In addition to the two tickets, he had three passports, including Schwartz's, which contained a picture of a gray-haired man. But he was sure the Jackson and Lonsdale passports were already on the Interpol “to watch for” list. Since Interpol meant CIA, Lonsdale would be tipping his hand to Washington by using either of them, something he didn't want to do too early.
It was clear that, despite the obvious danger, the Schwartz passport was the safest to use since he'd had no diffculty crossing the Austro-Hungarian border with it at Hegyeshalom the night before.
The old man's body would probably not be found before noon. It would then take about three hours for the Hungarian police to establish Schwartz's identity and passport number from his hotel registration card, to conduct a preliminary investigation, and to report the murder to the Canadian Embassy and Interpol.
Another three to six hours would pass before immigration officers the world over would be notifed that the Schwartz passport was no longer valid. That would mean relative safety until about six p.m. Vienna time, noon in Toronto.
He called Air Canada and was told his fight would be half empty. This helped him decide. Schwartz would leave Austria and arrive in Canada as Jackson, a common name that might just slip by undetected. With glasses and wearing the hat he had bought in Montreal covering his gray Schwartz hair, Lonsdale would have no trouble passport-picture-wise. As for the “watch-for” issue, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. He could always elude surveillance and disappear.
At eleven thirty sharp he presented himself at the Air Canada Maple Leaf Lounge and asked to be checked in. The attendant smiled as she took his ticket and asked for his passport. He fumbled around. “Sorry about this, but I seem to be more tired than usual,” he said in English.
“Too much wine last night in Grinzig?” she grinned, teasing him. Lonsdale laughed. “At my age even a little wine is too much.” He bent down, fumbled some more, opened and closed his sample case, let out an exaggerated groan as he straightened up and clutched at his waist. “Don't ever get old,” he said. “My arthritis is killing me.” He extracted the Schwartz passport from his breast pocket and opened it on the picture page. Instead of handing it over he waved it at her. “Will this do?” he blinked at her over Schwartz's bifocals.
She checked him in, gave him an aisle seat and, as a bonus, blocked off the seat next to him.
“You're sure I won't have trouble with my bags at security?” he asked her, pointing to his large sample case.
The attendant rose slightly and looked over her computer. “No, not at all. You should see the monsters some passengers get away with. But here,” she said sweetly and handed him a special tag, “put this on your bag and you'll sail through security with ease.”
He thanked her profusely and went to get himself a cup of tea.
Hurdle number one out of the way.
Hurdle number two was another matter. The Austrian border policeman he got was grouchy. His attitude was hostile. “Passport and boarding card please.”
Lonsdale obliged. The policeman began to sift through his documents.
“Schwartz. What kind of a name is that for a Canadian?” A racist, Lonsdale thought, and I had to have the misfortune of getting involved with him. “Jewish,” he replied.
The man smiled. “You Jewish?”
“Yes.”
“Good for you, so am I.” He stamped Schwartz's passport and waved Lonsdale on.
He had no trouble at the boarding gate. To his surprise, they were not checking passports there, and as for the X-ray machine, the only metal he was carrying was a collection of old coins.
He was safely in his seat ten minutes before take-off, but dared not breathe a sigh of relief until half past two: the time he estimated they exited Austrian air space.
He asked for a double vodka and Perrier, gulped it down, made his seat go as far back as it would, closed his eyes and set his mind on replay. The things Casas and he had discussed in Budapest were all jumbled up in his mind and needed sorting out.
Casas had told Lonsdale that he had flown from Prague to Budapest via Czechoslovak Airlines, just as Schwartz had said. He was traveling on a diplomatic passport, which made his luggage exempt from search of any kind. He always traveled with a maximum of two small bags, like Lonsdale's, and everyone assumed his briefcase, resembling Schwartz's sample case, was full of important papers, when actually, Casas was steadily smuggling rare coins and priceless ivory fgurines from Africa to Hungary. Schwartz then took over, exporting these items to Canada under a license from the Hungarian National Museum.
