Flattered by the compliment and impressed by the unexpected bureaucratic efficiency, Spiegel responded expansively. “Any time old boy, any time.”
“Splendid,” the Immigration officer continued, holding on to his passport. “The Authority wishes to inconvenience you as little as possible and has arranged for a limousine to give you a lift to London. Someone from the Authority will accompany you so you'll be able to exchange views without having to give up any of your precious time.” He handed the passport to the man who had come up behind him and then turned back to Spiegel. “Please follow the commissionaire.”
Somewhat bewildered but pleased, Spiegel surrendered his roll-on and stumbled along behind the man. Since no one was waiting to drive him home, the arrangement suited him fine. His guide knew his way around the labyrinth that was Heathrow. Within minutes Spiegel found himself being helped into a shiny, black, vintage Rolls Royce.
The person waiting for him in the car, dressed with the casual elegance of a country squire returning to London from a weekend's shooting, greeted him with friendly formality. “My name is Samson and, contrary to what you may have been told, I work in the Foreign Office, not for the Airport Authority.”
“What does the Foreign Office have to do with the airport?” The bewildered Spiegel was baffled.
“Very little, actually.” Samson pressed a button to raise the glass partition to separate them from the driver.
“What am I doing here with you then?” Spiegel was sobering up rapidly.
“Forgive the subterfuge, but I had no other way of arranging this meeting without tipping my hand.”
“You could have called me at the office or at home—I'm in the book.”
“Mr. Spiegel, the Cuban intelligence services are regularly monitoring your calls. I did not want them to know about my wanting to meet you.”
“You must be joking.” Spiegel was aghast and suddenly very sober. “What do you want from me?”
“A small favor.”
“Such as?”
“Our cousins, the Americans, may need a go-between, a sort of reliable messenger, through whom to maintain contact with one of their people in Havana. They're looking for an intelligent, Spanish-speaker with no visible ties to the States who would have logical reason to visit Cuba on a regular basis. We were asked to help find such a person and we thought of you.”
“Who is 'we'?” Spiegel asked, though he had realized, as soon as Samson had called the Americans “cousins,” that he was dealing with a representative of the British Secret Intelligence Service, people he had been trying to avoid all his life.
His first reaction was to try to find a way out. “I don't think I'm suitable for this kind of work. I'm a chatterbox, and I don't know how to keep secrets.”
Samson rewarded the feeble attempt at weaseling out with a baleful look. “On the contrary, Mr. Spiegel. As far as we can tell, you've been a paragon of discretion with regard to your affairs.” Samson's words had an ominous ring that sent shivers up Spiegel's spine. MI6, or whoever the hell Samson was working for, must have been delving into Celsa's activities, and that meant trouble.
Spiegel was trapped and he knew it. “Suppose I decline to cooperate?”
“That's entirely up to you, Mr. Spiegel. We certainly do not wish to, and we cannot coerce you into helping our cousins. We're asking for a favor, a favor—if granted—that will have beneficial effects on the operations of your company.”
They must need my services badly, Spiegel thought, and then asked, “Really. Such as?”
“You will have no difficulty having your company's truck transportation licenses in the United Kingdom renewed, your goods destined for Cuba, presently in bonded warehouses in Rotterdam and Rijeka,” Samson consulted the file on his lap, “valued at about six hundred thousand dollars and three hundred thousand dollars respectively, will not be seized under the U.S. Trading-with-the-Enemy Act, the vessels on which Celsa's goods are being transported will not be put on the U.S. blacklist. As far as your person is concerned, you will not be denied entry into the United States.” Samson stopped talking and looked at Spiegel expectantly.
Spiegel got the message. We know all about you. If you don't cooperate, we will make sure that everything I have just enumerated will happen.
“How long do I have to give you my answer?”
“Why don't you come around to the office tomorrow afternoon for tea?” Samson dug into his pocket for a business card and handed it to Spiegel. “Shall we say around three-thirty?”
