Havana Harvest

by Robert Landori

  “And called you.” Lonsdale made himself sound matter-of-fact, but inside, he was seething. Yet another cluster fuck, he thought, due to the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing.

  “That is correct.”

  “And asked you to suggest a way to turn to the director's advantage my unwelcome intrusion into an operation about which I still know nothing.”

  “Bingo,” interrupted Smythe, chortling with self-satisfaction. “Your boss then came up with a doozer.” He winked at Lonsdale again. “I've got to hand it to him. He's a genius at manipulating folks. You have a reputation of being the original eager beaver, someone who, once he gets his teeth into something never lets go. So, Morton here came up with the idea of using psychology on you.”

  The senator squinted at his two agents then swung his swivel chair around, turning his back to them. Seemingly addressing the window, he continued: “He figured the less information he gave you the more you'd give chase; the more he ordered you to come home, the less likely you'd be to obey; the less secure you felt, the more determined you'd be to succeed.”

  “But to what end?” Lonsdale interrupted “What was I supposed to do differently from what I originally set out to do? How did the plan you had in mind differ from the one Jim and I had worked out? Was the objective not always to get to Casas?”

  “Not quite. Almost, but not quite.” Morton's voice was soft. “You see, getting to Casas was only step one.”

  “I know, I know.” Lonsdale was no longer bothering to hide his impatience. “First I was to contact Casas, which I did. Next, I was to bring him back here, which I failed to do. I'm sorry—”

  “Don't be.” Director Smythe swung around to face them again. “You did good. You did exactly what we wanted you to do. You chased that Cuban soldier right back to mama.”

  “I did? Is that what you wanted?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But what on earth for?”

  “Because he's going to help you find the proof we need to show the world what a bad bastard Dr. Castro really is: a drug dealer, money launderer, and cheat!”

  “He could have done that easier from here, but I failed to convince him of that.”

  “No, he sure as hell could not have. Could he, Morton?”

  “No, surely not.”

  Exasperated, Lonsdale turned on Morton. “What are you talking about? I thought you and I were clear on this thing from the word go. Either Casas was telling the truth, in which event we had Castro by the balls, or it was a put-up job by the Cubans to suck us in and make us look really stupid. My job was to fnd out whether Casas was on the level, and if in the affrmative, to turn him.”

  The director cut in swiftly. “And what did you manage to fnd out?”

  “That, in my opinion, he is on the level.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, Sir. I'm convinced that the man is sincere, but very concerned about lack of proof linking the drug operation undeniably with the Cuban government.”

  “You think there exists any such proof?” Smythe was staring at Lonsdale intently.

  “Some, but tenuous.”

  “Such as?”

  “There was a meeting between the general and his minister at which the drug operation was briefy discussed.”

  “Really. That's very interesting. Were there any witnesses?”

  “Yes, one. Captain Fernandez, the fellow who bolted and whom we're supposed to be holding in protective custody here, but, whom for some reason, I'm not being allowed to access.” Lonsdale's look at Morton was accusatory.

  “Well now, things ain't necessarily always the way they appear to be. Are they, Morton?”

  “For sure not, Sir.”

  “You did good, Lonsdale, don't you fret,” the senator repeated and allowed himself a feeting smile. “But I wouldn't want you to rely on this story of a meeting with the minister too much. Would you, Morton?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “And why the hell not, for Christ's sake?” Lonsdale's temper was getting the better of him. “Let's pull in Fernandez and Casas. Let Casas reveal the details of the drug operation on television and let Fernandez corroborate what Casas says, then let's watch Dr. Castro squirm.”

  “Atta boy, Lonsdale.” The old man's voice was firm. “Full o' piss and vinegar, eager to get on with the job, as always. There is only one small problem.”

  “What's that, Sir?”

  “Remember Charley, the agent in situ?”

  “What about him?”

  Smythe was grinning. He reminded Lonsdale of the Grim Reaper, gleefully waiting for his next victim.

