Conchita and her troupe performed in the Havana Club on St. Margaret Island, Budapest's only “respectable” nightclub, where, although human flesh was generously displayed, the emphasis was on dancing. Hungarians loved the tropical beat and the club soon became a favorite of tourists and locals alike.
Mr. Schwartz, a regular visitor to the Havana Club, had taken Casas there for dinner during one of the general's early visits to Budapest. Schwartz knew Conchita, and when she came around to say hello he had introduced her to Casas. One thing lead to another and Casas became the dancer's semi-regular boyfriend. Although he had never told her his real name, she, and all the Cubans in Budapest, knew very well who he was. But she went along with the charade and pretended that he was a civilian businessman visiting Hungary on important government business.
Their relationship had started as one of convenience based on the need for mutual protection and regular sexual encounters, which both enjoyed a great deal. Then it blossomed with the realization of how much they enjoyed each other's company. They loved dancing and music and laughed a lot when they were together.
Casas sighed, put the Lada in gear, and drove out of the Hyatt's parking lot toward Conchita's apartment near the Margaret Bridge. Tonight, he was in no mood for laughing; the man from the CIA had seen to that. He reflected on his position as he steered the car as best he could along Akademia Utca, passed the parliament buildings, and fetched up in Jaszai Mari Square. He was very much aware of being in a lose-lose situation, unlikely to succeed in his self-appointed mission. Either the Castro government was aware of what was going on, in which event, when unmasked, it would claim it had done nothing except attempt to generate much needed foreign exchange for its Department Z. That this action also weakened the moral fiber of its sworn enemy, the United States, was a bonus. Or, the whole thing was a free-enterprise deal for the personal benefit of certain individuals.
But who were these individuals? Oscar De la Fuente? Oscar's boss and father-in-law, the minister of the Interior? Or was it Raul Castro, the minister of the Revolutionary Armed Forces? Or was it all three? For sure not for the benefit and personal gain of one beleaguered, hurting, and more than slightly confused Patricio Casas.
Where did his duty lie? The answer seemed clear: to safeguard the ideals of the Revolution and, if necessary, to help topple the Castro regime if it was behind the drug scheme.
Why are you changing your attitude, Patricio, he asked himself. You were dead sure the government was behind the operation. Now you're ambivalent. Why?
He answered his own question. It's that damned CIA man Roberto. He's highlighted the lack of proof. And what little proof there was, I've unwittingly destroyed by sending Fernandez over to the Americans.
He had to get to Oscar to find out if the little bastard had set this thing up for himself or for the state. “Good thinking, but how about the people who are following me around? Do they know something I don't know? And are they the ones who killed Siddiqui and Schwartz?”
He went rigid as a new thought struck him. Suppose they were following him looking for an opening to kill him?
No, that couldn't be. They've had plenty of opportunities for that.
He parked opposite Conchita's apartment and looked up and down the street.
He spotted the two cars right away. The Volvo was up the street, with the man and the woman from the Basilica in it. The decoy, a Trabant, driven by the pudgy policeman, was parked at the opposite corner.
He got out of the car and locked it. Then he put his arm into the sling, and with his left hand gripping the pistol in his coat pocket, he walked across the street and rang Conchita's bell.
She was going to be annoyed with him for sure. He had taken shameless advantage of her all weekend, spending almost no time with her by day and making only perfunctory love to her at night.
He stole a glance at the Volvo's occupants. They could have shot him or kidnapped him right then and there, yet they made no move. They just sat there, watching. But who were they and who did the work for?
“Who is it?” Through the speaker, Conchita's voice sounded hostile to say the least.
“It's me. I know it's late and I'm sorry.”
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Conchita exploded. “I'm of half a mind to let you freeze down there for the rest of the night. Do you realize what time it is? Do you realize you've kept me waiting all evening? You were supposed to take me to dinner at seven. Sunday is my only night off, and you've ruined it for me.”
“Calm yourself,” Casas said firmly “and please come down to open the door. I'll explain everything.”
Conchita hung up and Casas prayed she would not make him wait too long. He felt exposed standing in the doorway with his back to his enemies. But he had to pretend he didn't know they were there.
With a raincoat over her nightgown Conchita clattered down three flights of stairs to open the door. The descent did not improve her disposition, but one look at the sling around Casas's neck changed all that.
“Ay, mi amor, you've been in an accident,” she whispered. “Come in, come in and let me help you.”
Casas climbed the stairs, pretending to feel worse than he really did, and allowed her to help him off with his coat.
“Have you had anything to eat?” she asked after he had spun a yarn about having been attacked by hooligans in the Castle District after a long meeting with his contacts in the Ministry of Defense.
“I've had lunch,” he lied, “but I had to wait at the clinic a long time and, frankly, after the painkillers they gave me I felt like puking rather than eating. But I'm famished now,” he added.
“Would you like me to whip up an omelet with some chorizo?”
“How about you, mi vida?” he answered her question with a question “Have you eaten?”
“No. I waited and waited for you, and then I began to worry.” She turned and headed for the kitchenette. She did not want him to see the tears of relief in her eyes.