The card read “B. Samson, Group Head, The Foreign Office” and gave an address near Downing Street and a telephone number.
After a sleepless night at his luxurious Belgravia flat, purchased recently as a step toward social respectability, Spiegel came to the conclusion that not cooperating would mean economic disaster and an end to his social ambitions. So he made sure to be at Downing Street the next day at the appointed time, expecting to meet again with the low-level bureaucrat he took Samson to be.
He was surprised by the speed with which he was processed through reception formalities, impressed by the waiting room to which the commissionaire showed him and blown away when a woman, whom he characterized as a member of the horsy set and who turned out to be Samson's secretary, announced that Sir Brandon was looking forward to meeting him again.
Spiegel suddenly realized that the Rolls and driver of the previous day were Sir Brandon's own, not government issue as he had assumed, and that, since knighthoods were not doled out to any Tom, Dick, or Harry, Sir Brandon Samson's card had completely misled him. The man was a senior civil servant with a touch of commendable modesty.
Once Spiegel had told his host that he was willing to accept the assignment, tea with Sir Brandon turned into a very civilized half-hour's affair during which Spiegel was told to be patient. Someone would contact him from the cousins' side in due course.
As he was being shown out, Sir Brandon remarked in an offhand sort of way, “You might find that you'll start receiving invitations to cocktail parties at foreign embassies. If I were you, I'd go to as many of these as I could.”
Spiegel got the message once more and made sure he did.
Six months went by during which Spiegel attended more than two-dozen diplomatic functions. In the seventh month he got his third invitation to the U.S. Embassy. Half an hour after his arrival he was discretely collared by the commercial counselor, taken upstairs, and handed a bulky, heavily sealed envelope marked “I. Spiegel, Eyes Only.”
A couple of hours later a fully briefed and very tired Spiegel left the embassy in deep shock. He had just discovered that the CIA mole he was to service was none other than his friend, Deputy Minister of the Interior, Oscar De la Fuente, with whom he had been dealing for the last two years.
Under his Celsa cover, Spiegel continued to have frequent meetings with De la Fuente. On these he reported directly to the Director of Central Intelligence via scrambler. Since Spiegel's London office communicated with his fleet of trucks and ships by radio telephone, the scrambled messages—always transmitted as ultra-high-speed “bursts” during the time of day when radio chatter was at its peak—aroused no suspicion. In fact, they went undetected. Spiegel never talked to the Director face-to-face or directly by telephone. His high-speed bursts, transmitted in code and lasting no longer than a second or two, were duly recorded then decoded at Langley on an “Eyes only Director” basis. Spiegel was kept abreast of developments and given instructions the same way: via scrambled radio messages.
This way of communicating was very safe, but had one major drawback. De la Fuente was constantly playing catch-up ball since the information he was working with was always at least a week old.
De la Fuente put his arm around Spiegel in a gesture of relaxed friendship, but the hoarseness in his voice betrayed the turmoil within him. “One of Casas's people, a Captain Fernandez, has bolted. He's believed to be in Miami.”
“In Miami?” Spiegel was aghast. “You mean he'
s speaking with our people there?”
“I believe so.”
Spiegel's mind began to race. “Can the situation be salvaged?”
“Depends on how quickly you can contain things at your end.”
“How much time do you need to complete your arrangements?” “At least another month.” De la Fuente was sweating and had difficulty keeping his phony smile in place.
“I'll do my best,” Spiegel said and clapped his companion on the shoulder in a great show of bonhomie. “We might still pull this thing off if we're lucky.”
CHAPTER NINE
Thursday and Friday
Montreal, Canada
Lonsdale dreaded the thought of having to visit Montreal, a city that, for him, held too many bitter memories by half. He was also concerned about being recognized, though he was pretty sure that the plastic surgery he had undergone at Bethesda, and the passing of ten years since he had last been there, had altered his features enough to make such an eventuality unlikely. Still, one never knew.
