Havana Harvest (54 page)

Morton gave Smythe another hard look. “Please note that this is the only reference by the Cuban government to the United States and, obliquely, to the CIA.”

“Splendid work,” said Smythe, relieved. “Morton, you and your people should be highly commended. You may rest assured that your own file will bear a personal notation from me, urging that your outstanding qualities of leadership be properly and fully recognized.”

“Thank you.” Morton did not smile. “Now, with your permission, I would like to show you a message Lonsdale videotaped especially for you, Director, which, I am sure, you will find most interesting.” He pushed the cassette into the machine and pressed Play.

A pale Lonsdale appeared on the screen, lying in a hospital bed, his left leg in traction, intravenous painkiller dripping into his arm. As the camera moved in for a close-up it became apparent that the man's face was badly bruised.

Although he looked awful, Lonsdale's voice was strong. “If you are watching this tape, Director Smythe, it means that Jim has finished his narrative of what happened in Havana on Wednesday morning. I am sure he mentioned the outstanding role Reuven Gal played in the operation, but I am also sure that he didn't tell you about Gal's equally outstanding, though unwitting, role in leading us to the discovery of high treason within the agency.”

Lonsdale's battered face filled the screen. “Yes, Director, had Gal not casually mentioned your close friendship with Filberto Reyes Puma, I would never have thought of suspecting you of working for Raul Castro.” Tired, Lonsdale leaned back on his pillow. “You know how it is with me, Director: I am a tenacious bulldog type. You said so yourself on many occasions. Once something starts bothering me, I won't let go until I get to the bottom of it.” Lonsdale sighed. “And I did, indeed, get to the bottom of it all, and very quickly. Just watch.”

Lonsdale's hospital bed was replaced on the screen by that of Reyes Puma at the clinic. Lonsdale, sitting at the Cuban's bedside and dressed in the olive-green uniform of a major in Castro's Army, appeared to be chatting with him. The quality of the sound was excellent; every word was crystal clear.

Smythe never saw the end of the video clip. When he heard Reyes Puma say “had his wife killed” he attempted to rise from his chair, but clutching his chest, fell back, his face twisted in agony.

Morton sprang to the phone to summon help, but the DDI's voice stopped him. “Put the phone down, Morton,” he commanded. “Let him battle his own damn demons alone. In final defeat he won't be heaping disgrace on his country and the Agency.”

Friday, January 21
Miami, Florida

It was past ten at night and Filberto Reyes Puma was still at his office. He hated working late, but he had no choice. His practice was disintegrating.

Ever since his birthday the previous November things had been turning sour on him. The INS was treating his applications with a much heavier hand, the judges were displaying an alarming penchant for pickiness every time he appeared before them, clients were becoming ever more demanding and seemed unwilling to deal with him.

Then he really hit a rough patch a few weeks ago when the Casas rescue mission succeeded in extracting the general from Cuba. Raul Castro faulted Reyes Puma for not providing advance information about the Agency's plans and blamed him for De la Fuente's death as well. Thank God that Lands, the agent directing the mission, also got killed, otherwise, who knows, he might have tumbled onto Reyes Puma being a Castroite agent.

As if the Casas thing hadn't been enough, Senator Smythe had died at his office of a massive coronary the day after the details of the Casas rescue mission were published in the Cuban Press. All of a sudden Reyes Puma found himself with no high-level political connections, without a highly placed secret informant, and on the outs with Raul Castro.

When he tried to make fresh contacts in the Republican Party he was politely told that the new senate incumbent had a full slate of advisors and preferred not to work with members of the late Senator Smythe's entourage.

The message had been clear: Reyes Puma was no longer “in.” Damn, but it was hot. No wonder. The air conditioning in the building was being turned down for the night to save electricity—just another thing to irritate him. To save money, they were reducing service in the building, once a choice location on Brickell Boulevard near the Sheraton Towers. Hell, the cleaning service had deteriorated to the point where Reyes Puma had to complain to the landlord about it in writing.

He decided it was time to go home. As he locked up, he noted with satisfaction that his complaining had helped. A night cleaner had just finished vacuuming the carpet in front of his office and was on her way to do the same down the hall.

Briefcase in one hand, jacket held over his shoulder by the other, Reyes Puma followed the woman and resigned himself to waiting. At night the cleaners used all but one of the elevators to move their equipment and the garbage from level to level. Yet another damned aggravation. Sure enough, the woman had “parked” one of the elevators on Reyes Puma's floor and was loading her vacuum cleaner into it. She noticed the waiting lawyer and beckoned him into the lift. “C'mon. I'll take you down,” she said. Grateful, Reyes Puma accepted.

“Which parking level do you want?”

“Sub-level two please.” The attorney noted that the woman had a slight Latino accent. “Where are you from?”

“From Matanzas in Cuba,” said the cleaner as the doors closed. “And you?”

“Also originally from Cuba, but I've been here for decades.”

“You like it here?” the woman asked.

The lawyer nodded “Sure do.”

