Havana Harvest (15 page)

“Will do,” said Mrs. Weisskopf. “Take care of yourself,” she added, seemingly as an afterthought. “I hear you're sailing in troubled waters.”

Lonsdale became concerned. “It's as bad as that, is it?”

“The last twenty-four hours have been … how shall I put it discreetly … most interesting.”

“Really? Tell me what's up.”

“I had better let Jim do that.” Mrs. Weisskopf hung up, leaving Lonsdale confused and insecure.
Why is she holding back?
he wondered.

The telephone in the Grand Hotel lobby was already ringing when he got there.

Lonsdale answered, “This is Vector. Let me speak with Fernandez.”

“I'm sorry, but that's not possible. We have no access.” It was the second voice that had come on the line during the previous call. The speaker was still friendly, but very firm.

“Come off it. I need to talk either to Fernandez or to Quesada, and I need to do that right now. That's what you were supposed to organize for me.”

“As I said, it's not possible. But, I do have a message for you.”

“What is it?”

“Call the Liquor Merchant at home tonight.”

“Fuck you very much,” said Lonsdale and banged down the receiver. It seemed Morton was trying to cut him off from information. But why? And what the hell was Morton doing with Smythe?

Lonsdale called the office again. Weisskopf was still there. “Is Jim around?”

“No, he hasn't come back yet. But he did call in and tell me to ask you to call him tonight.”

“Thanks, Weissköpfchen. Keep the faith and have a nice weekend.” He slammed down the receiver and headed for the main door.

To fill the rest of the day, he went to an early movie, which helped him to stop thinking about Micheline and Mr. Schwartz. He then had a quick dinner at the Maritime Bar of the Ritz Carlton Hotel on Sherbrooke Street. At ten sharp, he called Morton, the Liquor Merchant, from his table.

“What are you doing with Fernandez?” Lonsdale asked without preamble.

“We're holding him in one of our safe houses in Miami.” Morton was equally abrupt.

“Can you find him for me? I need to talk to him.”

“No, I can't. Besides, there's more bad news. The Wise Men got wind of our little operation and, after careful analysis, decided that we were barking up the wrong tree.”

“So?”

“They have ordered me to shut this thing down.”

“As of when?”

“They weren't specific about it, but I think they'd like to see you back in the office on Monday, Tuesday at the latest.”

“Jim, none of this makes sense to me. We don't even know which way is up, so how could the Wise Men? Don't you think it's too early to throw in the towel?”

“Listen, my friend. Like you, I only carry out orders. They told me to fold our tents, so I'm folding our tents. And that includes you. Be back at the office on Tuesday morning.” Morton did not sound his usual serene self.

Lonsdale was beginning to sweat. “Am I hearing what I think I'm hearing?”

“Hear whatever you want to hear. Just be back in the office on Tuesday morning.”

“Is that an order?”

“I'm afraid it is.”

“Then good night, Jim, and thanks for nothing.”

“Good night. See you Tuesday.”

Sunday Montreal, Canada

On Sunday, Micheline picked up Lonsdale at eleven sharp. He was eager to ask her about Mr. Schwartz, but curbed his impatience and made small talk while she maneuvered them out of the city.

“Where are we headed?”

“I thought we'd drive into the Laurentian hills, have a leisurely lunch, then go antiquing.”

Lonsdale looked out the window. “Do you think the weather will hold?”

“They say it will be sunny with cloudy periods.”

“Let her rip then, and let's see if we can find a real antique or two.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the Laurentians are as picked over as the vicinity of Washington, I doubt we'll find anything worth buying.”

“So you live in Washington now?”

“I commute between Washington and the Caymans. To be more accurate, I commute from the Cayman Islands to Washington and back. I guess you could say the Islands are my home since the BCCI's head office is there.”

“Funny. I somehow thought you would settle in New York. You don't look like someone who lives in the islands.”

“I don't?”

“No, especially not in the Cayman Islands.”

“Oh, how come? What do you know about the Cayman Islands anyway?” But, of course, he knew the answer ahead of time. He had just forgotten.

“Plenty. As you very well know, for a while I lived in Nassau and my husband and I had friends in Cayman whom we visited often. They were always tanned, not like you. The sun is very strong there.” She gave him a strange look.

He shrugged, annoyed with himself for having been careless. “I spend most of my time indoors, in the office. When I'm there, that is. But I travel a lot.”

“On assignments like the one you're on now, I suppose.”

“That's right.” He decided it was time to change the subject. “Now tell me what's new in the Laurentians.”

Micheline drove him to Les Galleries des Monts, a quaint little shopping center in the town of St. Sauveur, and proudly showed him around the elegant boutiques, the handicraft shops, and Zen's workshop, renowned for glass blowing. By the time they left the workshop, it was time for lunch.

“You should be ashamed at the way you ogled Zen's female assistants,” Micheline joked as they finished their beers at Moe's, St. Sauveur's best deli.

Lonsdale ignored the remark. “How about anything else to eat or drink?”

“No thanks.”

“Then let me get the bill.” He paid the waiter, and they walked to her car without speaking.

“Where to?” she asked.

