They had gotten ahead of the guided tour and were standing in front of La Bodeguita del Medio, a famous hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Old Havana, when Juan came up to them and asked if they would like to have their picture taken in front of this famous landmark. They said yes. Tremblay knew a few words in Spanish and the taxista a few in English. Juan gave them his card. He said he lived next door to the restaurant and earned his living as a dollar-cab driver, which meant that the fare he charged had to be paid in U.S. dollars, in advance. He added that he could be found most mornings at the Copelia cabstand opposite the Hotel Havana Libre, just up the street from the Hotel Nacional where the Canadian Delegation was staying.
The Tremblays thanked him profusely for his help. Next morning, while her husband was meeting officials of Cuba Pesca, the Ministry of Fisheries, Micheline walked up Calle 23, found the Copelia taxi stand, named after the giant ice cream parlor next to it, and engaged the services of Juan to show her the “real” Havana.
Meanwhile her husband, having met with the Cuba Pesca people in the morning, made his way to the Floridita bar near Old Havana for a refreshing pre-lunch daiquiri, a drink Ernest Hemmingway had made famous. There he met a couple of tourists (two Mossadniks) with whom he went for a walk-around visit of the old part of the city, ending up at La Bodeguita del Medio for a late lunch.
Juan, whose full name was Juan Antonio Montané, duly reported his contact with the estrangero to the president of his district's Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, the organization charged with spying on the populace. The president, in turn, passed the report on to the ministry of the Interior. When Mrs. Tremblay returned the next day, accompanied by Mrs. Forget, the wife of another delegate, he took them for a spin to the fortress of La Cabaña, the prison, and to Havana del Este, a building project completed in the early days of the Revolution. That evening he dutifully informed his CDR President of this second contact with Mrs. Tremblay.
Mrs. Tremblay was so impressed by Juan's knowledge of Havana and its surroundings that she persuaded the Forgets to share the cost of engaging him for a full day during which they planned to drive to Pinar del Rio, a town about a hundred miles west of Havana. There they would visit a cigar factory, then have a traditional lunch of lechon, Cuban-style roast pig, before returning to Havana.
Montané reported this third contact to his CDR president as well, who could not be bothered to pass the information on to the Ministry of the Interior—it was too routine in nature. A dollar-cab driver was Havana supposed to meet estrangeros and the more the better for the economy of La Patria.
What Montané did not report was that the first day he took Mrs. Tremblay for a drive he gave her an envelope he had retrieved that morning from a CIA dead-letter drop. Nor did he report that, on the second day, Mrs. Tremblay slipped him a paperback novel, entitled Dreaming in Cuban, which he deposited in the dead-letter drop that evening. And he certainly did not tell his CDR president that the day he drove the Canadians to Pinar del Rio he gave Mrs. Tremblay a second envelope, retrieved from a different CIA dead-letter drop.
The first envelope, encoded by means of a so-called one-time pad, contained the following message: “Your friends are being held in La Cabaña, each in his own cell, their accomplices at Via Viento Prison. Interrogations are continuous. Trial to start Monday, January 2: anniversary of Revolution.”
The author was the commander of La Cabaña, Colonel Telmo Bellon, whose life Casas had saved two decades previously when Bellon was left for dead on the battlefield. At great risk to himself, Casas had gone back to get him and had carried him to safety.
The paperback, destined for Colonel Bellon, outlined in code the details of a rescue plan “Tremblay” had worked out after having spent five days inspecting the target area. Colonel Bellon was to analyze and comment on the plan and to provide the names and coordinates of two men, loyal to Casas, who would be willing to help rescue him.
The second envelope contained Colonel Bellon's comments and data on two men.
Colonel Bellon's name had been provided by De la Fuente while dancing with the British ambassador's sister at the Marina Hemmingway. The dead-letter drops were part of the escape route Lonsdale had set up for Casas and about which he had briefed the general in Budapest.
