He noted the change with a sort of abstract fascination, a subconscious matter-of-factness rather than shock. All of a sudden the car's windshield was no longer clear and smooth and shiny. Instead, it resembled a spider's web in the center of which, however, there was no spider, but a hole—the kind high-velocity bullets made.
The dying driver's foot jerked down convulsively on the accelerator. The car picked up speed and careened into the intersection where, with a glass-shattering crash, a bus ploughed into it.
Nerves screaming, Lonsdale fought the urge to look up toward from where his training told him the bullet had come. Looking would give him away, helping the shooter find the right target this time: him. He had to get away fast, but unobtrusively.
He pretended to gawk at the smashed vehicles and made sympathetic noises while he watched the crowd around him and waited. After a decent interval he walked away with purposeful strides without a glance upward—a man going about his business, on his way to an important appointment. He hoped he'd succeeded in fooling them, but deep down he knew the game was up. Someone, he had no idea who, was stalking him, and would eventually hunt him down and kill him.
Lonsdale figured the assassin shot Siddiqui to stop him from talking to the man the banker had spoken with on the telephone the night before and whose identity the shooter could not be sure of until Lonsdale reached Siddiqui's car. By then it had been too late to kill both men. The second shot to kill Lonsdale, moving in a crowd, had probably become too difficult.
Having lost his anonymity Lonsdale was thus no longer safe. But who was hunting him and why?
He was aware that there was any number of people wanting him dead for a flood of reasons. Thirty years of cheating, lying, and killing certainly did not make him a candidate for Mister Popularity. Nonetheless, the little voice inside him, the one that had been so right so many times in the past and to which he listened very carefully, kept insisting that his troubles were directly connected with his present assignment. And that probably meant that the problem lay within the Agency. Very few people knew that Lonsdale had been given the Casas assignment and even that only a few days ago.
Walking towards his hotel Lonsdale hunkered down into his trench coat, allowing his mind to wander and his instincts to stand guard.
A young, bearded man in a black leather jacket walked by and disappeared into the crowd ahead. It was the same fellow he had noticed at the scene of the shooting: solidly built, with catlike movements, and a sharp face. Was Lonsdale being followed already?
He crossed Sherbrooke Street and headed down Mansfield toward Ben's Deli. The hostess showed him to a table next to a pillar. After looking around, he sat down with his back to the street, the embodiment of innocence.
“Vous attendez quelqu'un?” The smiling hostess wanted to know if he were waiting for someone.
“ Non, non, je suis seul.” Wryly, he caught his own joke: he was alone all right!
“Your waiter will be with you in a moment monsieur.” The hostess smiled again. “Bon appétit.”
She headed for the entrance where two student types—an acne-faced youth and his girl—stood waiting to be seated. Lonsdale watched them carefully from the corner of his eye in the long, horizontal mirror running along the wall behind the deli counter. When the girl spotted him she said something to her companion who nodded. They cut in front of the hostess and took their place at a table with an unimpeded view of both Lonsdale and the door.
“Ready to order?” The waiter was at Lonsdale's elbow.
“Sure! Might as well have lunch. A double-smoked meat, one lean, one fat, with fries and pickles.”
“Anything to drink?”
“A chocolate milkshake.”
The waiter shook his head in resignation and left. Another idiot who wants to die young from high cholesterol, he thought. Lonsdale sat back to watch his watchers.
They were young and inexperienced. The real opposition, the people who meant business, was probably waiting for him outside, or worse, at his hotel.
The waiter came back with the steaming sandwiches, and in spite of his preoccupation, Lonsdale managed a contented sigh. Smoked meat, what the Americans call pastrami, at Ben's was the best Montreal had to offer. As he bit into the fresh rye bread, the sandwich oozing with mustard and the fat drippings of the meat, he tried to estimate the number of times he must have eaten the same flood in this restaurant. He'd been a regular during his four undergraduate years at McGill University, visiting this pinnacle of the smoked-meat circuit at least twice a week, every week. Why, it was here that the Agency had recruited him thirty years ago; just a few feet from where he was sitting now.
He took a long sip of his milkshake and peered down at the forlorn-looking half sandwich on his plate. He had liked the flood, very much, and he was tempted to finish what was on his plate, but he didn't. There was no sense in taking unnecessary risks, not even with amateur lamplighters. Isn't that what the Brits called people who followed people?
He got up and, leaving his coat behind, headed for the washroom. He knew he was taking a risk, but he had few alternatives.
The place was just as he remembered it from his college days, perhaps a little shabbier, except that they had fixed the latch on the window leading to the alley behind the restaurant. He'd have to break the pane to make his getaway, but what was a broken window among friends anyway. He went into one of the stalls, smashed through the glass with his elbow, wrapped toilet paper around his fingers and picked out the shards. He had to stand on the trash can to get through the window, but he made it and landed, slightly winded, in the alley behind the restaurant. It was windy and miserably cold, and Lonsdale cursed the Montreal weather once more. Mercifully, the rain had stopped.
