Havana Harvest (19 page)

“Threaten me? With what?”

“To start with, they'll try to blackmail you.” Lonsdale glanced at Schwartz who wasn't looking too happy. “None of us is as pure as the driven snow, so I'm sure they could come up with something, like incomplete tax returns, that would get you all fussed and bothered.”

The old man was beginning to sweat, but Lonsdale was relentless. “Having met you, though, I don't think you'd allow them to blackmail you.”

“Damn right I wouldn't! I haven't done anything wrong, and they can go to hell.”

“I'm sure that's true, and they would soon realize that they were barking up the wrong tree.”

“So?”

“They would switch tactics. They would threaten you physically if you didn't play along.”

“You mean, kill me?” All of a sudden the old man lost his appetite.

“Mr. Schwartz, I don't have all the answers. I'm just guessing, but I'm afraid you may be right.”

“So what do you think I should do?”

“Get hold of General Casas. Arrange a meeting among the three of us and have him help us get to the bottom of this thing!”

Schwartz took a hefty gulp of his spritzer, red wine mixed with Perrier water. “You may have something there, Mr. Detective,” he finally said. “Will you help me set it up?”

“Of course I will.”

“OK, so where do we meet him?”

“No idea. Here perhaps?” He looked at Schwartz.

“No, no, that won't work. He was just here. He won't be able to get away for longer than a weekend.”

“Where is he now?”

“I think he is heading back to Angola.”

“Where do you suggest then? London?”

“No, Budapest.”

“Why Budapest?”

“He can fly from Luanda to Prague, and from Prague to Budapest on Czechoslovak Airlines, cheaply and at no risk. I can get in and out of Hungary easily also.”

Lonsdale raised his glass. “Budapest it is then.”

They clinked glasses, then got down to the nitty-gritty of planning the trip.

Wednesday

Montreal, Canada and Havana, Cuba

Schwartz dropped Lonsdale off near Micheline's car. Lonsdale walked east for a dozen blocks to make sure no one was following him. Then he visited the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts and, around five, retraced his steps, timing his arrival so as to get to the parking lot at the height of the rush hour. Forfeiting his deposit, he drove off unceremoniously, his destination the CN garage behind the Queen Elizabeth Hotel.

Obsessed by the thought that Micheline might lead the opposition to him by being trailed, Lonsdale had painstakingly explained to her how to make sure she was not being followed: “When you leave the bank after work, go downstairs to the Promenade of Boutiques in Place Ville Marie. Take your time, pretend you're shopping. Even better, buy yourself something nice.”

“Like what?”

“Why not a Dior or a Chanel night gown?” He'd loved it that she blushed.

“You're right. Why not?”

“I'm serious. Do buy yourself something and while you're shopping retrace your steps. Zigzag among the stores. If there's someone following, you're bound to spot him. He'll have to let you pass by him at least twice, maybe three times.”

“And if someone
is
following me?”

“Whether there is someone or not, here's what you do. Head for the Queen Elizabeth Hotel and take the elevator to the sixth floor. The person following you will have two options. He can either stay downstairs watching the elevator banks and the main lobby so he can spot you when you come down again, which sooner or later you will have to do. Right?”

Micheline had nodded.

“Or, he can get into the elevator with you to find out where you get off. But he can't leave the elevator on the same floor so he'll go up one floor and then run downstairs to the lobby, call for backup and start asking questions at the reception about the people registered on the floor where you had gotten off.”

Micheline had smiled. It all sounded like a game.

“As soon as you get out of the elevator, slide into the housekeeper's locker room just left of the elevators. It's always open. Stay there for five minutes then use the stairwell farthest from the elevators to make your way down to the banquet halls on the second floor. Listen for someone going down the stairs ahead of you.”

“And if there is someone?”

“Go back and use the other stairwell. On the second floor, go back to the kitchens. At the rear of the hotel take the staff elevator to street level and cross over into the CN parking building behind the hotel.”

“How will I find you?”

“Take the elevator up to the third floor. I'll be waiting at the door. If I'm not there, stop to touch up your lipstick for three minutes, and if I'm still not there, start looking for your car. It will be parked as near to the elevators as possible. The keys will be taped under the right front fender. Get in and drive home.” He had looked at her dubiously. “Have you got all this?”

She had laughed. “Sure. It sounds challenging.”

“Don't laugh. This is a deadly game. If you make a mistake and you lead them to me, we both could die.”

Her face had clouded, and he felt he had to give her a reassuring hug.

“What about you?” she had asked.

“Don't worry about me. I'll contact you later.” He had kissed her lightly on the lips and added silently ‘If I'm still alive.'

Lonsdale got to the CN Building at a quarter past five and parked Micheline's car two lanes away from the elevators. Then he found a strategically located car in the lane leading to the elevators with a hood that he could open. This allowed him to hide behind the raised hood while watching Micheline fix her lipstick and start searching for her Audi.

When he was sure that she had not grown a tail he sprinted over to her car and waited for her to find it.

“Any trouble?” Lonsdale asked as they got in.

“No, not really.”

Lonsdale was anxious. He had been waiting for her for over two hours. “What do you mean by ‘not really'?”

Micheline gave him an angelic look. “It took me a long time to find something suitable to buy.”

He grinned, relieved. “There was no pursuit then?” he asked, just to be sure.

