Havana Harvest

by Robert Landori

  After almost an hour, the banker announced that his withdrawal package was ready. All of the money would not ft into Fernandez's briefcase, so the banker had provided him with a nondescript paper bag in which to carry the remainder. As he walked back to his car with fear twisting his innards, his head spun with what he had done.

  When he reached his room, he threw his gear into a duffle bag, put the money on top of his clothes, and checked out of the hotel.

  He sat inside the rental car in the hotel parking lot for a while, toying with the idea of returning the money. Whoever had set up the account would see that he had withdrawn the money, but they would also see that he had returned it. He would just need to come up with a reason for the unusual transaction. Then he remembered that he was possibly in danger, and quickly dismissed the idea of trying to come across as the nice guy. This was not a time to think about others, but to concentrate on saving his own skin. He needed to disappear, which required money—lots of it.

  It was also necessary to slow down possible pursuit and for this he required further information.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The clerk locked up the store and left at six sharp. Fernandez followed her along the road toward the airport, first to a gas station, and then to a grocery store. With the engine running to keep cool, he waited in his car and tried to make sense of what was happening.

  After twenty minutes had passed, the woman emerged carrying bags of groceries. He trailed her to the Caribbean Paradise condominium complex on the beach south of George Town, and parked far enough away so that he could see into her second-floor condo, which, conveniently, faced the parking lot. He watched for a half-hour before he felt sure she was alone.

  It was dusk when Fernandez left his car, the air filled with mosquitoes out in force during their evening feeding frenzy. He sneaked up the stairs and walked slowly by the woman's door. The kitchen window was open and he listened intently, but noise from the TV drowned out all other sounds from inside.

  He tried the apartment door. It was not locked; very few doors in Cayman ever were. He slid inside and stood stock-still, listening to the woman rummaging about in the bedroom. When she came out, he grabbed her from behind, his left arm around her throat, his right over her mouth.

  “Don't scream or I'll break your neck,” he whispered. She kicked him in the shin and he tightened his grip. “One more stunt like that and you're dead.” She gave up; she was choking.

  “Listen to me. I won't hurt you if you help me. I need a few answers, that's all. You tell me what I want to know and you'll never see me again. Understood?” She nodded, and he swiftly shifted his right hand from her mouth to the back of her head. She was a pro; she knew she was beaten. Maybe she could get away with the beginnings of a scream, but he would break her neck a millisecond later.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Did you give the account number to anyone else?”

  She didn't answer and he increased the pressure. “They'll kill me. You know I'm not supposed to tell anything to anyone,” she finally managed through quick, shallow breaths.

  “Who was it?” He began to choke her again.

  “I don't know his name. He didn't say.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall and thin and gray.”

  “Did he have an accent?”

  “He sounded Venezuelan.”

  “And who told you he'd be coming?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Then why did you give him the information?”

  “He had the password.”

  “When was he here?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Can you remember anything else about him?”

  The woman shook her head, and Fernandez tightened his hold.

  “Answer me,” he whispered fiercely. “Your life depends on it!”

  “Wait, wait,” she gasped. “There was one thing. He had a big burn mark on his wrist.”

  Fernandez felt his heart sink. His worst fear was becoming reality. “Above his watch?”

  “Yes, above his watch.”

  Fernandez spun the woman around. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am sure.” Out of breath, she was massaging her bruised throat. “He was tall and thin and gray and had a Venezuelan accent. And he had this burn mark, or skin graft, above his watch on his wrist. He tried to hide it.”

  Things suddenly snapped into focus. The man who had made the deposit, the man with the burn mark on his wrist, was his superior officer, General Casas, who was telling him to get out while the getting was still good.

  But why? Had Fidel lost confidence in General Casas? Had something gone wrong with the drug operation? Had the Colombians sold Cuba out? Was General Casas leaving Fernandez to hang out to dry, to be the scapegoat?

