The men in the jeep spotted Cab A full of armed men on the other side of the waist-high road divider and opened fire. The cabdriver, mortally wounded, lost control of his vehicle, which sped past the firing soldiers, slammed into the road divider, and overturned.
“Go, go, go,” Lonsdale screamed at his driver. “Round the monument and drive toward the Malecon.” The screen now showed that someone in Cab A was returning the soldiers' fire, three of whom were crouched behind their jeep; the fourth lay motionless in front of the vehicle. Lonsdale continued to watch. The firing from the taxi was increasing in volume. More than one weapon was in action.
The maintenance truck was approaching the soldiers rapidly and Lonsdale's driver looked back at him questioningly.
“When you get within a hundred feet of the jeep, stop and turn the truck around.” While the driver did so Lonsdale slammed a grenade into his launcher on the Galil. As soon as he acquired a clear line of fire he stood up and, leaning against the wall of the truck, took careful aim. He fired when the jeep was within fifty feet of him, just as one of the soldiers, who must have heard the truck approaching, swung around and squeezed off a burst of submachine gun fire that mercifully missed.
Lonsdale's grenade hit the jeep's fuel tank, which exploded, blowing the soldiers away. Lonsdale vaulted the road-divider and raced over to Cab A to help Gal, Casas and the two Israelis crawl out of the overturned car. They were shaken, but otherwise unhurt, except for Casas who had a nasty gash across his forehead from broken glass. The driver was dead.
At 0720 hours, Lonsdale yelled, “Everybody into the truck,” and pointed at the maintenance vehicle, which, by then, had caught up with them. They clambered on board fast and the driver floored the accelerator. The truck sped toward the soccer field.
They had almost reached the field when the dialogue box began to clatter. “ALERT, ALERT, ALERT. Bandit helicopter approaching from the east at 200 mph. ETA 90 seconds.”
Lonsdale turned to Gal. “We'll stop the truck. You guys make a run for it. I'll cover the rear.” Gal began to protest, but Lonsdale's shout cut him off. “That's an order.” Then he yelled through the window “Stop now!” The driver slammed on the brakes, Casas, Gal, and the Israelis jumped out and began to sprint toward the waiting helicopter about a hundred yards away, rotors spinning.
“Stand by,” Lonsdale commanded the driver and loaded another grenade into his launcher. On his screen he could see the military chopper coming up fast. He armed his weapon, released the safety, and threw himself flat on the floor of the truck. “Go, go, go,” he yelled above the din of the approaching rotors. The truck shot forward like a scared jackrabbit as the rocket the copter pilot had just fired slammed into the road and exploded harmlessly where the truck had been a few moments before.
“Stop the truck,” Lonsdale bellowed and the driver brought the vehicle to an abrupt halt. The pilot fought to break away, but it was too late. The chopper was almost on top of the vehicle.
Lonsdale fired his grenade at the chopper almost at point blank range through the truck's open back door then emptied a clip of ammunition into the craft's body for good measure.
The helicopter exploded. Pieces of it slammed into the front of the truck, killing the driver instantly. Lonsdale was hurled through the back door. The ammunition in the truck blew up and deafened him as he lay, face down, on the roadway. Then something hit him in the thigh. The pain was so intense that he lost consciousness.
At 0721 hours, Gal, Casas, and the two Israelis scrambled on board the Barbara's helicopter, which took off just as the maintenance truck blew sky-high. Gal, leaning out of the rising craft as far as he dared, caught a glimpse of a motionless figure lying in the debris, seemingly pinned to the asphalt by a giant spear.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Wednesday, January 3
Somewhere in Havana, Cuba
Lonsdale was delirious. He believed he was snorkeling in the Caribbean, but it was kind of strange. He was swimming on his back and the snorkel tube was sticking straight up in front of his nose. He saw the shark coming and tried to get away, but the water was shallow and he couldn'st use his arms because the sand was holding them down and the shark bit into his thigh and it wouldn't let go and it was hurting very much, so much so that he screamed.
