Havana Harvest (8 page)

“Even those in whom we had placed our trust,” Cisneros's voice was hoarse with intensity, “have become selfish, venal, and unjust. We're lost my friend, we're lost—and so are our leaders. We're in the process of betraying every principle we stood for.”

Shocked, De la Fuente held his tongue.

“Why are you telling me all this?” he finally asked.

“Because I had to tell an old revolutionary comrade about how I feel before I die.” Without saying another word Cisneros stood up and walked out the door of the ice cream parlor.

That evening, sitting on the podium behind Fidel, while as el Lider Maximo rallied the immense crowd in front of them, De la Fuente could not stop thinking about his meeting with Cisneros. By the time he got home that night he knew for certain that he agreed with everything his old friend had told him. This frightened him.

Ten days after meeting with De la Fuente, Roberto Cisneros, an idealistic early member of the revolutionary movement and veteran of the struggle against the tyrant Batista, immolated himself in front of his two children. He left a letter addressed to De la Fuente in which he reiterated what he had told him during their meeting.

The impact on De la Fuente of such a devoted revolutionary's suicide was profound.

A few weeks later, Dr. Oswaldo Dorticos Torrado, president of the Republic of Cuba, was relieved of his post and Fidel Castro named himself president.

Castro's blatant move to reduce the influence of the voices of reason in his entourage tipped the scales for De la Fuente. Though a deputy minister in the Ministry of the Interior, which was headed by his father-in-law, he decided to change sides. He found his chance at a reception where he met the third secretary of the Canadian Embassy, and through him, arranged to be recruited by the CIA.

Three years later he came up with the drug-smuggling idea with the aim of discrediting the Castro administration, and had managed to convince his handlers at the Agency to give it a try. Thus it was crucial that he generate evidence of the Castro regime's complicity in the drug-running operation because only three other people in the world knew about his brainchild.

Monday
George Town, Grand Cayman

The Monday after he had interviewed Fernandez Lonsdale few to Grand Cayman.

The BCCI branch in George Town was a freewheeling institution, just as Fernandez had said, aggressive in looking for new business and determined to maintain clients already acquired.

Karim Chowdry, the bank manager had been very cooperative. The CIA maintained large account balances at the branch and Lonsdale had come well recommended. The envelope containing one thousand U.S. dollars, which discretely changed hands during their preliminary chitchat, also helped. Lonsdale had no trouble obtaining a copy of Fernandez's most recent bank statement and, having reviewed it, concluded that he was none the wiser. The Cubans had, it appeared, planned to use the account for a single operation only.

“Who opened the account?” he asked.

Chowdry consulted the file on his desk: “A Venezuelan national by the name of Francisco Raban.”

“Do we have an address?” Lonsdale figured the name and the address would be false, but he jotted them down anyway. “I suppose you ask to see passports when someone opens an account.”

The manager shrugged. “Yes we do Mr. Robinson, but we can't guarantee the authenticity.”

“Of course not, but you do make a note of the number, don't you?”

“That we do.”

“May I have it then?”

The manager sighed and obliged. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

“Would you know if this Francisco Raban opened any other accounts?”

“Let me see.” After consulting his computer the banker shook his head. “Of course, he may have done so under a different name, but we show no link.”

Lonsdale got up to leave. “You've been very kind,” he said, extending his hand. “May I come back tomorrow if something else occurs to me?”

“Of course, Mr. Robinson.” The man was all smiles. “I love chatting with our
good
customers.” The emphasis on the word “good” spoke volumes.

Lonsdale had leased an air-conditioned Ford from Cico Car Rentals and was glad of its cool comfort as he drove back to his apartment on Seven Mile Beach. He knew renting an apartment was extravagant, but he preferred the arrangement to living in a hotel. It gave him the solitude and privacy he needed.

Grand Cayman had changed a great deal since his first visit fifteen years earlier. Both sides of West Bay Road were fully built-up now, and the numerous hot-dog stands and strip malls made the landward side look gaudy. He remembered how peaceful the place had been. In the early days, the Caymans had truly been the islands that time had forgotten. No more. On the narrow highway the traffic out of George Town had backed up for miles behind a sanitation truck and the hot, humid air was blue with gasoline fumes. Progress was slow and the dust pervasive.

After what seemed like hours, he managed to reach the driveway of the Islands Club and pulled up in front of Apartment 1. He changed into a swimsuit, smeared his body with a generous amount of Coppertone 4, and then headed for a walk on the beach.

Soon, Lonsdale was lost in his thoughts. Fernandez had told him that the security-conscious Colombians set up a different account for each shipment. He had not been able to remember past account numbers, so Lonsdale had decided to visit Cayman to find out how many accounts there had been and which way the money had flowed. Unfortunately, the task was turning out to be more difficult than anticipated. The main account provided little information; the account owner's name, address, and passport details were certainly false.

