“As I said, it's not possible. But, I do have a message for you.”
“What is it?”
“Call the Liquor Merchant at home tonight.”
“Fuck you very much,” said Lonsdale and banged down the receiver. It seemed Morton was trying to cut him off from information. But why? And what the hell was Morton doing with Smythe?
Lonsdale called the office again. Weisskopf was still there. “Is Jim around?”
“No, he hasn't come back yet. But he did call in and tell me to ask you to call him tonight.”
“Thanks, Weissköpfchen. Keep the faith and have a nice weekend.” He slammed down the receiver and headed for the main door.
To fill the rest of the day, he went to an early movie, which helped him to stop thinking about Micheline and Mr. Schwartz. He then had a quick dinner at the Maritime Bar of the Ritz Carlton Hotel on Sherbrooke Street. At ten sharp, he called Morton, the Liquor Merchant, from his table.
“What are you doing with Fernandez?” Lonsdale asked without preamble.
“We're holding him in one of our safe houses in Miami.” Morton was equally abrupt.
“Can you find him for me? I need to talk to him.”
“No, I can't. Besides, there's more bad news. The Wise Men got wind of our little operation and, after careful analysis, decided that we were barking up the wrong tree.”
“So?”
“They have ordered me to shut this thing down.”
“As of when?”
“They weren't specific about it, but I think they'd like to see you back in the office on Monday, Tuesday at the latest.”
“Jim, none of this makes sense to me. We don't even know which way is up, so how could the Wise Men? Don't you think it's too early to throw in the towel?”
“Listen, my friend. Like you, I only carry out orders. They told me to fold our tents, so I'm folding our tents. And that includes you. Be back at the office on Tuesday morning.” Morton did not sound his usual serene self.
Lonsdale was beginning to sweat. “Am I hearing what I think I'm hearing?”
“Hear whatever you want to hear. Just be back in the office on Tuesday morning.”
“Is that an order?”
“I'm afraid it is.”
“Then good night, Jim, and thanks for nothing.”
“Good night. See you Tuesday.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sunday Montreal, Canada
On Sunday, Micheline picked up Lonsdale at eleven sharp. He was eager to ask her about Mr. Schwartz, but curbed his impatience and made small talk while she maneuvered them out of the city.
“Where are we headed?”
“I thought we'd drive into the Laurentian hills, have a leisurely lunch, then go antiquing.”
Lonsdale looked out the window. “Do you think the weather will hold?”
“They say it will be sunny with cloudy periods.”
“Let her rip then, and let's see if we can find a real antique or two.”
“What do you mean?”
“If the Laurentians are as picked over as the vicinity of Washington, I doubt we'll find anything worth buying.”
“So you live in Washington now?”
“I commute between Washington and the Caymans. To be more accurate, I commute from the Cayman Islands to Washington and back. I guess you could say the Islands are my home since the BCCI's head office is there.”
“Funny. I somehow thought you would settle in New York. You don't look like someone who lives in the islands.”
“I don't?”
“No, especially not in the Cayman Islands.”
“Oh, how come? What do you know about the Cayman Islands anyway?” But, of course, he knew the answer ahead of time. He had just forgotten.
“Plenty. As you very well know, for a while I lived in Nassau and my husband and I had friends in Cayman whom we visited often. They were always tanned, not like you. The sun is very strong there.” She gave him a strange look.
He shrugged, annoyed with himself for having been careless. “I spend most of my time indoors, in the office. When I'm there, that is. But I travel a lot.”
“On assignments like the one you're on now, I suppose.”
“That's right.” He decided it was time to change the subject. “Now tell me what's new in the Laurentians.”
Micheline drove him to Les Galleries des Monts, a quaint little shopping center in the town of St. Sauveur, and proudly showed him around the elegant boutiques, the handicraft shops, and Zen's workshop, renowned for glass blowing. By the time they left the workshop, it was time for lunch.