He sprinted back to De Maisonneuve Boulevard, hailed a taxi, and told the driver to take him to Alexis Nihon Plaza, the shopping mall opposite the Forum, home of the Montreal Canadiens hockey team. In the cab he took inventory of his possessions: two passports, his own and a Canadian one in the name of Donald Jackson; his wallet, which held various cards; about four hundred Canadian dollars; and a thousand U.S. dollar emergency “wad,” consisting of ten one hundred dollar bills he always carried in his wallet when on a mission.
An hour later, with four more thousand dollars in his wallet, a wide-brimmed hat on his head, and a badly fitting lined trench coat over his expensive blazer, Lonsdale was ready to start thinking again.
To get the money, he had used three of his many credit cards provided by the Agency. No matter. He knew they would not pull his credit immediately; they would wait to see where he'd use the cards. So he obliged by withdrawing the cash, buying some clothes and paying for a first class return ticket to London at a travel agency, all with credit cards.
He took the metro to Place Bonaventure, walked up University Street, bluffed his way into the private St. James Club through his reciprocal membership in the New York Athletic Club, and with a grateful sigh, sank into a comfortable armchair in the second-floor lounge with its large windows overlooking the branch of the BCCI where the late Akhtar Siddiqui had labored so hard.
It was three in the afternoon and Lonsdale wanted to know the extent of the surveillance his opponents had mounted against the branch in general and Micheline in particular.
Surveillance is not easy to spot, but to a trained eye it is usually obvious. In the parking lot on the side street opposite the BCCI two men kept getting in and out of a car strategically located so that its rear view mirror allowed an unobstructed view of the branch's main entrance. They took turns to walk past the branch, peering inside casually during each pass. One had a hat and a jacket both of which he took off from time to time to look different; the other had two hats and a pipe. The backup team, which the fellow with the two hats visited every fifteen minutes or so, was in a panel truck parked a block away. To Lonsdale, the operation looked very professional.
He evaluated his position while watching the action. It wasn't clear whether it was the C
ubans who were after him, or his own colleagues who did not want him sticking his nose into places where it didn't belong. Why else would they first deny him access to Fernandez and then have Morton order him to return to base? What was the reason for stopping him from ferreting out whether Fidel was dealing in drugs? Unless, of course, they knew something he didn't know.
Perhaps Fernandez was a plant and his story a hoax, a reverse sting. But if that were the case why wouldn't Morton have told him? Maybe Morton didn't know. Or was he just pretending not to know? Lonsdale doubted that. He and Morton were too close for that—or were they?
The killing of Siddiqui troubled him deeply. Was it intended to be a warning or was it a genuine miss, the gunman aiming at him, but hitting Siddiqui instead. Unlikely. The banker was killed to shut him up.
He decided the only logical answer was that the Agency was cutting him off from information. This meant that the Agency knew about the BCCI in Angola looking for a reliable coin dealer in Canada. And how did they find out? They couldn't have. But the Cubans knew!
Lonsdale cursed himself for his stupidity. It was his own remark to Siddiqui on the telephone that had tipped them off. And that's also how whoever killed Siddiqui knew about the pickup on the corner of Peel and Sherbrooke Streets. Hell, he had given them over twelve hours to get their gunman into position, and the man had not failed them.
If they knew about BCCI Luanda, did they know about Mr. Schwartz? If so, Schwartz was as good as dead or perhaps dead already.
What about Micheline? As far as he could remember he had not called her from anywhere, and nobody knew that he had seen her on Friday night and again on Sunday. Unless, of course, she had told someone.
He left his vantage point at four-thirty, walked over to Avis at Dominion Square, rented a Taurus using a credit card, and drove to Montreal's “other” airport, Mirabel, about thirty miles north of the city. He left the car in the fifteen-minute parking zone at the departures level and took the shuttle bus to Dorval Airport from the arrivals level. A twenty-minute cab ride got him to within a block of where Micheline lived.
He walked up the street in the pelting rain, head buried in the collar of his ill-fitting coat, his new hat almost completely hiding his face. He checked for surveillance, but could see none. To make sure, he went past the building for two full blocks and doubled back, checking continuously. He was going to pass the building again, but as he drew level with the door he saw a boy in the lobby, struggling with a large black dog, trying to get it through the half-open door. Boy and dog were dripping wet from the freezing rain and hopelessly enmeshed in the animal's leash. Lonsdale gave the lad a hand and the three slipped through the open door like butter, for all intents and purposes a happy, laughing, joshing father-son-and-dog team.
He got out of the elevator on the fifteenth floor and walked down three flights to Micheline's level. He used the fire escape to get to the outside passageway running along the rear of the building and carefully tiptoed past Micheline's apartment. He couldn't see into the kitchen, but, through the drawn blinds, the TV flickered. Was she alone?
Lonsdale was cold, miserable, and very angry. The bastards in Washington were in the process of betraying him again. To them, loyalty was, as always, a one-way street.
He rang the bell. “Qui est là?”
“It's me, Micheline. Bernard.”
