Havana Harvest

by Robert Landori

  “Smythe. He's a big shot now. They'll confirm him DCI soon and then we'll be all set. If I survive.” The Cuban's voice was barely audible.

  “Can you not control him?”

  “Hard to control the DCI. Too powerful …”

  “How do you control him?”

  “His wife … he wanted his wife killed … I arranged it…” Reyes Puma lost consciousness.

  Lonsdale motioned to the doctor, and they stepped outside the room. “Can you wake him up so I can continue asking questions?”

  “Not without risking a heart attack.”

  “What are the chances?”

  “Sixty percent in favor of a massive one. He's too fat and out of shape.”

  Lonsdale looked at Morton who had joined them. “What do you think, Jim?”

  “We have enough to follow up on,” Morton replied. He was ashen-faced, shaken.

  Lonsdale began to pace about, chewing his lower lip. “You're right. And we can't risk killing him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we need him to pull a double reverse on the boys in Havana, that's why.”

  “How's that?”

  “We'll start a disinformation campaign through Reyes Puma to obscure the details of the extraction operation. We'll feed Havana false dates, false details, false plans.” Lonsdale's mind was far away, working out the details.

  Reyes Puma woke up next morning with a blinding headache and totally disoriented. He was mighty glad to see his wife at his bedside.

  “Como te sientes, mi amor?” She spoke softly, wiping his forehead gently with a moist facecloth. “You gave us all a terrible fright.”

  “Where am I?”

  “At the clinic. Don't you remember? You ate too much and got sick. Had it not been for the quick thinking of your friend, Quesada, things could have gotten far worse.” There were tears of relief in her eyes.

  “Yes, yes, Quesada. He's a good friend.”

  “They brought you here by ambulance, pumped your stomach and gave you a sedative to sleep.” She pressed the bell at his bedside. “I'm calling the doctor to tell him you're awake.”

  “Maybe he can give me something for my headache. It's a real screamer.”

  “I'm sure he will. Just rest easy, mi amor.”

  He turned toward her painfully and smiled “You know Anita, I had the weirdest of dreams.” He caught himself just in time and was saved from continuing by the arrival of the doctor.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Tuesday, November 29

  Miami, Florida

  Sitting on the terrace of their suite at the Sheraton Towers Hotel overlooking Miami Bay, Morton and Lonsdale silently watched darkness descend upon the waters.

  The hotel was part of a complex consisting of four spectacular towers rising from reclaimed land bordered by Brickell Boulevard on one side and the sea on the other. Though the view from the fifteenth floor was breathtaking it was not sufficiently so to distract the two men from their preoccupations.

  They were in damage-control mode. Finding out that Smythe was being blackmailed into treason by an agent of the Cuban government had shaken them both. Neither had slept much during the last thirty-six hours and that hadn't helped either.

  “Where's the video tape your people took of Reyes Puma and us at the clinic?” Lonsdale asked.

  “It's in my briefcase. I played it back on the monitor a while back and the picture quality is superb.”

  “What about the sound?”

  “Don't worry; it's first class.” Morton smiled fleetingly. “Your insistence that we suspend a mike over the bastard's bed paid off.” Lonsdale grunted and said nothing.

  “What do we do next?” Morton rubbed his temples.

  “We carry on as usual, except that we start feeding Smythe spam.”

  “We can't do that.” Morton wasn't happy.

  “Yes we can, Jim. We have to.” Lonsdale closed his aching eyes and leaned back in his chair. “A few more days of the status quo are neither here nor there. I'll go to Havana to contact Casas and De la Fuente and tell them to get out immediately, even if it means risking their necks in an open boat.”

  “We can always have them picked up by our Coast Guard en route.”

  “As long as we do it outside Cuban territorial waters.”

  “Twelve miles out.”

  “At twenty knots that's half an hour.”

  “If their Coast Guard does not intercept them.”

  “Whatever.” Lonsdale was getting wearier by the minute. “If I can't persuade them to leave I'll try to identify a group of his followers who might be able to help during extraction. With Casas's help of course,” he added

  “Sounds risky.”

  “Jim, we have no choice. We've got to get these two out of Cuba, and fast. I just hope I get there before they're arrested.”

  “Which brings me to Spiegel.” Morton shuddered. “I tried to call him in London to stop him from going to Havana.”

  Lonsdale's eyes snapped open in disbelief. “You mean the man is ready to risk his life by sticking his head into the lion's cage?”

  “He doesn't know about Smythe.”

  “Oh my God. I overlooked that.” Lonsdale cupped his hands over his face. “Did you reach him?”

  “No. By the time I called this morning his plane had already left for Havana.”

  “I suppose he wanted to get there the day before his scheduled Wednesday-night meeting with Charley De la Fuente. Makes it look less contrived.”

  “That was the idea.” Morton sighed. “Now that we know the Cubans know everything about Operation Adios, we must assume that Smythe has told them about Spiegel as well. I guess they'll hold off arresting Casas and Oscar until Oscar has met with Spiegel.”

  “Why?”

  “I'm just guessing. The Cubans are meticulous investigators, especially in cases involving foreign citizens. They will try to catch Spiegel and De la Fuente red-handed in the act of exchanging information.”

