Graham Greene (via Mr. Wormald in a cable to MI6headquarters in Our Man in Havana) Shortly before midday on November 14, 1948, an aging Cunard liner laden with immigrants picked up a pilot for the last few miles of its transatlantic crossing. It nosed up the Saint Lawrence Seaway beneath the lowering darkness of the Plains of Abraham and docked in Quebec at five past one. A cold wind raked the quayside. The SS Scythia had been nine days at sea since leaving Cuxhaven on the north German coast. Most of its passengers were in family groups being met by those who had made the journey before them. Most were refugees from the joyless austerity of a country destroyed by war and occupied by its victors. They stepped cautiously down the Scythia’s gangplanks, wrapped in thick coats, clutching what they would need for the first few hours of their new lives. For a few moments Andrew Kayotis may have stood out among them. As a single man, middle-aged, taller than average despite his stoop, it was probably unavoidable.