As for the four entries in the latest account, he knew all about them. The frst deposit was from the Colombians for a million dollars. The second, also for a million, was allegedly deposited by General Casas. The million-dollar transfer to Panama had been made by Fernandez as had the million-dollar cash withdrawal from the subaccount. The main account had also earned a couple of thousand dollars' interest, from which various bank charges had been deducted.

Lonsdale figured the second deposit had to have been made personally by General Casas. But he couldn't figure out how a Cuban communist general could lay his hands on a million dollars—and how he transported it to Cayman. Surely, he had not gone through the States.

Lonsdale decided to visit the offices of Cayman Airways to find out what airlines operated fights in and out of the islands and at what times of the day. After that, he intended to have another talk with Chowdry the BCCI manager. Million dollar cash deposits were rare, even in Cayman banks, and Lonsdale needed the details relating to how and by whom the money had been handled.

Wednesday
Washington, DC

Lonsdale owned a penthouse apartment overlooking Washington Harbor on the twelfth floor of a building on Canal Street in Georgetown, a fashionable area of the Capital equidistant from Georgetown University and Foggy Bottom and near the shops at Georgetown Park. He liked the location even though the drive to the office was long, especially when he had to make the trip during rush hour, but he didn't mind. It gave him time to think and strategize while his driver-bodyguard fought the traffic.

Back in his office after his visit to the Caymans, Lonsdale briefed Morton on his trip while sipping a cup of hot chocolate, his favorite breakfast.

The lanky, six-foot Morton, a meticulous dresser, was forever fussing about the crease in his trousers, the wrinkles in his jacket, or the knot of his tie. Lonsdale found Morton a bit of a stick-in-the-mud at times, while Morton considered Lonsdale too temperamental and brash on occasion.

Morton was a dedicated man who had made the CIA his first and only love. The middle son of a successful Boston liquor manufacturer, he had attended the right Ivy League schools and was at ease with wealth and privilege. But his background had not made him vain or hardened his heart. He felt he owed his country for having given his family a wonderful break, and he devoted his life to repaying the debt. His rise through the ranks of the Agency had been remarkable for a man with almost no experience in the “wet” end of the business. He had earned his promotions through brainpower: he was a superb analyzer and motivator of people.

Morton and Lonsdale ran the CIA's counter-terrorism and counter-narcotics division in tandem. Morton was the titular head, Lonsdale the visionary planner and field commander.

“There's a charter fight from Montreal to Grand Cayman every Thursday. It gets in at eleven thirty in the morning and the same plane returns to Canada at eight at night. That leaves plenty of time for a man like Casas to come in, get the account number from the girl at the stationary store, make a deposit at the bank, and then dash back to Montreal.”

“The hell you say! You sure of this?”

“I went back to the BCCI branch on Tuesday and had another talk with the manager. He confirmed that the cash deposit had been made just after lunch on a Thursday, the day before Fernandez showed up at the bank.”

“So we have corroboration of Fernandez's story.”

“I wouldn't go that far just yet. But there's more, so let's just say that the situation is developing in an interesting way. By the way, where is Fernandez?”

“Still in Miami, still in Quesada's care. Why?”

“I may have to talk to him.”

“Now?”

“No, but in a few days.” Lonsdale continued. “I asked the manager if he still had some of the dollar bills that we suspect Casas had deposited. He said that the Cayman banks ship most of their cash back to the States as quickly as possible, but the BCCI is an exception. Its clients regularly make large cash withdrawals so the branch hangs on to any U.S. bills deposited. I asked him to give me some serial numbers, and he managed to turn up an intact bundle that had been brought in for deposit to the Fernandez account, but it didn't include the paper band that kept the bundle together. He said they had thrown it out after counting the money. But the clerk who had done the counting remembered the information printed on the band, and she told me where the cash had come from.” Lonsdale waited for Morton to ask the obvious, but Morton, used to Lonsdale's theatrics, continued looking out the window. After a few moments Lonsdale gave in.

“The money came from the BCCI in Montreal.”

“So when are you going to Montreal?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I'll use the text of the letter of introduction you gave me for Cayman, but I'll have Mrs. Weisskopf change my cover name and the address and the account numbers.” Karyn Weisskopf spoke, read, and wrote seven languages fluently and knew her way around the Agency's labyrinthine administrative setup. In her eighteenth year of service with the CIA, she ran the organizational side of Morton's department with admirable efficiency.

“You think we ought to go fully operational on this thing?”

“Not yet. The topic is very delicate and we don't want any leaks. We shouldn't go fully operational before I've gotten hard evidence.”

“What's your timing?”

“It'll take me 'till Monday or Tuesday of next week to go positive on Casas and the mystery depositor being one and the same.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“I'll get some pictures of Casas and show them around Montreal.” The expression on Lonsdale's face changed. He dreaded going back to Montreal and ripping open old wounds.