  “It so happens that it was Charley who organized this entire drug operation. The Cuban government had nothing to do with it. Castro happens to be innocent for once. In this particular case, he is the designated fall guy.”

  Lonsdale felt as if somebody had kicked him in the solar plexus. He felt winded, nauseated, and dizzy. “Charley… the agent in situ… the snake in the grass?” he whispered. “Oh my God, it's Oscar De la Fuente.” What a mess. The naive, idealistic general tricked into participating in an unauthorized drug smuggling operation; Fernandez the trusted factotum, unknowingly running errands for the CIA, the killing of the girl in Cayman, of Siddiqui and Schwartz—because they were witnesses to what?

  Lonsdale needed time. He needed to get away from Smythe and Morton, into the fresh air, to think, analyze, absorb, and digest this dreadful avalanche of gut-wrenching information. The Agency didn't trust him. Again, it had made him cause the death of at least two innocent people. It had also tricked him into sending yet another man, an honorable soldier, to his certain death. His superiors, coldblooded, manipulating bastards, felt no loyalty toward the man, and, this time, the group included his lifelong friend Morton.

  After a few seconds he regained his composure and allowed the cold, ruthless, and scheming Lonsdale of years gone by to take over once more.

  He closed his eyes to listen to his inner voice. It was clear as a bell. The story you're being fed doesn't make sense, it was warning. It's not logical. They're not the ones in control. Follow the money trail, follow Fernandez.

  “—count on your help.” He heard Smythe through the fog of fury that had enveloped him for a while, but that had now begun to lift.

  “I'm sorry, Sir, but would you mind repeating what you've just said,” he requested, sounding sincere, respectful, and eager to help. Yes, “eager” was the key word here, he reminded himself. Keep sounding eager—that will fool them.

  “What's the matter? Can't keep up?” Smythe was his malevolent self again.

  “It's just that I have a lot of information to absorb and sort out in short order, information, I might add, that you, Sir, and Jim have been privy to for some time, but which is new and a bit of a shocker to me, so please bear with me.” He gave them the warmest smile he could muster.

  “What I said was that I'm sure General Casas can be relied upon to produce the proof we need to link this drug operation to the Castro regime, especially now that he can count on your help.”

  “My help, Director?”

  “Yes, your help. There's no one more qualifed than you to act as the general's control, no one more familiar with the fle, more involved in the details.”

  “Except Oscar De la Fuente—”

  “Yes, that sure is so, but he can't afford to come out of the tall grass. Not just yet.”

  “Very well, Sir.” Lonsdale made a big show of thinking about what to do next, although he knew precisely where he was headed. “You may count on me to do my best, but I ask you to remember that we face serious problems here. Should even a whisper of what's going on reach the upper echelons in Havana they'll blow the whistle faster than you can say ‘adios.’ ”

  “Why would they want to blow the whistle? I would have thought they would want to cover the whole thing up.”

  “Not if the highest echelons are really not involved and can prove it. In such an event it would be in their intere
st to put Casas and De la Fuente on trial and have them confess to initiating the operation without authorization and for their own personal fnancial advantage to boot.”

  “They would never do that!”

  “What, Sir?” Lonsdale was playing stupid on purpose. “Put them on trial or have them confess.”

  “Casas and De la Fuente would never confess.”

  “Casas certainly would. He is basically an honorable man, naive and idealistic. He would confess for sure if he thought it would save his precious Cuban Revolutionary government from international censure.”

  “He wouldn't have to.” Smythe sounded too smug for Lonsdale's liking. “There's no proof of General Casas's complicity except De la Fuente—”

  “And Fernandez.”

  “Don't you fret about Fernandez. He's being looked after.”

  “What about De la Fuente?”

  “De la Fuente will certainly not fess up. He'll keep on saying he was told to initiate the operation by the highest echelons in Cuba.”