The Canadian trade delegates flew back to Montreal at the end of their five-day visit, reluctant to leave the sunshine, the sparkling sea, and, especially, the warm hospitality of the Cuban people. None seemed more chagrined than the Tremblays, who vowed to return as soon as possible—maybe as soon as Christmas, less than two weeks away.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Saturday, December 17
Montgomery County, Virginia
Lonsdale was having a busy week. He had spent three days training with his communications team: a satellite imaging specialist, a radio communicator, and a backup technician. By Monday night he felt he knew enough to get by, provided his team, which he proposed to install on board the Barbara anchored just outside Cuban territorial waters, would give him a hand now and then.
On Tuesday and Wednesday he took a small arms refresher course, acquainting himself with the Galil assault rife and the sundry other gear to be used on the mission, such as side arms, tear gas canisters, smoke bombs, stun grenades, and so forth.
Although he had been jogging at least every other day with monotonous regularity he intensified his regime and started every day with a five-mile run, followed by an hour of calisthenics.
On Thursday, feeling confident and in top shape, he met with his boss for a final briefing.
“A routine is beginning to emerge, just as you said it would.” Morton, like Lonsdale, was dressed in U.S. Army fatigues, and was wearing a forage cap to shield his head from the blazing Virginia sun. They were sitting behind the firing line at the shooting range and the noise made it impossible for anyone to overhear their conversation.
“You mean the prisoners' routine?”
Morton nodded. “At first, they were being interrogated separately at La Cabaña prison. But lately Casas and De la Fuente are being taken to Havana almost daily, I guess to be questioned by members of the various departments of the army, the coast guard, and the Ministry of the Interior. The routine is always the same. Breakfast at six, in the car by seven. A convoy, consisting of two specially equipped Fiats, one for each prisoner for purposes of security and isolation, and two military jeeps, forms and off it goes to La Plaza de la Revolución, where army headquarters are located, or to Calle 23, to the Ministry of the Interior.”
“Do they stay in Havana all day?”
“Quite often.” Morton glanced at the notes he was holding. “They are returned to La Cabaña by convoy at four p.m., locked up, and fed dinner at six.”
“How many guards?”
“Where?”
“In the convoy.”
“Four in each of the jeeps, including the driver, and two in each of the Fiats, plus the driver. The prisoners, handcuffed to the roll bar in the back, are locked in, separated from the driver's compartment by a thick wire mesh.”
“Do you have any more details?”
“I'm afraid not.”
Lonsdale hid his disappointment. “What about Ivan Spiegel. How are they treating him?”
“They're not. He's living in the British ambassador's residence, sort of under house arrest, but the general feeling is they will let him go once the trial is over.”
“Now there's a guy who'll never set foot in Cuba again.”
“That's a given.” Morton got up and Lonsdale followed. Morton seemed agitated.
“What's bugging you?”
Morton shook his head, as if to clear the cobwebs. “Smythe. What a bastard.” He sighed. “A couple of months into his second term in the senate, somebody shot and killed his wife in the parking lot of a bar where she had gone to meet her latest paramour. Of course, Smythe had an airtight alibi… he was in Japan that day.”
“You think he was behind the killing?”
“The killer was a professional. Shot her in the head at close range with a silencer-equipped Beretta automatic. And get this.” Morton was really upset. “Some eyewitnesses thought they saw a young woman near her car at the time of the shooting.”
“You mean to tell me that—”
“One of Reyes Puma's contract killers, perhaps even this same Laura he was talking about the other day, did the job. In one word: yes!”
Lonsdale was shocked. “But that was years ago.”
“So what. Maybe she started her career as a professional killer in her twenties.” Morton's voice trailed off.
“And what kind of proof do you think Reyes Puma has?”
“Probably a tape of Smythe giving him the go-ahead to do the job. We can't question anyone directly since we don't want word to get back to Smythe.”
“Or Reyes Puma” Lonsdale added.
“Quite.” Morton sighed again. “We'll have to deal with the Smythe situation once De la Fuente and Casas are out of Cuba … and it will be a stinker.”