  “When did Oscar and Casas get back from Angola?”

  “Two weeks ago tomorrow.”

  “Then their goose is cooked,” Lonsdale said with resignation. “They, and Spiegel, will be arrested before the week's out.”

  “Which brings me back to what I was asking before. What do we do next?”

  “Give me fifteen minutes. I have an idea. I just want to think it through.” Lonsdale got up and headed for the shower.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Wednesday, November 30

  Washington, DC, Nassau and Havana

  At eight a.m. on Wednesday, Morton met the third secretary of the British Embassy in Washington, who immediately arranged a scrambled telephone conversation with his ambassador in Havana. The ambassador was most gracious and said his sister, visiting Havana for the winter, would be delighted to have drinks and dinner with Mr. Spiegel at the Old Man and the Sea that evening.

  Meanwhile, with colored contact lenses to make his eyes look blue, hair dyed blond, and features altered by extensive makeup to look like the actor William Hurt, Lonsdale, using a British diplomatic passport, few to Nassau to replace the courier on the special diplomatic fight from Nassau to Havana. The fight was operated every Wednesday jointly by the British, Canadian, and Australian embassies.

  Ten minutes from Havana, the aircraft, a vintage turboprop, developed engine trouble and limped into Rancho Boyeros Airport after lunch, a half hour behind schedule. While the diplomatic bags were unloaded under Lonsdale's watchful eyes, an inspection of the faulty engine revealed that a blown gasket had been the cause of the trouble. The aircraft could not return to Nassau until a replacement part was properly installed, and the part would have to be flown in on the next available flight from Mexico City, at eleven p.m.

  The diplomatic courier and the pilots and cabin crew had to overnight in Havana. The diplomatic duty officer, a single woman, who happened to be the third secretary of the British Embassy, arranged for the crew to be put up at the Hotel Havana Libr
e while the diplomatic courier was invited to stay at the British ambassador's residence.

  What then would be more natural for the diplomatic courier, who claimed he had never been to Havana, than to ask the third secretary to show him the sights?

  It didn't take much of an effort to make up a foursome for the evening: the diplomatic courier, the third secretary, the ambassador's sister, and Ivan Spiegel.

  When Spiegel arrived to pick up his three guests at the ambassador's residence, he almost had a heart attack when he laid eyes on Lonsdale, but, being a pro, carried on without blinking an eye.

  On the way to the Marina Hemmingway the men sat up front and the ladies made polite conversation in the back. Lonsdale turned on the radio and briefed Spiegel about Smythe. “The consensus is that Casas and De la Fuente will be arrested this weekend and so will you.”

  Spiegel was sweating. “What do I do?”

  “Continue to do what you always do. Be the life of the party as always. You'll dance with all the women, you'll make Oscar dance with the ambassador's sister, who has been briefed about what to tell him. But do not dance with the third secretary, and do not, I repeat, do not remain alone with Oscar for one millisecond. No going to the bathroom together, no telling jokes. Friendly, yes, but not too friendly.”

  “And then?”

  “You'll pretend to have had too much to drink and will ask me to drive all of us back to the residence, which I will be delighted to do. We'll help you out of the car, and you will stagger into the residence and stay the night. We will try to get you on board the diplomatic fight tomorrow. If that fails you'll stay at the residence until the Cubans are ready to let you go.”

  “And if they won't?”

  “Don't worry. Several ministers will intercede on your behalf.”

  “Including the minister of the Interior?” Spiegel was catching Lonsdale's drift.

  “You've got it.”

  Spiegel stopped the car. They had arrived.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Friday, December 2

  Montreal, Canada

  “What do you want for breakfast?” Micheline shouted from the kitchen.

  “Bacon and eggs, sunny-side up, toast, marmalade, and coffee,” Lonsdale yelled back from the living room. He folded the newspaper he was reading and padded into the kitchen in his bare feet.

  “Don't you ever get bored with this diet?” Micheline was laughing. “Your cholesterol must be sky-high.”

  “I control it with copious quantities of good red wine,” Lonsdale replied and kissed her on the cheek. “Did you sleep well?”

  She nodded and snuggled against him, happy to have him in her home again, happy to forget the previous night's unpleasantness between them.

  She had met his fight from Nassau in the evening, and he had taken her to dinner at Le Toqué. During the meal he'd brought her up-to-date on his activities in general terms and told her he was going to have to go away again soon. She had bristled.

  “Why can't I go with you?”

  “Because it's too dangerous.”

  “But I want to be part of your life, like your wife had been. I don't want to be just a sort of bystander. I know I could help.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  Micheline had fared up. “Don't patronize me. Although I'm a woman I'm just as good as any man I know.”

  “Come off it, Miche, you know I'm no male chauvinist. It's just that you're not trained for this sort of thing.”

  Micheline would have none of it. “Nor was your wife,” she had said, feeling bitter. “Yet you made her part of your secret life!”

  Deeply wounded by her remark Lonsdale had fought hard not to lose his temper. “And she got herself killed in the process,” he had shot back.

