Lonsdale nodded. “I sure do.”
The Cuban shook his head as if to chase away the past. “Let's get on with the job. By the way, what's your operational cover name?”
“Bernard Lands, and it's not a cover name. I was baptized Bernard Lands when I was a week old. And, in case you're wondering, I'm no longer with the Agency.”
“OK, by me socio, my old buddy. Where do we go from here?”
Lonsdale sighed. This session was going to be a long one, and he'd have to spend the night in Miami, which was not what he had planned.
“I have a list of requirements I want you to order from the suppliers I have marked against each item.” He laid a three-page list on the man's desk.
“In whose name do I purchase?”
“A Panamanian company, the name of which I'll fax you next Wednesday.”
“What do I use for money?”
“You'll have a Panamanian bank account with ten million bucks in it by next Wednesday for a start.”
“Who'll have disbursing authority?”
“You and you alone.”
“And what if I don't play it straight?”
“Neither you nor Sylvia will reach old age,” said Lonsdale softly, but firmly.
“What do you know about Sylvia?”
“You mean apart from her being your eyes, your assistant, and probably your business partner?”
“That's exactly what I mean.”
“That she is your wife whom you love very much; that she is the best thing that has happened to you in your life, and, finally, that she is probably almost as discreet as you are, Felix.”
Ramirez smiled “Almost.”
“Yes, almost. Nobody is as discreet as you are.”
They worked all afternoon and well into the night with Sylvia, who sat in on most of their deliberations, making sandwiches and coffee to keep them going. Lonsdale left the Ramirez house a few minutes past three a.m. and was duly photographed by both the FBI and the CIA, but then that was part of the overall plan.
CHAPTER FORTY
Thursday through Saturday
Washington, DC and London, England
Lonsdale got back to his Georgetown apartment at eight thirty on Thursday morning. His message light was flashing so he dialed his answering service. “Happy Birthday,” the recorded voice said. Lonsdale hung up and retrieved the Washington Post from the kitchen garbage bin where he had just thrown it.
It took him a little while to spot the small notice camouflaged within the Births, Deaths, and Marriages section. It read, “Meet D. contact at Stafford Hotel London Saturday three p.m. Ask for Harold Dee.”
Lonsdale walked over to the shops near Georgetown Park and called an unlisted telephone number from a public telephone. When Morton answered, he said quickly, “London's OK. I will be back mid-next week and will contact you at this number.” He hung up and got on with the paperwork he needed to complete before he could leave Washington for London on Friday evening.
By the time Lonsdale booked into the Stafford in London's Piccadilly district it was almost nine o'clock Saturday morning. Luckily, his room was ready.
He had hoped to get some sleep on the way over, but his mind had refused to cooperate. The pace he'd set himself had begun to take its toll, and he couldn't switch off. After a fast shower and shave he swallowed half a 300 mg Melatonin pill, set the alarm on his watch for two thirty, stuck the Do Not Disturb sign on his door and slept. He awoke a few minutes before the alarm went off, refreshed and alert.
At three p.m. on the dot he was at the front desk.
“Is there a Mr. Dee in the house?”
“Sir, he has booked one of the conference rooms and is waiting for you there,” the concierge replied.“Please follow me.”
Seated in a comfortable armchair, Spiegel was reading the Daily Mail, his spectacles perched on the very tip of his generous nose. “Would you like some tea?” He held up a paper-thin porcelain cup by way of greeting.
“Tea would be nice.”
“Please arrange for fresh, hot tea,” Spiegel said to the concierge.
“Right away, Sir” answered the man with the dignity only an English butler can muster.
Spiegel turned to Lonsdale “What's your name?”
“John.”
Spiegel's nostril twitched in disdain. “John it is then. My name is Jim.”
“Jim it is then, Ivan,” retorted Lonsdale. Spiegel did not look pleased and Lonsdale was glad. Smythe seemed not to have divulged his identity to Spiegel.