  Fernandez tried to overcome his confusion, but his brain, slowed by stress and fear, could supply no logical answers. One thing was certain though: he was finished in Cuba and had to flee.

  Ruefully, he thanked his lucky stars that his parents were dead, that his estranged wife had remarried, that he had no family left in Cuba through which Fidel could exact revenge for whatever shortcomings the Lider Maximo might attribute to Fernandez, his trusted soldier and revolutionary.

  Fernandez had known months ago that it would come to this— as soon as he accepted the assignment to help General Casas organize the Cuban government's drug-running joint venture with Colombia's Medellin cartel.

  He should have declined to participate, but he hadn't and now it was too late for self-flagellation. He had to get away as quickly as possible, but not before covering his tracks somehow to delay pursuit for as long as possible.

  The feeling of helplessness over having allowed himself to be trapped by his own stupidity infuriated him to the point where he lost control. In a fit of blind rage he lashed out and, with the edge of his right hand, hardened by countless unarmed combat exercises, hit the woman in the throat, crushing her windpipe.

  She died within minutes.

  Fernandez wiped all surfaces he remembered touching, then cautiously let himself out of the apartment and headed for the airport to catch the last flight to Miami.

  The BAC 111 lifted off precisely at half-past eight. Fernandez sighed with relief when he saw the Cayman coastline disappear beneath the aircraft's wing. Uncomfortably wedged into a middle seat four rows from the rear, he managed to ignore the fat Middle Eastern—looking man to his left and the equally fat woman to his right, burned pink by the island's brutal sun. His tortured mind was too occupied by more important things.

  Getting through exit formalities at Owen Roberts International Airport was always easy. You showed your passport to the immigration officer who stamped it after you surrendered the landing card you were given when you arrived. You then went through security, which also doubled as customs. Nobody gave a damn about what you were taking out of the country as long as you were not trying to walk away with coral or conch shells, so a million bucks' worth of dollar bills in your briefcase was no big deal.

  Importing that kind of money into the United States was another matter.

  Then there was the problem of the Colombian woman. I didn't want to kill her, but I had to, Fernandez rationalized. I couldn't leave a witness behind, que los Dioses me perdonen.

  Though the Cuban regime frowned on religion, old traditions die hard, and Santeria, a mixture of Catholicism and voodoo, was widely practiced in Castro's Cuba. Fernandez felt more than ever that he could do with a little help from the gods. He knew he had to appease them for having done wrong.

  Vehemently against drugs, Fernandez had become so upset when ordered to act as liaison between the army and Cuba's Ministry of the Interior in a cocaine-smuggling operation that he threatened to resign his commission and leave the military.

  No way was the army going to let that happen. It needed Fernandez, and a motivated Fernandez at that.

  It had taken the deputy minister of the Interior's personal intervention
, during which he had explained how desperately Cuba needed the hard currency that the drug deals would generate for la Patria, to convince Fernandez of the justness of the cause. Fernandez had given in and then, true to form, had given his all.

  The operation had been four months old when he had gotten involved in it. Communication with the Colombians was unreliable, rendezvous were not being kept, money had gone astray, large quantities of drugs had been lost, and quarrels had been frequent. Just about everything had been hit-and-miss.

  Fernandez had changed all that by applying his formidable organizational skills. He found a way to communicate with the Colombians in real-time via two-way shortwave radio bursts using equivalent computer-generated random frequency rotations at both ends of the conversation. This eliminated missed rendezvous by allowing the implementation of last-minute changes in scheduling as circumstances dictated.

  Since none of the parties involved trusted the others, there was a need for a foolproof way of getting paid. Fernandez had solved the impasse by making the Colombians open a number of bank accounts at the BCCI in Grand Cayman to which they would wire money randomly. They would then tell their representative—the woman in the stationery store—which account was being used on any given day. She would pass this information to the Cuban courier who could then take control of the money on presentation of the right passport at the bank.

  Once the courier had possession of the money he would call Havana, give the password, and the Cuban Coast Guard would allow the Colombian drug ship safe passage through Cuban waters.

