Another matter of concern was the lack of detailed information about the interview with Reyes Puma. Lonsdale gathered that the lawyer was very much respected by the police and the INS alike. “Did Fernandez tell him about his new identity?” Lonsdale muttered just as Morton walked through the door, hand outstretched. “Talking to yourself, I see.” He shook his colleague's hand warmly. “Welcome back. You look tanned and rested. How's Micheline?”
“Fine thanks. She's back in Montreal.” Lonsdale decided to cut Morton some slack, figuring he would need all the help he could get to pull Casas out of the mess he was in. “But you don't seem too happy.”
“I am very concerned about Casas.” Morton's face was pasty from lack of sleep.
“Then let's do something about it.”
“But what?”
“Sooner, than later, we'll have to extract him.” Lonsdale looked at Morton. “Have you fixed up the paperwork, authorizing us to save his scrawny neck?”
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“When I told Smythe that Fernandez was dead, he wasn't pleased, nor was he surprised, which surprised me. In any event, when I finished giving him the details he just sat there for a while, mumbling and cursing, with his mind obviously in high gear. Then he said something that surprised me even more.”
“And what was that?”
“He said—and listen to this—‘Tell Lonsdale that his prayers have been answered. He better get his ass in here to see me pronto, but in any event, not later than noon on Monday,’ which is today.”
Lonsdale looked at his watch. “Plenty of time. It's not ten yet. Do you have any idea what he wants from me?”
“I certainly do. He's going to propose a deal to you that you will find very hard to refuse.”
“What kind of a deal?”
“I'd rather he told you himself.” Morton felt at a loss for words. He feared that laying out Smythe's plan there and then would lose him his deputy's friendship forever.
“That bad, eh?”
Morton shook his head. “You'll find out soon enough. That's all I'm permitted to say.” He squared his shoulders. “Let's get on with the rest of it. Are there any questions with regard to those?” He pointed to the pile on Lonsdale's desk.
“Just a few hundred.”
“Like?”
“Like, why was Fernandez not kept in protective custody in the first place? Why was he released to his cousin? Why wasn't the cousin interviewed in depth? Who else beside the cousin knew Fernandez's identity and the time of his release? Does Fernandez have family beside his cousin?”
Morton held up his hands. “Hold on. He was released because the cousin, Reyes Puma, is the most high-profile civil liberties lawyer in Florida and an influential member of the Miami Cuban community. Puma pressured the INS to release Fernandez and negotiated the witness protection deal for him. He volunteered to pick up Fernandez on his release, which the captain welcomed, and off they went. As for the cousin, I can think of no one better to interview him than you.”
“No Jim, I think not.”
“Why on earth not?”
What Lonsdale said next surprised him as much as it surprised Morton. “I don't want to meet the man because I don't want him to know what I look like. I have something else in mind for him.”
“Such as?”
“I want you to interview him. Wear a body wire and transmitter and we'll camcord you from afar. I'll watch and listen in. Then we'll replay the interview, do some voice analysis, and see where it gets us.”
Morton gave in. “OK, we'll do it your way. But first, we had better get over to Smythe's office.”
“Operation Adios may be in trouble,” the Smythe said without preamble.
“How so, Sir?”
“With Fernandez dead we urgently need Casas to produce evidence of the Cuban government's involvement in the drug trade.”
“I haven't heard from him recently.”
“I know. You were on vacation. But you're back now, so get busy. Go to Cuba if need be, but get things going before it's too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Nobody killed Fernandez or this fella' Siddiqui, or the coin dealer Schwartz just for the fun of it. They had a pressing reason. Question is, who?” He looked at Lonsdale.
“There are a number of people who may want him dead.”
“Such as?”
“The Colombians, for betraying their banking and other procedures, or for absconding with what they may perceive as being their money.”
“Unlikely.”
“The Cuban government, to eliminate the only witness who can tie Casas and De la Fuente to the second-highest-ranking Cuban government official, namely the minister of defense.”
“You've got somethin' there.”
“Then there is the minister himself, God bless him, acting as an independent free enterpriser.”
“Any more?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Lonsdale gave Smythe a warm smile. “General Casas himself, in a noble gesture of self-sacrifice, to save the Revolution embarrassment, which would, incidentally, drag our friendly agent, Charley De la Fuente, down with him. In this scenario, Casas would go on trial with De la Fuente and Casas would take the blame … by confessing.”
“You're really digging deep.” Smythe was not happy. “Of course that last scenario we wouldn't want to see unfold, unless absolutely unavoidable.”
“No, I guess not.”
“Well then, what do you propose we do?”
“Director Smythe, I came here under the impression you had some sort of a suggestion that would make both of us feel comfortable with this operation. Am I to understand that you are now asking me to develop a plan?”
The old man nodded. “You've almost got it right. I have a suggestion that would make me feel comfortable.”
“Tell me what you want, and I'll tell you if I can live with it.”
Smythe turned to Morton “Set things up for us, will you please.”
