Havana Harvest

by Robert Landori

  Morton looked at his watch. “It's six fifteen. The banks open at nine. Where do you want your money?”

  “You mean you're ready to disburse?” Lonsdale had not expected the Agency to be so speedy.

  “Smythe wants to have you fully funded by the end of this week.”

  “What's his hurry?”

  “Believe it or not he wants you to have time to succeed.”

  “This can mean only one thing: Operation Adios is in bigger trouble than I think it is. Did he make any suggestions?”

  “He wants you to meet Oscar De la Fuente's control.”

  “When?”

  “He'll give you thirty-six hours' notice.”

  “If he can find me.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Didn't you say Smythe wanted me off the premises by the end of the week?”

  “Yeah, but you'll be required to keep in touch.”

  “That won't be easy without leaving a trail.”

  “No it won't, so let's get to sweating the details.”

  “Not before I get my money.”

  It took Lonsdale four hours to explain what he wanted to do and how.

  To comply with Smythe's directive that the operation be believably deniable, Lonsdale intended to revert to his original identity. It would be Bernard Lands, the rogue agent, risen from the dead, who would hire the people, procure the equipment, arrange the transport, and direct the extraction of Casas and De la Fuente. Thus, funds for the operation—fifteen million dollars is what he estimated he'd need—would have to be transferred into an account traceable to Bernard Lands.

  He would have to fly to Zurich as Lands, and instruct his lawyers there to open an operating bank account, perhaps in Panama, the ultimate beneficiary of which would appear to be Bernard Lands.

  As for his “consulting” fee, it would have to end up in an account controlled by Robert Lonsdale. This Lonsdale hoped to arrange through a lawyer friend who lived in the Channel Islands.

  Personnel-wise, Lonsdale would recruit a deputy who would help him identify the squad leaders and communications technicians. The rest would be hired by the deputy, acting independently. Although it was still early days, Lonsdale estimated that, to succeed, he would need at least seven well-trained, key men to mount an extraction operation.

  “Whom do you intend to pick as your deputy?”

  “Reuven Gal. I've worked with him before.”

  “I remember Gal. He was with the Mossad till five years ago.” Realization suddenly dawned on Morton. “Wasn't he with you when—”

  “The Arabs first tried to kill me?” Lonsdale finished the sentence for him.

  “Do you know where to contact him?”

  “He lives in Palm Beach and is a security consultant to the rich.”

  “What kind of personnel, ordnance, and equipment do you think you'll need?”

  “A couple of dozen people all told and two cars, a van, a helicopter, and the Barbara.”

  “What is the Barbara ?”

  “The Barbara is a freighter that the Colombians use to smuggle drugs into the States through Cuba. It was in Quesada's notes of his initial interview with Fernandez.”

  Morton said nothing.

  Lonsdale tried to sound conciliatory. “Here's the list of what I need. Let me know what dealer I should buy weapons from. Once I know his name we'll work on the cutout procedures to keep the Agency out of the picture. Leave the vehicles and the helicopter to me. I'll purchase them myself.”

  Morton glanced at the list Lonsdale had handed him. “I see you picked the Galil as your assault weapon.”

  “Yeah. It's a bit heavy, but more reliable than most such weapons.”

  “OK. Now give me an outline of what you're planning.”

  They spent another four hours refining Lonsdale's plan, developing cutout and communications procedures and administrative details. Finally, they addressed the money issue again.

  “Jim, I'll call you from Zurich. No, even better, I'll fax you the name of the Guernsey and Vaduz lawyers and their bank account numbers. The fax will be your authority to transfer the money to them, for me in trust. I'll look after my end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I'll tell them where and how to send my money so that I can have final use of it.”

  “That means that once I've disbursed, you'll have control, and since I will be disbursing in advance, the Agency will have no leverage on you to ensure you keep your end of the bargain and carry through with the extraction plan.”

