Havana Harvest

by Robert Landori

  In spite of the excellent food and the friendly service, dinner at Le Béarn, a French restaurant where he and his wife used to dine, unsettled Lonsdale.

  As soon as Marie-Claude, the owner, a romantic and Micheline's friend, laid eyes on them she decided to go out of her way to “make nice.” She showed them to her special table, which stood in the alcove in the rear of the restaurant and was usually reserved for family and very good friends. She insisted on ordering for them and then came to sit with them while they had their dessert. Obviously fond of Micheline, Marie-Claude began to cross-examine Lonsdale, and, mellowed by the vodkas he had drunk in Micheline's apartment, and the bottle of Brouilly he had shared with her during their meal, he found it increasingly hard to resist her probing.

  “It is quite amazing, cheri, how much you remind me of another one of my customers,” she said as she poured them each a complimentary Sambucca to go with their coffee. “He and his wife used to come often for dinner. And then they were killed by terrorists. It seems he was some sort of a secret agent, and they wanted him dead. All the papers wrote about it for days.” She took a sip of her liqueur. “It was very sad. They were a lovely couple, very much in love. I liked them.”

  Lonsdale felt intensely awkward and looked to Micheline for guidance, but she looked away.

  It was becoming more and more difficult for Lonsdale to cope with the cumulative effect of Micheline, Marie-Claude, and Montreal. To his amazement, he found himself near tears with frustration. The urge to take Micheline home and to hold her close—to be forgiven and to forget—became so strong as to be almost irresistible.

  Sensing that something was wrong, Micheline tried to make amends while driving Lonsdale back to his hotel. “I'm sorry Marie-Claude jumped at you the way she did, but you should be flattered, not upset. She's only that talkative when she likes someone and wants to get to know them quickly—”

  “So you think she liked me?”

  “What is there not to like? You're a good-looking, sophisticated man with an air of mystery about you. I can only guess how attentive she would have been if she knew you speak several languages. You're quite a change from the Schwartzes of this world.”

  Lonsdale was taken aback. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Let's face it. There aren't many available men of your age around. Most of them are boring, and some of them are quite crude. Mr. Schwartz is a darling, but much older than me. Besides, he never talks about anything except his business. And I suppose Marie-Claude was glad to see me with someone interesting, someone—”

  “Go on.”

  Micheline threw her head back and laughed heartily. “I was going to say, someone worthwhile, but that would have made your head swell, and you're already too conceited as is.” In spite of her bantering tone, she sounded serious.

  “What I regret the most about Marie-Claude acting the way she did,” Lonsdale said, “was that I never got to ask you about yourself. Come to think of it, neither of us got to tell our stories. Marie-Claude was too present.”

  Honest and spontaneous, Micheline reacted without hesitation. “You're right, so here's what we'll do. I'm busy with Mr. Schwartz tomorrow, but on Sunday I'll pick you up and we'll go for a drive in the country. Would eleven o'clock suit you?” She stopped the car. They were at his hotel.

  “It's a deal,” he said and, before she could move, he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth, then got out of the car as quickly as he could.

  Tossing and turning in her bed that night, Micheline reviewed over and over the events of the past two weeks and came to the conclusion that, of late, there had been just too many coincidences in her life for them to be just coincidences. Her thoughts shifted to Lonsdale. Oh, how she had loved the man who was Bernard Lands, how she would have given her worldly possessions for being with him for the rest of their lives. She had tried everything to make him happy, but the more she tried the more insensitive, withdrawn, and secretive he became. After three years of frustration she finally left Montreal to preserve her sanity.

  And now, this! “As if I didn't have enough troubles already,” she whispered into the darkness and got up to make a cup of tea.

  Sitting at her kitchen table, staring into the fast-cooling liquid in her cup, she tried to focus on the work-related events that were troubling her.

  Ten days earlier, Mr. Siddiqui had given her an internal memo from the bank's regional headquarters addressed to all branch managers advising that the U.S. and Canadian governments were hell-bent on identifying money launderers. They wanted full and enthusiastic cooperation from all banks operating in North America, failing which, the recalcitrant would have their licenses revoked.

  And this, Micheline knew, the BCCI could not afford. To survive, it needed every penny of its North American revenues.

  Siddiqui, having dumped the problem on Micheline's lap, retreated to the safety of his office, satisfied that he could claim to have done what he had been directed to do. Micheline, on the other hand, found herself in a difficult situation. She had several clients who dealt extensively in cash: two furriers, a chain of food stores, several very successful restaurants and, of course, Mr. Schwartz, the most active of them all. And she knew that, though they were not laundering money, none of her clients could afford close scrutiny by the authorities because they all fled their tax returns in a creative way, especially Mr. Schwartz who consulted her extensively since he depended on her goodwill, his being a very cash-orientated business. Micheline, who took her job very seriously, felt strongly that banks were not supposed to act like policemen. On the contrary, bankers were supposed to respect and protect the privacy of their clients and to keep their affairs confidential. To her, this meant that, unless instructed by the client, or ordered by a court of competent jurisdiction, she would give no information to anyone that she did not have to by law.

