Havana Harvest (22 page)

Lonsdale planned to arrive in Budapest around half past nine at night and to bribe his way into a second-class hotel. He would debrief Schwartz on Sunday morning and go over the details of the upcoming meeting with Casas.

Morton had ordered him to be back at the office on Tuesday. He had no reason to think Lonsdale would not follow orders, yet Siddiqui had been murdered on Monday. The murderers, while bugging Siddiqui's phone, must have overheard Lonsdale making arrangements to meet the banker on Monday and wanted to prevent the meeting at all cost. This meant that either Siddiqui or Lonsdale, or both, had to die. The opposition had acted with skill and quickly, which meant they must have had agents nearby.

Canadians? Unlikely.

Cubans? Maybe. They had the manpower in Montreal.

Did Morton ask for surveillance on Siddiqui? Lonsdale concluded that he had no reason to do so since he was not even aware of Siddiqui's existence. There had been no time for Lonsdale to brief Morton on him.

The Agency, the Agency, the Agency,
the little voice inside Lonsdale's head kept on repeating.
The left hand never knows what the right hand is doing. Everything is based on need-to-know.
He stared out the window. It was dark. The train's wheels kept clicking: “Need to know, need to know, need to know.”

In Budapest, he headed for the nearest taxi. “Hotel Taverna,” he said, hoping it would be enough to get him where he wanted to go.

It was.

The Taverna Hotel turned out to be exactly what he was looking for and he was able to get the last available room, a single. In spite of being located on Váci Utca, Budapest's upscale shopping street, it was far from a five-star hotel. Lonsdale took it gratefully and paid cash in advance for three nights. Although the lobby was narrow and dingy and the staff surly, Lonsdale fell in love with the place at first sight. The reason: you could get out of the building four different ways; one was through the garage, without having to pass the front desk.

By half past eleven he was walking up and down Váci Utca, wearing his newly acquired hat and horn-rimmed glasses, ostensibly window-shopping, but in reality watching the parade of whores, and checking for signs of surveillance, as always.

After several entertaining and salacious discussions with several
belles de nuit,
he decided that he was not being followed and picked out the woman he wanted: a no-nonsense brassy, buxom streetwalker.

“So you got tired of walking up and down,” she challenged him, “or did you finally make up your mind about getting laid?”

He nodded and said nothing.

“You picked me because of my great-looking body.”

He nodded again.

“Ha, you like the big package?”

He nodded for the third time, then asked “What's your name?”

“Berta.”

“And how much is the package for the night?”

She named a number, which, by Western standards, seemed extremely reasonable.

“There's only one little problem,” he said. “I don't have anywhere to take you.”

“Don't worry about it big boy. We'll go to a hotel I know. Just follow me.” She turned on her heels and headed for the nearest cabstand.

“Not so fast,” Lonsdale called after her. “How much will the hotel cost me, and besides, I want to know which hotel you're proposing to take me to.”

“The Citadella, on Citadel Hill in Buda, and it's only twenty-five American dollars.”

Lonsdale pretended to hesitate. “Listen, that's just too much for me in total.” He made himself sound rueful. “I guess I had better just say good night and ask for a rain check. I don't have the money.”

“Suit your self,” the woman shrugged, visibly peeved, and walked away. Lonsdale was pleased. All he had wanted was the name of a
hotel de passage
where he would probably not have to show identification.

The Citadella is an impressive fort-like building strategically located on St. Gellért's Mountain and overlooking the City of Pest toward the east and the Royal Castle of the Kings of Hungary to the north. The castle was built on the ruins of fortifications that had withstood the onslaught of the Turks for over a hundred years, thus becoming Hungary's symbol of resistance against all oppressors. The Citadella, on the other hand, had been built by the Austrians after the Hungarian War of Independence in 1848 to serve as a garrison for the troops charged with keeping an eye on the rebellious Hungarians.

Lonsdale flagged down a cab on Rákoczy Boulevard and directed it to this massive edifice, now ignominiously converted into a combination YMCA and
hotel de passage.

In the dark, the “fort” appeared ominously menacing and singularly uncomfortable. Three-feet-thick walls, pierced by gun ports that now served as windows, a narrow circular parapet, and sentry posts every fifty feet, all made for an uninviting and inappropriate-looking site for a so-called romantic interlude.

No matter. All Lonsdale wanted was a secret refuge, a backup venue where he could hole up in case he had to disappear from the Hotel Taverna in a hurry.

In contrast to its stark exterior, the Citadella's interior was warm and friendly. The clean, well-lit, and whitewashed lobby was large, the furniture comfortable. Despite the hour, the receptionist greeted him with a welcoming smile.

“Can I have a double room for the night please,” Lonsdale said in English and handed the clerk a ten-dollar bill. “Preferably upstairs.”

“For the night? No sweat.” The clerk was falling all over himself trying to be helpful. He took Lonsdale's money and then asked, “What is your name, Sir?”