  “That's true, but it will have my word that I will. I believe the saying is 'as an officer and a gentleman.' ”

  “And where does all this leave us?”

  “At a Mexican standoff, that's where.”

  Neither of them spoke for a while. It was Morton who finally broke the silence. “There is only one way out of this impasse. I'll have to vouch for you personally, on pain of losing my job and pension.”

  Lonsdale was amazed. “You mean Smythe actually asked you to do such a thing?”

  “That he did.”

  “And would you?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, contrary to what you believe, I do trust you and feel I have to make amends for having been less than forthright with you during this past month.” Besides, I've got you by the shorts, my friend, Morton added silently to himself. If it ever came to light that you were a part-owner of the Panamanian company you'd look like a drug dealer and you'd be toast.

  “Is this an apology?” Lonsdale asked.

  “Yes, it is. I'm very sorry.”

  Lonsdale felt vindicated. “Your apology is accepted.” As for your being more forthright in future, we'll see, he thought, not at all sure he would ever trust Morton again.

  Morton left for an early lunch and Lonsdale called the FBI liaison office on the special secure line. Having provided the proper credentials, he asked for the duty officer.

  “How can I help?” the man asked.

  “Get your file on a Reuven Gal, Israeli citizen, I think, residing in Palm Beach, Florida, and tell me if he has an e-mail address.”

  After ninety seconds he had his answer.

  “Your man has two e-mail addresses. One he uses for his business, the other—the personal one—he uses via a so-called blind readdresser.”

  “You mean a rerouter who keeps his customers' identities secret from the people who receive e-mails from him?”

  “Something like that, but more secure. Your man has not one, but two buffers, so working back up the line is almost impossible from far away.”

  “But your guys traced him back.”

  “Not quite. We had help from the source.”

  “From Gal?” Lonsdale couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.

  The FBI man laughed. “That would have been too easy. No. Let's just say we looked at his computer when he wasn't looking.”

  Lonsdale jotted down Gal's particulars, including address, both unlisted home numbers, the car cellular number, the portable cellular number, and the two e-mail addresses.

  “Do you want his bank account details?”

  “Might as well.”

  The FBI man sighed. “How about if I sent you a fax on this?”

  “No. Send me a memo by messenger.”

  “OK. How fast do you need it?”

  “Before three p.m.”

  “Can do. Anything else?”

  “Well now, seeing that you will be writing me, why don't you give me some details about the man's marital status, girlfriend status, and business dealings. Nothing too in-depth on the business thing, just a general outline.”

  “Is the guy a philanderer?”

  “One of the greatest.”

  “What else?”

  “That's it, except for one rather difficult request. Try to find out if the guy will be home this afternoon or evening.”

  “I'll try.”

  Lonsdale hung up an
d switched on his computer. Having gained access to the Internet, he activated his own blind re-addresser system, a system far more sophisticated than Gal's, one that not even an Internet encryption specialist could break into. He then sent a message to Gal's personal e-mail address that would bypass the man's readdressers and hit his e-mail address directly. Lonsdale chuckled. He could see Gal going squirrelly trying to figure out what had happened. Such a breach of his defenses would drive any security consultant crazy.

  Lonsdale was equally proud of the message itself: “Reuven. Some years back, when the Arabs were after my proverbials you were kind to me, and I have not forgotten. Meet me at the Bice Bar tonight at ten. Ask for Meisner. It's payback time. L.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Tuesday

  Gander, Canada

  On the trip back to Havana, Casas and De la Fuente barely spoke to each-other. The uncomfortable trip on board their Tupolev 18-passenger jet that had seen better days was in no way alleviated by the abominable food they were served. Only the Stolychnaya vodka was any good.

  A half-hour before the Gander refueling stop in Newfoundland, Canada, De la Fuente excused himself and went to the bathroom. There he extracted an Executive Dictaphone from his pocket and delivered himself of a to-the-point memo, intended for Spiegel. Then he pocketed the small cassette and put a fresh one in the machine.