“Not necessarily.” Lonsdale was speaking so softly Morton had to lean toward him to hear. “Forget the Smythe problem for the time being, and leave it to me. I'll solve it for you discretely once Operation Nameless is over.”
Morton smiled. “Is that what we're going to call it.”
“Not on the record, just between the two of us.”
A canon boomed out somewhere and all firing ceased. Morton looked at his watch. Sixteen hundred hours on the dot, end of the physical part of the training day. Two hours of lectures would now follow. He turned to Lonsdale “Where are you off to now?”
“I'm checking out of here and flying to Montreal to spend Christmas with Micheline.”
“You're taking time off?” Morton couldn't hide his disappointment. Every moment from here on was precious.
“Not exactly,” said Lonsdale. He turned on his heels and left before Morton could wish him a Merry Christmas.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Saturday, December 24
Havana, Cuba
Patricio Casas had reached the lowest point of his life: Christmas Eve in jail, far from family and friends, accused of high treason. He continued pacing up and down his cell. Seven steps from window to steel door and seven steps back. What window? Three ventilating slits, angled so that he couldn't see out, allowed some light and sound to enter the room. He could hear the noise in the courtyard that he couldn't see; he could smell the smoke rising from a cooking fire, probably tended by guards.
His cell measured eighteen feet by six. There was no furniture, aside from a steel-framed wooden bunk that folded down from the wall, held in position by a chain at each end. A wall at the foot of the bunk, and equal in width to it, separated the “bathroom” from the “sleeping area.” The toilet was a hole in the ground; above it a tap at the end of a piece of pipe did double duty as shower and toilet flusher.
They had taken his clothes except his underpants and loafers, and had given him beige prison overalls to wear. A toothbrush, a bar of soap, and a towel made up the balance of his possessions. There was no bedding, just a well-used quilt for cover; his shoes served for pillows while he slept on his stomach, arms folded under his chest. He would wake up several times during the night from the pain caused by the lack of blood circulation.
The food was barely adequate: four ounces of bread in the morning, for lunch some sort of pasta, at times with a sprinkling of meat, with the occasional slice of avocado thrown in to prevent scurvy; and three large soda biscuits for dinner.
Casas had always been wiry and fit with not a single ounce of superfluous fat on his bony frame. Because in prison he had continued his disciplined regimen of daily exercise, consisting of thirty minutes' running in place followed by calisthenics and then fifty push-ups, he had begun to lose weight and was starting to look emaciated. Nor were his appearance and mental condition helped by the lack of sleep and the endless and repetitive questioning to which he was subjected almost daily.
He felt alone in the world: in semidarkness when in his cell, isolated between interrogation sessions, and surrounded by guards who would not speak to him. He never saw his fellow inmates even when being taken for questioning. The guard accompanying him would whistle tunelessly and, on hearing the tuneless whistling of another guard-prisoner combination, would push Casas's face into the nearest corner, nose against the wall, while the other prisoner passed behind his back. Because Casas was right-handed, his guards always stood to the left of him, just in case. Nor did they wear side arms. If a prisoner wanted to make a run for it, they would let him. The cell-blocs were sealed by steel grills at each end and there was no way out.
It seemed to Casas that his cell was getting colder as the days went by. Then he realized that this was only an illusion. It only felt that way because he was losing weight, not sleeping, worrying, and afraid of dying—for nothing! Dying would prevent him from defending himself against the accusation that he was working to destroy La Revolucion and La Patria as a CIA agent. Time and again his interrogators asked when, how, and by whom he had been recruited. They said they knew De la Fuente was a CIA agent, and for years at that. They said the drug operation was a CIA plot to discredit Fidel. It seemed they were going to execute him for all the wrong reasons.
He had no idea what was being said about him by the common people in the street. The authorities had allowed him no contact with his family, and the lawyer appointed to defend him had been given permission to speak with him only once, two weeks after his arrest.