Lonsdale handed him another ten-dollar bill and the clerk gave him a slip of paper. “Mark down your name and address for me, will you?” Lonsdale obliged and then paid for the room.

“Can I see some ID please?”

“Berta will give it to you when she gets here,” Lonsdale replied and headed for the stairs.

The clerk did not call after him.

Sunday Morning Budapest, Hungary

Lonsdale had slept deeply and had awakened rested and refreshed. After a quick shower and a shave with the foam and razor he had stashed in his coat pocket before leaving the Hotel Taverna, he had headed for the reception area. It was early, half past seven, and the same clerk was still on duty.

“Where can I get something to eat?”

“Have breakfast in our cafeteria. We bake our own bread, and it's good.”

“And where's that?”

“On the mezzanine floor.”

Lonsdale made as if to leave then turned back. “Say, can I have my room for another night?”

“Sure.”

“Let me pay you in advance.” Lonsdale gave the man fifty bucks, double what the room cost.

“No sweat. I've got you covered.” The clerk yawned. “Keep your key and have fun. As for me I can hardly wait to get off.”

While pretending to read the Sunday
Magyar Nemzet,
Lonsdale contemplated what he had to do next.

Contact with Casas was the objective, but this could only be achieved through Schwartz. And, by now, Schwartz must either be under American surveillance or actively cooperating with the Agency,of this Lonsdale was almost certain. After all, the CIA had almost a week to identify Siddiqui's client as the Angolan contact.

Whether Schwartz was working with Lonsdale's tormentors was immaterial. It was best to assume that he was being followed in hopes he would lead to Lonsdale or to Casas, or both.

“I'll have to take the appropriate precautions,” he murmured and sighed because he knew these would slow him down. “Don't let's take chances,” he admonished himself, finished his breakfast, put on his hat and coat and left the hotel.

He took a cab to the Inter-Continental Hotel and walked around the lobby, locating the service elevator by watching how arriving luggage was being handled. Then he put a blank sheet of paper into an envelope, addressed it to Schwartz, and asked the clerk at the front desk to have it delivered to the old man. As expected, the clerk put the envelope into Schwartz's key slot, thereby giving the room number away. Lonsdale headed for the toilets, but, at the last moment, ducked into the service bay and took the elevator to the seventh floor. He walked down two fights and knocked five times on the door of room 512. It was exactly nine-thirty.

Schwartz was glad to see him. He had news. But before he could say a word, Lonsdale led him into the bathroom and turned on the taps. Admittedly, this was not much of a defense against sophisticated concealed microphones, but it was better than nothing.

“Keep your voice down,” he cautioned.

“Casas contacted me last night,” the old man reported breathlessly. “He wants me to meet him during the twelve o'clock mass, between twelve and twelve thirty, to be more precise, in St. Stephen's Basilica. It's not far from here.”

Lonsdale laughed.
What irony,
he thought.

A Jew was meeting an atheist during a Roman Catholic mass celebrated in a supposedly godless, communist country, ostensibly for the purpose of betraying his people. He put up his hands. “Slow down my friend, slow down. First, fill me in on how things went for you since we last met.”

“I followed your instructions and from Montreal I booked to London only. Then I went about my business as always—”

“And were you followed?”

“I think so.”

“By whom?”

“I should know?”

“What did they look like?”

“Like two Italians.”

“So what did you do?”

“What you told me to do. On Friday night I went to the High-gate Synagogue in North London, the one I told you about, the one with the two entrances. It was Shabes so the place was full, but you know that too, so why should I be telling you this?”

“Keep on talking.” Lonsdale was curt.

“All right, already, Mr. Spy.” Schwartz was imperturbable. “I went in at the front and they came in after me. It was funny. They weren't Jewish and didn't know enough to put on a
kepah
to cover their heads. So the
shames
got after them and they had to go out to get a couple of yarmulkes. I waited for them to come back, playing the innocent, just as you told me. Then I went to the men's room downstairs, and one of them came after me, but when he saw the sign at the head of the stairs, he figured I just went to pee.”

“And he didn't follow you down?”

“No, he didn't. So I went through the exit on the subway level, the ‘Tube’ they call it, and took the subway to Waterloo Station where I booked a sleeper on the boat train to Paris. From there, I few here.”

“What about your luggage?”

“I left it at my hotel in London like you said I should. I'll call them from Montreal and they'll send it home. Here I only have my sample case with two shirts, two pairs of socks, and my necessaries.”

“Your what?”

“My ‘necessaries.’ You know: razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, that kind of thing.” The old man sat down on the toilet seat. He was visibly tired. The excitement and the traveling were getting to him.

Lonsdale was impressed. “You did well my friend, really well. Just hang in there for a little while longer, and we'll all be going home, happy and safe.” He was trying to sound reassuring, but in his heart of hearts, he knew it was wishful thinking. “Now tell me about Casas.”