“I'm relieved to have this opportunity of meeting you.” Spiegel tried to sound friendly.
“Relieved?”
“Yes. Things are not going well.” He took a piece of paper and a small tape recorder equipped with a plug-type earphone from his pocket and handed them to Lonsdale. “Listen while you read.”
Lonsdale sat down opposite to Spiegel, plugged himself in, and pushed the appropriate button.
“Greetings, you old woman chaser,” said a heavily accented, unmistakably Cuban, male voice. “I'm sending this message through Harry Dee. We won't be able to complete the deal we're working on because, as you know, my partner's employee was sent on an unauthorized trip, which complicated things. I think my partner and I will receive official termination notices in a few days. There may be one way out. If we could organize the paperwork to come from Switzerland to Panama we could connect Terry's father with the deal and negotiate ourselves out of our difficulties. If we cannot do this, you will have to ask for help from my partner's friends. You will have to speak to my partner's mother about this. I hope to see you soon.” Lonsdale closed his eyes. All of a sudden he was very tired again.
There was a knock on the door. Tea had arrived.
When they were alone again Spiegel turned to Lonsdale. “Do you understand what he is saying?”
“I think so.”
“Then tell me.”
“De la Fuente thinks Operation Adios is compromised because of Fernandez's defection and expects that he and Casas are going to be arrested within days. He feels that if the paperwork could connect De la Fuente's father-in-law to the Panamanian bank account with the drug money in it, we could ask him to intervene and negotiate a light sentence, perhaps limited to deportation, for Casas and De la Fuente. Failing this we need to speak with Casas's mother to get the names of close friends of the general, presumably in the military, with whom we could organize some sort of an extraction operation.” Lonsdale leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I should've set up a sting against the minister with the help of Casas. This would have delayed the general's and Charley's arrest and given me more time.”
Spiegel did not follow. “Who's Charley?”
Lonsdale caught himself. “Sorry. Charley is my name for Oscar De la Fuente.”
Spiegel smiled. “It's still not too late, you know,” he said softly.
“For what?”
“For stinging the minister.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn't even know where to start.”
Spiegel smile widened to an almost obscene grin. “But I do.”
“Oh yeah? I bet!”
“Listen up, Lonsdale!” Spiegel's mild-mannered behavior disappeared in a flash, shattering Lonsdale's composure in the process. “Let me tell you a story, which, by the way, I only heard recently, about what happened in Zurich one fine day, a dozen years or so ago.”
Jesus Montalba, Cuba's minister of the Interior, was very happy. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the jewels in the display window of the shops along Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse glittered invitingly. It was May and warm. He and his beautiful daughter, Tere, were out for an afternoon's window-shopping, which was all he could afford. Ministers of the Castro Regime did not have the means to buy even the least expensive item of jewelry on the world's most expensive street.
Never mind. They were having a great time anyway.
His invitation to the Internal Security and Human Rights Conference in Gs
taad, which he had received months ago, had been for two persons, all expenses paid. Since he was divorced and had no current steady girlfriend, it occurred to him that his twenty-five-year-old daughter, herself recently divorced and down-in-the-dumps, might just be the ideal companion for the five-day trip.
She'd been thrilled and eagerly accepted the invitation. Neither of them had ever been to Switzerland.
Montalba and Tere flew to Prague via Cubana Air Lines, and the conference organizers had picked up their tab from there onward. They were as anxious to hear his comments about human rights violations in Cuba as he was to make them. Since the Gstaad trip was costing Cuba nothing, Montalba decided to tack an inexpensive three-day sightseeing tour of Zurich and the surrounding area onto it. He had arranged to stay at the Hotel Eden, a modest three-star hotel, where he shared a room with his daughter, thereby keeping costs to the absolute minimum.
By scrimping and saving and exaggerating his expenses on previous trips he had taken on behalf of La Patria, Montalba had managed to assemble a stash of one thousand American dollars in cash, something that was totally illegal in Cuba and punishable by five years' labor on a granja, or farm. Whenever he went abroad he would take the money with him (ten one hundred dollar bills carefully hidden in his wallet) hoping to find a small, worthwhile investment of some kind: jewelry, art, or silver. Thus far, he had found nothing that had tickled his fancy.