“You should be ashamed at the way you ogled Zen's female assistants,” Micheline joked as they finished their beers at Moe's, St. Sauveur's best deli.
Lonsdale ignored the remark. “How about anything else to eat or drink?”
“No thanks.”
“Then let me get the bill.” He paid the waiter, and they walked to her car without speaking.
“Where to?” she asked.
“I'm at your command, and if I might add, I'm having a wonderful day, so I know wherever you take me will be just fine.”
She turned toward Mont Habitant. Lonsdale closed his eyes and immediately dozed off. He woke with a start when they came to a stop in the driveway of a log cabin overlooking a lake.
“Whose house is this?”
“My son's.”
“Your son's? Is he expecting us?”
She was watching him intently. “No. He and his wife have gone to New York City for the week. By the way, the house is my house too.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Rudi, my husband, and I lived in Nassau he owned a very successful restaurant, and we had a good life together. Then I got pregnant, and he wanted our child to be born and brought up in Switzerland, so we sold the restaurant and moved back to Pfeffikon, near Zurich. That's where Rudi's parents were from. My son, Karl, was born there, and we lived happily ever after.” There was bitterness in Micheline's voice.
“Forever after? Then what are you doing in Canada working for BCCI?”
Her eyes were moist with tears. “When Karl was sixteen Rudi had a terrible car accident. He was in a coma for two years. Then he died, and I moved back here.”
“Why?”
“I'd spent most of the money we had saved on trying to make Rudi healthy again. By the time he died, there was very little left.”
“And?”
“I brought Karl back here, moved in with my widowed mother, got a job, and put Karl through college.”
“He's your only child.”
“Yes. He graduated first in his class. He's a brilliant engineer and works for Oerlikon, the Swiss weapons manufacturer, here in Quebec.”
They got out of the car. “And with what I inherited from my mother when she died, plus what I saved, plus what Karl had put aside, we bought this house. Karl and his wife live here all year round, I visit on weekends.” She turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and disappeared into the house.
The furniture in the dining room to the left of the entrance was French Canadian. The refectory table with custom-made “habitant” chairs around it was long enough to accommodate twelve people comfortably. There was an antique sideboard along the wall and in the corner, a wedge-shaped étagère.
“I'm in the den,” he heard Micheline call out. “Hang your coat in the closet, take off your shoes, and come sit by me.”
Micheline patted the pillow next to her on the flowery sofa. “Sit down here.” She smiled as she watched him obey awkwardly. “Tell me, what troubles you about this place? You turned pale when you entered.”
He flushed and almost wilted under her gaze. “I don't really know,” he said sheepishly, fighting hard to cover up. The house reminded him very much of the one he used to own in the Laurentians. “I suppose this situation is just too strange, too unusual for me.” He bit his lip and looked away. “Could we talk about Mr. Schwartz a little? Maybe that'l
l relax me a bit.” He made himself laugh, trying hard to turn on the charm again.
“I suppose you want me to believe,” Micheline said, “that you have no idea about this friend of yours, this man in the photograph, bringing gold coins and small ivory statues into Canada and selling them to Mr. Schwartz for cash. He called them figurines,” she added inconsequentially.
“What did he call figurines?” At the mention of the word “ivory” Lonsdale had turned ice cold inside. Ivory came from Africa and general Casas was commanding troops there.“And what has all this got to do with the man in the photograph?”
“Bernard, why are you doing this?” Micheline asked. “You meddle in honest people's legitimate businesses, but you overlook the crooks, the really big crooks that run our bank, or I should say your bank, because you're part of it also.” She was becoming agitated.
Lonsdale made an attempt to calm her down. “Come on Miche, take it easy and don't blame me. I'm just another small cog on the big wheel, like you.”