He followed her and watched while she prepared a light meal for two. He devoured his portion and washed it down with a couple of bottles of weak Dreher beer.
She had never seen him eat that way and wondered what had gotten into him. She tried as gently as she could to make him confide in her, but he wouldn't even admit that there was anything wrong. In the end he asked her to fetch his briefcase from which he extracted a small oblong box and handed it to her.
“Corazon, soul of my life, I want to thank you for all you've done for me these past months. You've given me shelter, you've given me food, you've provided me with transportation, you've given me love. I'm deeply grateful.” He got up with difficulty and went around to her side of the table to kiss her tenderly on the lips. “I love you and ask you to forgive me for having made you worry. I also ask you to forgive me for any trouble our relationship might create for you in the future.”
She held him to her chest. “I know who you really are, Patricio,” she whispered into his ear, “and I know, everybody knows, that you are having trouble putting up with some of the things that are going on in Havana. Believe me, the common people are with you, so please don't give up; it's just a question of time. You'll see. Everything will turn out right in the end.”
Gently, he drew away from her, touched by her caring and her insight. “Thank you,” he said simply and squeezed her hand. “You are a good woman, and you deserve to be right.” He gave her a big smile. “Now open your present and tell me if you like what I brought you.”
She opened the box and let out a squeal of delight. “Oh, Patricio, what a surprise. Where on earth did you find such a beautiful necklace?”
“I had it specially made for you in Africa.”
“Will you help me put it on?”
He stepped behind her, and, as he bent over to take the necklace from her, she stood up slipped out of her nightgown and thrust her beautifully formed, firm breasts forward. Aroused, he fumbled with the clasp awkwardly and the necklace slipped from his fingers. But
instead of falling to the floor, it slid down her breasts and came to rest against her erect nipples. He turned her toward him slowly, tenderly, lovingly. “Kiss me,” she whispered, and he did, first her mouth, then each of her nipples, then, lowering himself onto his knees, her stomach.
On Monday, after eight hours' sleep, Casas felt much better physically. His broken fingers, though tender, were not hurting thanks to the painkillers he had swallowed with his morning orange juice.
Emotionally, though, Casas was not doing well. A sense of foreboding had come over him. He felt he was, like Don Quixote, tilting at windmills, that there was no way he could bring the Castro regime down, proof or no proof of drug smuggling, even with the CIA's help. He was being drawn into a vortex of frenzied activity, irreversibly leading to his death by firing squad.
Then there was Conchita to worry about. She would have made him a wonderful wife, but with things as they stood now, he was unlikely to see her again. Hopefully he would not involve her in his downfall, but God only knew what would happen to her once the authorities moved against him. Guilt by association was very much in fashion in Havana these days. He felt futile and very sad.
At the window, without disturbing the drapes, he looked out into the street. The Volvo was gone but the Trabant, with its lone occupant, was still there.
He made up his mind. He would not return to Havana just yet. Oscar was coming to Angola next week anyway, and he would have it out with him then. By that time, Casas would know what fate had befallen Fernandez, whether or not De la Fuente had him killed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sunday Night
Langley, Virginia
Morton was apprehensive. Lonsdale was six days overdue, and he had no idea where his deputy was or what he was doing. To make matters worse, Smythe, who never seemed to sleep, had asked Morton to be briefed about the fle on Sunday night, which meant Morton had to cut his weekend short. He got to Langley after an enervating hour's drive in heavy traffc through a rainstorm. His mood did not improve when he found himself subjected to a spot security check, which meant emptying his pockets and turning over the contents of his briefcase for scrutiny. Another fifteen minutes wasted for nothing.
He was shown into Smythe's inner office without having to put up with the usual twenty-minute wait, which signaled bad news. It was clear the man was very anxious to see him.
Smythe, irascible at the best of times, was particularly irritable. He had a cold and considered it unnecessary to offer a greeting. “Your man has disobeyed orders and should be disciplined.” His weak, reedy voice barely carried across the immense desk to Morton.
“In theory you are correct, Sir,” Morton acquiesced. “But he is doing what we want him to be doing.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that he is probably in contact with our Cuban soldier, trying to convince him to defect and give us proof of Fidel's improprieties.”
Smythe bristled. “You said ‘probably.’ Does that mean you don't know for sure where your boy is and what he is doing?”
“I'm afraid so, Sir.”
“You aren't up to speed Morton, are you? We're trying to make sure there's evidence leading to Castro himself, and you're sitting here hypothesizin' and supposin' without a shred of hard information from your man.”
“True, but I do know that we've confused and frightened him enough for him to take the initiative, just as we planned.” Morton was indignant. He had fought against the order to keep Lonsdale in the dark. Now, with the order carried out and the scheme he had developed working as planned, he was being harassed by an amateur, however high-ranking, with no patience for waiting out the results of the end-game of a double-reverse operation.
Morton's problem was that he could offer only circumstantial evidence of Lonsdale doing what he was expected to be doing.
“And supposin' he does convince our Cuban soldier boy to defect?” Smythe sounded menacing.