The general was scrupulous in his affairs. Cuban soldiers were allowed a bounty of twenty-five per cent of everything they “liberated” in Angola. Casas followed the rules carefully and had arranged for Schwartz to remit from BCCI Montreal to the Cuban Ministry of the Interior's account at the Banco Nacional de Cuba in Havana, three-quarters of what Schwartz paid for the coins and figurines.
The balance Schwartz kept for Casas in Montreal. Thus, technically, Casas was absolutely on side. The Cuban government got paid its due and the general, though his funds were being kept for him by Schwartz in U.S. dollars, was not in possession of foreign currency, a criminal act punishable in Cuba by deprivation of personal liberty, in other words, prison.
Lonsdale and Casas had tried to estimate how much money was involved. They calculated that, during his thirteen-odd trips to Hungary in the last year and a half, Casas had sold Schwartz about four million dollars' worth of coins and carved ivory fgurines of which a quarter was Casas'. All this he had sacrifced to spook Fernandez!
How much money old man Schwartz made on the deal they could only guess at.
The entire operation, except the arrangement with Schwartz, was known to the Cuban government and had its wholehearted support. It was brilliant in its simplicity because it depended on only two men.
As for the drug thing, that was a highly complex and entirely different matter. It required close coordination between the Cuban Ministry of the Interior, including Department Z, and the army, and the cooperation of more than two hundred people, of whom no more than twenty were in the know.
Casas had spent a good hour explaining to Lonsdale the rationale behind Cuba becoming mixed up in drug traffcking and the complicated logistics involved. He had then pulled a three-ring binder with a fuorescent orange cover from his briefcase. It was the complete operations manual of “Golden Gate,” the code name for Cuba's drug-running operation. “Only ten copies of this are known to exist,” he had said, sounding exhausted from the pain and the tension. “I'm giving you my copy, which I always carry with me in case I need to look up some detail. Guard it with your life.”
In return, Lonsdale had given his newfound friend the addresses of a series of dead-letter drops throughout the Republic of Cuba regularly serviced by the CIA. He also provided Casas with recognition codes and escape routes that he had developed specifcally for the general prior to his departure from the Bethesda office.
Lonsdale began to enumerate the escape routes in his mind, but didn't make it beyond number three. He fell asleep.
The stewardess's gentle touch on his shoulder startled him. “I didn't mean to disturb you, Sir, but would you care for some lunch?”
Lonsdale realized that he was famished. During the last thirty hours he had only eaten twice—a light breakfast at the Hotel Citadella and another at the Vienna Hilton, where he had spent the previous night.
“I'd love some lunch,” he answered eagerly.
“We have chicken or beef.”
“Beef it is. And some red wine, please.”
He wolfed down his meal, had a cognac with his coffee, and was fast asleep by the time the cabin was darkened for the movie.
He awoke to the sound of the cabin crew clattering the dishes used for serving afternoon tea. He felt refreshed, but agitated. He fgured his subconscious must have been reminding him of the problems he was going to have to face in very short order. He waved off t
he proffered tray of Viennese pastries and hunkered down to some serious decision making.
At Toronto he would have two choices: go on to Montreal and see Micheline, or rent a car and drive to Washington. There was also a third obvious choice, that of calling Morton and demanding to be brought up-to-date, which his inner voice vehemently opposed. Under the circumstances he felt that, discretion being the better part of valor, he would follow his instincts rather than logic.
Since he had no more than a couple of hundred dollars left—and, foremost, because he was desperate to see Micheline again—he opted for Montreal.
At most major airports of the world there are designated lines for returning citizens to facilitate their reentry into their own country. Not so in Canada where those “coming home” must line up with the rest of the travelers. Lonsdale assumed this was due to the essentially self-effacing nature of the country's citizens.