Instead of approaching Montreal from the south as usual, Air Canada fight 321 from Washington came in from the northeast to accommodate prevailing winds. Lonsdale, alone in his row, moved over to the window to watch the landing.
He saw the shadow of the descending aircraft bump across the buildings as it headed toward its destination. He could not stop his heart from skipping a beat when the form raced up and down Mount Royal. The hospital in which Andrea had died so tragically over a decade ago stood on that mountain's southern slope.
Stop that, Lonsdale commanded his heart. Be cool and concentrate on the job at hand. Remember you are Frosty the Snowman. He often used his operational name when talking to himself.
Using the alias of Don Jackson, he checked into the Hilton on Dorchester Boulevard, a short distance from BCCI's main branch in Montreal and then went for a walk. The late October weather felt cold after Cayman and Washington, but he had come prepared. His Burberry trench coat, complete with matching cashmere scarf, had a removable lining for which he was now grateful. Under it he was wearing what he called his “traveling uniform,” a dark-blue blazer from Gieves and Hawkes of Saville Row, grey slacks, and Bally shoes with rubber soles.
He walked west on Dorchester to Crescent Street, up to Sher-brooke, doubled back to Peel, and then back down to his hotel. He found Montreal much changed. His old haunts had new names, there were fewer people around, and the city seemed less prosperous. Somehow, this restored his composure and helped him to calm down. Or perhaps it was the cold.
On Friday he called the bank manager early and requested an immediate appointment. Akhtar Siddiqui, vice president and assistant general manager in charge of yet another prestige BCCI branch, reluctantly agreed and granted Mr. Jackson a half hour of his precious time.
“I cannot tell you how grateful I am,” Lonsdale lied as he took a seat opposite Siddiqui in the man's sumptuously appointed office. A short, rotund man, Siddiqui came across as well educated and somewhat standoffsh, but his initial reserve evaporated as soon as he saw Lonsdale's letter of introduction. “My dear chap,” he intoned, trying to ingratiate himself, “had you told me a little more about yourself over the telephone I wouldn't have created such a fuss about being busy.”
Lonsdale smiled engagingly. “No bones broken,” he said and laid Casas's picture on Siddiqui's desk. “Tell me, have you seen my colleague lately?”
Siddiqui was taken aback. “What an unusual question to ask a banker,” he murmured and looked at Lonsdale with renewed interest. “Are you a policeman?”
“No, I'm not. I'm an internal auditor checking on our organization's account security arrangements.” Lonsdale knew that Siddiqui knew that the answer was evasive, but the letter of introduction had done its magic. Besides, everybody loves intrigue. The banker picked up Casas's picture, examined it with care, then looked up and smiled. “I'm afraid that I have no recollection of ever having seen this man. As you've probably guessed, I do not see every customer.”
“Not even one wanting to withdraw a million dollars?”
Siddiqui smiled again. “Above all not one who'd want to do such a thing.”
“Oh? How come?”
Siddiqui looked Lonsdale in the eyes. “Let's stop this silly game, shall we Mr. Jackson? You're after information and I shall do whatever is within my power to secure it for you. I cannot help you unless you tell me precisely what you want to know.”
“I'm glad you came to the point without delay.” Lonsdale was beginning to like the rotund banker; he was cooperative. “Last week a man withdrew a million U.S. dollars from an account in your branch. He did nothing improper or illegal. The money was his to do whatever he wanted with it.” Lonsdale held up his hand. “I need to know three things.” He ticked the items off on his fngers. “One—was the man who withdrew the money the man in the photo? Two—who is the owner of the account from which the money was withdrawn. And three—where did the money come from.”
Siddiqui became very businesslike. “I'm afraid I do not have the answers to any of your questions. But I shall introduce you to our current accounts manager who will, I am sure, be able to provide further details.”