Morton obliged. “Our analysts believe the Cuban government is behind the killings. I say killings in the plural, because they believe Siddiqui, Schwartz, and Fernandez were killed by the same people. There can be only one reason for these killings.” Morton was adamant. “The Cuban government found out about the drug operation and although it is convinced that the operation is a free-enterprise deal created by De la Fuente and Casas—in other words not one inspired by us—it cannot take the risk of allowing the Cuban government to be linked to drugs, even remotely.”
“That's a bit of a stretch, don't you think?” Lonsdale interrupted.
“Remember, Casas had instructed Schwartz to pay the Ministry of the Interior its share of the so-called bounty money from Angola. This must have alerted the Cuban G2 investigators to both Schwartz's and Siddiqui's existence and since they were involved in the deal, however indirectly, they had to be terminated with extreme prejudice.”
“What about the BCCI manager in Luanda? He was involved too.”
“He was also killed over the weekend in a suspicious car accident. The Cuban government has now isolated Casas and De la Fuente. It can prove that the two are up to their necks in drug dealing. They, in turn, have no way of proving that there is a connection between the operation and the government.”
It was obvious that Morton was pretty fed up. “On the contrary, the Cuban government will soon stumble onto the fact that the money in Panama is not controlled by either the Ministry of the Interior or by Casas and De la Fuente, and they will guess the rest.”
“You mean that the operation is ours?”
“Correct.”
“Unless we distance ourselves from the money in Panama.”
“You've got it.” Smythe and Morton were looking at Lonsdale expectantly for suggestions.
“And you want me to help you do this?” Lonsdale could not believe his ears.
“No.” the Director cut in coldly.
Morton carried o
n, avoiding eye contact with Lonsdale. “We consider Operation Adios blown and are in damage control mode. When the Agency started Adios, it arranged for the Panama bank account to be owned by an untraceable Panamanian sub-subsidiary of the Agency.”
Morton squared his shoulders. “But then, De la Fuente recruited the unwitting General Casas and someone—probably De la Fuente's control, Spiegel—came up with the idea of having papers cut to show that the owners of the Panamanian company were Casas and De la Fuente. Of course, neither Casas nor De la Fuente were told about this, the idea being that, if the fur flew, the Agency would not appear to be involved.”
“Which means that De la Fuente and Casas are on their own,” Lonsdale finished the story for Morton, “unless Casas can give us proof of complicity by the Cuban government, which we all know does not exist.”
“I'm afraid that just about sums it up,” Morton agreed.
“And you say you think Casas is under intense surveillance?”
“Yes.”
“And that time is running out fast because Casas and Charley are going to be arrested, and soon.”
“Yes.”
A feeling of weariness overcame Lonsdale. “I did my best to get Casas out, not realizing that Charley De la Fuente was the designated man of the moment. How could I have known since you bastards never told me anything, never cooperated with me, never supported me, and did nothing except try to confuse the issue.” He felt like beating up Morton and strangling Smythe. “There's no way I'm going to Cuba to help fabricate evidence thereby getting Casas, who is already in deep shit, into even deeper shit. There's no way I'm going to risk my life for you.” He pointed at Smythe.
“And I suppose,” Smythe added almost gently, “the hell with our loyal and trusted agent Charley De la Fuente and his naive and innocent buddy, who, by the way, is your buddy too: General de Brigada Patricio Casas Rojo, whom you are now proposing to abandon.”
“I'm not abandoning them, Director. You and the Agency are.”
To Lonsdale's surprise, Smythe smiled. “That's quite correct. But that does not make it right and that certainly does not mean that you also have to. Here is what I propose. The Agency will grant you a leave-of-absence stretching well into the New Year, as long as you need. You will, on your own, as a private citizen, organize and execute an operation involving the extraction of De la Fuente and Casas.” Smythe leaned forward over his desk for emphasis. “You will be given full logistical support by the Agency for this operation, with the usual cutout procedures, of course. Should you fail or be captured or whatever, the Agency will deny ever having had anything to do with you, and you will be strictly on your own.”
“No exchange in case of capture?”
“None.”
“What happens if I succeed?”
“You get your old job back and may even get promoted, but for sure you'll get a medal.”
Lonsdale thought hard for a minute. Then in a flash of inspiration he perceived how he could get even. “It's a deal, subject to one condition.”
“What's that?”
“A bonus.”
“How much?”
“Three million dollars in Switzerland.”
“What? You're a paid employee of the Agency. You get a salary, that's all.”
“Director,” Lonsdale addressed Smythe with great dignity. “You and I have disagreed on a number of issues, but we have never disagreed that both of us are intelligent and motivated men.” Smythe nodded. “You have just told me that if there is to be a rescue mission of not only my man, Casas, but, more to the point, also of your deep asset, De la Fuente, you're only willing to authorize such a mission if it is undertaken by me as a believably deniable individual.”
“Go on.” Smythe looked at his watch.