“Don't patronize me Bernard, please. If you, just like the others, don't want to tell me what is really going on at the BCCI, that's all right, but don't take me for a simpleton.” She stood up. “Get your hat and coat. There really is no reason for us to stay here any longer. On our way back to Montreal I'll tell you about Mr. Schwartz and all the things I have found out for you. Then I'll drop you off at your hotel and we'll say goodbye.” Her hopes for a romantic reconciliation shattered, she ran upstairs. Lonsdale went to collect his belongings.
For the first twenty minutes the silence in the car was frigid. Past St. Jerome, Micheline began to speak. “At dinner last night Mr. Schwartz told me about one of his clients in the coin business. Actually, the man is his supplier and has been for about a year.” She looked at Lonsdale who chose to say nothing, afraid to stop the flow of words.
“This supplier lives in Angola and can lay his hands on gold and silver coins and medals at very low prices. He also has ivory for sale, which, I am told, is a very rare thing because it's no longer legal to hunt elephants for their tusks. Did you know that?”
Lonsdale had the sense to look totally relaxed. “Yes, I did.” he replied. Most of his important questions had just been answered.
Casas's army was headquartered in Angola, so he would have easy access to coins, medals, and ivory figurines there. He'd smuggle these artifacts into Canada without difficulty since he'd be traveling on a diplomatic passport. He'd sell them for cash to Mr. Schwartz and could then do with the untraceable money whatever he wanted. There would be no direct banking involvement and, thus, no record of any transaction. It had been careless of Casas to overlook removing the bundling strips when he deposited the money in Cayman, but he had, perhaps, needed them to prove the legitimacy of the source of the money. Had it not been for this oversight Lonsdale would never have been able to connect Casas with the Cayman deposit.
But how did Casas get to Schwartz and where was he getting the money to pay for the coins and the ivory in Africa? And, most intriguing of all, how come Micheline was sure Schwartz's supplier was the man in the photograph?
“—nothing illegal, so I don't understand why you're after him,” Lonsdale heard the question in Micheline's tone and forced himself to pay attention to her.
“I'm sorry, what did you say?”
“I said that neither Mr. Schwartz nor his supplier has done anything illegal, and that I don't understand why you have to persecute them, especially since the whole thing was arranged by the bank.”
“What was?”
“Are you going to tell me that you didn't know Mr. Schwartz was introduced to your man in the photograph by Mr. Siddiqui?”
“But Mr. Siddiqui said he'd never seen the man in the photograph.”
“That's true, he never did.”
“I don't understand.”
“I didn't either at the beginning, but I was slowly able to get it all out of Mr. Schwartz. Frankly, I don't know why I bothered.” Lonsdale could see that Micheline was becoming more agitated. He sighed. “Do believe me when I say I'm very grateful for your help. Take it as the gospel truth that I didn't know anything about the bank introducing the man to Mr. Schwartz.”
“Pretty strange words from someone who told us at the bank on Friday that he came to Montreal to make life easier for one of his colleagues who needed help in his complicated job.”
“I said ‘delicate' job, not complicated.”
“Fine.” She made a face. “I've told you this much, so I might as well tell you everything I know.” She wanted so badly to reach out and comfort him, but instinct told her now was not the time. He was hiding something from her, what and why she couldn't even guess at. “Mr. Siddiqui never met the man in the photograph. What happened was that the BCCI branch manager in Luanda wrote my manager asking for the name of a reputable coin dealer who could handle large transactions. He said he needed it for a good client. Mr. Siddiqui gave him Mr. Schwartz's name and address and then told Mr. Schwartz about the referral. Eventually your man came to Montreal, went directly to Mr. Schwartz and started doing business with him.”
“And Mr. Schwartz took him at face value.”
“He had a letter of introduction from a BCCI manager.”
“Then tell me this. How do you know the coin supplier and the man in my photograph are one and the same?”
“To tell you the truth I'm not sure, I'm just guessing. But Mr. Schwartz did say the man had gray, close-cropped hair and wore glasses.”
“So does half the male population over fifty.”
