Havana Harvest (18 page)

Micheline broke into tears when she found out about how Lonsdale's wife had died. She was horror stricken when he told her about his life in the “wet” end of the business. They talked late into the night, their limbs entwined in her huge widow's bed.

“I knew that you'd come back to me somehow,” she kept repeating until, completely drained emotionally and physically exhausted, they fell asleep around three. Surprisingly, they awoke early next morning, well rested and strangely exhilarated, anxiously turning to see if the other were real, and still there. They made love again, this time far more passionately than the night before, reliving the glory days of their youth, making up for lost time, for lost opportunities.

At breakfast, Lonsdale broached the subject of Schwartz once more. “I've got to talk to him, Miche. He's my only link with Casas, and I've got to get to Casas fast.”

She came over to give him a tender kiss. “I'll talk to Mr. Schwartz for you. What do you want me to say?”

“That I need to see him, and soon.”

“You know he won't do it. He must be quite shaken up. He was very friendly with Mr. Siddiqui.”

“Miche, you've got to convince him. It's for his own good, too. Talking to me is sort of like life insurance. They'll leave him alone if they know he's already told someone else what he knows.”

“Tell me exactly what you want me to tell him.” She was getting ready to leave for the offce; he had told her earlier to continue her daily routine so as not to arouse suspicion.

“Get him to take you to lunch. Then explain the connection between Siddiqui's death and his ivory-dealing friend. Tell him Siddiqui was killed by a rival gang member trying to get in on the ivory trade.”

“And what do I tell him about you?”

“Tell him I'm an undercover agent for the bank, someone whom you've known for years. Also tell him not to mention coming to meet me to anyone.” Lonsdale was improvising on the fly.

“When do you want to see him?”

“Tonight would be best, but if it's a no-go, tomorrow will do.” Lonsdale knew that every hour's delay exponentially increased Schwartz's chances of dying, but he did not want to alarm Micheline too much.

“Anything else?” She was at the door.

“Yes, a couple of things. You know me as Bernard Lands, which is my real name, but, offcially, Bernard Lands is dead. In Washington I live under the name of Robert Lonsdale, and when in the field, I use whatever name fits the circumstances.”

“Like Don Jackson?”

He nodded.

“What's the other thing?”

“Don't call me here, whatever you do. They may have the phone bugged.”

“That's great, just great.”

He got up and put his arms around her. “Don't worry, Miche. Things will work out, you'll see. All we need is a few days, a week at the most.”

“Will you be all right here? What'll you do all day?”

He let go of her. “Wait for you to come home, of course.” He gave her a hug and a kiss. “Let me give you some money while you call a cab.”

She was incensed. “We're in this together, so put your money away. I'm quite capable of carrying my weight.”

He wouldn't hear of it. “Miche, you don't know how expensive it can get when you're on the run. Take the money—here's a thousand bucks—and keep it for me. I might need to borrow it back from you.” He stuck the money into her coat pocket and pushed her out the door.

He spent the day cooped up in her apartment, alternately resting and watching TV, letting his subconscious worry about the mess he was in. By not thinking about the Schwartzes and Casases of this world he was able to get real rest, rest he knew he had to accumulate so he could face the chaos he'd have to cope with in the days to come.

Micheline returned home for a few minutes after six.

“I couldn't get to Mr. Schwartz till five, but I've got a dinner date with him tonight at seven,” she reported, out of breath. “Come, talk to me while I have a quick bath, and tell me what you want me to do tonight.”

He sat on the toilette seat while she bathed, and together they developed a rendezvous procedure that would allow Lonsdale to meet Schwartz under secure conditions.

On Wednesday, just before noon, Lonsdale took Micheline's car and drifted down Cote-des-Neiges toward Sherbrooke Street, cut the corner at St. Matthew, and turned into the parking lot next to the police station on De Maisonneuve Boulevard. Her car was a comfortable Audi 200 that he would have really enjoyed driving had he not been so preoccupied.

The lot was half-empty, just as Micheline said it would be, and he had no diffculty finding a spot alongside the lane running past the back of the building.

He smiled wryly at the incongruity of leaving his car next to a police cruiser while presumably being sought by his adopted country's secret police. He checked his watch. It showed twelve twenty-eight, two minutes to go, if Schwartz was good at keeping his word.

He walked over to the attendant and paid for the parking space, and then with a great show of having forgotten something, walked back toward his car. Schwartz's Mercedes pulled up behind a parked police cruiser just as Lonsdale got there. He slid into the seat beside the coin dealer who accelerated away smoothly.

“Mr. Gould?”

“That's me Mr. Schwartz. Where shall we go for lunch?”

“I was told to drive you out to the West Island.”

“Just checking, Mr. Schwartz, just checking. Please do drive out to the West Island and take Highway 20 so I can see if we're being followed.”

“Are we being followed?”

“I don't think so.”

“What kind of a name is Gould?”

Lonsdale knew perfectly well what the old man was driving at, but pretended ignorance. “What do you mean?”

The coin dealer gave him a quick sideways look. “You Jewish?” He was refreshingly direct.

“Half,” replied Lonsdale, lying without hesitation, while congratulating himself on his foresight. He had anticipated the question and had prepared Micheline for it. He would say he was partly Jewish to gain Schwartz's confdence.

“Which half?” Schwartz questioned. “What I want to know is, was it your father or your mother who was Jewish?”