  In Gander, while Casas visited the washroom, De la Fuente went to the gift shop to browse through the merchandise, or so he told Casas, who was to meet him there later. He wandered around the store for a minute or two then went to look for a sales clerk called Harry or Henry or Harold or Horace. These were the names Spiegel had given him when they set up De la Fuente's escape route in case he had to get out of Cuba in a hurry. The gift shop, ostensibly a partnership owned by the four H's who worked around the clock, seven days a week and met every international fight landing in Gander was a joint RCMP-CIA listening and assistance post for the likes of De la Fuente.

  He spotted Harold near the newsstand. “Excuse me, but can you tell me where I can find some Christmas Holiday music?”

  “This way, please.” Harold led him to a rack in the corner. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”

  “‘White Christmas,’ with Bing Crosby.”

  “A very popular tune,” Harold said and pointed to the top shelf of the rack. De la Fuente extracted the cassette, pretended to examine it, and then, while shaking Harold's hand to thank him, palmed off the minicassette he had fished out of his pocket previously. He looked at his watch. “When does the plane for Cuba depart?” he asked.

  “No idea, Sir. You had best check with the Cubana desk.” Harold reached for the “White Christmas” recording De La Fuente was holding. “Shall I wrap this for you?”

  “No, I've changed my mind,” said De la Fuente. He handed the cassette back to the clerk and left him to join Casas whom he had spotted entering the shop.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday and Wednesday

  Palm Beach and Miami, Florida

  Lonsdale got into West Palm a few minutes past nine at night and drove to Bice's in exclusive Palm Beach as fast as he dared, well aware of the local police's unforgiving attitude toward speeders.

  The FBI had confirmed shortly after lunch that Gal was indeed in Palm Beach. By late afternoon their voluminous report on the Israeli had also landed on Lonsdale's desk. He had reviewed it in detail during the fight from Washington.

  Gal was a confirmed bachelor, very fond of the ladies, who regularly managed to latch onto attractive, wealthy women with whom he would cohabitate for a year or two and then move on.

  At present he seemed to be “on standby,” in between women, and living alone in a million-dollar home on the Inter-coastal Waterway. His consulting business seemed to be doing well. He had money in the bank, drove a bottle-green Jaguar and had a backup car, an expensive Cherokee Chief four-by-four. He also owned an eighteen-foot Mercury Outboard Cruiser, which he used as a runabout, mainly for short, daylong fishing trips.

  Lonsdale smiled. Four years earlier, Gal, who had left the Mossad at age fifty with nothing but a modest pension, had seemed an unlikely candidate for riches and fame. But then Lonsdale remembered what his late mother always said. “Make sure to associate with people who are richer than you. Some of their wealth is bound to rub off.” Gal, who was handsome, athletic, and a great dancer, seemed to have learned this lesson well.

  The valet took Lonsdale's car keys and gave him a tag. Lonsdale thanked him and went through Bice's elegant, etched-glass doors.

  The maitre d' met him at the door. “Do you have a reservation, Sir?”

  “No, I've just come in for a drink. By the way, my name is Meisner. I expect someone to be asking for me.” He gave the man ten dollars.

  “What time do you expect your party?”

  Lonsdale looked at his watch. It was ten. “In about ten to fifteen minutes.”

  “And does your friend know you?”

  “I'm afraid not.”

  The maitre d' pocketed the money. “Please have your drink at this end of the bar if you can, Sir, so I can spot you. As you see we're awfully busy.”

  A glance over Lonsdale's shoulder confirmed the statement; the customers were lined up three deep. Lonsdale ordered a double pisco sour—Bice's bartender was one of the few men in Southern Florida who knew how to make a proper one.

  The maitre d' came over at five past ten and handed him the cordless phone. “Call for you, Sir.”

  “Hello.”