“But they don't have introductions to coin dealers from BCCI managers to help them cover up large cash transactions. Maybe this is all part of a big international money laundering operation, something that perhaps the bank knows more about than it would care to admit.” Micheline gave him a sidelong glance. “You did say that this man in the photograph is a colleague.”
Lonsdale knew that to continue questioning Micheline would trap him in a web of half-truths and outright lies from which he'd never be able to extricate himself, so he said nothing.
He needed to talk to Siddiqui.
After Micheline dropped him off in front of his hotel, Lonsdale raced across the lobby, down the stairs, and through the underground corridor to Central Station where he grabbed the nearest public telephone. Siddiqui's daughter answered and told him that her parents were at dinner and wouldn't be back until after ten.
Disappointed, Lonsdale decided to wait it out in the comfort of a movie theater on St. Catherine Street.
At ten-thirty he called Siddiqui again, this time from the theater's lobby.
“Sorry I wasn't here to take your call earlier.” As always, the banker was his polite self. “My daughter did tell me though that you'd call back, so I suppose there's no harm done.”
Lonsdale was quick to reassure the man. “None at all, none at all.”
“What then can I do for you?”
“I'd like to meet again, preferably outside the office, and as soon as possible. Are you free for breakfast tomorrow morning?”
“Unfortunately not. And after breakfast I have to visit one of our larger clients in Laval, the north end of the city.”
“How about lunch? You will be my guest of course.”
“Lunch would be fine.”
“Where shall we meet?”
“Tell you what. I'll be driving south, so why don't I pick you up somewhere and we'll have a leisurely lunch at my favorite restaurant.”
“What's it called and where is it?”
“La Saulaie and it's quite a bit outside the downtown core, on the South Shore. Do you know the general area?”
“I'm afraid not,” Lonsdale lied. He had offered to treat Siddiqui to lunch and the banker had called him on it. La Saulaie was one of Montreal's fnest—and priciest—restaurants. The man wanted to be taken for a long and expensive lunch. “What do you propose?” he asked the wily banker.
Siddiqui thought for a moment. “I presume y
ou're staying at the Ritz, so I'll pick you up on the corner of Peel and Sherbrooke streets at noon if that's convenient. The intersection is right next to your hotel.”
“That should work out quite well.”
“I'll be coming down the hill from the north and I'll pick you up on the north-west corner.”
“What kind of a car do you drive?”
“It's a bottle-green Aston-Martin Lagonda. You can't miss it my dear fellow; it is the only one of its kind in Montreal. By the way, is there anything in particular that you wish to speak to me about? Should I have my secretary brief me on any specific file?”
“You could, perhaps, ask her for the telephone and fax numbers of your colleague in Luanda.” It was an indiscreet remark to make over the telephone, but Lonsdale reasoned that, sooner or later, Siddiqui would have to be told.
Siddiqui chuckled. “Ah, so you are aware of the recent inquiry I had from Rahman.”
“Rahman?”
“Yes, Nazir Rahman. My colleague in Angola. We'll talk about him over lunch.”
“Very well, Mr. Siddiqui. Forgive me for having disturbed you at home on a Sunday evening.”
“My dear fellow, don't mention it. We're here to serve our good customers twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. That's the BCCI way.”
“Then I won't keep you any longer and ‘à demain’.”
“À demain.” Siddiqui hung up.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Monday Montreal, Canada
Lonsdale was cold; of late he was always cold, but this time he really did feel rotten. His teeth chattered as he stood at the agreed-upon intersection waiting for Siddiqui. He had forgotten how cold and wet and windy Montreal could be in late October on days when the sun refused to come out of hiding.
Finally, he saw the Aston Martin gliding down the hill, and with the biting wind driving the rain into his face, he started across the street, jumping the gutter water and dodging the puddles, trying to time his arrival so that the lights would change just as he got to the other side. “Piece of cake,” he muttered as he watched the driver ease over to the right to make things even simpler for him.
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