  “But, Sir, all of us in this room know that without proof of some kind of a link, his story will not stand up.”

  Smythe gave in. “I take your point.” He leaned back in his armchair and contemplated the ceiling for a while. Then he snapped forward and fxed Lonsdale with a baleful eye.“What do you propose we do?”

  “Follow the money trail and make sure it cannot be shown we're the ones who have ultimate control over it.”

  “We've started working on that.”

  “Then, Director,” Lonsdale was greatly relieved, “you don't really need me to intervene, do you?”

  “Yes I do.” Smythe had no intention of letting Lonsdale off the hook. “I want insurance. I want you to provide watertight proof that the link to the Revolutionary government is clearly, visibly, and indisputably there.”

  “In other words, Sir,” Lonsdale met the old man's gaze unfinchingly, “You, the acting director of Central Intelligence, ex-chairman of the Senate Intelligence Oversight Committee, and a close confidant of the president of the United States, are requesting that a lowly civil servant, an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, fabricate proof of wrongdoing by the Castro government when you know full well that no such wrongdoing has taken place?”

  “I know no such thing,” Smythe snapped. “Although we did start it, for all I know, Casas's minister is the one behind this drug thing now, and,” he paused to catch his breath, “as for asking an employee of the CIA to do a naughty thing or two, that's what you fellers get paid for: to do naughty things. In your particular case, you're not an employee of anyone, you're believably deniable, because not only are you not a citizen of these United States, you don't even exist, having died a long time ago!”

  Lonsdale would not be baited. He laughed. “So, if I'm dead you cannot really harm me, or tell me what to do, can you?”

  “That's so, but since you aren't physically dead it would help your chances of physical survival if you cooperated with me.”

  Lonsdale stood up. “I understand perfectly, Senator, and although I can certainly not guarantee success, you may rest assured that I will do my best.” He made as if to leave. From the corner of his eye he saw Morton getting ready to accompany him, so he stopped and turned back to face the old man once more. “Before I leave here, and in the light of what you have just said I require two things. One, that you here and now verbally instruct my immediate superior, James Morton, to give me written orders specifying what I am to do. Two,” he held up two fingers, “that you hereby authorize Mr. Morton and me to mount a full-scale rescue operation to extract Casas and De la Fuente from Cuba should, in our sole opinion, this become necessary to save their lives.”

  Smythe thought for a while. “Your request seems reasonable. Morton, you have my authority to proceed with cutting written orders for your assistant here and to mount a rescue operation to extract the general and Charley, if necessary.” He scratched his nose. “Come to think of it, such a rescue operation can only have a benefcial effect. It will make great copy and it will also show that the United States means business and looks after its own.”

  In a pig's eye, thought Lonsdale as he followed Morton out of the room.

  On leaving the senator's offce, Morton tried to reestablish the old camaraderie with Lonsdale by inviting him to lunch, but his deputy begged off politely.

  “I've invited Micheline for a few days.”

  “Micheline in Washington?” Morton was surprised and glad. “Hey, that's wonderful. How long is she staying?”

  “About ten days.” Lonsdale grinned. “So if you don't mind, I'll take some of my accumulated sick leave and spend it with her.”

  Morton's heart sank. “When are you thinking of coming back to the offce then?”

  “I'll be in on Friday to pick up my expense check and to visit with you for an hour. Then I'll be gone until a week from Monday. Give you time to organize the paperwork for our next project.” A quick smile, and Lonsdale was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Tuesday through Friday

  Washington, DC

  Morton looked at his watch. It was ten to ten on Friday morning and no sign of the famous insomniac. Either Micheline was still in town or Lonsdale had changed his habits drastically. Half an hour later, just as Morton was about to call his wayward deputy, Mrs. Weisskopf stuck her head through the door: “He's here,” she announced, “and he looks like hell.”

  “Stop worrying about him, Mrs. W.” Morton glowered at her. “He's tired because he just spent an athletic week with a rediscovered old girlfriend.”