“Current accounts manager?”
“Mr. Jackson I'm pretty certain that if the money was, indeed, withdrawn from an account in my branch, then it must have been withdrawn from a current, rather than a savings account. The current accounts manager has access to the details affecting all such accounts in this branch. She is the logical person for you. We'll tell her that you are a hush-hush investigator from our internal audit department, and she'll extend you her most enthusiastic cooperation. We often have surprise inspections,” Siddiqui added by way of explanation.
“I'm sure,” the banker went on, “that she will be able to provide the answers to your frst two questions without delay, and once you have them I shall be in a position to provide the answer to the third.” He picked up the telephone, but Lonsdale stopped him. The idea of having to reveal his interest to yet another employee of the BCCI did not sit well with him.
“Why is it necessary for me to meet this person? Do you have that many people cashing million dollar checks?”
Siddiqui was taken aback. “You'd be surprised how many substantial cash transactions take place in our branch each week. By law we are supposed to keep track of and report all cash transactions in excess of ten thousand dollars, and I'm sure we do, at least most of them. But I'm also sure that we cannot keep track of all of them. That is why I, personally, try to keep away from cash transactions.” Siddiqui's meaning was clear. “Ms. Beaulieu, though, is right on top of the situation.”
“Ms. Beaulieu?”
“Yes, Ms. Beaulieu, my current accounts manager.” Siddiqui picked up the telephone again and began to dial. “Mr. Jackson don't worry. Ms. Beaulieu is effcient, but, above all, she is very discreet.” Lonsdale had no choice but to listen while the banker asked the woman to come to his office.
After replacing the receiver, Siddiqui turned to Lonsdale. “How long are you planning to stay in Montreal?”
“Depends on what this Ms. Beaulieu comes up with.”
The manager looked at his watch. “It is unlikely that we shall be able to provide the answer to your third question before Monday. I dare say, you may be stuck here for the weekend.”
“Unless, of course, I go back home tonight, and return on Monday.” Lonsdale dreaded the thought of having to endure a solitary, grey, wintry weekend in Montreal.
Siddiqui took out his business card and scribbled something on it. “Here's my home telephone number, just in case.”
Before Lonsdale could thank him for the courtesy there was a knock on the door, and Ms. Beaulieu walked in. He rose to meet her, and had to fght hard to hide the shock of recognition. The woman was Micheline Beaulieu, his girlfriend of a decade and a half ago!
Prior to Lonsdale becoming part of the CIA's protected employees' program, when his name was still Bernard Lands, he had operated
undercover pretending to be an international fnancial consultant. Hungarian born, he had immigrated to Canada in the early ffties, and had lived in Montreal for over two decades.
A statuesque woman, Micheline had held an irresistible attraction for him right from the start. He had met her in the restaurant she managed, on the ground floor of a building in which Lonsdale was thinking of renting an office.
Using his search for office space as an excuse, he struck up a conversation and, under the spell of her sex appeal, made up his mind on the spot to rent an office in the building.
He had moved in and had often watched her from his office window as she waited for the bus at the end of her shift. One day, he timed his own departure to coincide with hers, and after offering her a lift home, he had talked her into having dinner with him.
They had eaten well, drunk well, and had danced to the music of an excellent Mexican trio in the east end of Montreal, near where she lived. They had laughed a lot, and he had ended up at Micheline's place for the night.
Their lovemaking had been spectacularly passionate and savage, and he was delighted to find that not only was she an accomplished lover but also intelligent, interesting, and genuine.
Lonsdale had driven her to work the next day. That night he had given her a lift home again, and they had picked up where they had left off the night before.
He had ended up living with Micheline for two years. Then, by mutual consent, they began to drift apart. On the third anniversary of their first date, she announced that she intended to leave both him and the country.
“Now why would you want to do that?” he'd asked, pretending indifference.
“Because we're not in love, and we're not going to get married.”
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