“None that I could spot. But if there was I lost him at the hotel.”

“It may have been a her, rather than a him.”

She shrugged. “
Peut-être.
But no one came down the stairs before me or after me, I am sure. And when I left the hotel through the back door I crossed the street and stood behind the cashier's booth here, watching if someone came out after me. No one did.” She blew him a kiss.

Glancing into the rearview mirror he made a sharp turn onto Route 20, in the direction of Micheline's country house.

By the time they stopped for groceries in Saint Sauveur his mood had changed from elation to apprehension. He was getting very worried about his situation.

“Nothing is ever what it seems,” he muttered.

Micheline looked at him questioningly, but he just shook his head and kept on driving. It seemed fairly obvious that General Casas was involved in drug dealing. The amounts of money flowing through Cayman were too large to have any other explanation and, clearly, Casas wanted the United States to know about it. Why else would he have tried to chase Fernandez into the CIA's not-so-open arms?

And why would Morton suddenly want to call off the operation? Who ordered him to do so? What did someone higher up than Morton know that Morton did not know? Or did Morton know?

It was pitch-black when they arrived at Micheline's house, but a spotlight turned on automatically when she approached the door so they didn't have to fumble around in the dark with the parcels.

The house had a magic effect on him; it calmed his fears and soothed his spirit and made him lay his preoccupations aside.

“Why don't you start a fire, Bernard,” she called over her shoulder after dinner as she walked toward the kitchen to leave their dirty dishes by the sink. “I want to go upstairs and freshen up.”

He smiled at the promise in her voice as he fetched dry logs from the back porch. He built a good bed of kindling that caught quickly, and soon he had a roaring fire going. After putting on a sultry piano blues CD, he closed the shutters, and then went to tidy up the kitchen.

Because of the running water he didn't hear Micheline come downstairs until she was right behind him. “Turn around, my darling,” her voice was low and husky, “and see what you've bought for me.” Surprised, he spun around and saw she was wearing her new negligee, a striking classic black satin sheath with thin spaghetti straps, decidedly sexy and utterly female. As he reached for her she backed away, drawing him into the living room where she'd spread a thick white eiderdown in front of the crackling fire. He bent to kiss her hungrily. Her response to him was immediate and totally trusting as he opened his arms to envelop her and pull her down gently on top of him where, fumbling blindly with desire, she helped him shed his shirt, his pants, his shorts. “I love you for not giving up on me,” he murmured hesitantly, as if testing the words he hadn't spoken for a long time. He watched her glistening eyes in the fire's fickering light. “I'm grateful,” he whispered and laid his face on one breast, his hand tenderly lifting the other to cup the satisfying weight in his palm.

For a while she held him close, stroking his face silently while his thumb idly traced the deep tan aureola surrounding her nipple. The steady motion was almost hypnotic. Slowly her nipples became tighter and longer, his hand rougher and more demanding until she couldn't stand it another second and she locked his head in place for him to suck one elongated wickedly alert nipple and pull it deep into his needy lips.

Sinking into her spilling wetness to begin that urgent slippery climb through building heat, faster and faster, he brought her to the very brink of immortality before he rode them both over the edge to the achingly long, hot streaming release they each desperately sought. She arched her back as the aftershocks went on and on.

When at last his pulse had slowed and his respiration was partially restored to its indent state, he rolled over on his back, grinning hugely. “Oh, sweet woman, I'm so happy I'm me!” And Micheline, stretching her glorious body wantonly in the glow of the dying fire, simply smiled in that mysterious way that truly satiated women who are deeply in love smile.

On Wednesday night Oscar De la Fuente could barely restrain himself from shouting at his petulant wife. She was taking forever with her makeup and had changed her jewelry three times. Finally, a totally disgusted De la Fuente could stand waiting no longer. “Tere, if you're not ready to go within five minutes, we're not going.” He looked at his watch. “It's just not worth going anymore. Everyone will have eaten.” He let his voice trail off. He didn't feel like talking; he felt like screaming.

“Come on Oscar, cool it.” His wife wasn't fussed at all. “You like us to get there late. You get off on all the men gawking me as much as I do.” She gave him a wink, got up and rubbed herself against him. “Especially since you know that you can get what they want so badly anytime you want it.” She fingered his crotch then twisted away from him smoothly. “Come on, big boy, let's go. And, do me a favor today. Drive faster than usual.”

In a hurry to see Spiegel again, he surprised her by getting to the Marina Hemmingway in twenty minutes. He was so busy thinking, he didn't say a word during the trip.

The opportunity to speak with Spiegel presented itself only after dinner when, as usual, his wife went off with her friends to gossip and touch up her makeup. Spiegel rose and De la Fuente followed him to the men's room. They sat down in adjacent stalls. The Englishman slid a slip of paper under the partition between them. His note was brief and to the point: “F. has been neutralized. The soldier is under 24-hour surveillance by our people.”

De la Fuente used the facilities, then carefully fushed the note down the pan with the toilet paper and went to wash his hands. Spiegel stood at the sink next to his, and started to tell him an elaborate joke. When he stopped talking the Cuban laughed and opened the water taps wide: “Maybe we should neutralize the soldier too.” He spoke so softly that Spiegel could barely hear him above the noise of the rushing water. They headed for the towel machines.