He awoke to find himself strapped to a hospital bed, intravenous dripping into his right arm, an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth, and a submachine-gun-toting Cuban Army Captain standing guard over him.
When he saw that his charge was awake, the Captain pressed the bell beside Lonsdale's bed, and a doctor appeared, his green fatigues covered by a white smock.
“Habla Vd. Español? Do you speak Spanish?” he asked.
Lonsdale nodded.
“You must be very thirsty.”
Lonsdale nodded again.
“And you have a splitting headache.”
Lonsdale nodded a third time and tried to speak, but couldn't. The mask on his face was too tight.
“We'll take the mask off in a minute and give you water and some painkillers.” Lonsdale nodded again. They must have given him sodium pentothal.
The doctor turned to the captain and said something Lonsdale couldn't hear. The captain left, but returned within minutes with a major who waited while the doctor removed the mask and adjusted Lonsdale's pillow.
“My name is Arasosa Galetti,” the major said. “I work for Cuban Military Intelligence and I wish to ask you some questions. Do you understand Spanish?” He sat down in the chair provided by the Captain.
“Yes I do, Major,” replied Lonsdale, “but before going on could you please give me some water and something for my headache.”
The major was unsympathetic. “I'm afraid that'll have to wait until after we've finished.”
“You have me in your power, major.” Lonsdale was matter of fact. “And you can deny me comfort and medication, but it will lead you nowhere.” He licked his lips. “What happened this morning is on TV all over the world as we speak. Your government may choose or not to admit that you have captured me, but one thing is for certain. Oscar De la Fuente is dead and you'll have one hell-of-a-time explaining his demise without my help.”
The major was unperturbed. “I think you're being unrealistic. Somehow I feel that, just now, you need our help more than we yours. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we can minister to your physical needs. May I suggest that you start cooperating?” His tone was not that of a friend.
Although his head was splitting and his thigh aflame with pain, Lonsdale managed a grin. He had just discovered two things. First, other than a damaged left thigh, he was in one piece give or take a few abrasions, and second, the major very much needed his help, in spite of his protestations to the contrary. “I would love to, and I will.” Lonsdale made himself sound like reasonableness personified, “but not with you.”
“Not with me what?” Arasosa Galetti was mystified. His prisoner was half-crazed with pain and dying of thirst, yet not cooperating. The interrogation was not going the way he wanted it to, and he was in a hurry.
“What I mean is that I am prepared to cooperate and answer all reasonable questions, but I will give my answers to only one man in Cuba, and that man—and I mean no disrespect to your person—is not you, Major.”
“Who then?”
“The minister of the Revolutionary Armed Forces.”
The major stood up. “I think I had better come back later, after you have had time to reflect on the precariousness of your position.”
Lonsdale, gathering all the strength he could muster, addressed the officer in his best parade-ground voice. “I think not, major, and for two reasons. One, unless you let me speak with Raul Castro immediately you might find yourself demoted a rank or two. This is not important. What is important is that you will have caused irreparable harm to La Patria, the Party, and Fidel Castro for which you will be court-martialed and probably cashiered from the army.”
“You're talking rub
bish. You're making empty threats.” The Major made to leave.
Lonsdale was fading fast. He had to give his adversary something to work with, or lose the initiative. “Tell Raul that the Fat Man sent me, and see what he says.”
It was all Lonsdale could do not to lose consciousness before Arasosa Galetti left the room.
When Lonsdale came to again he felt much better. His headache was gone, his thigh hurt less, but his raging thirst remained. The captain with the submachine-gun was still very much present. By the light coming through the barred windows, Lonsdale estimated it was late afternoon, some twelve hours after commencement of the extraction operation and pretty well the last moment for coordinating damage control. Whether the Cuban government was interested in damage control remained to be seen.