The immigration hall at Toronto's Pearson International Airport was a zoo. There were more than a thousand people milling about.
Sporting Schwartz's hat, he lined up behind a five-member African family, obviously about to take up residence in Canada. Their turn at seeing the immigration officer came about forty minutes after Lonsdale had gotten into line behind them. The harassed offcial applied himself to the paperwork, which took him ten minutes to complete.
Lonsdale was next. He handed the man his Jackson passport. The officer, relieved to be dealing with a simple case, hardly looked at it. “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he mumbled then looked at the customs declaration Lonsdale had meticulously completed. “Anything to declare?”
“Nothing.”
“How long will you be staying in Canada?”
“About an hour; long enough to rent a car and drive to Buffalo.”
The man handed him his papers. “Good luck.” And that was that.
So much for the Interpol “to-be-watched for” list, thought Lonsdale as he waited for the shuttle to take him to the Bristol Hotel, just around the corner. “Here we go again,” he murmured. “I had better start worrying about surveillance again.” Being cut off from head office, and out of favor, he had no way of finding out who may be looking for him: the CIA for not turning up at the office as ordered, the Cubans because he was messing with Casas, or the Colombians who must, by now, be wondering what Fernandez, their contact with Cuba, was up to.
The bus arrived and he got on. Off it went from Terminal 2 to Terminal 1, with Lonsdale standing in the rear door watching for pursuit. Although there didn't seem to be any, he wanted to be sure, so he waited until the passengers embarking at Terminal 1 were all on board, then got off at the very last second. Nobody followed, and Lonsdale melted into the crowd.
He took the escalator to the departure level, bought himself a ticket to Montreal on a Québecair fight leaving within forty minutes, and repaired to the washrooms to change underwear and freshen up. His instincts were insisting that time was running out on him.
At Montreal's Dorval Airport he exchanged Schwartz's elegant cashmere overcoat for the ill-fitting but warm and water-resistant coat he'd bought in Montreal. Details, details, but he knew that this garment, rather than Schwartz's, would be the one to keep him dry should he have to walk in the rain.
By half past eight he was in a cab on his way to Micheline's apartment reasonably certain he was not being followed. Again, to be sure, he made the driver drop him two blocks from her apartment.
Before reaching the building he circled the little park opposite it then cut across, striding purposefully, sample case in hand, just another working stiff on his way home after staying late at the office. He didn't even glance at Le Sanctuaire's main entrance as he rounded the corner and headed down the street leading away from the building. He continued for one bloc, turned right for two blocs, then right again, to fetch up against the rear of Le Sanctuaire, opposite the garage entrance.
He sprinted across the street, down the ramp leading to the garage door, slammed the access card Micheline had given him into its slot and prayed for the heavy overhead door to open. It did.
Lonsdale was through in a fash and, turning immediately to his left, took refuge behind a fat pillar. He waited, listening intently for footsteps, but heard none. After thirty seconds, the door began to close and Lonsdale took off toward the elevators, hoping the noise of the closing door would mask the clatter of his footsteps. About ten yards from the elevator door he hid behind a pillar once more and willed himself to remain stock-still. He listened intently for a full minute, but could hear no one.
He strode over to the elevator door and tried to open it. It was locked!
“Shit!” He'd forgotten that a special key was needed to get in. “It's the details that will kill you every time,” he cursed silently and fished through the keys Micheline had given him. “Good girl,” he murmured when he spotted the funny-looking Abloy key he needed. “You're better at this than me.”
She lived on the twelfth foor, but he took the elevator only to floor number ten and used the stairs for the rest. Although he felt ridiculous about doing it, he tiptoed up the remaining two flights with great caution, still watching out for pursuit. He continued on tiptoes until he reached her kitchen door. Like the last time, he listened to what was going on in the apartment. There was no one in the kitchen even though the lights were on. He tried the door. It was locked.