“That's nice, Filberto. I sure hope you enjoyed your stay,” the cleaner said and pulled a silencer-equipped Colt automatic from under her smock.

More thunderstruck than frightened, the fat man put up his hands. “What … what do you mean?” he managed to stammer. “And who are you anyway?”

Instead of replying, the cleaner shot Reyes Puma twice in the head at point blank range as the elevator came to a stop at sub-level five, the lowest stop in the building.

Friday, March 31
Gander, Newfoundland, Canada

Conchita Borrego was very sad. Relations between the new, marketoriented Hungarian government and the Socialist Republic of Cuba had cooled to the point where her troupe of dancers was no longer welcome in Budapest and had been ordered to return home.

The timing for Conchita couldn't have been worse. General Casas had vanished, and she would be left to fend for herself when facing accusations of complicity in his treachery that were bound to be leveled against her in Havana.

She thought of seeking asylum in Hungary, the only country where she had a fighting chance of obtaining legitimate refugee status, but she did not speak the language and was unlikely to find a job. She had very little money and definitely didn't want to become a “stripper.”

Having thought through her problem, she had her belongings— frig, stove, hi-fi, TV, furniture, and clothing—crated and sent ahead to Havana where she intended to sell most of the big-ticket items on the black market to finance the lean months she knew she would have to face.

After a tearful farewell party that stretched into the early hours of the morning, members of the troupe were driven to Ferihegy Airport where they boarded a Czechoslovak Airlines flight to Havana via Prague and Gander, Canada.

Conchita, bone weary, her mind and body exhausted, alternated between sleeping and weeping all the way to Gander. Her companions tried to cheer her up to no avail. She didn't respond to logic and none of them knew how to reach her on an emotional level. In the end, they persuaded her to disembark at Gander to stretch her legs, freshen up and to take a look at the merchandise on display in the large duty-free store, her last chance to buy high-quality goods.

While she was in the jewelry section looking at bracelets, the salesclerk, whom she had noticed watching her ever since she had entered the store, came over to her. He was an attractive-looking man with a very pale face and a pronounced limp.

“Do you speak English?” he asked. She shook her head and turned away, but he was persistent. “How about the language of José Marti?” he asked softly in Spanish. She spun around, surprised. How come a salesclerk in a godforsaken place like Gander knew about Cuba's patriot poet and could speak Spanish?

He smiled as if he had read her mind and continued in Spanish. “We have some nice silver jewelry here, as you can see, but the better quality items, made of gold, we keep in a special area in the back.” He looked at her. “Would you like to see them?”

She shook her head again and laughed. The man was so pathetically eager. “I don't want to waste your time,” she replied. “I have no money to spend on these things.”

“You don't have to buy anything, just come and have a look. We've just received some remarkably beautiful necklaces from Africa. Gold coins exquisitely mounted to form a sort of small breastplate.” He tried to illustrate what he meant by placing the palm of his left hand where his neck met his chest.

At the mention of African jewelry the image of her beloved Patricio adjusting the Angolan bracelet around her neck leapt into her mind's eye. She knew in her heart that Patricio was a good man, foolhardy perhaps, but not a traitor. His disappearance grieved her deeply. She still loved him and hoped to be reunited with him somewhere, somehow, someday.

The salesman watched her intently. She turned away to hide her tears. Too late. “Have I offended you in some way?” he asked, his voice gentle. “If so, forgive me. It was not intentional.”

“No, no,” she replied. “It's just that the mention of Africa brought back some very painful memories.”

“Come with me, then,” he said and took her by the hand. “Perhaps I can show you something that'll make you feel better—something that you'll enjoy seeing.”

In spite of herself, she let him lead her to the storeroom at the back of the boutique and opened the door to let her pass.

Seated at a small desk in the far corner was a bald man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and sporting a gray beard. Dressed in an elegant, expensive dark-blue suit, custom-made shirt and beautifully matching tie, the man, tall, thin, and distinguished looking, got up when he heard them come in. The salesman was all smiles. “Señorita Borrego, may I present our expert on African jewelry, Señor Antonio Gonzales Cepeda, known until recently as General Patricio Casas Rojo, late of the Cuban Army.”

Conchita Borrego, overcome by happiness, swooned into Casas's waiting arms.

With Lonsdale's help and on the strength of a letter he had with him from the INS granting Conchita refugee status in the United States, it took less than an hour to obtain a two-day Canadian transit visa for her. The three of them then flew to Montreal where a jubilant Micheline picked them up at the airport and drove them to the Four Seasons Hotel.

Although bone tired from her emotional roller coaster ride and the long trip from Budapest, Conchita nevertheless insisted on having a light dinner with the Lonsdales before going to bed.

The two couples parted a few minutes before eleven and Micheline drove Lonsdale to her apartment.

“What now?” she grinned mischievously as she inserted her key in the front door lock.

He pulled her roughly to the full length of his ready body. “My mind is focused on one thought you little devil.” He danced her toward the bedroom, laughing. “Let's just do what we do so well together—let's go to bed.”