Havana Harvest by Robert Landori

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.