Havana Harvest by Robert Landori Page B

unlikely that we shall be able to provide the answer to your third question before Monday. I dare say, you may be stuck here for the weekend.”
    “Unless, of course, I go back home tonight, and return on Monday.” Lonsdale dreaded the thought of having to endure a solitary, grey, wintry weekend in Montreal.
    Siddiqui took out his business card and scribbled something on it. “Here's my home telephone number, just in case.”
    Before Lonsdale could thank him for the courtesy there was a knock on the door, and Ms. Beaulieu walked in. He rose to meet her, and had to fght hard to hide the shock of recognition. The woman was Micheline Beaulieu, his girlfriend of a decade and a half ago!

    Prior to Lonsdale becoming part of the CIA's protected employees' program, when his name was still Bernard Lands, he had operated undercover pretending to be an international fnancial consultant. Hungarian born, he had immigrated to Canada in the early ffties, and had lived in Montreal for over two decades.
    A statuesque woman, Micheline had held an irresistible attraction for him right from the start. He had met her in the restaurant she managed, on the ground floor of a building in which Lonsdale was thinking of renting an office.
    Using his search for office space as an excuse, he struck up a conversation and, under the spell of her sex appeal, made up his mind on the spot to rent an office in the building.
    He had moved in and had often watched her from his office window as she waited for the bus at the end of her shift. One day, he timed his own departure to coincide with hers, and after offering her a lift home, he had talked her into having dinner with him.
    They had eaten well, drunk well, and had danced to the music of an excellent Mexican trio in the east end of Montreal, near where she lived. They had laughed a lot, and he had ended up at Micheline's place for the night.
    Their lovemaking had been spectacularly passionate and savage, and he was delighted to find that not only was she an accomplished lover but also intelligent, interesting, and genuine.
    Lonsdale had driven her to work the next day. That night he had given her a lift home again, and they had picked up where they had left off the night before.
    He had ended up living with Micheline for two years. Then, by mutual consent, they began to drift apart. On the third anniversary of their first date, she announced that she intended to leave both him and the country.
    “Now why would you want to do that?” he'd asked, pretending indifference.
    “Because we're not in love, and we're not going to get married.”
    “But we're comfortable with each other,” he'd protested.
    “That's not enough for me. I want to settle down. I want a family. I want a home. And you're not ready for that.” She had sounded very firm.
    He had given in. “I agree. But why leave Canada?”
    She had bitten her lip so hard that it had begun to bleed. “I hate the winters in this country,” she had finally replied.
    Within a month, Micheline had landed a job in the Bahamas. They'd wished each other a good life and had promised to keep in touch, neither of them believing that they would. But they had, occasionally.
    He'd been pleasantly surprised to receive a Christmas card, in which she had written that she was working for the Bank of Nova Scotia in Nassau and that she wished him the very best for the New Year. Because he had been out of the country on assignment over Christmas, he had read her card only in February. By then Micheline—who knew nothing about his covert activities and took him for just another brighter-than-average accountant with international connections who traveled a lot—had written again saying that yes, really, she did wish him the best and would he please write.
    Instead, he had called her at work, and they had spent ten minutes catching up. Thereafter, he would call her from time to time, even after she married the Swiss owner-chef of a Nassau restaurant. Lonsdale had