Havana Harvest (20 page)

“Too risky,” the Englishman said, almost to himself, “and too early. We'll just watch him closely.”

“Have your people snatch him. I'd feel safer.”

“No, that would arouse suspicion, and we need more time.”

“If he opens his mouth to the wrong people our goose is cooked.” Oscar was pleading.

“Don't you worry, he won't—just yet.”

They returned to the dining room, where the band was playing a rumba. De la Fuente asked his wife to dance.

Wednesday
Luanda, Angola

Brigadier General Casas's private air force was based in Angola, but the general, who hated waste, returned to duty from vacation, as was his custom, via commercial airliner. His superior, Raul Castro, appreciated the gesture, and to help make traveling easier for the general, provided him with a diplomatic passport in the name of Carlos Casares.

To get back to Angola, Casas had to fly to Prague first and catch the connecting flight, a real rattler—a Tupolev—to Luanda. By the time he got there on Wednesday night he was tired and out of sorts. To make matters worse, the air-conditioning was failing at the Hotel Presidente, headquarters of Cuba's forces in Angola just around the corner from the head office of the National Bank and two blocks from the beach.

The sweltering heat did nothing to improve Casas's temper. But he was used to physical hardship and had disciplined himself to be in control even when fatigue made him irritable.

Colonel Font, his chief of staff in Angola, was still at his desk when Casas reached the hotel.

“Welcome back, general,” the colonel, a tanned and savvy soldier in his mid-fifties, extended a muscular arm in greeting. “Glad to have someone with whom to share the fuck-up that's going on around here.”

Casas resented the remark, but didn't show it. “Why? What's up?”

“The usual shit. I guess organizing an orderly troop withdrawal is more difficult than mounting an attack.”

“Or perhaps we are not used to withdrawing,” mused Casas dryly.

“Maybe, but if they'd let us get on with it without interference we'd do a better job of it.”

“And just what do you mean by that?”

“Hell, General, we keep getting these directives from Department Z to do what they call odd jobs for them, jobs that require lots of energy, time, and specialized knowledge, when they know we're stretched to the limit here as is.”

“We always were.” Casas was beginning to suspect what Font was driving at.

“They want us to organize another ivory hunt, as if we had nothing better to do.”

Casas's gut constricted at the news. “On whose orders?” he asked, but knew the answer in advance.

“Deputy Minister De la Fuente. He was on the scrambler earlier asking if you had arrived.”

“And?”

“He said he'll call back tomorrow sometime.”

“He must have gotten back from lunch early.” Both men laughed and Casas went into his office. He glanced at the pile of messages on his desk, sighed, and went out on the balcony.

The view was, as always at night, magnificent. In the full moonlight he could see the horseshoe-shape bay stretch out below him, bathed in the fluorescence of a calm sea gently lapping at the sand. The lights along the road running parallel to the sea hinted at a cosmopolitan city nearby, not unlike Rio de Janeiro, or Havana for that matter. This, Casas knew was an illusion. Luanda resembled Havana perhaps, but not Rio, for the night was kind, hiding the decaying city, softening the harshness of reality.

Cuba's soldiers had first come to Angola in 1975, shortly after the country became independent of Portugal. The new government needed help to stop the South Africans who did not want a sovereign black country as their neighbor. Angola, with the yoke of colonialism removed, was definitely headed for the socialist camp, looking to the Soviet Union for economic assistance. But the Russians themselves were having a hard time; they were pouring eight million dollars into Cuba every day, and they wanted something in return. So Fidel Castro was told to provide military aid to the Angolans and not to look to the USSR for payment of its soldiers' upkeep. The troops, well trained and equipped with the latest Soviet weaponry, were duly transported to Luanda by ships of Cuba's modern merchant feet and told to make do with their meager wages, paid to them in military scrip.

The pillage of Angola's middle class that followed was remarkable even by modern standards. Boatloads of furniture, household, offce and factory equipment, plumbing fixtures torn out of walls, doors and windows removed from private homes, cars, trucks, motorcycles, and bicycles, left Porto Amboin for Cuba en masse, courtesy of Castro's underpaid soldiers who quickly realized that the homes of those well-to-do Portuguese who had quit Angola because they did not wish to live in a socialist country had been left behind unguarded.

Portugal was outraged, but powerless to help its citizens alone. In return for certain military concessions in the Indian Ocean, Portugal enlisted Uncle Sam's help. The States, no friend of Fidel, was glad to be of assistance. One fine day a Cuban merchant ship, loaded to the gunnels with toilet bowls, sinks, and bathtubs was discreetly intercepted by a U.S. submarine and escorted to Puerto Rico. The cargo was unloaded and the ship sent on its way.