  “Mr. Meisner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do me the honor of walking out into the street so I can have a look at you.”

  Lonsdale grinned. “Still as formal as ever, are we Reuven?” he observed. “What do I do once I'm outside?”

  “Turn right and walk up the street. I'll look after the rest.” The line went dead.

  Lonsdale paid, waved at the maitre d', and left the restaurant.

  He spotted the Jaguar as soon as he stepped outside. It was double parked up the street a block and a half away. He began to walk at a leisurely pace, passed it without glancing at it, and sensed rather than heard that the car was following. He kept going until the Jaguar accelerated past him and, tires screeching, turned right at the next corner.

  Lonsdale continued walking without looking back. Within minutes the car was behind him again, but, this time, it slowly drew even and a window opened.

  “You're fat,” Reuven Gal shouted out at him from the driver's side.

  “And you're ugly,” Lonsdale replied laughing.

  Gal pulled over and stopped the car. “Get in Bernard before you catch cold.” Lonsdale slid in without a word. Gal accelerated away from the curb.

  Lonsdale waited for a minute out of respect for having put his erstwhile colleague to so much trouble on such short notice and then, half-turning toward the Israeli, inquired with some delicacy. “How pissed off are you?”

  “Me? Pissed off, no; intrigued, yes.”

  “Intrigued?”

  “Yes, intrigued. I thought you were dead. Where the fuck have you been all these years?”

  “How do you know I'm me and not an impostor?”

  “Come on Bernard, give me a break.” Gal sounded hurt. “Nobody waddles the way you do.”

  “You mean you identified me by my walk?”

  “Why else do you think I followed you for two blocs?”

  Lonsdale grinned. “All right, all right, you win. Now tell me where you're taking me.”

  “To eat, of course. I presume you're hungry.”

  Lonsdale remembered that he had not had time to have lunch. “Starving.”

  Gal was pleased. “I'm glad. I booked us a table at Cafe Europa. How I got us in on such short notice I'll never know.”

  “Come off it you big show-off. Everybody in Palm Beach knows that you know everybody and that your connections in high places and low are better than ever.”

  Gal was ready to giv
e as fast as he got. “Is that why you called me? For my connections?”

  “Partly. But I'll tell you all about it after we've eaten.” The car slowed, and Lonsdale started to open the door. Gal put a hand on his shoulder. “Not so fast my friend, not so fast. I want to tell you something before we go in.”

  Lonsdale closed the door and faced Gal.

  “I'm glad you're not dead,” said Gal deadpan. “I liked working with you and hope to work with you again, but on one condition.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “That you don't hold out on me.”

  “You mean information-wise?”

  “That too.”

  “I won't, I promise”

  “Then let's go get 'em.”

  During the meal they revisited old times. Although Gal tried to be delicate, it soon became apparent that, to get Gal's cooperation, Lonsdale had to give a plausible explanation of where he had been during the last two decades.

  Having spun a yarn about residing in Argentina and making a living as a security consultant, thereby implying he and Gal were colleagues Lonsdale steered the conversation around to the present.

  “You're listed as a security consultant too,” he said, stirring his coffee. “How's business?”

  “Can't complain. And you?”

  “Just a little too good,” Lonsdale allowed, testing the waters. “And that's why I'm here.”

  “Really?” Gal leaned back in his chair laughing, “I can't wait to hear what you're in the process of cooking up.”

  Lonsdale shook his head. “Not here, Reuven. Let's fnd a more private place somewhere.”

  “OK, but first: where are you staying?”

  “I have a guaranteed reservation at the Breakers.”

  “Can you afford to lose the guarantee?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Be my guest for the night. I've plenty of room, and we can talk in complete privacy at my place.”

  Lonsdale reasoned that the advantage of seeing Gal's headquarters from the inside and, perhaps, getting a glimpse of his operation, outweighed the strong likelihood of Gal recording every word that would be said at his place.