Havana Harvest (47 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.