Havana Harvest

by Robert Landori

  “Via cigarette boat, I presume,” Gal cut in.

  “Via Cigarette Boat,” Lonsdale confirmed. “He agreed to help me.”

  Lonsdale did not consider it necessary to enlighten Gal about the arrangements having been made through Agency assets operating in Cuba.

  Gal stood up, stretched, and then walked over to where Lonsdale was sitting. “When are you shipping the taxis and the van?”

  “They'll be in Havana, or Matanzas, the port near Varadero, by Christmas.”

  “You're that sure nothing will need to get done before then?”

  “I'm not sure of anything. I'm making educated guesses and hoping they're the right ones.” Lonsdale got up to face Gal. “It's your turn now. How is the training program going?”

  “Pretty well. As you know I've got two Mossadniks as squad leaders, and they brought in three other Israelis. I also engaged six Cubans whom some friends found for me here in Florida. With you and me that makes thirteen.”

  “My lucky number.” Lonsdale was pleased: thirteen was indeed his lucky number. He looked at Gal expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

  “Three more people, drivers, are reporting for training on Thursday, so by Friday we'll have a total contingent of fifteen.”

  “Let's see.” Lonsdale began to count. “Three people per vehicle, that's nine, plus two ambulance guys—”

  “What ambulance, what guys?”

  Lonsdale laughed. “I know, I know. I never had the chance to tell you. I came back from Cuba full of new ideas.”

  Gal was nonplussed. “You've been to Cuba since you last visited me?”

  “Just a quickie, in and out, but enough time to have a preliminary look at the presumed target area and to conclude that an ambulance and two jeeps might come in handy.”

  “Jesus, Bernard. You're scaring me.” Gal was not happy. “You're telling me three things: we need more men, we need two more vehicles, and third,” he gave Lonsdale a piercing look “we're likely to take serious casualties.”

  Lonsdale shook his head. “No to the first two of your assumptions. The ambulance is window dressing, and the personnel and the jeeps will be provided by the locals.”

  “Cubans?”

  “Yes, but if you don't mind I'd rather not give you the details yet.”

  Gal raised his eyebrows, but let it go. “The men are being trained at a range in Georgia, which the Association of Security Consultants maintains for that purpose. The training is general and consists of hostage taking, hostage rescue, defensive and offensive driving, small arms drill, sharp-shooting, explosives handling and physical fitness courses.”

  “Are you training them with Galils?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “When will they be ready?”

  “In less than three weeks. By Christmas for sure.”

  “Good. Have the best nine, including you, your two Israeli squad leaders, and six Cubans ready for gradual insertion during the Christmas–New Year period. That'll give us a few days to familiarize the team with the extraction site.”

  “What about the rest of them?”

  “We'll need them for the diversionary attack.”

  “Who will lead them and when do they get inserted?”

  “I'm still working out the details, but will have a plan for you the next time we meet.”

  Gal headed for the door. “And when will that be?”

  “I'll call you early next week. In the meantime, get fit.”

  “Look who's talking,” grumbled Gal as he ushered his guest out of the room. He noted with concern that Lonsdale had not addressed his assumption about taking heavy casualties.

  Two hours later Lonsdale was at the Churrasceria Argentina Restaurant in Coral Gables. He had a luncheon appointment with José Basulto, the founder of Hermanos al Rescate—Brothers to the Rescue.

  Basulto, a courtly man in his late fifties with black hair that was graying at the temples, had founded Brothers to the Rescue in 1991, at the height of the refugee flow from Cuba when thousands risked their lives in sailboats, rowboats, and makeshift rafts to reach the safety of the Florida Coast and freedom from oppression. During their most successful period of activity the Brothers operated six aircraft, which patrolled the Florida straits from dawn to dusk, locating foundering refugee embarkations and radioing their position to the U.S. Coast Guard that would then dispatch a vessel to assist them.

  Basulto walked into the restaurant at one o'clock sharp and was shown to Lonsdale's table. Lonsdale came straight to the point.

