Havana Harvest Read online

  ADVANCE PRAISE FOR HAVANA HARVEST

  “Robert Lonsdale, the protagonist in Havana Harvest, tries hard to defend against treachery within the ranks of his colleagues in his quest to save an innocent man from certain death. He is a very ‘simpatico’ fgure to whom it's easy to relate. This story would make a damned good movie.”

  —André Link, former chairman, Lions Gate Films

  “Havana Harvest is a riveting page-turner full of exciting action that plays out against a very sophisticated international background. I couldn't put the book down.”

  —Ivan Smith, award-winning actor

  “Robert Landori writes marvelously intricate international intrigue thrillers …”

  —Louise Penny, New York Times best-selling author of The Brutal Telling

  “Havana Harvest gives an exciting, fictionalized insight into how the Castro brothers attempted to perpetuate their control over Cuba. A page-turner, it is very topical, given what is happening within the Cuban leadership today.”

  —LaFlorya Gauthier, author of Whispers in the Sand

  “Landori writes with the authority of someone who has been there. He is skilled at character development, portraying the passions and philosophies that motivate the protagonists.”

  —Willa McLean, The Kitchener–Waterloo Record

  “Landori, you are a writer—yes!”

  —J.T.W. Hubbard, author of The Race, professor emeritus of journalism, Syracuse University

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Emerald Book Company

  Austin, TX

  www.emeraldbookcompany.com

  Copyright ©2010 Robert Landori-Hoffmann

  All rights reserved under all copyright conventions.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

  Distributed by Emerald Book Company

  For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Emerald Book Company at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX 78709, 512.891.6100.

  Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group LLC and Publications Development

  Company

  Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group LLC and Base Art Co.

  Publisher's Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  (Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

  Landori, Robert.

  Havana harvest / Robert Landori.—1st ed.

  p.; cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-934572-55-9

  1. Generals—Cuba—Fiction. 2. Cuba—Politics and government—1959-1990—Fiction. 3. Intelligence offcers—United States—Fiction. 4. Espionage—Cuba—Fiction. 5. Political fiction. 6.Spy stories. I. Title.

  PS3612.A536 H38 2010

  813/.6

  2010930971

  Part of the Tree Neutral™ program, which offsets the number of trees consumed in the production and printing of this book by taking proactive steps, such as planting trees in direct proportion to the number of trees used: www.treeneutral.com

  Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

  10 11 12 13 14 15 10987654321

  First Edition

  To: Adam, Eliana, Jarek and Daimen

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Robert Lonsdale: Deputy director Counter-Terrorism and Counter-Narcotics Division, CIA

  Patricio Casas Rojo: Brigadier general and commander of Cuban Forces in Africa

  Oscar De la Fuente y Bravo: Cuban deputy minister of the Interior

  Micheline Beaulieu: Lonsdale's friend

  James Morton: Director, Counter-Terrorism and Counter-Narcotics Division, CIA

  Lawrence Smythe: Acting director of Central Intelligence and former Florida senator

  Filberto Reyes Puma: Miami immigration attorney

  Reuven Gal: A retired Mossad officer

  Francisco Fernandez Ochoa: Cuban Army captain and aide to General Casas

  Ivan Spiegel: A British businessman

  Abraham Schwartz: A coin dealer

  Raul Castro Ruz: Cuban minister of Defense

  Maria Teresa De la Fuente: Wife of Oscar De la Fuente

  PREFACE

  This novel is based on events that took place in the late 1980s, embellished to make the story more exciting.

  In the mid-1960s Fidel Castro made it his business to support leftist guerrillas in the trouble spots of the world because he had to—his masters, the men in the Kremlin, insisted that he do so. To please them, Cuba created a superbly trained and well-equipped mercenary army that it rented out to those who needed it.

  Fidel's soldiers fought side-by-side with the locals in Ethiopia against the government, in Angola against the South Africans, in Nicaragua against President Somoza's forces, and in Grenada against the United States.

  Cuban military advisors were also present in Jamaica, and among the guerrillas in Argentina, Venezuela, Bolivia, Peru, and Ecuador.

  In 1984 rumours reached the CIA and the DEA that the Cubans had become involved in narcotics and money laundering. At first these were discounted; Castro was still considered by Western intelligence agencies to be a man of scruples.

  Then, on June 14,1989, the state-controlled Cuban press announced the arrest of an army general, a deputy minister of the Interior, and twelve accomplices. All stood accused of high treason and of having participated, for their own personal benefit, in drug and money-laundering operations involving Colombian, Panamanian, and U.S. citizens.

  In early July the accused were tried in public by a special military tribunal and found guilty without exception. Sentence was passed on July 10. Four of the accused, including the army general and the deputy minister of the Interior, were condemned to death by firing squad, six were sentenced to thirty years in prison each, three to twenty-five years in jail, and one to ten years of “deprivation of liberty.”