“Then, Sir,” Morton smiled wanly and stood up. He was dog tired and sick to death of dealing with this idiot. “I will have failed as a psychologist, just as I have already failed as a friend and loyal colleague.” He headed for the door.
“And where the hell do you think you're going?” Smythe's voice was no longer reedy or weak. “I have not dismissed you.”
Morton turned around slowly “Director, you are way out of line! You are a man with few loyalties and even fewer scruples. Your single-mindedness about Castro has blinded you to the need for rewarding dedication, loyalty, and long service. Without men like Lonsdale, the Central Intelligence Agency could not function at all. And, God knows, it has trouble enough functioning as it is.” Morton was having diffculty controlling himself. “You say we should discipline him. What for? For doing what we set him up to do? For sensing that something is not quite right, does not quite add up?” He took a deep breath. “Well, Senator, one thing is for sure. We can't discipline him without first finding him, can we?”
Smythe, though offended, was enjoying himself. He gave Morton a derisory smile, “If this thing turns out right, I'll disregard your insults.”
“And if I fail?”
“Then I will not only have your boy scout's balls, but yours as well.”
The last remark was too much for Morton. He stormed back to Smythe's desk and leaned over it as far as he could. “You insulting, miserable old man! This operation will turn out to be a great success, you'll see, and you'll then claim full credit for it mainly to make points with your right-wing Cuban constituents in Florida. You'll go on sucking up to everyone who might help you even in the remotest way to get confirmed as Director of Central Intelligence. I don't care a damn about myself, but I will not have you talk this way about a senior officer of the Agency, a man who has proven his loyalty and worth many, many times. Nor will I stand by idly to watch you trying to work your way into a job for which you are totally unqualified and temperamentally unsuited.”
Morton knew there was no turning back and that he might as well let Smythe have it with both barrels. “Who do you think you're threatening? I come from a respectable and wealthy family, old money if you will. I am not some impoverished parvenu, a bankrupt farmer, like you!”
Smythe looked up at him unfazed and took a sip from the glass of bourbon he was holding. “Why, I do believe your feelings have gotten the better of you.” His beady eyes had a malicious glint. “But then I prefer men with feelings, strong feelings . . . and strong opinions . . . real men. I don't like dealing with cold fish, not even New England cold fish. As for being a parvenu, I sure am a parvenu.”
Smythe put his glass down. “You see? I know the meaning of the word, having been married to a Parisienne whom I had met at the Sorbonne, which I attended on a scholarship that I won at the University of Southern Florida. Lived in Paris for two years. And my farm did surely go bankrupt. I tried hard, but couldn't keep it going. Had no time; too busy politicking. Then my wife got killed.”
The old man smiled bitterly, remembering. “So you see, you can't buffalo me with highfalutin' words like ‘parvenu.’ I parley-voo pretty damn fluently.”
Morton had his emotions under control again. “I'm sorry for having expressed myself rudely, but I did mean what I said about your being prematurely judgmental about my colleague.”
“Cut the crap, Morton, and don't pull another cold fish act on me. You hate my guts, you mistrust my motives, and you are offended by my crude behavior. Well, I don't give a flyin' fuck, d'ya hear? You've got one week to produce your man.” He took another sip of his drink. “If he's not here next Sunday to report to me personally, I'll have Q Division deal with him.”
Morton could not believe his ears. “Q Division? Are you serious??”
Smythe struggled to his feet and stared at Morton unblinkingly. “Yes, Q Division. I want no loose cannon getting in our way, no bleedin' heart liberal to be pulling heroic stunts. I want Operation Adios to succeed.”
His mind churning, Morton tried to play for time. “Who ca
me up with the code name Operation Adios and what is the connection?”
“I came up with it, Morton, and it is short for ‘Adios Motherfucker.’ ” Smythe fell back into his chair. “You've got till next Sunday. Otherwise you'll be drawing your pension, and your man will be history.”
“Not even you can do that.”
“Just watch me. Just watch me.” The old man grimaced deprecatingly. “Why, the way I see it, your boy ain't even a proper U.S. citizen.”
Morton looked at the man with disbelief. “You mean you'd blow his cover? After all these years?”
“The Cold War is over in case you haven't noticed, and your boy is getting on in years. Time for him to quit.” A sudden thought struck him. “Come to think of it, he doesn't really exist anyway, does he?”
The enormity of what he had done to Lonsdale suddenly dawned on Morton with such force that he almost became physically ill. “I should have known better,” he whispered, more to himself than to his tormentor.
“Known what, Morton?”
“To take your word, Sir.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Monday
Vienna, Austria and Montreal, Canada
Air Canada has flights leaving Vienna for Toronto every Monday and Friday at forty-five minutes past noon. Lonsdale made sure to be at the airport by eleven to have time to make his final travel arrangements.
He held two reservations made via telephone: one in business class under the name of Schwartz, the other under the name of Jackson in hospitality class. He would decide at the last possible moment which of the two to activate, depending first, on how he read the security arrangements at Schwechat, and second, on passenger load. Having purchased in cash two one-way tickets from two different travel agents, he had no constraints.
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