  The old feeling of guilt was gnawing at him again. He saw the logic of Micheline's argument all right, but, under the circumstances, couldn't bring himself to tempt Providence once more by risking the life of someone he loved. Turning inward, he could not stop the feelings of self-pity and loathing, so deeply rooted in his soul, to surface, although he knew that this process of self-mortification would cause him to spiral into depression again.

  Trying to ease his pain he had reached for her hand, but this had angered her even more because she realized she had hurt him much more than she'd intended.

  “What's the matter,” she had demanded. “Are you still unable to forgive yourself for your past mistakes and be done with them?”

  Her harsh words had hit home hard. He saw he would lose her again if he continued to feel sorry for himself, if he refused to dare. His problem was complex. He could not compromise the mission, he dared not put Micheline in harm's way, and he did not want her to leave him—all seemingly irreconcilable goals.

  “I can't Miche, I can't,” he had whispered.

  “Can't what?”

  “Can't risk getting you hurt.”

  “Making me leave you would be better?”

  Next day, over breakfast he outlined a plan that absolutely delighted her. He proposed that she accompany him to Cuba for a week as the wife of a member of a Canadian government-sponsored trade mission.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Sunday, December 4

  Washington, DC

  Discretely inserted into Lonsdale's Sunday New York Times was an unwelcome supplement, an extract from GRANMA, the Cuban Communist Party's official newspaper:

  INFORMATION BULLETIN

  “We find ourselves in the unenviable position of having to inform the public that Brigadier General Patricio Casas Rojo and Deputy Minister of the Interior Oscar De la Fuente y Bravo, both highly decorated revolutionaries who have, in the past, been given important responsibilities by the Party, the Revolutionary Armed Forces, and the Ministry of the Interior, have been arrested and are subject to investigation relating to serious acts of corruption and dishonest manipulation of economic resources.

  Whoever he may be and whatever his previous merits may have been, the Party, the Revolutionary Armed Forces, and the Ministry of the Interior will not, in any way, grant impunity to any person who, deviating from the principles of the Revolution, gravely violates socialist morality and laws.

  In accordance with the norms governing the conduct of members of the Revolutionary Armed Forces and of the Ministry of the Interior, Brigadier General Patricio Casas and Deputy Minister Oscar De la Fuente are to appear before a Tribunal of Honor, composed of officers equivalent in rank to theirs, which will then recommend the subsequent legal and other measures to be taken in view of the improprieties committed by them.

  The recommendations of such a Tribunal of Honor and the reasons for such recommendations will be communicated to the general public at the opportune time.”

  Ministry of the Revolutionary Armed Forces.

  Ministry of the Interior of the Socialist Republic of Cuba.

  Lonsdale was relieved that the article did not mention Spiegel.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Monday, December 5

  Palm Beach and Miami, Florida

  Lonsdale folded the copy of the GRANMA article into thirds and stuck it into his pocket. “I figure we have four weeks left. We must be ready to snatch our people at a moment's notice any time after the trial begins.”

  “You don't think they'll put on a show trial during the Christmas holidays?” Gal was still trying to recover from the shock of being involved in such a high-profle operation. Lonsdale had only told him about the true purpose of their mission the previous evening.

  “Unlikely. They will want the world to focus on the trial and nobody focuses on anything during the week between Christmas and New Year's Day. Since they need at least three weeks for trial preparation and for whipping up a feeding frenzy among the world's paparazzi, I doubt very much that they will start anything before January.”

  “How is your end coming?”

  “The Barbara is chartered, the helicopter is bought. I've hired two pilots and got hold of three communications exp
erts who are familiar with satellite imaging. Ramirez has bought the Galils and has had four delivered to Nassau. I have smuggled these into Cuba with the ammo we may need. The rest can go in the false bottoms of the two specially equipped Toyotas, which we're sending to Havana disguised as taxis.”

  “What do you mean by specially equipped?”

  “The radios of all three vehicles have been altered to give them two-way communications capability. Satellite imaging equipment can also be attached to them as can GPS.”

  Lonsdale was rather proud of his achievements. With Morton's secret assistance he had been able to garner state-of-the-art equipment and top talent to operate it.

  “How do you propose to smuggle all that equipment into Cuba?”

  “The GPS and satellite stuff are going in via diplomatic pouch, disguised as radios and small TV sets, which, in a way, they are. The stun and smoke grenades will be packed into the false bottoms of the taxis.”

  “How about sidearms, flak jackets, gas masks, and clothing?”

  “They'll go into the false bottom of the command van, which we're shipping to Havana disguised as a maintenance truck for the taxi company.”

  “Does the taxi company know this?”

  “No, but one of the clerks working for it does.”

  Gal was impressed. “How the hell did you manage that?”

  Lonsdale shook his head in disbelief as he recalled the incident. “When I few down to see you the first time, I sat beside a weeping, deeply distraught woman who turned out to be Cuban. I asked her if I could get her something and she blurted out that what she wanted was her twenty-two-year-old son, trapped in Havana due to an administrative misunderstanding. He was working for the Havana Cab Company as their purchasing supervisor and dying to leave the country. I sent some people I know in Cuba to talk with him and, in return for a special trip to Florida—”