Havana Harvest (25 page)

“Calm down, General.” Lonsdale's voice was sharp, “And listen up. I know you're under pressure, but so am I, so don't raise your voice, and above all, don't threaten me. We're in this together, and we need to help each other, not fight. My simulated rank is colonel, one grade below yours, which is brigadier general, and I am the deputy head of my department. You claim you're risking your life for us. This is precisely why I'm here. I want to find out the reason you're conducting this little charade.” He added the last sentence to provoke the Cuban.

Casas could not believe his ears. “Claim to be risking my life? Playing at charades? Go back to America, CIA man, or whoever you are.” He moved toward the bed to retrieve his briefcase. Lonsdale, who had just about had enough, positioned himself between the exit and the Cuban. “Stop acting like an asshole, Casas,” he commanded. “You're not leaving this room without telling me why you sent Captain Fernandez to Miami.” Casas turned to face him and Lonsdale let his shoulders sag after a resigned little shrug and changed the timber of his voice. “But, on second thought, why bother. The whole thing is such a blatant ambush, such an obvious scheme to entrap the CIA that we'd be foolish to take any of it seriously.”

That's when Casas lost it. The lack of sleep, the stress of the last ten days, Lonsdale's insults and apparent indifference, and being called a liar by a stranger were just too much for his Latino blood. He charged Lonsdale who seemed to stumble as he got out of the way, forcing Casas to make a last-second correction in his attempt to grab him and crush the daylight out of him with his well-publicized bear hug.

The Cuban extended his hand to reach Lonsdale, who took it slowly, almost gently. Then he let the man's hand slide partially out of his until he was holding on to the ring and little fingers only. Casas tried to draw Lonsdale to him and Lonsdale allowed his body to fall toward Casas, taking the hand he was holding behind the general's back.

Casas tried to follow with his body, but too late. With a vicious tug Lonsdale broke the two fingers he was holding. Casas screamed with pain and fell to his knees. Lonsdale kicked him in the gut, and Casas doubled over.

Lonsdale turned the softly moaning man on his back, patted him down, and separated him from his service automatic. He flicked off the safety and cocked the pistol by pulling the barrel back. He felt the first round slam into the breach. It felt good.

He flipped the safety back on and stuck the pistol in his belt. Carefully, he helped Casas off the floor and onto the bed.

“We'll give you a few minutes to get your strength back, General,” he said in a conversational tone. “Then we'll get your car, and I'll drive you to a clinic to have your fingers looked at. We'll talk on the way.”

Casas was massaging his groins with his good hand. The other lay inert on his chest. He was in a daze from the pain, the shock of defeat, and the realization of the enormity of his own stupidity. He was especially devastated when he realized that he had deluded himself into believing the Americans would appreciate what he was trying to do and would know how to assist him.

Schwartz was dead, probably killed by De la Fuente's Montreal-based goons, Fernandez was next. De la Fuente was no ally. Casas was no longer sure that the drug operation had the blessings of the Cuban government, that the deputy minister had not organized the entire operation for his own and his MININT cronies' benefit.

In which event he, Casas, was an unwitting dupe of an international drug dealer.

He was trapped and had no one to turn to for help except this violent, insolent, and inept typically
yanqui
deputy head of some probably insignificant department of the DEA.

“How did you know I had a car?”

“You threw the keys on the table when you came in,” Lonsdale replied.

“Why should I cooperate with you after all this?”

“Because if you don't, I won't drive you to the clinic.”

“I can always take a taxi.”

“Yeah, but I'd make you leave your briefcase with all those little secrets in it behind.”

“What do you know about those secrets?”

“Nothing, but I'm sure you'll tell me all about them on the way to the doctor.”

After that there was nothing much left to say, and Casas decided to play along because he had no alternative. He urgently needed his fingers fixed and time to think.

Sunday Afternoon

Budapest, Hungary

They were headed for the Hilton by a quarter to four, where Lonsdale got the name of a private clinic from the concierge. By the time they arrived at the clinic, the doctor on duty, alerted by the concierge and spurred on by the prospect of many U.S. dollars, had everything ready. In exchange for five hundred dollars payable in advance, he gave Casas a local anesthetic, X-rayed the hand, set the fingers, applied the splints and the bandages, provided a sling for the arm, supplied a bunch of painkillers in a little vial, and saw Casas and Lonsdale on their way, all within the hour.

“I'll drive to the train station and take leave of you there,” Lonsdale said to the visibly suffering Casas as they got into the car, a nondescript, reddish Lada. “I'm sorry things turned out this way, because I hoped you and I could work together. I guess that'll never happen now.” He started the engine. “Unless,” he gave Casas a thoughtful, sideways glance, “unless, of course, what Fernandez told me in Miami is true, in which case I think you're one of Cuba's greatest patriots.”

Casas shifted painfully in the cramped passenger seat so that he could face Lonsdale. “Of course it's true,” he said matter-of-factly. The painkillers had subdued him. “It never occurred to me that the CIA would not believe me. I chased Fernandez to Miami because I could think of no other way of getting your government's attention.”

“What do you mean
chased?
”

“I had to frighten him, so he would think he had made a serious mistake involving money. I also had to tempt him with a lot of money. I succeeded in doing both.” He gave Lonsdale a crooked grin. “I even succeeded in helping you find a way to get in touch with me without Fernandez's help.”

“How's that?”

“Tell me, how did you locate me?”

“Through our late friend, Schwartz.”

“And how did you get to him?”

“I traced the Cayman money to him.”

“And how did you do that?”

“I suppose you'll be telling me soon that you helped me find you.”

“‘Help’ is perhaps the wrong word. ‘Providing hints’ is the way I would phrase it.”