“Here's how I see the situation. On the one hand, you will deeply embarrass the president if it gets out that the operation he authorized on your recommendation is going down the drain, and with it one of the Agency's best assets in Cuba.”
Lonsdale could tell that Smythe was listening intensely. “On the other hand, if I go to Cuba and succeed in getting both your man and mine out you will have redeemed yourself at least partially by having mounted an operation that got Fidel nervous.”
Lonsdale took a deep breath. “If I fail and the CIA is accused of being behind the setup, you can save the Agency from international censure by denying all connection between me and the CIA on the basis of the old rogue-agent-risen-from-the-dead ploy.” He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Come to think of it, the worst case scenario would be that two men would die for being traitors, and I also would die. Although not smelling of roses, both you and the Agency would get off almost unscathed.”
“So if you think you will die what do you need the money for?”
Lonsdale made his answer sound as amicable as he could. “I need the money in case I fail, but go on living and you then cut off my pension, my livelihood, my access to my friends, my job; you know, that sort of thing—”
“You know very well I couldn't do what you're asking.” Smythe replied.
“For me to be entirely deniable I must be on unpaid leave. Then, I can hire myself out as an independent consultant. Right?” Lonsdale asked.
“Right.”
“OK, so my fee for two months' work as an independent consultant is three million dollars, payable in advance.”
“One million.”
“One million seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, plus my regular salary.”
“One million five hundred thousand in unmarked bills, plus your salary, the latter fully taxable.”
“Done, provided I get your and Morton's full—and I mean full— cooperation, and access to Charley's control.”
Smythe sat back in his chair and thought for a while. Then he came around to Lonsdale's side of the desk.
“It's a deal,” he said and held out his hand. Lonsdale shook it, then got up and left.
Morton was the first to speak. “That was easier and less expensive than I thought it would be.” He too got up, but Smythe motioned him to stay.
“I haven't finished with your man. He's too dangerous, too much of a loose cannon by half.” Smythe swiveled and looked out the window for a while. “We've got to get him under control somehow,” he murmured, almost as if to himself. Then he turned to face Morton again. “Any ideas?”
“We could always make him one of the owners of the Panamanian company.”
Smythe was very pleased. “Brilliant. Do it, Morton. Do it!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Monday and Tuesday
Washington, DC
Lonsdale's three-bedroom, double-decker penthouse was spacious and very comfortable. The walls, the fabric covering the furniture, the table linen he used, the drapes, even the dishes reflected his love for the colors of Provence: marvelous golden yellow and a refreshing light blue. The apartment's western exposure guaranteed that in the evening a bright sunset would illuminate the entire place and make it glow. In the spring and summer Lonsdale would get home early enough from work to see this spectacle and enjoy its magic.
To analyze his new project in comfort he poured himself half a glass of red wine, a decent Brunello di Montalcino, and then settled into his favorite armchair facing the high floor-to ceiling glass doors leading to the large balcony. He used the remote to turn on the stereo and pressed Play. The elegant sounds of Django Reinhardt playing “Nuages” filled the room.
Lonsdale loved guitar music, both classical and jazz, and he still played the instrument on occasion, but only when he was alone. Too irregularly, he reflected, but that could not be helped in his line of business.
He could foresee three scenarios. In the first, he would succeed in extracting both, or at least one, of Casas and De La Fuente from Cuba and survive in the process. In the second, he would extract neither of them, but survive. In the third, and worst-case scenario, he would get neither of the Cubans out and die trying. He resolved to acq
uire the best technology, the best equipment, and the best people money could buy to ensure that he had the best chance to survive.
Lonsdale figured he needed about two dozen men: two teams of four in the field, plus two in logistics, two to four in communications, two helicopter personnel and six sailors, plus the command staff, of course.
These people would have to be found, assembled, trained for three weeks, then infiltrated into Cuba, which would take another two weeks, and given time to acclimatize. Hell, he was looking at two months before he could even think about trying to extract two heavily guarded men from Fidel's fiefdom.
He didn't have two months. He had a maximum of six weeks!
He grabbed pen and paper and began to scribble furiously. Within an hour he had the outlines of a plan with a fifty-fifty chance of success, a plan worth trying.
He emptied his glass, picked up the phone, and dialed Delta Airlines. He needed to be in Zurich by the weekend. Then he phoned Morton and made an appointment with him for the next day. His final call was to Micheline. He told her he'd be absent for a while and that he'd call her as soon as he got back. And no, he couldn't say when.
Even at five thirty in the morning it took Lonsdale half an hour to drive from where he lived in Georgetown to his office in Bethesda.
He pulled into the building's underground garage and used his card to gain access to the section watched over by three security guards on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
He got to his office a few minutes before six and was in the process of organizing a couple of cups of fresh, hot coffee when Morton walked through the door.
“I suppose you have a to-do list as long as your arm.” Morton entered talking.
Lonsdale laughed. Although he had gotten very little sleep, he was so energized by being back in the game that he felt no fatigue. “Longer than both my arms.”
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