No one complained. Publicity would have been too painful for all parties concerned. So the pilfering stopped.

Casas returned to his office, leaving the balcony doors open behind him, grabbed a handful of papers off the pile marked “urgent,” flopped into an easy chair, and began to read. It was around one in the morning when he came across what, to the uninitiated, appeared to be a routine request for payment from the Hungarian Ministry of National Defense. Addressed to Casas personally, it said that the Cubans owed the equivalent of seven hundred and fifty thousand U.S. dollars and suggested a meeting in Budapest to settle the matter. Casas was taken aback. From the wording, Casas saw that the request was from Schwartz, the coin dealer, and not the Ministry.

Why did the Montrealer want to see him so urgently?

“It must be serious if he's asking for help,” Casas muttered as he reread the fax. Schwartz wanted to see him on Sunday, so Casas would have to leave Luanda on Saturday morning at the latest, which wouldn't be a problem. He'd go via CESA to Prague, and then to Budapest. He had made the trip a number of times.

For the next hour Casas kept at it, reducing the pile by half before he quit and, fully clothed, fell asleep on the couch opposite his desk.

Thursday
Montreal, Canada

Micheline and Lonsdale got up while it was still dark.

“I told Schwartz,” Lonsdale said between mouthfuls of yogurt and cornfakes, “to get a message to Casas asking him for a meeting in Budapest.”

“Why Budapest?”

“It's easy for both of them to access. Schwartz deals in coins there with the government and so does Casas.”

“Deals in coins?” Micheline was no slouch.

“No, my darling. Casas buys ammunition from the Hungarians. They are the designated manufacturers of small arms ammo for the Soviet Bloc.”

“I see.” Micheline took a sip of her coffee. “And I suppose you'll go along with Mr. Schwartz for the ride.”

“Not quite. He'll make his way to Hungary via London. I'll go via Amsterdam. The object of the exercise is for Schwartz to arrange a meeting between Casas and me.”

Micheline pursed her lips. “Do you think Casas will cooperate?”

“It seems the two meet often in Budapest, whenever Casas has stuff to sell.”

Micheline was puzzled. “I thought Casas brought the stuff to Canada for Mr. Schwartz. At least that's what he told me.”

“That too, but only the fner pieces. The bulk stuff they transact in Hungary.”

“Why?”

“For many reasons, one of which I suspect is tax driven.”

“And I suppose it somehow involves the BCCI.”

“Maybe, but that doesn't concern us.” Lonsdale collected the breakfast dishes and placed them in the dishwasher. “What does concern us is that Schwartz should not chicken out at the last minute.”

“And how will we know that?”

“He's supposed to come to see you in the bank late today to confrm he's going.”

Micheline shook her head. “He usually comes in around lunchtime, so he can try to talk me into going to eat with him.”

“He won't this time.”

“Why?”

“He'll wait until he has General Casas's reply to the message he was supposed to have sent him yesterday.”

He helped her on with her coat, then kissed and held her for a while before gently cautioning her: “Drive carefully and come home safe and sound. These country roads are slippery.” He watched her drive away.

As he jogged along a country road, Lonsdale breathed deeply, enjoying the crisp, cold air. Although the trees had lost their foliage to winter, making them look sad and spiny, there were plenty of magnifcent evergreens to lend color to the landscape. The lake, a metallic gray under the fall sky, glittered harshly in the light of a pale, rising sun.

“It'll freeze over soon,” he murmured as he ran up the hill and turned onto the main road. He forced himself to think positively and to feel good about his body, which he was keeping in good shape, about his mind, which seemed to be sharpening with the improvement in his physical condition, and about his relationship with Micheline. He was beginning to think things might just work out somehow.

As he ran, he tried to figure out what was happening. He thought that the Cubans had probably shot Siddiqui, because they did not want anyone with knowledge of Casas's affairs to talk to the CIA.

Lonsdale wondered if it was the Cubans who were following him? Maybe they wanted to see if Lonsdale would try to make contact with Schwartz and through Schwartz with Casas. So then, the next victim would have to be Schwartz—to shut him up permanently.

What about Micheline? The Cubans were bound to wipe her out
en passant
, as the chess players say. As a friend of his
and
Schwartz's, she was a risk.

But this presupposed that it was the Cubans, and that they had been watching Siddiqui for some time and had been tapping his phone, thereby overhearing his conversation with Lonsdale. Why not? Lonsdale was aware of how extensive the Cubans' intelligence operations were. Montreal was the headquarters of Cuba's spying activities in the West, and Florida was crawling with Fidel's agents.