The guard rapped on his door. “Prisoner 2704. Step away from the door.”
He did, and to his surprise, the door swung open. The guard deposited an open paper box on the floor, just inside the cell.
“It is from your mother. Feliz Navidad.” The solid metal door clanged shut.
The box contained a small chocolate Christmas log, his favorite holiday dessert, thinly sliced to ensure it was not being used to smuggle something in to him. There was also a slip of paper, apparently from a letter his mother had written: “Jesus es tu pastor” it said. “El te cuida siempre porque estas inscrito en la palma de su mano, para guiarte y salvar tu alma. Que, al fnal, es lo más importante. Adios. Tu Madre.”
“Jesus is your pastor. He watches over you always, for you are inscribed in the palm of his hand, to guide you and to save your soul. Which, in the end, is the most important of all things. Goodbye. Your Mother.”
With trembling hands he helped himself to a slice of the wonderful pastry his mother had baked for him. Then he reread her note and had two more pieces of cake.
The jolt of sugar in his system gave him a surge of energy. He got off his bunk and began to pace about again, continuing to eat cake until there was no more left.
He lay down on his bunk, tucked his shoes under his head, pulled the quilt over himself, and stared at the ceiling while fighting the panic caused by the realization that everybody had given up on him—even his own mother!
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Christmas Week
Havana and Varadero Beach, Cuba
The Tremblays had returned to Cuba. Jose Hernandez, the Cuban consul general in Montreal, who considered them valuable business contacts, somehow got them on board an Air Transat charter fight at the very last minute. They arrived at the Havana Riviera Hotel a few minutes before the Christmas Eve party for tourists was to begin and planned, so they told everybody who would listen, to stay in Havana for a few days with the friends they had made on their previous trip. Of course, they made frequent use of Juan Antonio Montané's taxi, who, in turn, dutifully reported his renewed contact with the Tremblays to his CDR president.
What he failed to report was that the Tremblays spent long hours with their “old” friends, the three Israeli tourists, walking around Havana and eating in restaurants in the La Caba#241;a—Havana del Este district.
On Wednesday, Juan drove the Tremblays to Varadero Beach and supervised their settling-in at the modest, cl
ean boarding house Hernandez had found for them where they were received as if they were family. The boarding house, only a short block from the beach, was run by the consul's sister and her husband, Emilio Granda.
Meanwhile, Reuven Gal few from West Palm to Key West in a private plane and boarded a yacht that took him to a place called the Mule Key, an island in the Florida Keys within the boundaries of the Key West National Wildlife Refuge, an area placed off limits by the U.S. Government. Mule Key is supposedly uninhabited except for two Park Rangers.
In reality, the Agency, using a dozen cigarette boats with special markings to allow easy identification by satellite cameras and anti-drug trafficking surveillance aircraft, has an extensive people-smuggling operation on the island.
Gal loved living on the edge and looked forward to the adrenaline rush that his body would generate when he was in action. But he was also a careful and savvy field commander who knew that clandestine operations usually failed either because an important practical detail was overlooked at the planning stage or because too much reliance was placed on the ability of the participants to improvise—or both.
Determined to make sure this would not happen during Operation Nameless, he chose the final team with extraordinary care.
His squad leaders, the Mossadniks, were already in Cuba pretending to be tourists. That left two drivers and four “foot soldiers”— all Cubans—to be smuggled into Fidelandia via cigarette boat at the rate of two per voyage.
Gal opted to accompany the drivers on their insertion trip, which went off without a hitch. He then returned to Mule Key and repeated the trip twice more, staying in Cuba after the third voyage.
On Thursday, in the port of Matanzas, the purchasing clerk of the Havana Cab Company, accompanied by two drivers, took delivery of a panel truck and two cabs that had arrived a week earlier on board a Greek freighter. It was unusual that the paperwork for such a release should be completed in less than a month, but it was the holiday season and the customs and freight people needed the “bonuses” the cab company clerk was willing to pay for speeding things up.
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