“What are you thinking about, Papa?”
He covered up instinctively. “I was thinking about where to take my beautiful daughter for lunch.”
She looked at her watch. “No wonder I feel hungry. It's past noon.” They were standing on the southeast corner of the Bahn-hofstrasse where it met the Parade Platz. “Look,” she pointed at the building behind them. “Lind und Sprüngli, the chocolate people who make those fine sweets that we ate on the plane from Prague.”
“Let's buy you some chocolates,” he said and, hand in hand, they approached the display window. “Even better. I'll buy you lunch in the restaurant upstairs.”
“What restaurant?”
“See what it says over there?” He pointed to the sign next to the door.
“I don't speak German.”
“It's in English too, Tere,” he admonished her gently. He had been paying for English lessons for her ever since she was born.
She shrugged. “Anyway Papa, what does it say?”
“It says they have a restaurant upstairs.”
They studied the menu and selected their food in a way to make every Swiss Frank count and managed to enjoy a very decent meal at the end of which Tere ordered a chocolate soufflé. It would take twenty minutes their waitress said, but Tere insisted and, as always, her doting father relented. Then an idea struck him. “Darling, while you wait for your dessert why don't I complete a little errand. I just remembered I promised to buy one of my colleagues a stamp collector's album.”
He ignored her pout and stood up. “I'll be back by the time you fnish your soufflé, and we'll have our coffee together.” Before she could reply he was gone.
“Nice story, but what has it got to do with me?” Lonsdale asked.
“De la Fuente's wife has been after her father to buy her a house in Varadero,” Spiegel went on. “He keeps putting her off, says he has no money, but she's convinced he has plenty stashed away in Switzerland. She's now told Oscar that she thinks she knows where the money is and would he please do something to get his hands on some of it.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I met Oscar in Havana before he left for Angola to see Casas.”
“OK. Then tell me: where does Teresa Montalba think her old man's money is and how much of it is there?”
“She thinks there are millions of dollars in a Swiss bank account her father opened when he left her to eat her soufflé alone at Lindt und Sprüngli's.”
Lonsdale roared with laughter. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned–not even when she is your daughter. Just because he left her alone for a few minutes.”
“Stop it.” Spiegel held up his hand. “I felt the same way you do when De la Fuente told me the story. But guess what! Bodner & Cie, Banquiers, one of Switzerland's finest boutique banks catering to an exclusive clientele, has its offices in the Lindt und Sprüngli building's third foor. It is quite possible Montalba saw the firm's nameplate on his way to the restaurant and took advantage of the opportunity. At least, that's what Señora De la Fuente thinks.”
Lonsdale thought he got the picture. “Let me guess the rest.” He leaned back, smiling. “You want me to go to Zurich, see Mr. Bodner of Bodner & Cie, and persuade him to reveal whether or not his bank does business with a Señor Montalba, who also just happens to be the Cuban minister of the Interior. Knowing the Swiss, Ivan, I would say my chances of success are slim to none.” He pursed his lips and then added as an afterthought: “Especially now that I'm a rogue agent.”
Spiegel was not bothered. “You may be right. That's why I brought you some ammunition.”
He extracted a large manila envelope from the briefcase at his feet and handed it to Lonsdale. “I explained to my contacts at MI6 that I needed help and they were kind enough to provide me with this. Have a look at the pictures inside.”
Lonsdale did. The six glossy, high-resolution, 9 × 12 photographs of a balding, surprisingly fit-looking middle-aged man cavorting with a number of naked pre-teen boys disgusted him and made him very sad.
“Those are Herr Bodner's pictures you're looking at,” Spiegel said quietly. “I'm sure you'll put them to good use.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Monday Zurich,
Switzerland
“Bernard Lands” had to appear to be respectable and high profile. So, on Sunday night Lonsdale, using the Lands alias, checked into Zurich's most prestigious hotel.
