Havana Harvest (39 page)

Gal was skeptical. “This whole thing sounds to me like a fairy tale.”

“Would a half million dollar transfer into your bank account make you into a believer?”

Gal was delighted. “It would certainly help; in fact it would go a long way—”

“Give me a bank account number, and I'll arrange for the money to be in it within ten days.”

“And what's my job to be?”

“Field commander. You are to recruit and supervise the training of the seventeen-man field force that will carry out the diversionary and extraction operations.”

“I thought you said twenty men.”

Lonsdale nodded. “I did, but two will be flyers, copter pilots to be more precise, and I will recruit them.”

“You'll look after transport and ordnance?”

“Yes to transport, no to ordnance. You'll have to do that, but I'll give you a supplier. And you are to secure a mixed bag of Argentinean, Venezuelan, and Italian passports, just in case.”

“Why?”

“I want Latino-looking, preferably Spanish- or Italian-speaking men who won't stick out like a sore thumb in a South American environment.”

“You don't want much, do you?”

Lonsdale gave the Israeli a friendly grin. “Hey, I'm paying top dollar, ain't I? I deserve top-quality service.” He became serious. “Kidding aside, it shouldn't be too difficult to find seventeen reliable and trained Israelis, Italians, and Cubans thirsting for action and needing money.”

“You keep on saying seventeen.”

“Yeah. You're number eighteen.”

“You mean I'm to go into the field?”

Lonsdale looked at Gal hard. “For a million and a half U.S. dollars, yes!”

“But I'm not fit.”

“You've got three weeks to get fit.”

“I don't really need the money.”

“But you want the excitement, don't you, Reuven?” Lonsdale was at his persuasive best. “You're bored, you're soft, and you're in a rut. You make nicey-nicey to rich people whom you don't like; you play up to wealthy women you don't really love; you're indolent, slothful, and purposeless. In other words, you're no longer the Ben Gal Tiger.”

“How did you find out my Mossad cover name?”

“You'd be surprised how much more I know about you.” Lonsdale shrugged. “But never mind—just tell me: are you in or not?”

“For two million guaranteed, plus bonus, I'm in.”

“I'll give you a million now, five hundred thousand when we finish, in whatever way we finish, plus a bonus of a quarter of a million bucks for each target extracted alive—that's a possible total of two million bucks.”

Gal held out his hand. “It's a deal, provided you deliver the million within ten days.”

Lonsdale took his host's hand and shook it. “I will.” he said simply. “And I thank you, Reuven. I know you're doing this as much for old times' sake as for the money. By the way, why do you need your money precisely within ten days? I know your business is doing well so why the hurry?”

“You said we only have three weeks. Finding and recruiting men properly qualified for this thing is the hardest part of my job, so I'll need to get on it right away. Once I've found them I can lead them on for a week, but no more. Otherwise it'll affect my reputation. If you produce the first million in ten days I'll know you're well connected and that your clients are serious. That's when I'll bring the men down here for training because you're bound to pay them.”

“You trust no one, do you?”

It was Gal's turn to look hard at Lonsdale. “Do you?”

“Touché.” Lonsdale looked at his watch. “I've got to get going. Give me your banking particulars.”

Gal wrote them down on a paper serviette. “How do we communicate?” he asked.

“I'll e-mail your instructions.”

They gave each other a bear hug, pats on the back, and then shook hands.

Wednesday Morning
Coral Gables, Florida

The streets intersecting Ponce-de-Leon Boulevard in Coral Gables have elegant Spanish names reflecting the background of the area's predominantly Hispanic residents at the turn of the century, when the community was built. Even today the tradition continues. Coral Gables is home to upper-middle-class Cubans, Argentineans, Venezuelans, and Colombians who, although they work and reside in Florida, maintain close ties with their countries of origin.

On Valencia Street, between Ponce-de-Leon and South West Thirty-Seventh Avenue, stands an elegant, expensive-looking house. The plaque on the gate pillar, somewhat obscured by the branches of a magnificent bougainvillea, is of subdued burnished brass. It reads: F. Raymond Rodriguez, Certified Public Accountant, Business Hours: Monday to Friday 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Very few people know that the F. stood for Felix and that Rodriguez used to be Ramirez. But Lonsdale did.

He and Rodriguez, then known as Felix Ramirez, had spent six months working together in South America during the bad old days of the Tupamaro crisis in Uruguay. Then, out of the blue, Ramirez was recalled, leaving Lonsdale to fend for himself as best he could. He'd regretted the Cuban's departure. The two had made a good team.

It was likely that Rodriguez's house was under periodic photo surveillance by the FBI, but that did not concern Lonsdale. Nevertheless, he decided to proceed with caution.

He parked his car in front of the office complex on Ponce-de-Leon, at the corner of Sevilla, put on a wide-brimmed straw hat he had bought for the occasion, and walked east on Sevilla to Galiano. There he turned left for two blocs until he reached Valencia where he turned right then put his head down and quick-marched—almost ran—the couple of hundred feet that brought him to Rodriguez's garden gate.

He pressed the bell, and after being buzzed through, followed the arrows to the entrance at the side of the house. The CPA office was downstairs, where he was confronted by an attractive, determined-looking woman.

The sign on her desk said she was Sylvia Gonzalez.

“You have an appointment?” she inquired, sounding formal and noncommittal. “Mr. Rodriguez is very busy.”

