, how corruption was rampant, how the
populace was suffering as a result of Fidel allying himself with the socialist camp, how there was no hope for a better future for the children of Cuba.
“Even those in whom we had placed our trust,” Cisneros's voice was hoarse with intensity, “have become selfish, venal, and unjust. We're lost my friend, we're lost—and so are our leaders. We're in the process of betraying every principle we stood for.”
Shocked, De la Fuente held his tongue.
“Why are you telling me all this?” he finally asked.
“Because I had to tell an old revolutionary comrade about how I feel before I die.” Without saying another word Cisneros stood up and walked out the door of the ice cream parlor.
That evening, sitting on the podium behind Fidel, while as el Lider Maximo rallied the immense crowd in front of them, De la Fuente could not stop thinking about his meeting with Cisneros. By the time he got home that night he knew for certain that he agreed with everything his old friend had told him. This frightened him.
Ten days after meeting with De la Fuente, Roberto Cisneros, an idealistic early member of the revolutionary movement and veteran of the struggle against the tyrant Batista, immolated himself in front of his two children. He left a letter addressed to De la Fuente in which he reiterated what he had told him during their meeting.
The impact on De la Fuente of such a devoted revolutionary's suicide was profound.
A few weeks later, Dr. Oswaldo Dorticos Torrado, president of the Republic of Cuba, was relieved of his post and Fidel Castro named himself president.
Castro's blatant move to reduce the influence of the voices of reason in his entourage tipped the scales for De la Fuente. Though a deputy minister in the Ministry of the Interior, which was headed by his father-in-law, he decided to change sides. He found his chance at a reception where he met the third secretary of the Canadian Embassy, and through him, arranged to be recruited by the CIA.
Three years later he came up with the drug-smuggling idea with the aim of discrediting the Castro administration, and had managed to convince his handlers at the Agency to give it a try. Thus it was crucial that he generate evidence of the Castro regime's complicity in the drug-running operation because only three other people in the world knew about his brainchild.
CHAPTER SIX
Monday
George Town, Grand Cayman
The Monday after he had interviewed Fernandez Lonsdale few to Grand Cayman.
The BCCI branch in George Town was a freewheeling institution, just as Fernandez had said, aggressive in looking for new business and determined to maintain clients already acquired.
Karim Chowdry, the bank manager had been very cooperative. The CIA maintained large account balances at the branch and Lonsdale had come well recommended. The envelope containing one thousand U.S. dollars, which discretely changed hands during their preliminary chitchat, also helped. Lonsdale had no trouble obtaining a copy of Fernandez's most recent bank statement and, having reviewed it, concluded that he was none the wiser. The Cubans had, it appeared, planned to use the account for a single operation only.
“Who opened the account?” he asked.
Chowdry consulted the file on his desk: “A Venezuelan national by the name of Francisco Raban.”
“Do we have an address?” Lonsdale figured the name and the address would be false, but he jotted them down anyway. “I suppose you ask to see passports when someone opens an account.”
The manager shrugged. “Yes we do Mr. Robinson, but we can't guarantee the authenticity.”
“Of course not, but you do make a note of the number, don't you?”
“That we do.”
“May I have it then?”
The manager sighed and obliged. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“Would you know if this Francisco Raban opened any other accounts?”
“Let me see.” After consulting his computer the banker shook his head. “Of course, he may have done so under a different name, but we show no link.”
Lonsdale got up to leave. “You've been very kind,” he said, extending his hand. “May I come back tomorrow if something else occurs to me?”
“Of course, Mr. Robinson.” The man was all smiles. “I love chatting with our good customers.” The emphasis on the word “good” spoke volumes.
Lonsdale had leased an air-conditioned Ford from Cico Car Rentals and was glad of its cool comfort as he drove back to his apartment on Seven Mile Beach. He knew renting an apartment was extravagant, but he preferred the arrangement to living in a hotel. It gave him the solitude and privacy he needed.
Grand Cayman had changed a great deal since his first visit fifteen years earlier. Both sides of West Bay Road were fully built-up now, and the numerous hot-dog stands and strip malls made the landward side look gaudy. He remembered how peaceful the place had been. In the early days, the Caymans had truly been the islands that time had forgotten. No more. On the narrow highway the traffic out of George Town had backed up for miles behind a sanitation truck and the hot, humid air was blue with gasoline fumes. Progress was slow and the dust pervasive.