As if on cue, the door opened and four efficient-looking sergeants appeared, armed to the teeth. They surrounded Lonsdale's bed. The captain backed up against the wall and a female lieutenant-interpreter entered to search the room and the adjoining bathroom. Satisfied, she disappeared and came back within minutes with an unassuming-looking, short, paunchy man wearing a forage cap. Everyone saluted except Lonsdale. His arms were tied to the bed.
The captain placed the chair beside Lonsdale's bed and the man in the cap sat down.
“How is the Fat Man?” he asked.
“I think, well. Quite recovered from his recent bout with food poisoning.”
“You said he sent you. Explain.”
Lonsdale looked at the man, his eyes hard and cold. “Gladly, provided someone first gives me a large cold glass of water for which I've been asking for the last four hours, and you untie my left arm so that I can scratch my nose, which is itching.”
The man in the cap smiled frostily. “I admire your style Lonsdale, but don't push your luck.” He nodded to the lieutenant who untied Lonsdale, gave him a glass of water, then scurried away. Lonsdale emptied the glass, stretched luxuriously, and scratched his nose. “Thank you, Comandante. Now that we know each other better, may I make a request for the benefit of both of us?”
“What?” The word sounded like a pistol shot. Raul Castro no longer felt like playing nice guy.
“We should have our talk in private because we may wish to touch on subjects of a very delicate nature.”
The minister nodded and his entourage withdrew, except for the captain. Lonsdale remained silent and Castro became impatient. “Get on with it,” he snapped.
“Not until the captain also leaves,” Lonsdale said and lay back on his pillow. His thigh was beginning to hurt again.
Castro shook his head. “He stays. He's my man.”
“And also the minister of the Interior's,” Lonsdale bluffed. The captain turned crimson with rage, but Raul Castro had second thoughts. “Leave us,” he commanded and the man withdrew.
Lonsdale got to the point immediately. “Comandante, your side and mine need to coordinate the content of a statement to the media about what happened in the tunnel this morning.”
“Nothing happened. There was an accident, a number of cars caught fire, the wounded were evacuated by helicopter, and one of the helicopters crashed, killing among others Oscar De la Fuente, one of the witnesses in the Casas trial. The trial was delayed by a day, but will resume tomorrow at eight in the morning.”
“And who will be your star witness?”
“General Casas, who else. Tomorrow he will continue his confession and assume total responsibility for the drug-smuggling operation to the complete exoneration of our government.”
“And how will you get your hands on General Casas?”
“That's where you come in Lonsdale.” Castro got up. “You go home, he comes home. I'll get you a telephone and you can make the necessary arrangements.”
“No, Comandante, I won't make that call. Not after all the effort I put into this operation.”
The Cuban shrugged and put on his cap. “Suit yourself. The witness on the stand tomorrow is either Casas or yourself. Neither appearance will enhance the reputation of the Agency.”
Lonsdale's mind was racing. With De la Fuente dead Casas was the only one who could exonerate the Cuban government credibly. Lonsdale's testimony in a Cuban court might blacken the Agency's name, but not whitewash the Castro regime.
No, the Comandante was bluffing. Or was he asking for a way to save face?
“Putting me on the witness stand is good neither for your side nor ours. It's a lose-lose situation in which you are likely to lose more than we.”
“How so?”
“The Agency will deny ever having heard of me. It will then reveal my true identity as a crazed ex-employee, working as a mercenary for the Medellin cartel. You will respond by vilifying poor Casas who is the least guilty of all of us. We will counter with a campaign designed to smear you by pointing out that the Revolution is an abject failure from the economic point of view, with most families depending for survival on the dollars their relatives send them from abroad.”
Lonsdale took a deep breath and continued. “Incensed, you will retaliate, claiming the United States is amoral, corrupt, and oppressive of minorities; whereupon our president, reaching for the high ground, will point out that a so-called Revolutionary government, which claims to embrace high moral standards is not in a position to accuse its neighbors of immorality when its leaders—Cienfuegos, Huber Matos, Piñeda, Dorticos, Cisneiros, Abrantes, Torralba, and now, Casas and others yet unnamed—have a habit of disappearing, committing suicide, or ending up accused of corruption and treason.” Lonsdale fell back on his pillows.