  “How about that,” she beamed. “Is this thing serious?”

  “Don't know yet. Might become serious though. The man is vulnerable.”

  Mrs. Weisskopf bristled. “As for vulnerable, look who's talking.” She withdrew in a huff, her motherly instincts ruffed. She almost bumped into Lonsdale in the doorway. Everybody laughed, and for a millisecond Morton thought things were improving. But he was wrong. Without sitting down Lonsdale came straight to the point. “Have you got the paperwork ready, Jim?” He asked politely.

  “Yes, I do.” Morton was disappointed and allowed it to show in his tone of voice. “It's in the form of a minute of a meeting of the Wise Men, but I think you'll like it.”

  Lonsdale speed-read through the text that Morton had handed him. “Pretty vague, this,” he said, chewing his lower lip. “They seem to acknowledge the existence of an ongoing operation the aim of which is to topple the Castro regime.”

  He paused. “They even go so far as to approve its continuation for the next twelve months. But although they refer to our department as the lead horse of the team the language is vague enough to allow them to twist the action away from us if it suited them.”

  Morton spread his hands in resignation. “You're right, but that's all I could get. I confess I didn't even expect this much; not after the hard time they gave me when I asked them for it.”

  Lonsdale gave Morton a noncommittal look. “What does it matter anyway? I'll go along with the gig as long as you write me a letter that refers to the minutes and is more specifc than this garbage.” He picked up the document again. “This letter, I hasten to add, I will submit for registered cataloguing in Central Files. I intend to lodge the registration number with my attorneys.”

  Morton took the offensive. “Aren't we being a bit too formal this morning, old buddy?”

  “Senator Smythe is a powerful man, Jim. He made some disturbing and, to me, offensive remarks the other day about my not really belonging anywhere. Now you and I both know that Smythe is an uncouth opportunist and not much more, but I feel time has come to protect myself, just in case.”

  “Just in case of what?”

  “Just in case Smythe gets obsessed with the idea that I am some sort of a threat to him, and that I'm superfuous.”

  “Aren't you flattering yourself?”

  “You mean about being a threat?”

  “Yes.”


  “Well Jim, alone maybe I'm not much of a threat.” Lonsdale walked to the window and looked out. The bullet proof, one-way glass distorted the view, just like his own paranoia distorted his relationship with other people. “But you and I together are, indeed, a threat. Furthermore,” he continued, “Smythe knows that although you don't like him you will not act against him on impulse or allow yourself to be motivated by personal reasons, while his perception of me is quite different.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He knows I dislike him a lot and that I'm a good hater. He knows he went too far the other day when he said that legally speaking I didn't exist, that I'm believably deniable. So he fgures he has reason to fear me.”

  Morton could see Lonsdale had done some serious thinking, none of it positive, which was worrisome. “So where do we go from here?”

  “We'll go by the book. Every wet job our department undertakes will have to be authorized in writing from above. No more veiled verbal instructions, oblique references, and all that kind of shit.”

  “What else?”

  “Every assignment I'm given from now on will have to be backed by the proper paperwork.”

  “Such as?”

  “In the case of Casas and company, a letter from you giving me carte blanche as the agent in situ to handle him as best I can and authorizing me to develop a comprehensive plan for his extraction, if need be.”

  “You want to act as Casas's exclusive control then?”

  “Isn't that what needs to happen if we are to help him fabricate the so-called proof Smythe is after?”

  “I suppose in a way it is. But what happens if I refuse to give you the letter you're asking for? Are you going to abandon your newfound Cuban friend?” Morton felt he had to test the depth to which their relationship had sunk.

  “My friend, I will not be the one who will have abandoned him. It will have been our organization as a whole and you in particular.” Then Lonsdale added sadly, “But then, of late, you've had practice in abandoning friends.” He turned his back to the window to face Morton, who looked away.