  “As I told you over the telephone, Mr. Basulto, my name is Antonio La Copola and I am from Argentina. I represent a group of wealthy Cubans living in Buenos Aires who were profoundly upset when they learned last year that Castro's fighter jets had shot down two of your unarmed aircraft.” The waiter appeared at the table to take their drink orders and Lonsdale said nothing more until the man left.

  “My clients would like to do something for the Brothers to the Rescue and sent me to Miami to find out what your organization's needs are.”

  “A couple of new airplanes would be nice,” Basulto said, half-joking.

  Lonsdale surprised him. “I don't think my clients could afford two aircraft, but I'm pretty sure they'd spring for one if it did not cost more than half a million dollars.”

  Basulto could not believe his good fortune. “If you really are serious about this, Señor La Copola, please show me some proof of your bona fides, and I will be delighted to go into details.” Basulto's smile was open and earnest. “With half a million dollars we could certainly buy an aircraft, the kind we like to fly: a Cessna, or a Beachcraft. It would not be new, but it would have the avionics that would keep our pilots safe.” His voice trailed off.

  Lonsdale had anticipated the request and had made arrangements with a Buenos Aires law firm to back up his story. He took a business card from his pocket and handed it to Basulto. “As you can see I am an attorney-at-law and a partner in the firm of Langariza & Scherz. Call Mr. Langariza, and he will confirm that there is half a million dollars in the firm's trust account earmarked for the Brothers.” He returned Basulto's smile just as their drinks arrived. “Let's drink to our joint enterprise.” He lifted his glass and Basulto followed suit. They ordered lunch then got down to details.

  “Let me assume for the time being that your credentials check out, Señor La Copola. What would the next step be?”

  “Locate a suitable aircraft, purchase it, equip it, and have it registered in the Brothers' name.”

  “You're making this sound too easy. Where is the catch?” Basulto was not a great believer in manna from heaven.

  “There's no catch. My clients are impressed by the humanitarian aspects of your organization's mission. With the additional aircraft you could increase the frequency and area of coverage of your patrols, thereby saving additional lives, Cuban lives, I might add.”

  “And what would the timing be?”

  “It would be nice if you could locate and equip the aircraft in the next two to three weeks. That way my clients could give it to you as a Christmas present. I may be able to talk them into coming up from Buenos Aires, and we could have a little celebration. Better still,” Lonsdale made as if a great idea had just struck him, “we could name the aircraft Argentina and every time it few you could call the flight the Argentine Patrol to distinguish it from the others.”

  “I have no problem with that.” Basulto cut into his steak. “We might even have an inaugural flight in which all of our aircraft would participate ... a sort of flight of honor ... in memory of our fallen comrades.”

  “That's an excellent idea.” Lonsdale pretended to think the matter over. “But we would have to have things squared away by no later than the period between Christmas and New Year's, and the inaugural flight would have to take place during the first week of January.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Time commitments,” replied Lonsdale, waving his fork, his mouth full of juicy meat. “My clien
ts are very busy and could not get away after Reyes, January 6. Epiphany.”

  “I think I could meet such a timetable.” Basulto took a sip of wine. “I have been thinking about buying another aircraft to replace one of the planes we lost, and I have been looking at what was available on the market.” Basulto pushed his plate away; he was finished eating. “I have my eye on a Cessna, and I have been trying to figure out where to get the money for it. And now you've come along—”

  “You mean you could buy the plane right now?”

  “This afternoon, if you wish.”

  “Let's do it!”

  “Do you have a way of guaranteeing payment?”

  “No, but I can give the seller a ten thousand dollar bankers' draft as a nonrefundable deposit to hold the plane for you for three days. That's about the time it would take to wire the balance of the purchase price from Argentina to the seller's bank account.”

  Basulto signaled the waiter for the bill. “Let's go. I want to call the seller before someone else snaffes my plane away from under my nose.”