“I'm at your command, and if I might add, I'm having a wonderful day, so I know wherever you take me will be just fine.”

She turned toward Mont Habitant. Lonsdale closed his eyes and immediately dozed off. He woke with a start when they came to a stop in the driveway of a log cabin overlooking a lake.

“Whose house is this?”

“My son's.”

“Your son's? Is he expecting us?”

She was watching him intently. “No. He and his wife have gone to New York City for the week. By the way, the house is my house too.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Rudi, my husband, and I lived in Nassau he owned a very successful restaurant, and we had a good life together. Then I got pregnant, and he wanted our child to be born and brought up in Switzerland, so we sold the restaurant and moved back to Pfeffikon, near Zurich. That's where Rudi's parents were from. My son, Karl, was born there, and we lived happily ever after.” There was bitterness in Micheline's voice.

“Forever after? Then what are you doing in Canada working for BCCI?”

Her eyes were moist with tears. “When Karl was sixteen Rudi had a terrible car accident. He was in a coma for two years. Then he died, and I moved back here.”

“Why?”

“I'd spent most of the money we had saved on trying to make Rudi healthy again. By the time he died, there was very little left.”

“And?”

“I brought Karl back here, moved in with my widowed mother, got a job, and put Karl through college.”

“He's your only child.”

“Yes. He graduated first in his class. He's a brilliant engineer and works for Oerlikon, the Swiss weapons manufacturer, here in Quebec.”

They got out of the car. “And with what I inherited from my mother when she died, plus what I saved, plus what Karl had put aside, we bought this house. Karl and his wife live here all year round, I visit on weekends.” She turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and disappeared into the house.

The furniture in the dining room to the left of the entrance was French Canadian. The refectory table with custom-made “habitant” chairs around it was long enough to accommodate twelve people comfortably. There was an antique sideboard along the wall and in the corner, a wedge-shaped étagère.

“I'm in the den,” he heard Micheline call out. “Hang your coat in the closet, take off your shoes, and come sit by me.”

Micheline patted the pillow next to her on the flowery sofa. “Sit down here.” She smiled as she watched him obey awkwardly. “Tell me, what troubles you about this place? You turned pale when you entered.”

He flushed and almost wilted under her gaze. “I don't really know,” he said sheepishly, fighting hard to cover up. The house reminded him very much of the one he used to own in the Laurentians. “I suppose this situation is just too strange, too unusual for me.” He bit his lip and looked away. “Could we talk about Mr. Schwartz a little? Maybe that'll relax me a bit.” He made himself laugh, trying hard to turn on the charm again.

“I suppose you want me to believe,” Micheline said, “that you have no idea about this friend of yours, this man in the photograph, bringing gold coins and small ivory statues into Canada and selling them to Mr. Schwartz for cash. He called them figurines,” she added inconsequentially.

“What did he call figurines?” At the mention of the word “ivory” Lonsdale had turned ice cold inside. Ivory came from Africa and general Casas was commanding troops there.“And what has all this got to do with the man in the photograph?”

“Bernard, why are you doing this?” Micheline asked. “You meddle in honest people's legitimate businesses, but you overlook the crooks, the really big crooks that run our bank, or I should say your bank, because you're part of it also.” She was becoming agitated.

Lonsdale made an attempt to calm her down. “Come on Miche, take it easy and don't blame me. I'm just another small cog on the big wheel, like you.”

“Don't patronize me Bernard, please. If you, just like the others, don't want to tell me what is really going on at the BCCI, that's all right, but don't take me for a simpleton.” She stood up. “Get your hat and coat. There really is no reason for us to stay here any longer. On our way back to Montreal I'll tell you about Mr. Schwartz and all the things I have found out for you. Then I'll drop you off at your hotel and we'll say goodbye.” Her hopes for a romantic reconciliation shattered, she ran upstairs. Lonsdale went to collect his belongings.

For the first twenty minutes the silence in the car was frigid. Past St. Jerome, Micheline began to speak. “At dinner last night Mr. Schwartz told me about one of his clients in the coin business. Actually, the man is his supplier and has been for about a year.” She looked at Lonsdale who chose to say nothing, afraid to stop the flow of words.

“This supplier lives in Angola and can lay his hands on gold and silver coins and medals at very low prices. He also has ivory for sale, which, I am told, is a very rare thing because it's no longer legal to hunt elephants for their tusks. Did you know that?”

Lonsdale had the sense to look totally relaxed. “Yes, I did.” he replied. Most of his important questions had just been answered.

Casas's army was headquartered in Angola, so he would have easy access to coins, medals, and ivory figurines there. He'd smuggle these artifacts into Canada without difficulty since he'd be traveling on a diplomatic passport. He'd sell them for cash to Mr. Schwartz and could then do with the untraceable money whatever he wanted. There would be no direct banking involvement and, thus, no record of any transaction. It had been careless of Casas to overlook removing the bundling strips when he deposited the money in Cayman, but he had, perhaps, needed them to prove the legitimacy of the source of the money. Had it not been for this oversight Lonsdale would never have been able to connect Casas with the Cayman deposit.