The Baur-au-Lac enjoyed institutional status among the rich and famous. Its elegant garden pavilion is a favorite of the world's beautiful people who meet and mingle there during the summer season's afternoon Thés Dansants. Unfortunately so do the world's jewel thieves who religiously attend the antique jewelry auction held annually in the hotel's magnificent salons.
Early Monday morning Lonsdale called the Liechtenstein law firm that had been recommended to him. Mario Dreyfuss, the man he had been told to contact, was not expected before eight thirty, but would call Mr. Lands at his hotel at that time.
His phone rang just after room service had delivered his newspaper with his breakfast: coffee and bread rolls. Lonsdale checked his watch. Eight thirty sharp.
Mr. Dreyfuss was initially very polite and cool, but warmed to “Mr. Lands” considerably when he discovered the identity of his sponsor, Reuven Gal. Although it was short notice, he said he could accommodate Mr. Lands after lunch and asked if four o'clock would be convenient. Lonsdale figured this would give Dreyfuss time to verify his bona fides with Gal.
Lonsdale was glad to have the morning to himself. He had work to do. He called Bodner & Cie after breakfast, asked for Mr. Bodner and was put through to his secretary, Mrs. Fischer.
“Frau Fischer, I would like to see Mr. Bodner this morning about an urgent personal matter.”
“What is your name, please?” Her voice was ice cold but polite.
“Cherriex, Jean Cherriex, with an x.”
“Does he know you?” Still ice cold.
“No, but please tell him I am from Belgium and we share a common interest. I'm sure he will want to speak with me.”
“Mr. Bodner is very busy, but please hold.”
Mrs. Fischer was back in less than a minute, somewhat flustered. “Mr. Bodner can see you at ten o'clock if that is convenient.” She tried to make amends. “Do you know where our offices are?”
“Yes, thank you. I'll be there at ten.” Lonsdale hung up.
Manila envelope in hand Lonsdale walked up Tal Strasse at a leisurely pace, inspecting the buildings, the shops, even the traffic lights. There was no doubt about it; in their ponder
ous way the Swiss over-engineered everything. If there was a way to provide redundant equipment, the Swiss found it: an extra traffic light for buses only, a plethora of white lines painted on the pavement ahead of every intersection, street lights backing up street lights in case they failed—the list was endless.
When he reached Lind und Sprüngli, Lonsdale scanned the nameplates and found Bodner & Cie's with ease. While taking the stairs to the third floor, he noticed that there was indeed a restaurant on the first floor and that it took less than a minute to walk up from the restaurant to the bank.
He rang the bell, the door clicked open, and he found himself in an antechamber decorated with original masterpieces: two Picasso inks, a Leger, and a Braque. The receptionist gave him a friendly smile. “Are you Monsieur Cherriex?” she inquired in French. Lonsdale nodded and she phoned Frau Fischer who appeared within seconds to escort him to the Herr General Direktor.
Bodner's office was understated elegance. The Persian rug covering most of the glittering parquet floor felt as if it were three inches deep. Bodner's desk, a large Empire escritoire, was a genuine Napoleonic antique, the client armchairs original Louis XVI. In the corner opposite the door of the large room yet another beautiful antique, a full-length Empire sofa.
Above the sofa and the first item a visitor would notice when entering this handsome room, was a discretely illuminated Renoir. Further along the wall toward the window, a Restauration vitrine housed a number of exquisite pewter pieces—a remarkable collection. An immense bookshelf along the wall on the other side of the room overflowed with rare, leather-bound and gold stamped books.
Bodner rose from his carved Belgian armchair and, with outstretched arms, met Lonsdale halfway. He spoke French with a typically Swiss accent. “Come in, come in, Monsieur Cherriex.” He pointed to the armchair nearest him next to the coffee table. “Why don't you sit here and take coffee with me?”
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