The Betrayal Game - [Mikhal Lammeck 02]

by David L. Robbins

  Johan pointed at the place in Lammeck’s back where he’d put his hand.

  “You grow more interesting by the moment, Professor.”

  “Do I?”

  “You have a knife under your jacket. In the waistband of your trousers.”

  “Is it illegal?”

  “No, certainly not. But, without wishing offense, it is odd to think of you, a scholar, as a man who goes about armed. Do you have enemies, Professor?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Of course,” the police captain agreed. “Weapons are for the enemies we do not know of. May I see it?”

  Lammeck reached under his coat for the four-inch dagger. He slid it from the leather sheath tucked inside his belt.

  “The handle’s black bone. The blade is Córdovan steel.”

  Johan nodded. “Marvelous. It appears quite old.”

  “Sixteenth-century Spain.”

  Johan turned the dirk over in his hands, testing the balance. He seemed no stranger to weaponry.

  “Is it special? Has it done something of note?”

  Lammeck smiled, enjoying the question, the opportunity to show his knowledge.

  He tapped the knife in Johan’s hands. “It was involved in what Spaniards still call the most spectacular assassination in their history, the killing of Guiterrez de Castro.”

  “Ah,” breathed Johan, recognizing the event. “The mater alevosamente.”

  “You know this?”

  “Sí. It was in your book, of course. But every Spaniard knows this murder, even those of us born in Cuba. We have even given it a name: ‘To kill with treachery.’ Guiterrez de Castro was the governor of Burgos district. He was opposed to church influence in state matters. One day in 1869, while praying in the cathedral, he was stabbed to death by priests. By priests! And this is one of the knives they used to murder him. Dios.”

  Johan offered the dagger back to Lammeck, plattered on two hands. The knife was a prized item of Lammeck’s Assassins’ Collection he was building and curating at Brown University. He took the blade from Johan and slid it into the sheath at his back. He’d chosen to bring this particular dagger with him to Cuba in a sort of irony; this knife had killed a man named Castro.

  “I will not ask why you carry this, Professor. I will respect your secrets, as I have a few myself. I will, of course, expect this marvelous blade to stay in its sheath while you are in Cuba.”

  Lammeck was relieved not to have to lie. He would have concocted something flimsy, and not have told Johan that every day for the last sixteen years, since meeting an assassin named Judith— the most dangerous human he’d ever encountered—he never left home without a weapon on him somewhere.

  For the Providence collection, he’d even managed to secure Judith’s twelfth-century knife, a dirk from the Assassin cult of ancient Persia. That knife, which had fought the Templars during the Crusades and murdered more than a few in the twentieth century, was the most precious of the thousand artifacts in his collection.

  He said, “I’ll do my best.”

  Johan nodded, accepting this.

  Their walk had taken them to the end of the Malecón. Here, at the ruins of Punta Castle, the road turned south to run along the entrance to Havana Bay. Across the broad channel loomed Morro Castle, a sprawling, intact stone redoubt built by Spain to protect this valuable Caribbean harbor. Lammeck was still learning his Cuban history, but he knew a great deal about Spain. For centuries, untold tons of gold, spice, animals, tobacco, rum, and sugar left Cuba for Madrid through Havana Bay. What came back were more Spaniards and African slaves.

  From the seaward tip of Morro Castle, a lighthouse swung a shaft of white light over their heads. Lammeck watched the beam circle. When he finally brought his gaze down to Johan, the policeman said, “Professor, I see you are reluctant to speak with me about why you’ve come to Cuba. I know you are here because you strongly suspect, as I do, that something may soon befall my country. You also believe that Fidel is ripe for assassination. I agree with you. And I have a job to do. So, to encourage you to trust me further, I will speak first.”

  Lammeck leaned against the stone wall. The Morro lighthouse flashed overhead.

  Johan said, “Four days ago, there was an attempt on Fidel’s life. A seashell was wired to explode underwater near a reef where he is known to spearfish. The charge was set off by two local boys only minutes before Fidel arrived. One boy was badly hurt. His arm was torn off at the shoulder. Fidel himself drove the child to a hospital.”

  Lammeck shook his head, mortified and at the same time thrilled to hear this bit of intelligence.