“Meaning?”

“Depositing money in bundles, with the bundling intact, for example.”

Lonsdale's head snapped back as it struck him that he had grossly underestimated Casas. His mind went into overdrive. Was Casas trying to capitalize on a mistake of which he had become aware only subsequently or was he for real? Hard question to answer. Lonsdale said nothing for a while, concentrating on driving.

“Help me make sure we're not being followed,” he finally said, playing for time. “Watch the rearview mirror on your side while I make a couple of quick turns.” Lonsdale accelerated down Palota Boulevard and took a sharp left on Váralja towards the tunnel leading to the Chain Bridge. Another sharp left through the traffic lights got him into the tunnel. He drove as fast as the sparse Sunday night traffic would allow and soon emerged onto the Adam Clark round-about that connects the tunnel with the bridge. He raced around it at speed, making a full circle and went back into the tunnel. He cast a questioning glance at Casas as they carefully surveyed the cars coming from the opposite direction.

“There seems to be no one following us.” Casas sounded very positive and more alert. “What do you think?”

Ignoring the question, Lonsdale made up his mind. “I have come to the conclusion that, maybe, just maybe, Fernandez was telling the truth, at least the way he understood the truth to be. Suppose you tell me your version, and then we'll do a little analyzing.”

“And then?”

“Then we'll see.”

“How do I know you're CIA?”

“You don't, but to show good faith I'll tell you the highlights of what I know and you'll judge for yourself. Is that a fair deal?” He held out his hand and Casas took it awkwardly. Lonsdale began to talk, just as they were reentering the tunnel on their way toward the Chain Bridge and Pest for the second time.

It took an hour to tell Casas about Fernandez's flight to freedom, Lonsdale's trip to the BCCI in Cayman, his subsequent visit to Montreal, Siddiqui's death, Lonsdale's talks with Schwartz, and the way the old man had died. He was careful to present a coherent and logical story without mentioning Micheline or the strange attitude of his own colleagues toward him. He wanted to hear Casas's unbiased take on the situation.

“Hold on, hold on.” The Cuban held up his good hand to stop Lonsdale. “Do I understand correctly that you thought the shot that killed Siddiqui was meant for you?”

“Not really, because at the time the assassin, unless he was working for the Agency, which I doubt, did not know my identity.”

“Who then would have arranged for you to be followed?”

“Whoever the shooter was working for—the Cubans or the drug cartel. After eliminating Siddiqui to shut him up they needed to stop me from continuing my investigation.”

“That's fair,” Casas bit his lower lip, “but you also said that before Siddiqui got killed your colleagues wouldn't let you speak to Fernandez again.”

“Right.”

“And they had ordered you to stop working on the investigation and report back to your head office.”

“Right again.”

“They know something you don't know, and they don't want you to find out what it is.”

Lonsdale, who had been driving around the city aimlessly, now headed for the Eastern Railway Station. “You might be right, but I'm damned if I know what it is. What do you think the reason is for holding back information? Why don't they let me have the full picture?”

“Maybe the man to whom you report does not have the full picture.”

“That's possible.”

Neither of them said anything for a while. It was Casas who broke the silence. “You've told me little that I didn't know, except the Schwartz and Siddiqui assassinations of course. These events reinforce my theory that they don't want you to get to know certain things. I'm beginning to attribute more significance to something that has been bothering me only slightly up to now.”

“What's that?”

Deep in thought, Casas did not reply. Lonsdale pulled over to the sidewalk and stopped the car. They were alongside the railway station. He knew better than to say anything. He understood that Casas needed a few moments to marshal his thoughts.

As the minutes ticked by, Lonsdale's chances of catching the Sunday evening express to Vienna were fast evaporating, but the general had to be given the opportunity to conclude on his own that he required help from Uncle Sam, so Lonsdale stuck with him. He started the car again and drove back toward the downtown area.

Finally, Casas bestirred himself. “Listen to this, Mr.—”

“Call me Roberto.”

“OK, Roberto. Before I left Cuba, Oscar De la Fuente and I had a violent argument. That was about ten days ago. We were discussing the Fernandez situation, and he said we'd have to volunteer to go on trial and swear in public that Oscar and I were the highest-ranking Cubans who knew about the drug operation and that the government and Fidel were not aware of anything. He said we needed to do this to save Cuba's reputation because of what Fernandez was telling the CIA.”

Casas began to stroke his injured fingers. “Oscar also said he would have to involve more of his own people in the drug operation to make it look as though it were a bunch of MININT—pardon me, Ministry of the Interior—people who thought up the whole scheme. Then he went on to say that Fernandez, being the only person who heard me talk to Raul Castro about the drug operation, had to be killed to erase any possible connection with the government.”

“Sounds logical to me, but go on.” Lonsdale tried to sound encouraging.

“But by killing Fernandez we would be committing suicide, don't you see? We'd be found guilty at our trial, condemned to death, and shot. I told De la Fuente that our life insurance was Fernandez, that if he was dead we were dead.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“That Fernandez was not enough, that we needed to manufacture more proof that Fidel knew, so that we could threaten to expose his complicity if he allowed us to be condemned to death.”

“Instead of?”

“Instead of, say, being sent into exile, like Fidel had been after he had attacked the Moncada barracks.”

“What about world opinion?”

“As long as there was no proof that Castro or the government knew, the world would have to assume that they were innocent and we were the guilty parties.”

“And your life insurance, as you call it, would have been Fernandez?”

“Or someone like Fernandez, or several Fernandezes, or documents, such as minutes that would attest to knowledge at the highest levels.”

Lonsdale felt sick with apprehension. “You mean to tell me we're holding Fernandez, the only proof to what you're saying being true, and we're not aware of this?”