Havana Harvest (53 page)

“Of course.”

“Wonderful. I'll see you at noon. By the way,” Lonsdale added, “it might be a good idea to bring Fred along too.” This was a request to have the Agency's aircraft configured to accept a stretcher and to bring a doctor.

Morton felt the knot return to his stomach. Lonsdale must be seriously hurt. “Consider it done.”

Thursday, January 4
George Town, Cayman Islands

Owen Roberts International Airport, named after a pioneer Caymanian flyer, has a separate apron for the aircraft of visiting dignitaries, and other special guests: U.S. Coast Guard planes, DEA helicopters and aircraft, Colombian Air Force jets, and so forth.

The apron is some ways off to the left of the main terminal and shielded from it by bushes.

Precisely at noon, a Cubana Airlines Ilyushin 18 landed and was guided to the apron by the “Follow Me” jeep. It made a one-hun-dred-and-eighty-degree in-place turn so as to face the taxiing strip. The Caymanian mechanics plugged in a generator to help run the aircraft's communications and air-conditioning systems, whereupon the engines were switched off.

A few minutes later a Bombardier Challenger with U.S. civilian markings landed and was positioned on the apron between the Cuban aircraft and the taxiing strip. Three men got out and boarded the Cubana plane, using its rear access steps.

Morton, Morton's boss, the CIA's DDO (Deputy Director for Operations), carrying a briefcase, and the CIA doctor, with his medical bag, were welcomed on board by the same army captain who had been guarding Lonsdale in the hospital. The doctor was frisked then introduced to the physician who had attended Lonsdale in Havana. Morton and the DDO were given a thorough physical search and led toward the front of the craft, past a fully armed platoon of elite Cuban Army bodyguards.

Lonsdale was lying in the business-class section of the aircraft where the seats had been removed to accommodate a stretcher. His left leg, in plaster from hip to ankle, was suspended from a stand at the foot of the stretcher. He was playing chess with Ivan Spiegel.

“Come in, come in gentlemen. You're just in time to see me get demolished by Ivan the Terrible in fewer than twenty moves.” Lonsdale sounded relaxed, but tired. “Ivan, may I present my boss, James Morton, director of the Counter-Terrorism and Counter-Narcotics Division and his boss, Alexander King, the deputy director for Operations of the Central Intelligence Agency.” Lonsdale presumed that Morton had brought King along to do whatever signing needed to be done on behalf of the CIA. Morton was not senior enough for that.

Lieutenant Anaya, the interpreter, appeared from nowhere and, seeing that everyone was present went forward to the first-class Cabin to fetch Raul Castro.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Castro said to Morton's boss. “You're late.”

“Technically you are right, Minister, and I apologize,” replied the DDO. “But the reason for the few minutes' delay in my arrival is due to Caymanian air traffic control. Our two aircraft arrived overhead at the same time. Naturally, you, being the more important visitor, were cleared to land first.”

Castro waved his hand. “No matter. Let us get down to business.” The lieutenant rotated four seats so they faced each other on the side of the isle opposite to where Lonsdale was lying. Morton, the DDO and Castro sat down; Ivan Spiegel withdrew. The interpreter remained standing beside Lonsdale's stretcher.

“Please begin.” Cuba's second most powerful man nodded at Morton who opened his file.

“Your side and ours have agreed to exchange Ivan Spiegel, a U.K. citizen, and Robert Lonsdale, a U.S. citizen, for first: information relating to a bank account in the name of Maria Teresa Montalba, which was opened by her father, Jesus Montalba, Cuba's present minister of the Interior, more than a decade ago in Zurich, Switzerland, at Bodner & Cie Banquiers, and on which Jesus Montalba is the sole signatory. Today, this bank account has a credit balance of over one million three hundred and fifty thousand U.S. dollars derived from an opening deposit of one thousand U.S. dollars in cash, and from over two dozen wire transfers in U.S. funds from the Mexican National Bank, plus two transfers from a Panamanian bank account each for half a million U.S. dollars.”