  “We do not presume the Cuban underground has such capabilities, or the imagination,” the policeman said. “It was CIA.”

  “And there have been other attempts?”

  “Oh, dear.” Johan laughed, an odd response. “Your CIA is very keen on disposing of Castro. I know of several assassination plots. In New York last year, someone tried to slip him a box of poisoned cigars. We have learned of American schemes to make Fidel lose his hair or his sanity. In the last three months alone, bombs have been defused in Santa Clara and Havana, all at places where Fidel was to appear. In February we intercepted a squad of four exiles dropped off at a remote airfield. They were black operations, trained and equipped in Florida, then flown in by the CIA, to kill Castro.”

  “You know these things how?”

  Johan did not lose his breezy manner. “We have friends, Professor. Contrary to what you hear in America, the vast number of Cuban people love the revolution. They are the first tier of defense around Fidel.”

  “Informants.”

  “A nasty word. But, yes, of course.”

  “And when you don’t have friends?”

  “We interrogate. Make no mistake.”

  Lammeck paused with images of Johan’s interrogations. He reminded himself to be careful with this agreeable policeman.

  “I tell you these things in confidence, Professor. If they appear in your research, I expect you will make no mention of where you received the information. It would be an inconvenience for us both.”

  “Certainly. You’ll learn that about me, Captain. I can keep a secret.”

  The policeman nodded. It seemed to Lammeck that Johan believed this about himself, as well.

  “In addition to the CIA,” Johan said, “we’re on constant guard against the underground, the exile groups, and your American Mafia. All of these want Fidel dead.”

  “It must make for a busy day.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And you want me to tell you why.”

  “I have my own theories. Nothing beyond the obvious, I’m afraid.”

  Lammeck straightened from against the seawall. A lit-up cargo ship entered the channel between the two guardian castles. The registry on the bow read Bulgaria. Johan followed Lammeck, waiting for his reply.

  “Tell me the obvious,” Lammeck said.

  “The underground and exile groups are counterrevolutionary. They oppose Fidel’s changes, the agrarian reform laws, the suspension of elections.”

  Lammeck was quick to respond. “Fidel’s looking more and more like a Communist, Johan. Don’t be surprised if people who’re accustomed to freedom wind up opposing a Communist revolution.”

  “Yes.” Johan smiled blandly. “As I said, the obvious.”

  “And the Mafia. That’s just about money.”

  “Clearly. But the CIA. Your country. Why such fervor to kill Fidel? Why not rely on diplomacy? Does your country try to murder every world leader it disagrees with? Of course not. The U.N. would disintegrate if that were the case. Why, then, is Fidel so dangerous to America that you cannot leave him alive? That you cannot deal with him at all?”

  Lammeck eyed Johan. The man had been forthcoming about the attempts on Fidel’s life; he’d traded good value for Lammeck’s advice, and perhaps would continue to be a source of information on the exact subject of Lammeck’s research. Where else could Lammeck get
information like what Johan could provide? Exploding seashells and black operation hit squads would not be in the papers or the archives.

  Johan might be, as he mentioned, a useful friend here in Cuba.

  Across Cespedes Avenue, an outdoor bistro fragranced the evening air with odors of simmering meat, black beans, and coffee. Christmas lights were strung between palm trees above red and white checked tablecloths.

  “Buy me dinner,” Lammeck said to the policeman, “and I’ll tell you.”

  ~ * ~

  Lammeck avoided talking about his theories until the food came. He and Johan ordered Cristal beers, to be followed by the Cuban national dish, black beans, rice, and roast chicken. The evening remained fine, a tropical cool that in New England would have been a perfect midsummer’s night. Lammeck steered the conversation to Johan himself, to learn more about the captain. The policeman volleyed questions back at Lammeck, to do the same.

  “Your English is exceptional, Captain. Where’d you learn it?”

  “In the American schools in Havana. For the sixty years your country occupied Cuba, we were taught to love everything American. Your language, your cinema. Baseball. There was no bigger thrill than to go to the casino at the Nacional Hotel and see George Raft greeting guests, or Johnny Weissmuller and Mickey Mantle seated at the blackjack games. I used to wait tables there. My English got me the largest tips. Once Marlon Brando and Casey Stengel each gave me a hundred dollars on the same night. And your Spanish? Where did you learn it?”