  How closely dare she cooperate with her former lover? How much information should she give him? What then should her attitude be toward her former lover?

  Too many coincidences, too many damned coincidences. The government inspectors' visit a month back, looking for money launderers, then Mr. Schwartz's need for extra cash, and now Bernard's visit.

  She washed out the cup and began drying it absentmindedly as she wondered what she should do about Bernard? I should politely tell him to get lost, that's what!

  She got back into bed and began to play what ifs. What if the man is an undercover agent? Then he is here to entrap us because he knows all about our big-cash customers and is using Schwartz as a test case. What if he is a real internal auditor? Then he is entitled to the information he is seeking, and I should speak with Mr. Schwartz about the seven hundred thousand dollars he's withdrawn in the last ten days.

  Micheline had to arrange for an overdraft facility for him to be able to take out the money. She had needed additional security before she could give him the last hundred thousand he said he needed, so he came back with five kilos of gold coins called Maria Theresia Thalers. Thirty-five one-ounce coins in each kilo meant there were one hundred and seventy-five coins. With gold at around five hundred dollars an ounce, no matter how many times she did the math, she always came up with about ninety thousand dollars. In the end, she had exceeded her authority by giving him the hundred thousand.

  The math was making her sleepy and there was no more need to play “what if” except that Bernard was back in her life and she wanted to cooperate with him. Besides, she was beginning to realize she missed him terribly even after these many years.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Saturday Morning

  Langley, Virginia

  Lawrence Smythe, Acting Director of Central Intelligence, squinted across his immense desk at a patently uncomfortable Morton.

  “Stop fidgeting,” he snapped, and continued to peruse the document Morton had handed him on arrival.

  “Your group sure messed things up for me,” he finally said, and slid the report across the desk to Morton. “Not that it's y
our fault mind you. This system of circulating information on a ‘need-to-know’ basis only often bites you in the ass when you least expect it.”

  Morton was mystified. “You've lost me, Director. Do you mean to say that my division has inadvertently interfered with someone else's operation?”

  “That, in a nutshell, is what I'm saying.” Smythe seemed to rouse himself from some sort of reverie as he added, “And what's worse, the operation is mine.”

  “Yours, Sir?” Morton was getting more confused by the minute. “How can that be? I thought the DCI never ran operations himself.”

  “As a rule, he doesn't.”

  “Has it got to do with the Fernandez thing?” Morton was beginning to catch on.

  “Yes it does. That's why I asked you for a report. From what I've read I can see that, unless I include you in the ‘need-to-know’ loop, your man—what's his name again?”

  “Lonsdale.”

  “This Lonsdale is likely to screw things up but good unless we muzzle him pdq.”

  “But he's already in the field, Sir.”

  “Can you contact him?”

  “No. But he will contact me, maybe even today.”

  “Tell me about this man, Morton. Tell me about the way his mind works.”

  “That's a tall order.” Morton could not see what Smythe was trying to get at. “Lonsdale is my deputy. He is an opinionated contrarian with a very tough attitude.”

  “You mean he's a loose cannon?”

  “Not really. He's just an independent operator–type.” Morton smiled. “As a matter of fact, that's his strength.”

  “But a loose canon nevertheless.”

  “Why don't you just tell me what's going on, and I'll see to it that Lonsdale is no threat to your operation.”

  Smythe poured himself two fingers of bourbon from the bottle on his desk and then offered Morton a drink, which he declined. Sipping his liquor pensively the director leaned back in his chair and gazed at a point on the ceiling above his subordinate's head. After what seemed an eternity to Morton, Smythe appeared to come to some sort of a decision. “I wish it were as simple as that,” he said. “You see, I am prepared to tell you about Operation Adios, but only if you give me your word that you will not tell Lonsdale.”

  “But how do you expect me to tell him not to interfere if he doesn't know what he's not to interfere with?”

  Smythe let out a sharp cackle. “That's precisely the point. But, having read your personnel file and that of your deputy, I'm sure you'll figure out a way to make Lonsdale do what we want him to do without actually telling him what to do.”

  “You mean exploit his contrarian attitude, don't you?”

  Smythe nodded as he continued. “Your file says you're a great motivator and manipulator, Morton. Well, here's your chance to live up to your formidable reputation and manipulate your man into doing my bidding.”

  “And what may that be?”

  “Lonsdale will soon find out that the man in the photograph he is showing around in Montreal is General Casas, and that's good for us. Now comes the tricky part. I want your man to contact General Casas, but only after he leaves Cuba, which he is about to do. However, instead of turning him to work for us, or encouraging him to defect, I want him to chase Casas back to Cuba without telling him anything.”

  Morton was nonplussed. “What on earth for?”

  “So the general can obtain indisputable proof that the Castro regime is fully aware of the drug smuggling operation and is solidly behind it.”

  “You mean to tell me, Sir, that it isn't?”