  On the way to Basulto's office Lonsdale silently thanked Reuven Gal for the excellent information he had provided on the Brothers to the Rescue, especially with regard to the organization's plan to purchase additional airplanes, and to Gloria Estevan, the famous Cuban American singer who, two years previously, had donated an aircraft to the Brothers thereby unwittingly setting a precedent for Lonsdale.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Wednesday, December 7

  Washington, DC and Langley, Virginia

  Lonsdale took an early flight to Washington, and was preparing brunch for Morton in his apartment by half past eleven: smoked salmon with onions and capers, delicious Montreal bagels he had kept frozen to preserve their freshness, cream cheese, a few hard-boiled eggs, plenty of fruit, a bottle of chilled white wine, San Pelegrino, and espresso.

  He brought his visitor up-to-date while they ate and, over coffee, scanned the documents Morton had brought with him. These consisted of two Canadian passports—for Roger and Micheline Tremblay; a document stamped by External Affairs, Canada, and countersigned by the Third Secretary of the Cuban Embassy in Ottawa, attesting to the Tremblays being members of Canada's Special Trade Delegation to Cuba; two tickets on a VIP chartered flight from Montreal to Havana and back; and a lengthy report compiled by Fisheries Canada on the state of fish stocks and the fishing industry in Eastern Canada.

  “Your flight leaves Friday at seven in the morning so you had better get up to Montreal by Thursday night,” Morton counseled.

  “That's no problem.” Lonsdale said, looking worried.

  “What's bothering you then?”

  “I see we're supposed to be from the Gaspé, in Eastern Quebec. Not too many people up there and most know each other.”

  Morton held up his hand. “Say no more. You two are the only people who signed up from the area.”

  “How come?”

  “We checked and chose your identities accordingly.” Morton allowed himself a brief smile. “Although we do miss you at the office, we haven't fallen apart totally.” He got up to leave. “Is there anything else?”

  “Just one small but important point. Have you arranged for the escape mechanism for Micheline that I suggested we put in place?”

  “I have. A private sailing yacht will be standing by for her at the Marina Hemmingway from Christmas Day onwards. It will be crewed by a couple—very professional, in every sense of the word. They will arrange to bump into you at the Hotel Internacional at Varadero Beach on New Year's Eve.” Morton handed Lonsdale an envelope. “Here are their pictures. Her name is Marie and his is Jacques. They speak English, French, and Spanish.”

  Director Smythe told his secretary to hold all his calls and to ensure that no visitor disturbed him for an hour. He needed time to think so he could figure his way out of the dangerous situation in which he found himself.

  Reyes Puma, that snake in the grass, was making his life unbearable and had to be gotten rid of. But how?

  Step one was obvious: get confirmed as director of Central Intelligence. Step two would then not be too difficult. He'd have Q Division, the CIA's extermination squad, take care of that despicable man.

  How he could ever have allowed himself to fall victim to Reyes Puma's blackmail was, to this very day, incomprehensible. Sheer careless stupidity, that's what it had been. Worse, weakness of character.

  It had started with that bitch of a French wife he'd married while at the Sorbonne. Who would have thought she'd turn into the snobbish social climber she had become ten years into their marriage. Tobe wed to a wealthy farmer wasn't good enough. She had more grandiose ambitions.

  She talked him into running for the Senate. Then, while he was stomping the hustings, working his butt off politicking, and spending his own money like water, she lead the life of a grande dame havana back home in Orlando, sampling just about every Tom's, Dick's and Harry's unzipped cock.

  He had literally bet the farm on getting elected Republican senator for the state of Florida, hoping things would change after his victory. But no, the more well-known he became the more hell-bent she was on augmenting her notoriety and humiliating him at every turn. She knew he couldn't divorce her. Not if he wanted to get reelected. She knew too many of his dirty little secrets.

  Emboldened, she kept on tormenting him until, a few weeks before the end of his junior term, she pushed him over the edge.