The door flew open. “For God's sake come in out of the rain. What are you doing on the back balcony anyway?” Micheline was in her dressing gown, a cup of tea in her hand, her eyes bloodshot from crying.
“I'm freezing,” Lonsdale replied with teeth chattering, shaking the water off his hat and messing up the kitchen floor in the process. “I'm also hungry, thirsty, out-of-sorts, and in need of information.”
Micheline gave him a questioning look. “What's going on, Bernard? They were going crazy at the bank this afternoon.” Her voice broke. She sounded agitated and very concerned. “The police came after lunch and said Mr. Siddiqui had been murdered. They sealed his office and then questioned the senior staff. After a while they went away, and we were allowed to leave. I only got home an hour ago.” She shuddered. “Has all this got something to do with you?”
Shivering, Lonsdale looked at his watch. It was ten to ten. “I'm very sorry about your boss, Micheline, believe me. I know he was murdered. I don't know why or by whom, but I intend to find out.” He made an effort to stop his teeth from chattering. Micheline noticed.
She put down her cup and reached for his hat and coat. “Let me help you out of your wet clothes before you catch cold. Come, I'll make you a cup of hot chocolate. If you want, I'll make you something to eat, too.”
“I want—”
“Keep me company while I get everything ready.” She hung his hat and coat on the hook on the back of the kitchen door. “Start explaining yourself. Why didn't you call first, anyway?”
Lonsdale took a deep breath. “I didn't call because I didn't want anyone to know that I was coming to see you.” He watched her closely. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“Before I answer any questions you had better explain your strange behavior yesterday.” She pulled her dressing gown tight around her shoulders in a defensive gesture.
“That's not easy.” He sat down at the kitchen table. How much could he tell her about what was going on? He decided to play for time. “You're right, there is something very strange going on at the BCCI,” he began, trying as gently as he could to ease her into the nightmare he knew was bound to follow. “Mr. Schwartz's friend is part of it.”
Micheline's shoulders tensed, but she continued to assemble the makings of an omelet. “Continue. I'm listening.”
“Did you see Mr. Schwartz today?” He held his breath.
“He came in around four to make a deposit and waved to me. We didn't get a chance to talk. I was busy with the police.” She deftly cracked two eggs and poured them into the sizzling pan.
“Did the police question him, too?”
“I don't know. Certainly not in the bank. Why?”
“Just wondering. Do you think you could get in touch with him tonight?”
“I suppose I could, but why should I?”
Lonsdale looked at Micheline, standing with her back to him, concentrating on getting his omelet done just right—liquidy, the way he liked it—and an immense sense of self-pity engulfed him.
He was cold, wet, tired, alone, and feeling very insecure—he was weary of being betrayed by his own people. He longed for the days before he had become Lonsdale, days when he belonged somewhere and to someone, when he had someone he could trust.
He wondered how close her relationship with Schwartz really was. Should I confide in her or leave Schwartz to the wolves, whoever they were? he asked himself. The little voice in his head helped him make up his mind. You need Schwartz, you idiot. Besides, it's wrong to let an innocent man die.
Choosing his words very carefully, he said, “You should, because I don't want to be responsible for yet another person's death,” he whispered.
She spun around to face him, incomprehension in her eyes. “What on earth are you talking about?”
He stood up and held out his arms to her. “Help me, Miche. I need someone in whom I can confide. Problem is I've forgotten how.” Shaking his head, he sat down and covered his face with his hands.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Monday through Wednesday
Montreal, Canada
A decade of self-imposed psychological privation is hard to overcome, especially for a loner laboring in an environment of fear and constant deception. Lonsdale knew that if he started to talk it would be hard for him to stop. He would probably say too much and jeopardize not only his own, but other people's lives as well.
After the millisecond it took for this to flash through his mind he concluded that he didn't give a damn about his own life and that he was deathly weary of running from his past. It came to him that he would find peace only by unburdening himself of the
guilt that gnawed at him with relentless consistency.
There was yet another factor prompting him to break his rule of absolute discretion. He felt very bitter about having apparently been abandoned by his friend and colleague, Jim Morton. How could Morton do such a thing after Lonsdale had volunteered to shoulder the responsibility of the mission alone?
Lonsdale needed an ally to help him stay alive and to assist him in completing his mission. Micheline qualifed as a candidate on both counts.
But was Micheline trustworthy? Was she discrete? Was there a chance she was working or at least in contact with the opposition. And who was the opposition, the Cubans, the Cartel, his “friends” at the Agency? Most likely the Cubans. There was no way to know.
Lonsdale opted to take the risk. He began to talk.
He told her how, having been recruited by the Agency in Montreal, he had spent years undercover in Cuba; how later he had roamed Latin America on behalf of the Agency; how in the early eighties he had managed to “turn” a Cuban intelligence offcer operating out of Montreal, who was doubling as the paymaster of a group of Arab terrorists for the USSR. Through him, Lonsdale told her, he had become involved in anti-terrorist work, which ultimately created a situation that lead to his wife's death.
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.
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