Havana Harvest (4 page)

“Sorry about that, McDougall,” he had grunted, “but I'm old and crotchety and not used to this middle-of-the-night cloak-and-dagger stuff, especially not on a weekend.”

“I understand, Sir, but Mr. Morton is on his way to pick you up,” the duty officer had replied, “and he thought you might want to pack a few things for your trip.”

“What trip?” Lonsdale had no idea what the man was talking about.

“I understand you are going to Miami for a few days.”

“What for?”

“That's all I know, Sir. Have a nice trip.” The line had gone dead.

Robert Lonsdale and his boss, James Morton, worked for a secret division of the Central Intelligence Agency, created to fight drugs and terrorism, so hush-hush that it was not housed in Langley, but in Bethesda, Maryland.

In addition to Lonsdale and Morton, a team of more than thirty analysts, translators, electronics experts, secretaries, and guards worked in shifts 24–7 to counteract the rise in international terrorist activity. The responsibility for drug interdiction was added later by a concerned administration, fearful of allowing the CIA to become involved in narcotics, yet recognizing that, more and more, drug dealers and terrorists were working hand-in-hand.

Lonsdale heaved himself out of bed and after a lightning-fast shower was ready to go within minutes. On the way out he grabbed his “ready bag” and beat Morton's black, standard CIA-issue chauffeur/bodyguard-driven limousine to the corner by about fifteen seconds.

“What is all this about, Jim?” he asked irritably as he clambered in beside his boss. In spite of the ungodly hour, Morton was dressed elegantly in stylish black slacks and a light, beige worsted jacket over a short-sleeved black Polo shirt, his feet in comfortable-looking black moccasins.

In contrast, Lonsdale wore jeans, a nondescript long-sleeved shirt, an old windbreaker with a hood tucked into the collar, and loafers. He wasn't wearing socks either; he hadn't had time to put them on.

“Please shut the door and simmer down. We're going to Miami for a few days.”

“On a Sunday morning at four-thirty a.m.?”

“You've got it ace. And we're going by private jet.”

“In the
Challenger?”
The Canadian-made jet was yet another standard toy of the Agency.

“You've got that right too!”

“Oh shit,” said Lonsdale. He hated flying in small aircraft.

“Come on, cheer up. The trip is only an hour and a half.”

“Damn,” said Lonsdale again and lapsed into surly silence, which he did not break until they were somewhere over Georgia.

“What gives?” he finally asked Morton, sipping the hot water the steward had given him. When Morton didn't answer he asked again, but got nowhere, so he leaned back in his seat and dozed off.

The Immigration Detention Center is located in the lower bowels of Miami's International Airport. Lonsdale and Morton were shown into a windowless room, one wall of which was covered by a huge two-way mirror.

“Mr. Quesada will be with you shortly, sirs,” the guard told Morton. His uniform was crumpled and he had bad breath.

“Quesada?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Quesada. The senior man from INS downtown.”

Morton nodded. He realized that the 'senior man' from the Immigration and Naturalization Service was the CIA liaison officer. “Can we get some coffee?” he asked.

“Right away, Sir. Two regulars coming up.”

The guard was about to leave when in walked a squat, fit-looking man of medium height with a full head of silver hair combed straight back. He wore a lightweight, grey summer suit and looked like a middle-aged Cesar Romero, neat in appearance and handsome.

“Jorge Quesada,” he said, taking Morton's outstretched hand. “I presume you're Jim Morton.” His handshake was firm and businesslike.

“Glad to know you,” Morton replied, showing Quesada his Agency identification card. “And this is my grouchy associate Robert, but we call him Bob.” Lonsdale shrugged a greeting. If Morton wanted him to be a Bob, he'd be a Bob. He sure as hell wasn't going to make waves. He was still too sleepy.

The guard returned with three Styrofoam cups of coffee that smelled vaguely of kerosene.

“Serve yourselves,” he said, placing the tray on a table that was pushed up against the mirror. “I brought you sugar and Coffee Mate and half a dozen doughnuts.” He left, taking his bad breath with him.

“Not a bad guy,” Lonsdale mumbled as though trying to convince himself, his mouth full of sticky dough.

“Yeah. Well, rank hath its privileges.” Quesada remarked, taking a gulp of his coffee. He had a very slight Spanish accent.

“You from Cuba?” Lonsdale wanted to know.

“Originally, yes. I came here when I was thirteen.”

“So you speak Spanish.”

“Of course. Do either of the two of you?”

“I wish I did.” Morton bit into his doughnut.

“And you?” Quesada fixed Lonsdale with a baleful look.

Lonsdale decided to lie. “I speak English and a little French, that's all.”

Quesada sighed. “That's a pity. Spanish sure would help.”

“Let's just see how things play out, shall we?” Morton's voice was hard, cold, and dispassionate.