Using her key, he entered, closing the door softly behind him. He put his sample case down, took a quick step forward, and shed his hat and coat. Then, by pure instinct, he picked up a large knife from the kitchen counter and tiptoed into the unlit dining room.
The area was separated from the living room by sliding doors, which Micheline liked to keep open to make le salon seem more spacious. Lonsdale could clearly hear what was going on.
“—his own safety,” he heard a familiar-sounding male voice say.
Micheline answered: “But I've told you a dozen times already that I have no idea where he is. I have not seen him or heard from him for two weeks.”
“Yes, you did tell me that, but can you remember what day that was?”
“I think it was a Thursday, but I'm not sure.”
“Was it the Thursday before Mr. Siddiqui was killed?”
“Defnitely before.”
“You sure?”
Lonsdale stepped into the living room. “Leave the poor woman alone,” he said “or risk having yourself killed dead with a kitchen knife.” Turning to the startled man sitting in an armchair in front of him, he held the object in his hand high. “What the hell are you doing here, James Morton, and how did you find out about Micheline?”
Try as he would, Morton could not stop himself from laughing. All was well with the world. Lonsdale had come in from the cold in more ways than one.
The man seemed to be in love again.
PREPARACIÓN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday
Washington, DC
Lonsdale had barely had time to give Micheline a peck on the cheek before Morton had him back at St. Hubert Airport and on their way to Washington in the Agency's plane. During the flight Morton had been uncharacteristically reserved, insisting that he hold his questions until they met Smythe the next day.
Lonsdale got to bed at three a.m., nine in the morning in Budapest. He had managed five hours' restless sleep before having to drag himself to the great man's offce.
“Sit down, Lonsdale, and listen. I owe you an explanation and an apology.” Smythe was not in character. He was being gracious to the point where he even offered glasses of his favorite branch water to Morton and Lonsdale. “I hate that bearded bastard in Havana with a passion, and I want him the hell outta there. I'm doing my darndest to accelerate his political demise short of killin', him and I'm having a devil of a time.”
Lonsdale bristled, but a glance from Morton made him hold his tongue. “About two years ago the then-director of Central Intelligence asked for my support for a highly imaginative, but
extremely risky plan to dislodge Dr. Castro. Risky for the agent running the operation in Havana, risky for the government of these United States because of the possibility of the scheme backfring on us if it were discovered by Dr. Castro's intelligence apparatus prematurely, risky for the CIA because, if improperly implemented, it would make the Agency a laughingstock worldwide.”
Director Smythe leaned back in his chair and paused for effect. “Most importantly, the plan represented a risk for me because the operation would never have been authorized by the president without my backing, and its failure he would surely lay at my feet.” He glanced at Lonsdale. “Now don't get all itchy and uppity. I know what you're thinkin'.”
“And what may that be, Sir?”
“That success, on the other hand, would guarantee my confrmation as director of Central Intelligence. And you're right.” Smythe went so far as to wink at Lonsdale. “So I was on the horns of a dilemma. Should I trust you two with details, or should I keep things strictly on a need-to-know basis?” He sighed. “Manpower-wise, apart from the communications boys at Langley, there were originally only fve people involved: the agent on the ground and his control, plus the DCI, of course, me, and the president. The agent—let's call him Charley—had warned us that it would take about two years to get things goin' and he was right.” Warming to his subject, the senator began to pace about.
“Charley was really cookin', and we only needed another three to four months before we could pull the trigger and kiss Dr. Castro adios. And then–” He turned to Morton, “Why don't you take it from here and tell your man what happened then.” Smythe rounded his desk and sank heavily into his chair.
“And then,” Morton picked up effortlessly from where the old man had left off. “Fernandez happened. He bolted, and the CIA contact at the INS in Miami got us involved before anybody could stop him from doing so.” Morton looked very uncomfortable. “Director Smythe didn't fnd out about our being in the picture until the day you left for Montreal, chomping at the bit to get at General Casas. By then the INS man had done what he had been trained to do.”
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