Morton stopped and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the side table beside him. He took a sip and continued. “Second: information relating to a bank account in Panama City, Panama, at the Bank of Credit and Commerce International, which, today, has a credit balance of over thirty million U.S. dollars after the transfer from it of one million U.S. dollars to the Montalba bank account in Switzerland.” Morton looked at Lonsdale who was listening intently. “Your side and ours have agreed to divide the balance of this account equally between Department Z of the Ministry of the Interior of the Socialist Republic of Cuba and the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency.”

Lonsdale almost burst out laughing. Colombian drug money was paying for everybody's expenses. “I should have asked for more,” he muttered under his breath.

“Third: consent by the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency not to comment in any manner whatsoever on the events that seem to have taken place in and around the Havana Tunnel during the morning hours of January 3.” Morton stopped, drained his glass and wiped his lips. “Are there any questions or observations?”

Raul Castro got up and began to pace up and down the isle. He stopped in front of Lonsdale's stretcher. “Do you know the details relating to the Montalba bank account?” he asked Lonsdale in Spanish, bypassing the interpreter.

“I do.”

“Then tell me about them in Spanish.”

“What do you want to know, Comandante?”

“Everything. How you found out about the account, how you got copies of it, where the Mexican transfers originated … everything.”

It took Lonsdale twenty minutes to tell the Minister the whole story.

“What about the transfers from Mexico?” Castro asked after Lonsdale was done.

“I don't know the details.”

Castro looked at Morton, who waited for the interpreter to finish before replying.

“Jesus Montalba has a sister working at the National Bank of Mexico in the foreign exchange clearing department. She is very senior. Has been there for years.”

Raul Castro nodded. “I know her. Her name is also Maria Teresa, like Montalba's daughter. She was a good revolutionary, but changed allegiances and left Cuba three years after the triumph of the Revolution.”

“As you say, Minister,” Morton picked up where he had left off, “her name is Maria Teresa Montalba, the widow of an accountant called Sesati, who left her in dire circumstances. She wrote her brother for assistance, and he had her come to Havana where they worked out a simple way of helping her make money.”

“How?” Castro was hanging on Morton's every word.

“She went back to Mexico and let it be known that she could get exit visas quickly for people wanting to leave Cuba. The cost: fifteen thousand dollars per individual and twenty-five thousand per family. She was discreet and only did three or four per year.”

“I want details, not generalities.” The minister was getting impatient.

“She would write letters to her brother regularly, once or twice a month. Whenever someone paid her she would say that she had a visit from such and such a person or such and such a Cuban family, whereupon Montalba would arrange the corresponding exit visas to be issued.”

“And how did the money flow?”

“She was very careful. Payment had to be in cash, half up front, the other half when the visa was granted. As you know, having an exit visa is only part of the battle. It may be revoked at any time, even at the last minute at the airport just prior to departure. She was, therefore, sure to get paid the second half.”

Castro was silent and Morton pushed on. “She kept the first payment for herself. When the second payment came in she took it to her workplace, slipped it into the bundle of U.S. money she was clearing on any particular day and corrected the relevant distribution slip to include a transfer to her niece's account in Switzerland.”

“How much did she transfer?”

“In excess of three hundred thousand dollars over ten years.”

“That's four individual visas per year at fifteen thousand dollars apiece, half of which she kept.” The minister was used to counting fast. He administered a huge budget.

After that, there remained very little to be said. The DDO and Castro initialed a summary of what had been agreed at the meeting prepared by Morton on the spot and printed out on his laptop. Then Morton handed over copies of the Swiss and Panamanian bank accounts and half a dozen Banco Nacional de Mexico distribution slips that had been altered by Montalba's sister. He also gave Castro a fifteen million dollar check drawn on the Panamanian bank account.

It took six of the soldiers with occasional help from the CIA doctor and the pilots of the Challenger to transfer Lonsdale to the Agency's aircraft. They were as careful as they could be. Even so, Lonsdale would have gone crazy from the pain had the doctor not given him a massive shot of Demerol beforehand.