  He was campaigning hard for reelection and had to attend a fundraising dinner in Fort Lauderdale one Friday evening. He was going to sleep over and drive to Orlando the next day, but the dinner ended early and one of his wealthy supporters gave him a lift in his private plane.

  When he walked into his house a few minutes after one in the morning he found his wife in her dressing gown saying good-bye to one of his young campaign workers who just stood there with his jacket over his arm, no tie, his shirt wide open and an awkward grin on his face. Smythe brushed past them and went upstairs. The bed was unmade.

  They had a tremendous row. She claimed the man had brought her home from a party where she had spilled a glass of red wine on her dress. As soon as she got home she changed into her dressing gown so that she could soak the dress in salt water. The bed was unmade, she explained, because she hadn't bothered to make it up that morning, and the maid was off sick.

  He had been amazed by her quick-wittedness. She had, under pressure, effortlessly concocted a plausible cover story on the spot. And by the time he got down to the basement to check, there was her dress, soaking in water.

  A brazen liar and cheat, she was an intelligent, and dangerous, potential enemy. “Keep your friends close, your enemies even closer,” his father had taught him. “Or kill them,” he murmured, and left the house.

  Next morning he flew to Miami to talk with Reyes Puma, his confidant and campaign manager.

  “Filberto, I can't go on living with that woman.” Smythe was so upset he couldn't eat his lunch. “Can you imagine, hopping into the sack with one of my own campaign workers! The word is already out that I'm a weak husband. If the kid talks to the press I'll be a proven cuckold and no one will respect me.”

  “The kid won't talk, Lawrence; be assured of that.” Reyes Puma sounded very sure of himself. “Believe me, he won't want to jeopardize his career for a night's salacious adventure.”

  “What d'ya mean?”

  “Simply this.” The Cuban got up to clear the plates away; they were having lunch at his house. “If word got around that the boy was indiscreet, none of the other guys would hire him. I know the kid. He wants desperately to break into politics and can't afford to get a reputation for blabbing.” Reyes Puma called over his shoulder as he headed toward the kitchen. “Help yourself to some coffee, the pot's on the table, as is the bourbon. I'll be right back.”

  When the attorney returned he was happy to note that Smythe had helped himself to a couple of bourbon-laced cups of coffee. The level of the liquid in the bottle ha
d dropped by about three fingers.

  “Sit down Filberto and let's talk man-to-man.” The senator sounded a great deal more relaxed. “Tell me honestly, what would you do in my place?”

  Reyes Puma thought hard before replying. “The most important thing is to get reelected. So you have to put up with your wife's shenanigans for a month or so.” He smiled at Smythe reassuringly. “After that we'll see.”

  “What do you mean by that?” The senator was unconvinced.

  “I promise to look after the kid for you. Trust me, Lawrence. After I've had a talk with him, he won't dare open his mouth.”

  “What about my wife?”

  “I'll look after her for you as well, but not just yet.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Friday, December 9

  Havana, Cuba

  Roger and Micheline Tremblay were a last-minute addition to Canada's Special Trade Delegation to Cuba. Mr. Tremblay called himself a simple fisherman from the Gaspé Peninsula. Mrs. Tremblay said she taught school in Paspebiac, a small town on the shores of La Baie-des-Chaleurs, a cod-fishing and -distribution center. Tremblay seemed to know everything about the Cuban and Quebec fishing industries, constantly spouting boring statistics. Meanwhile his wife, a sweet, unassuming woman, appeared to have no conversation at all.

  In other words, the Tremblays seemed to be hardworking, unsophisticated folk with whom the smart business set from Montreal, Quebec City, and the Beauce Region had little in common. This suited the Tremblays fine. They attended every business meeting where they were a great success since the Cubans' favorite delicacy was bacalao salao, salted cod from the Gaspé. They also participated in every social event organized for the delegation, but they kept to themselves and said little. Their great passion seemed to be photography and, when sightseeing, they were forever wandering away from the group to take pictures of everything and everyone in sight. That's how they met Juan, the taxi driver.