  “No Morton, it isn't. We are.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Saturday Afternoon

  Montreal, Canada

  Things began to go wrong for Lonsdale on Saturday after lunch. He had ordered breakfast in his room and had spent a couple of hours reviewing his position. His gut told him he was on track and that Schwartz, with his African business connections, had somehow become involved with General Casas and was supplying the Cuban with money, in return for African coins perhaps. But supposing was not enough. He needed proof. He'd learned long ago not to jump to conclusions.

  The weather was sunny, but still cool. From the room's window, Lonsdale watched the pedestrians on Dorchester Boulevard for a few minutes before deciding to join them. He put on his overcoat then walked down to Old Montreal, the historic part of the city, to dawdle away an hour, roaming the cobble-stoned streets.

  At half past one he called Miami from a public telephone in the lobby of the Grand Hotel on Victoria Square. He asked for Quesada.

  “Who's calling?”

  Lonsdale was taken aback. He had dialed the supersecret Miami CIA hotline and had expected a professional reaction.

  “Never mind that,” he snapped. “Just get me Quesada.”

  “Just a moment, Sir,” the voice said and put him on hold. Three minutes and forty-two seconds later the voice returned. “I'm sorry, Sir, but Mr. Quesada is not here.”

  “Then please find him.” Lonsdale was getting upset.

  “It might take some time. Can anyone else help?”

  “Are you the duty officer?”

  “No, Sir. Shall I get him for you?”

  “Please do.” Lonsdale was beginning to wonder why he was being given the runaround. It was usually the duty officer who answered the hotline.

  Another four minutes went by, an unpardonable delay under the circumstances. Obviously, they were trying to establish where he was calling from—not standard operating procedure at the start of a hotline conversation. Were Quesada's calls subject to special watch? If so, why?

  “Duty officer here.” The voice was different. It sounded firm, but friendly. “How can I help?”

  “I wanted to talk to Quesada, but he's not to be found. I need access to one of the people he's holding for me.”

  “Where?”

  “At Miami Airport's Immigration Detention Center.”

  “And who are you?”

  “This is a code one-oh-three-three call. My name is Vector. Your computer will match the name with the number.”

  “That is affirmative. Whom do you wish to access?”

  “A detainee by the name of Fernandez.”

  “Hold on.”

  A couple of minutes later a new voice came on the line. “Your party cannot be accessed just now. He's in transit.”

  “Can you tell me when I can talk to him?”

  “Not exactly, but give us half an hour and we'll call you back. Let me have your number.”

  Lonsdale glanced at his wristwatch. He had been on the line to Miami for about a quarter of an hour, plenty of time for the call to have been traced. “No sweat.” He, too, made himself sound super friendly. “Area five one four, seven oh one, seven oh seven,”

  “Is that a safe line?”

  “It's a public telephone.”

  “All right, then. I make it thirteen hundred and seventeen hours. Shall we say fourteen hundred and thirty hours, to give us time to get organized?”

  Lonsdale looked around and saw that the phone he was using suited his purposes. One of six, it was shielded from the main pedestrian traffic since it was located in an alcove to the side of the busy lobby.

  “That's a go,” he answered. “Talk to you soon.” He hung up and, mind reeling, walked away.

  What the hell was going on? Why were they treating him as if he were the opposition? To take fifteen minutes over a routine call on the hotline was very strange. Nothing made sense.

  He walked across to the Stock Exchange Tower, a building connected to the Grand Hotel by a common shopping arcade, and called Morton. He let the phone ring ten times. It was unusual for Morton, a man of predictable habits not to have his answering machine turned on. Very frustrated, Lonsdale telephoned his Washington office.

  Mrs. Weisskopf, the administrator, answered on the first ring, which surprised him since it was a Saturday afternoon. She recognized his voice right off the bat. “I'm glad you cal
led. Jim Morton is looking for you.”

  “And I am looking for him.” Lonsdale was testy. “Is he there?”

  “No. He was summoned to Langley, but we expect him back within the hour.”

  “To Langley?” Lonsdale was surprised. “Whom is he seeing there?”

  “Director Smythe.”

  “On a Saturday afternoon?”

  “It's strange, but then we live in a strange world. Can Jim call you back?”

  Lonsdale checked the time. It was a quarter to three. “No, he can't. I'm in and out, so it's best if I call him. Tell him I'll catch him at the office in an hour from now or, if I miss him, I'll call him at home tonight.”

  “Will do,” said Mrs. Weisskopf. “Take care of yourself,” she added, seemingly as an afterthought. “I hear you're sailing in troubled waters.”

  Lonsdale became concerned. “It's as bad as that, is it?”

  “The last twenty-four hours have been … how shall I put it discreetly … most interesting.”

  “Really? Tell me what's up.”

  “I had better let Jim do that.” Mrs. Weisskopf hung up, leaving Lonsdale confused and insecure. Why is she holding back? he wondered.

  The telephone in the Grand Hotel lobby was already ringing when he got there.

  Lonsdale answered, “This is Vector. Let me speak with Fernandez.”

  “I'm sorry, but that's not possible. We have no access.” It was the second voice that had come on the line during the previous call. The speaker was still friendly, but very firm.

  “Come off it. I need to talk either to Fernandez or to Quesada, and I need to do that right now. That's what you were supposed to organize for me.”