  The death sentences were appealed to the Cuban National Assembly, which upheld them. On July 13, 1989, those condemned to death were shot.

  PLANIFICACIÓN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday

  George Town, Grand Cayman, British West Indies

  Captain Francisco Fernandez Ochoa recognized the woman sitting behind the counter as soon as he entered the stationery store. She was striking, even more attractive in real life than in the photo he had seen of her.

  “Buenos dias, Señorita.” He tried to make himself sound as Mexican as possible.

  “Buenos dias, Señor.” She gave him a friendly smile. “How can I be of assistance?”

  “Do you have a special hardcover copy in Spanish of A Businessman's Guide to the Cayman Islands?”

  Her eyes flickered. “What year?”

  He held his eyes on hers and replied, “1985.”

  She stood up and locked the drawer of the cash register. “Let me see what I can do for you,” she said and headed for the racks.

  “Puta madre, but it's hot,” Fernandez murmured as he wiped his face with the large handkerchief he kept in his back pocket. He was wearing a T-shirt with “Team Mazda” emblazoned on it; long, baggy shorts; and loafers. He looked like a typical tourist visiting from Florida, except that he hailed from Matanzas in Cuba.

  The woman was back in less than a minute.

  “I am sorry, Señor, but I could only find an English version. Will it do?” The smile was gone; her look was professional, cold.

  “I suppose so,” Fernandez pulled out his wallet. “How much do I o
we you?”

  “Thirty dollars,” she replied in English.

  Fernandez paid without a word and left.

  After the store's air-conditioned coolness, the midday heat seemed almost too much to bear, but Fernandez had to make sure no one was following him. He walked about downtown George Town for a quarter hour, sweating while he pretended to window-shop. “Downtown” in Grand Cayman meant a group of buildings measuring ten blocks by eight, a small area, yet containing the headquarters of more than three hundred banks and innumerable lawyers' and accountants' offices.

  “Ladrones todos” he muttered under his breath, then thought about it and added, “but what do I care? In a way, I'm a thief too.”

  He passed the Cayman Arms, the pub favored by local professionals and explats, and then turned right and headed toward the waterfront. By the time he reached the parking lot where he had parked the rented Honda Civic, he was satisfied that no one was following him. He got into the car and drove back to the Holiday Inn where he had stayed the night.

  He waited until he was inside his hotel room with the door locked securely behind him before folding back the front flap of the book's dust jacket. There, in the lower left-hand corner of the cover, in small, neatly penciled script resembling a catalogue listing, was the number he needed: 02-110-7063-3214.

  It took him only a few seconds to decipher the coded information. The first set of numbers indicated the type of currency in the account. The “02” meant U.S. dollars. The following three numbers stood for the account owner's domicile; 110 meant Venezuela. The next set of numbers indicated the account number, and the last four digits corresponded with the number of one of several passports he was carrying. As he had expected, the designated bank was the Bank of Credit and Commerce International in George Town.

  Fernandez tore the number from the cover and flushed it down the toilet. He slipped into his swimsuit, and headed for the pool. A powerfully built, well-tanned, thirty-nine-year-old, his body formed straight lines from his barrel chest through his powerful hips to his muscular, stocky legs. His deceptively mild-looking dark brown eyes gazed out of a pleasantly square face with a well-defined jawline. Thick, black hair and a bushy mustache rounded out the Latin American look. Five feet eight inches tall, he had the fluid grace of movement of a well-conditioned athlete, which in a way he was. Twelve years of professional soldiering in Cuba's mercenary army, with tours of duty in Ethiopia, Nicaragua, and Angola, had made him tough, focused, and savvy.

  Barely winded after a vigorous fifteen laps, he toweled down then ordered a club-sandwich and a “Greenie,” the local name for a Heineken beer. When his meal was finished, he collapsed into an easy chair at the poolside with a satisfied groan. The temperature was in the high eighties, but a cool ocean breeze made the air feel comfortable. Fernandez relaxed, luxuriating in the tropical sun.

  Too young to have fought in the Sierra Maestra with Fidel, Fernandez was nevertheless a child of the Revolution, having known no regime but Castro's. The precocious son of a garage mechanic, he had enrolled in the communist pioneer movement at age ten, on the first anniversary of Fidel's coming to power, motivated neither by economics nor politics. He was simply tired of watching los ricos, los gusanos, in their fancy cars whizzing past his father's garage on their way to the luxuries of la playa: sun, sand, good food and drink, and the companionship of beautiful women.

  He, too, wanted to see the world.

  The remarkable leadership qualities that he developed in high school got Fernandez elected class president. Politically reliable, physically strong, with excellent eye-hand coordination, mechanically gifted, and able to score consistently high marks, Fernandez was given the option on graduation of going to university or enrolling in Cuba's regular army, a great honor. He signed up for ten years instead of five and was promptly sent to university to study engineering as part of his army education.