His little speech had exhausted him.
The comandante's reaction was laconic. “So what? Business as usual! But not for you. After your trial we will probably put you away for life, if we don't shoot you.”
Lonsdale licked his lips. He was thirsty again. “Do you really believe the Cuban people will idly stand by after they discover that yet another one of their tormentors, and yours, I might add, who has been making their lives miserable all these years, is getting away scot-free?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Raul Castro narrowed his eyes. “Casas was not tormenting the people and certainly not me. On the contrary, he was a popular hero and an excellent soldier.”
“I'm not talking about Casas, but your nemesis and prime adversary, the present minister of the Interior.”
“What has he got to do with all of this?” Raul Castro sat down again.
“Comandante, listen.” Lonsdale could see Castro was interested. “Consider the following scenario. Oscar De la Fuente and his father-in-law, Jesus Montalba, the minister of the Interior, hatch a scheme whereby, using elements of the Cuban Army, Coast Guard, and the Ministry of the Interior, start cooperating with the Medellin Cartel in smuggling drugs into the United States. They need a high-ranking officer to help them liaise with the army, so they dupe General Casas into assisting them.”
The minister did not move. Lonsdale went on: “Their scheme comes to light, Casas and De la Fuente are arrested. De la Fuente has money outside the country earmarked for saving him in case something goes wrong. He pays the Medellin cartel to get him out. The cartel retains the services of the notorious Bernard Lands, me, rogue ex-CIA agent living in Argentina, who attempts a rescue, during which De la Fuente, Lands, and one of Lands' men die, as do two of your helicopter personnel and some of your soldiers. Casas escapes and disappears, probably killed by the Colombians. Your Army Intelligence unit, which now takes over the investigation, discovers a Panamanian bank account where Montalba's and De la Fuente's illicit profits are being accumulated. One of the transfers leads to a bank account linked to Montalba with over a million dollars in it.”
Castro was mesmerized. “You can prove all this?”
“Most of it. The Barbara, which is the same ship the Cartel uses to smuggle drugs, was also used in the rescue attempt. Lands, me, did exist once, and I can easily provide irrefutable proof of that. As for Lands and the cartel being in cahoots and hat
ching the extraction scheme—well, there's a clear trail leading to proof of that. The CIA knows of the Panamanian bank account with all its relevant transactions listed, and it has details of a decade-old Montalba bank account outside Panama with corresponding entries in it. The CIA will corroborate this story and everybody will come out of this mess more or less unscathed.”
“Can you give me concrete proof here and now that such a Montalba account exists?”
“Of course I can. You know damned well that I know where all the bodies are buried.”
“Then why don't I just keep you here and make you sweat a little so you tell me everything you know?”
Lonsdale shrugged. “You've tried pentothal and it didn't work because my hypnotic block against it is still in place. You can try torturing me, but that'll take time. I'll hold out for three days, and even if I did break it wouldn't help. I know the general picture, but not the details. By then you will have run out of time and the press would find out about what was happening to me here, and about Montalba. The Montalba business would be given a very Cuban-government-involvement type spin, which you don't want.”
“If pentothal doesn't work on you, how did I find out who you were? Notice, I called you by your name right off the bat.” Raul Castro sounded self-assured.
“You did, indeed, call me by a name, a name your friend Director Smythe knows me by. He told the Fat Man who then passed it on to you.”
“Which brings me to the Fat Man,” said Raul Castro, musing. “With all these new developments he has become a liability.”
Lonsdale said nothing.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Thursday, January 4
Washington, DC
It was half-past midnight. Morton was preparing for bed when the alarm on the hotline telephone began to wail. He picked up the handset on the second ring.
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