Lonsdale judged the time ripe to take the lead. “Mr. Schwartz we're not here to discuss my ancestry or, for that matter, yours. I'm here to try to protect you, and I need your help if I'm to succeed.”

“And why would you want to protect me? I'm not your client.”

“But you are the bank's client, one of its good clients, and the bank is my employer. Quite frankly, we don't want any more accidents.”

“Accidents?”

“Yes, accidents. Like the one that happened to Mr. Siddiqui.”

“That was no accident. That was murder.” Schwartz sounded both indignant and worried.

“You're right.” Lonsdale folded down the sun visor and, using the vanity mirror, surveyed the cars behind them. They were on the expressway, leading to Dorval Airport and the traffc, though heavy, was moving steadily. It wasn't sparse enough to allow him to draw conclusions. “At the airport traffc circle turn left, and go down toward the river. I know a little Swiss restaurant, Trudi's it's called, on Lakeshore Drive. Let's try our luck there.”

In the restaurant's parking lot Schwartz opened the door to get out. Lonsdale pulled him back. “Hold on my friend,” he said firmly, but kindly. “First we talk then we eat.”

“In the parking lot you want to talk? Are you
meshugah
?”

“No, Mr. Schwartz, I'm not crazy. It's safer here than in the restaurant, so let's not waste time. How long have you known that your friend the ivory dealer is Cuban?”

The old man was taken aback. “Who said I knew?”

“I said you knew. I need information, and I need it in a hurry, so stop answering questions with questions.”

“And if I don't?”

“Then I'll leave you here, call a cab, and go home.”

“So go ahead!”

With his hand on the door latch Lonsdale turned toward the coin dealer and gave him a big, honest smile. “You're a stubborn soon-to-be-dead old man, my friend. I'll ask you once more, will you help me save your life or do you insist on being stubborn and dying before your time?” He opened the car door slightly.

Schwartz put his hand on Lonsdale's arm. “What's your hurry?”

Lonsdale pulled the door shut. “That's better. Now, please Mr. Schwartz, tell me. How long have you known that your ivory supplier was Cuban?”

“It's a long story—”

“We have all afternoon.” Lonsdale sighed and tilted his seat back.

“So where do you want me to begin?”

“At the very beginning.”

Schwartz had met General Casas through the good offces of Akhtar Siddiqui and his colleague, Nazir Rahman, the BCCI manager in Luanda. Rahman had asked Siddiqui to identify a Canadian coin dealer of repute, able to handle substantial transactions involving rare coins, medals, and ivory figurines originating in Western Africa. Siddiqui was eager to help. He wanted to demonstrate to Schwartz, an important client, that the BCCI was able to reciprocate business with business.

Siddiqui asked his colleague to provide a letter of introduction for Casas addressed to Schwartz, which the general was to present to the coin dealer at a meeting Siddiqui would set up. Siddiqui would not be present since he had no desire to know the details of Schwartz's business.

The first meeting had taken place two years earlier and turned out to be a resounding success. Schwartz was enthralled by the samples Casas had brought him, and the general was eager to sell.

“Then what happened?” Lonsdale asked.

“Nothing special.” Schwartz was getting edgy. “The general—he told me straightaway who he was—General Casas kept bringing me goods, mainly ivory and gold and silver coins, which I resold in the normal course of business.”

“At a fair proft, I presume.”

Schwartz spread his hands. “I can't complain. Can we go and eat now? I'm hungry and thirsty.”

“We're almost there. Hold on for a few more minutes.” Lonsdale decided it was time to ask the crucial question. He turned and looked Schwartz straight in the eyes. “Why did you give Casas a million dollars in cash two weeks ago?”

“It was his money, that's why. He asked me for it and I gave it to him.”

“His money?” Lonsdale didn't follow.

“Sure. He told me he was entitled to keep a quarter of the money I paid for the goods he sold me. So three-quarters I sent to the Cuban government in Havana by wire transfer and one quarter I kept for the general in the bank here.”

“In Mr. Siddiqui's bank?”

“That's right. In the late Akhtar Siddiqui's bank—
aleva sholem
—may he rest in peace.”

“Amen,” said Lonsdale, greatly relieved. His theory had just been proven. “Come on, my friend, let's go. I'm buying you lunch.”

They both ordered wiener schnitzel with mashed potatoes, cucumber salad, a glass of red wine, and Perrier water. His mouth full of veal, Schwartz pointed his fork at his inquisitor. “All right, Mr. Detective, it's my turn to ask a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“All the money is accounted for, right?”

“Right.”

“General Casas has been very correct and precise in his business dealings, right?”

“Right.”

“Then, since Mr. Siddiqui was only our banker and not a part of the deal, who would want to kill him and why?”

“That, my friend, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question, a question I cannot answer just yet.” Lonsdale was temporizing as he went, along lines carefully thought out the night before. “My theory is, and I repeat, it's only a theory, that General Casas may have competitors in Angola who want to horn in on his coin and ivory business. Obviously, they can't use you, so they must have gone to poor Siddiqui to help them get started. He must have said no, so they killed him.”

Schwartz was silent for a while. “But why did they not come to me directly? I could have handled their business and the general's too!”

“For two reasons, Mr. Schwartz. First, you're not a banker and cannot help these people, who are very likely big-time crooks, to launder money. Second, they will probably contact you too, and sooner than you think. Since I'm sure that once you've met them you will not want to do business with them, you will tell them so and they will then threaten you.”