Quesada shrugged, pointed to the chairs facing the mirror and switched off the lights. The mirror turned into a transparent pane of glass, on the other side of which in a windowless, but brightly lit cell an unkempt, unshaven man lay sleeping in slacks and a long-sleeved shirt on an army-type cot. His shoes were on the floor beside the cot, his jacket under his head doubled as a pillow.

“He says his name is Fernandez and that he is a captain in Fidel's army. He had a million dollars in cash on him when he arrived.” Quesada spoke matter-of-factly.

“Counterfeit?” asked Morton.

Quesada shook his head. “He also says that for the last little while he has been coordinating the movement through Cuban waters of Colombian ships carrying drugs. He gave me some interesting information, but stopped talking, because first he wants assurances from the CIA that it will protect him.”

“From whom?” Morton was curious.

“The Medellin cartel and the Cuban secret police.”

“Did he say who his boss was?” Lonsdale was suddenly very much awake.

“He says he reports directly to a Cuban Army brigadier general called Patricio Casas Rojo, who commands all Cuban troops in Africa. This general is also supposed to be the quartermaster general of the Cuban Army.”

“Who fixes things with the Cuban Coast Guard?”

“I suppose the general.”

“And with the air force?”

“Also the general, I guess.”

Lonsdale wouldn't let go. “And with the coastal defense people?”

Quesada threw up his hands. “I suppose the general does that, too.”

“That's bullshit and you know it, Quesada.” Lonsdale feigned indignation. “Only someone high up in the Cuban Ministry of the Interior would have pull strong enough to coordinate all this. I'm sure this must have occurred to you while talking to Fernandez, so do us all a favor and start over again, but this time give details and be specific and accurate.”

It took a miffed Quesada an hour to oblige.

“Do you believe all this?” Morton asked Lonsdale after the man had finished.

“I believe that Fernandez believes it.”

“But why?”

“Because he's either scared shitless or crazy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Look, Jim.” Lonsdale was pacing back and forth, his eyes on the sleeping Cuban. “This guy is a foot soldier who's supposed to follow orders no questions asked. But he now feels he's being left to hang out to dry. None of his orders are in writing. No one, except this General Casas knows about what he's doing, so if something goes wrong or some money goes missing the guy who would get the blame, who'd be made to take the fall, would be him.”

“But there's no money missing, just the opposite: there's too much money.” Morton couldn't help looking puzzled.

“What do you mean by too much money?”

“You heard Quesada. He said Fernandez told him there was an extra million bucks in the sub-account that should not have been there.”

“Which he took,” added Quesada.

“Which he was made, no, ordered, to take.”

Trust Morton to start splitting hairs
, Lonsdale said to himself

“This, in turn,” Lonsdale picked up where he had left off, “could mean the Colombians, or a friend of theirs, were sending a bribe to parties unknown and that Fernandez may be the unwitting messenger to deliver it. Fernandez is right to be scared shitless. One way or another someone not particularly friendly will be calling on him soon to collect the money.” Lonsdale shrugged.

“But why should that worry Fernandez? He could have given up the money, got paid for his troubles, and then gone back to Cuba. He'd have been safe there. He's in the army and his boss knew what he was up to.” It was obvious Quesada was not buying any of Lonsdale's analysis.

Lonsdale gave Quesada a jaundiced look. “If you were in the recipient's shoes would you want a potentially dangerous witness against you to be wandering around alive?” He headed for the door. “There are two possible explanations for Fernandez acting the way he is, but before I lay them on you I want to think them through once more.”

“Where are you going?” asked the bewildered Quesada.

“First to freshen up, then to have a chat with our friend here.” He nodded toward the prisoner.

A glance at his face in the bathroom mirror surprised Lonsdale. He didn't look as bad as he felt. He smiled when he saw an athletic-looking man with short sandy hair, a generous nose, and an expressive mouth looking back at him. Obviously, his regimen of jogging five miles at least three times a week had paid off. He looked vital and slim and much younger than his fifty-five years.

He took off his bifocals, washed his hands, and splashed his face with cold water. The lines around his speckled, hazel eyes, however, suggested a deep-seated weariness no amount of sleep could cure.

After his wife's tragic death Lonsdale had taken up residence in Georgetown, a fashionable district of Washington, and gradually changed from a fast-living, fun-loving socialite to a reclusive, quiet loner. He was not lonely, just alone, and he enjoyed being so. His job required ferocious focus and this meant that, essentially, he needed solitude.

Not that he was without social contact. On the contrary. He played squash and breakfasted with his acquaintances at least twice a week, and the women he bedded (of whom there were quite a few) invariably fell in love with him. He could be a real charmer when he wanted to be, and his aura of mysterious suffering fascinated them.

But he belonged to no club or church or organization, attended very few social functions, and kept his thoughts and feelings to himself. The only person Lonsdale allowed an occasional glimpse into his private self was Jim Morton, his immediate superior, whom he considered to be not only a colleague, but also a friend.