After what seemed like hours, he managed to reach the driveway of the Islands Club and pulled up in front of Apartment 1. He changed into a swimsuit, smeared his body with a generous amount of Coppertone 4, and then headed for a walk on the beach.
Soon, Lonsdale was lost in his thoughts. Fernandez had told him that the security-conscious Colombians set up a different account for each shipment. He had not been able to remember past account numbers, so Lonsdale had decided to visit Cayman to find out how many accounts there had been and which way the money had flowed. Unfortunately, the task was turning out to be more difficult than anticipated. The main account provided little information; the account owner's name, address, and passport details were certainly false.
As for the four entries in the latest account, he knew all about them. The frst deposit was from the Colombians for a million dollars. The second, also for a million, was allegedly deposited by General Casas. The million-dollar transfer to Panama had been made by Fernandez as had the million-dollar cash withdrawal from the subaccount. The main account had also earned a couple of thousand dollars' interest, from which various bank charges had been deducted.
Lonsdale figured the second deposit had to have been made personally by General Casas. But he couldn't figure out how a Cuban communist general could lay his hands on a million dollars—and how he transported it to Cayman. Surely, he had not gone through the States.
Lonsdale decided to visit the offices of Cayman Airways to find out what airlines operated fights in and out of the islands and at what times of the day. After that, he intended to have another talk with Chowdry the BCCI manager. Million dollar cash deposits were rare, even in Cayman banks, and Lonsdale needed the details relating to how and by whom the money had been handled.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wednesday
Washington, DC
Lonsdale owned a penthouse apartment overlooking Washington Harbor on the twelfth floor of a building on Canal Street in Georgetown, a fashionable area of the Capital equidistant from Georgetown University and Foggy Bottom and near the shops at Georgetown Park. He liked the location even though the drive to the office was long, especially when he had to make the trip during rush hour, but he didn't mind. It gave him time to think and strategize while his driver-bodyguard fought the traffic.
Back in his office after his visit to the Caymans, Lonsdale briefed Morton on his trip while sipping a cup of hot chocolate, his favorite breakfast.
The lanky, six-foot Morton, a meticulous dresser, was forever fussing about the crease in his trousers, the wrinkles in his jacket, or the knot of his tie. Lonsdale found Morton a bit of a stick-in-the-mud at times, while Morton considered Lonsdale too temperamental and brash on occasion.
Morton was a dedicated man who had made the CIA his first and only love. The middle son of a successful Boston liquor manufacturer, he had attended the right Ivy Lea
gue schools and was at ease with wealth and privilege. But his background had not made him vain or hardened his heart. He felt he owed his country for having given his family a wonderful break, and he devoted his life to repaying the debt. His rise through the ranks of the Agency had been remarkable for a man with almost no experience in the “wet” end of the business. He had earned his promotions through brainpower: he was a superb analyzer and motivator of people.
Morton and Lonsdale ran the CIA's counter-terrorism and counter-narcotics division in tandem. Morton was the titular head, Lonsdale the visionary planner and field commander.
“There's a charter fight from Montreal to Grand Cayman every Thursday. It gets in at eleven thirty in the morning and the same plane returns to Canada at eight at night. That leaves plenty of time for a man like Casas to come in, get the account number from the girl at the stationary store, make a deposit at the bank, and then dash back to Montreal.”
“The hell you say! You sure of this?”
“I went back to the BCCI branch on Tuesday and had another talk with the manager. He confirmed that the cash deposit had been made just after lunch on a Thursday, the day before Fernandez showed up at the bank.”
“So we have corroboration of Fernandez's story.”
“I wouldn't go that far just yet. But there's more, so let's just say that the situation is developing in an interesting way. By the way, where is Fernandez?”
“Still in Miami, still in Quesada's care. Why?”
“I may have to talk to him.”
“Now?”
“No, but in a few days.” Lonsdale continued. “I asked the manager if he still had some of the dollar bills that we suspect Casas had deposited. He said that the Cayman banks ship most of their cash back to the States as quickly as possible, but the BCCI is an exception. Its clients regularly make large cash withdrawals so the branch hangs on to any U.S. bills deposited. I asked him to give me some serial numbers, and he managed to turn up an intact bundle that had been brought in for deposit to the Fernandez account, but it didn't include the paper band that kept the bundle together. He said they had thrown it out after counting the money. But the clerk who had done the counting remembered the information printed on the band, and she told me where the cash had come from.” Lonsdale waited for Morton to ask the obvious, but Morton, used to Lonsdale's theatrics, continued looking out the window. After a few moments Lonsdale gave in.
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