  He finished university with fine grades, was assigned to a logistical unit, and was sent overseas, first to Nicaragua, then to Algeria, where he demonstrated exceptional organizational abilities, and finally to Angola, where he showed himself to be a tough, brave soldier and a good leader. Having re-enlisted, he was in the second year of his second ten-year tour of duty in the army and well on his way to becoming a major.

  By two o'clock, Fernandez was en route to Grand Cayman's imposing Bank of Credit and Commerce International building. The modern, four-storey edifice housed one of BCCI's most important branches on the ground foor, and the bank's western hemisphere headquarters on the two foors above.

  Worried about being identified as a regular customer of the BCCI—in fact, worried about being taken to be a “regular” of anything—Fernandez left his car in the nearby parking lot of Thompson's Bakery rather than in the bank's. He walked back to the town library, crossed the street, and was in the manager's office at exactly quarter to three, as arranged. Though perspiring lightly, he felt confident wearing the Cayman businessman's de rigueur uniform: designer slacks, long-sleeved shirt, and tie.

  “May I see the statement for account number 02-110-7063,” he said in fawless English.

  “Certainly, Sir,” Mr. Chowdry, the manager, replied after consulting his computer. “But, first, may I see your passport?” Fernandez obliged. The passport he had been given was authentic, but with a phony name and a doctored photograph—his. The manager inserted the document into the decoder on his desk, smiled, and handed it back to Fernandez. He made a few quick keyboard strokes and then said, “I'll have your statement printed in a jiffy.”

  “Great,” said Fernandez, beginning to relax. “What's the latest I can transfer money?”

  “Four, Sir.”

  Fernandez looked at his watch. “Then we still have time to get a transaction done today.”

  “By all means.”

  “And when would the money reach its destination?”

  “That depends on the payee bank.”

  “The payee bank?”

  “Yes, Sir, the bank to which you wish to transfer the money.”

  “I want to wire some money to your branch in Panama.”

  “Oh, that's easy.” The manager smiled warmly, happy that BCCI would not lose a depositor. “Panama will have the money almost instantaneously. We'll send it by coded telex.”

  “Could you get it there by three-thirty?” Panama was an hour behind Cayman and there would still be time in the Canal City to secure the funds before closing time there.

  It was the manager's turn to look at his watch. “I think so, but I'll have to charge you for rush service.” He smiled engagingly.

  Fernandez nodded. “That's OK, as long as the charge is reasonable.”

  “One-eighth of one percent of the amount to be transferred.” The manager tore off the printout, glanced at it, and then looked back at Fernandez.

  “That's too much.” The Cuban was angry. “One-twentieth of one percent is the maximum I'm willing to pay.”

  “That is impossible, quite impossible.”

  Fernandez got up and held out his hand for the statement. “There's no rush. We'll do it the regular way.” He made as if to leave.

  The manager caved in as Fernandez had known he would. “Let's make it one-tenth of one percent.” That was a thousand dollars on a million dollar transfer, requiring all often minutes' work.

  “Let's make it a fat seven hundred and fifty dollars,” Fernandez retorted.

  The manager handed him the two sheets. “It's a deal. Now, can I please have the details so we can make sure the money gets there before closing?”

  Fernandez was surprised when the banker handed him the information for two accounts and not one; the primary account and a recently opened sub-account.

  He took his time examining the documents. The sub-account held a million U.S. dollars, which had been deposited in cash the day before. This concerned him greatly because he had been told that he was the only person who could access the 7063 account, and the account was supposed to be set up to acce
pt money via wire transfers only, never cash deposits. Obviously, someone using the same name printed in the fake passport he was using had opened and deposited a million dollars into a sub-account. The question was, why?

  The number of the sub-account also drew his attention. Unlike the numbers of his other accounts, which were all made up of numerals, the sub-account number included letters: 4321ETEV. Suddenly, he realized the letters in the account number were a message: “ETEV” backwards was “VETE,” Spanish for go away!

  Whoever had put the money into the sub-account wanted him to defect, to run, and they knew that a man on the run needed to have money, and lots of it.

  Without betraying the turmoil and confusion brewing within him by as much as a twitch of a facial muscle, Fernandez enunciated his words with care. “Thank you. Now here is what I want. Transfer a million dollars to your branch in Panama and give me a million dollars in cash.”

  The manager was annoyed. “One million dollars? But … but … it's almost three o'clock!”

  “Five to three to be precise, Mr. Chowdry.” Fernandez's voice was cold. “Plenty of time to phone downstairs and make the arrangements.”

  While the clerks counted and assembled the money, Fernandez struggled to appear calm and relaxed though inside his nerves were screaming and his mind racing to figure out what was going on. Usually calm in a crisis, he was beginning to panic. He alone was responsible for running the Cuban government's supersecret drug-money bank account, and the secret was now obviously out. They're going to kill me, he thought. Either Cuban Military Intelligence or the Colombians, whose money I'm in the process of taking, or the G2. Of the three, he probably feared the G2, Castro's notorious secret police, the most.