  No password, no passage.

  The whiff of kerosene-spiked air hit Fernandez's nostrils as he emerged from the Cayman Airways jet into Walkway G12 at Miami International Airport. The smell was comforting and reminded him of home, of the Santa Clara Military Air Base where he had lived with his wife while acting as Air Force liaison with the Russian MIG fighter unit stationed there.

  Home. What a strange concept!

  “Home” now that he was about to become a refugee, was the good old US of A.

  Fernandez figured he had two ways to play his hand. He could use his Mexican passport, go through U.S. Customs and Immigration, and then walk away, or he could identify himself as a Cuban citizen to the first immigration officer he met and claim automatic landed-refugee status under the law governing Cubans entering the United States.

  He decided on the first alternative because it left his options open. If he got busted for trying to enter the country illegally or for carrying too much money, he could still gain entry by revealing his Cuban identity. ‘Y si me tratan a matar?’ he whispered as he took his place in the line of non-U.S. passengers waiting to be processed for entry. Who is going to protect me if they come after me and try to kill me? He shuddered. Whichever way things went, he had to contact the CIA as soon as possible and ask for protection in exchange for information.

  Don't fidget with your hands, he reminded himself. That's what they watch for, that's how they spot that you're nervous. He stepped forward with confidence, smiled, and handed the official his carefully completed immigration form and Mexican passport.

  He sailed through without being challenged.

  Immediately after clearing customs he called his first cousin, Filberto Reyes Puma, who had left Cuba in 1960 and was now practicing law in Florida. His luck held; Reyes Puma was home.

  “Filberto, it's your cousin Francisco from Havana.”

  Dead silence. Then: “Francisco Fernandez?”

  “Si, Francisco Fernandez Ochoa.”

  “Captain Fernandez?”

  “Si, si, Filberto. What's the matter with you? How many cousins named Francisco do you have?”

  “It's … it's that it's such a surprise. Where are you calling from?”

  “Miami International Airport. I need to see you at once.”

  Fernandez hardly recognized his cousin when Reyes Puma, nervous and perspiring, arrived half an hour later. The man, whom Fernandez had not seen for a decade or so, was grossly obese, weighing at least three hundred pounds.

  It took Fernandez another half-hour to spell out the details of his predicament. “I need to get protection right away, Filberto. When I get found out they're going to come after me and try to kill me.”

  “Who will?”

  Fernandez was becoming increasingly agitated. “The Colombians, Cuban Military Intelligence, the boys from the MININT—you know, our Ministry of the Interior—and who knows who else.”

  “Take it easy, take it easy. Let's have some coffee, and we'll make a plan.” His cousin led Fernandez into the cafeteria near the Delta counter and found an isolated table. Reyes Puma ordered coffee, Fernandez a double vodka and soda and a ham sandwich.

  “Filberto, the people who are after me play for keeps, they don't play games. I want to contact the CIA tonight. Maybe I should turn myself in to U.S. Immigration since I don't dare to leave the airport.”

  The attorney said nothing for a while. Then, with a shrug, he made up his mind. “Maybe that's not such a bad idea. You don't know this, but I practice mainly immigration law and know most of the senior people at the Immigration and Naturalization Service in Miami.”

  Fernandez finished his food and gulped down his drink. “Let's go then.” He grabbed his bag and stood up.

  “Wait, wait. Let me make a few calls first.”

  Fernandez became suspicious. Why was his cousin stalling?

  “No calls.”

  “OK, OK, I'll go with you.”

  By two o'clock on Saturday morning, Fernandez was in INS custody, secure in the knowledge that this situation was only temporary since his cousin really did seem to know his way around the immigration people.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Saturday

  Washington, DC and Miami, Florida

  Lonsdale couldn't remember the last time he'd been woken up at four a.m. by a call from the office. It was only after the duty officer had given him the security password that he began to take the man seriously.

  “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.

  “Ple
ase 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.