The Challenger took off a few minutes before four p.m.

The last thing Lonsdale heard before falling asleep was the doctor saying, “You're damn lucky. The helicopter blade fragment that pierced your thigh and nailed you to the highway missed the bone completely. You have severe muscle damage, but it will regenerate with extensive physio. Trust me. I saw the X-rays.”

It was a figure of speech, which made Lonsdale smile. Perhaps it was time to begin trusting people again, and he'd start with Micheline. But, of course, that was different. He loved her very much and as soon as he could get hold of a phone he'd call her.

More than anything he wanted to hear her voice. Then he would listen to some classical and jazz guitar music and maybe start playing the instrument seriously again.

Saturday, January 6
Langley, Virginia

Acting Director of Central Intelligence Lawrence Smythe was annoyed, but not dissatisfied. Although Lonsdale had blindsided him by initiating the extraction operation at the start rather than toward the end of the Casas trial, he had achieved what the Director had so earnestly desired: preventing Oscar De la Fuente from testifying.

Reyes Puma had been furious. He had called Smythe at home during dinner on Wednesday, wanting to know how it had come to pass, as he put it, that “the manuscript was delivered so early.” Although he was speaking in code, the tone of his voice made the depth of his anger obvious. Smythe had humored him by pleading ignorance. He hadn't felt threatened. His Senate Confirmation Hearing was coming up the following week and he knew that, with the president's active support and the Casas–De la Fuente fiasco swept under the rug by Lonsdale's timely action, his chances of being confirmed as DCI were excellent.

He'd telephoned Morton right away for in-depth information and had pretended being saddened to learn that, although all details weren't in, it appeared that Casas had escaped, but that De la Fuente and Lonsdale had died. Morton had promised a full briefing on Friday morning at ten in the conference room just off Smythe's office on the seventh floor. Morton's direct superior, Alexander King, the deputy director of operations had invited himself, which was only fitting since he had every right to know what was going on in his department.

Smythe looked at his watch: ten to ten. He called his secretary to ascertain that the conference room was ready. Morton had requested a blackboard, a map of Old Havana, an overhead projector, and a videocassette player.

His guests were in the process of arriving and Smythe went to greet them. He was gratified to see that his second-in-command, the deputy director of Central Intelligence, invited by the DDO, was also present.

Morton's account of the events in and around the Havana Tunnel was spellbinding. First he outlined Lonsdale's plan, illustrating his words with diagrams on the blackboard and maps of Old Havana projected on the screen. Then he showed, by means of tapes edited from real-time satellite pictures, how the operation had unfolded. For obvious reasons the action inside the tunnel couldn't be seen, but Morton recounted what Gal had told him, thereby bringing detailed realism to his narrative. “Gal last saw Lonsdale lying in the debris of what was left of the truck and the helicopter, his body pinned to the ground by what looked like a gigantic splinter off a rotor blade.”

Morton sat down. “Do you gentlemen have any questions?”

“Are we absolutely sure both De la Fuente and Lonsdale are dead?” asked Smythe.

“About De la Fuente we are absolutely sure,” said Morton, getting out of his chair and inserting a new cassette into the video player. “As for Lonsdale, the jury is still out. As you know, Director,” Morton's eyes bore into those of Smythe like lasers, “the Cuban authorities are claiming that the rescue attempt was masterminded by a rogue CIA agent, a man named Bernard Lands, whose employment with us had been terminated decades ago and whom we believed to be dead, but who, it would appear, hired himself out to the Medellin Cartel from time to time.”

He took a sip of water from the glass in his hand then glanced at a slip of paper he was holding. “The Cubans claim Lands died during what they call 'a brazen violation of Cuba's territorial integrity by criminal elements with Colombian and U.S. connections while trying to free two of their own, to spare them from having to stand trial and to bear the full weight of Revolutionary Justice.”