“I'm afraid I don't.” Lonsdale was appropriately contrite. “But I'm sure that if you told him that Mr. Jackson from Langley Disposals is here to see him he'll fit me into his busy schedule somehow.” Anyone with a name starting with the letter
j
and claiming to be from Langley Disposals, the Agency's clean-up squad, was a senior CIA officer. The woman gave him a piercing look and picked up the phone.

Rodriguez appeared within seconds. He was wearing dark glasses. “Mr. Jackson please come this way.” He led Lonsdale into his inner sanctum and indicated a comfortable-looking couch. “Take a seat, and tell me how I can be of help.”

“Come off, it Felix. It's me, Bernard Lands,” Lonsdale said in Spanish. Ramirez's surprise was total. He began to grope around in an attempt at getting out of his chair and that's when Lonsdale realized that the man was blind. He wanted to bite his tongue in half.

It took him a few minutes to calm down Ramirez, who at first thought he was in the presence of a ghost. Then Ramirez asked Sylvia for a couple of Cafe Cubanos.

Lonsdale spun Ramirez the same yarn he had told Gal and quickly came to the point. “Felix, I need a paymaster for my operation. Will you handle it?”

“How much are we talking about? What's the budget?”

“Fifteen million.”

“Over what period of time?”

“About a month.”

“I'll charge 1 percent of all disbursements.”

“You mean a hundred and fifty thousand bucks?”

“Yes, but that includes all bank charges and so forth.”

“Nice return on your time.”

“True, but who else would go near the shit you'll be throwing at me?”

“I guess you have a point there.”

“So tell me what you want done first.”

“No. First you tell me about your eyes.”

“Thanks for being discreet and not bringing up the subject right away.” Ramirez smiled sadly. “There's nothing much to tell. You might remember that the Shah of Iran went to Panama for a while after he was thrown out of power.”

“In the mid-seventies.”

Ramirez nodded. “Yes, around that time.” He sighed. “Anyway, he was holed up in this luxury hotel on an off-shore island with his Savak people guarding him. As you know, I was pulled out of the field in South America very hush-hush and sent to Panama by the Agency to advise the Shah.” He took a cigar from the humidor on his desk and offered one to Lonsdale who declined. “The poor bastard didn't need an advisor; he needed a doctor. He was dying of cancer.” He held out his cigar for a light.

Lonsdale obliged. “But what has all this to do with your eyes?” He lit Ramirez's cigar, “Oh that.” Ramirez dismissed the question with the wave of his hand. “I was inspecting the disposition of the Shah's guards around the hotel and one of them threw a phosphorous fare at me by mistake, which burnt my eyes out.” The story sounded unlikely, but Lonsdale got the message: Ramirez lost his eyesight during a politically very sensitive and secret mission for the Agency that was still classified.

“Is that when you changed your name?”

“No. About a year later when I married the nurse who put me back together again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being blinded is a terrible trauma, especially for an active man like I used to be.” Puffng away at his cigar Ramirez said nothing for a while and Lonsdale knew better than to push. “Anyway,” his host finally got going again, “there's one damn good thing that came out of this. I settled down.” He chuckled. “Remember how I used to play the field?”

Lonsdale nodded. “I sure do.”

The Cuban shook his head as if to chase away the past. “Let's get on with the job. By the way, what's your operational cover name?”

“Bernard Lands, and it's not a cover name. I was baptized Bernard Lands when I was a week old. And, in case you're wondering, I'm no longer with the Agency.”

“OK, by me
socio
, my old buddy. Where do we go from here?”

Lonsdale sighed. This session was going to be a long one, and he'd have to spend the night in Miami, which was not what he had planned.

“I have a list of requirements I want you to order from the suppliers I have marked against each item.” He laid a three-page list on the man's desk.

“In whose name do I purchase?”

“A Panamanian company, the name of which I'll fax you next Wednesday.”

“What do I use for money?”

“You'll have a Panamanian bank account with ten million bucks in it by next Wednesday for a start.”

“Who'll have disbursing authority?”

“You and you alone.”

“And what if I don't play it straight?”

“Neither you nor Sylvia will reach old age,” said Lonsdale softly, but firmly.

“What do you know about Sylvia?”

“You mean apart from her being your eyes, your assistant, and probably your business partner?”

“That's exactly what I mean.”

“That she is your wife whom you love very much; that she is the best thing that has happened to you in your life, and, finally, that she is probably almost as discreet as you are, Felix.”

Ramirez smiled “Almost.”

“Yes, almost. Nobody is as discreet as you are.”

They worked all afternoon and well into the night with Sylvia, who sat in on most of their deliberations, making sandwiches and coffee to keep them going. Lonsdale left the Ramirez house a few minutes past three a.m. and was duly photographed by both the FBI and the CIA, but then that was part of the overall plan.

Thursday through Saturday

Washington, DC and London, England

Lonsdale got back to his Georgetown apartment at eight thirty on Thursday morning. His message light was flashing so he dialed his answering service. “Happy Birthday,” the recorded voice said. Lonsdale hung up and retrieved the
Washington Post
from the kitchen garbage bin where he had just thrown it.

It took him a little while to spot the small notice camouflaged within the Births, Deaths, and Marriages section. It read, “Meet D. contact at Stafford Hotel London Saturday three p.m. Ask for Harold Dee.”

Lonsdale walked over to the shops near Georgetown Park and called an unlisted telephone number from a public telephone. When Morton answered, he said quickly, “London's OK. I will be back mid-next week and will contact you at this number.” He hung up and got on with the paperwork he needed to complete before he could leave Washington for London on Friday evening.