  “A few years back, I decided I was interested in Cuba. I pick up languages pretty well. I learned Russian in the fifties so I could read Pravda and Izvestia. I had a fascination with Stalin for a while. That was one murderous son of a gun.”

  “A few years back. In other words, when the Fidelistas won.”

  “Yep.”

  “You knew then that Castro might be assassinated?”

  “I knew that I was looking at a classic candidate for it, yes.”

  “Classic, you say. Very interesting. Tell me why.”

  Lammeck paused. He wasn’t finished finding out about Johan, this seemingly reasonable and educated man, and secret policeman. Lammeck decided to prod. If Johan was going to be a source for him, he needed to know how the information would be colored, what lenses Johan wore when viewing the revolution, and how far Lammeck could trust the man.

  “First, what about the oppressions, Johan? How do you stomach them?”

  Johan tilted his head and considered Lammeck. He worked his lips before answering.

  “The ‘oppressions,’ as you call them, are made necessary by the mercenaries and rebels. A revolution—and you know this well, Professor—cannot be made on niceties.”

  “Free speech suspended. Political opponents sent to prison or the paredón. Elections eliminated. Manipulating the courts. Secret police like you. Informants. You’re right, Captain—these are definitely not niceties.”

  “Elections are not something a hungry people cry out for. There are other human rights besides free speech. There is food and shelter. There is work. And the firing wall, the prisons, the intelligence gatherers like myself, these stay busy only so long as the wreckers do.”

  “Beautifully put, Captain.” Lammeck grinned. “If they had elections in Cuba, you could run for office.”

  “I would not do so, Professor. Like you, I prefer the background. I am a civil servant. Fidel is the reformer.”

  “And that,” said Lammeck, “makes him a sure bet for assassination.”

  Johan uttered, “Ahh,” now that Lammeck had arrived at the point of their meeting. The food showed up in that moment. Johan lifted his hands in anticipation of the meal set before him. Lammeck couldn’t help liking this dodgy man.

  The captain smiled. “This is why you may have your elections, Professor. You are not so hungry as a Cuban.”

  Lammeck sliced a bit of the roast chicken. He forked it in, followed by black beans and a swig of beer. Johan was already a quarter through his plate. Lammeck felt a bit let down by how the food distracted Johan’s attention from him. He raised a finger to renew his point. Momentarily, the gesture recalled Castro’s own style. Johan looked up from his food.

  “Reformers seize power for their own purposes. That means they have to kick somebody else out of power. And they’re not just working to change the name on the door. Reformers and revolutionaries transform the entire system of governance. Wealth and authority shift hands dramatically. That makes for very big, very dedicated enemies. People who’ve got everything to lose. In turn the powers that be use everything to keep themselves in power: That, of course, includes assassination. Off the top of my head, in the twentieth century alone, I can think of Zapata and Pancho Villa. Mohandas Gandhi. Just last month, Patrice Lumumba.”

  Still chewing, Johan added, “There were several attempts on Hitler’s life, who from a purely historical perspective can be considered a reformer.”

  Lammeck continued, “In 1918, Lenin was shot. Then Trotsky...”

  “Mercader,” Johan jumped in, referring to the man who’d taken an ice axe to Trotsky’s head. “Did you know his mother lives in Cuba? I’ve met her. Cantankerous old woman. We keep her at a distance from Fidel. Not a good family.”

  Lammeck laughed with Johan, who had to use his napkin to keep some of the food in his mouth.

  He said, “In his own way, Franklin Roosevelt was a reformer.”

  Johan patted his lips with his napkin. He eyed Lammeck with curiosity.

  “And was Roosevelt assassinated?”

  Lammeck grinned. He dusted off an old and spectacular secret, admired it once in his memory, then put it away.

  “There were attempts on FDR’s life. But no.”

  “Now, Professor,” Johan demanded, finished with his meal, “tell me. You’ve come to Havana because you are convinced something is going to happen. I should like to know what that is.”

  “I’m working on a new book.”

  “Yes, good.”

  “You know the nature of my work, the central question I examine. What makes history—individuals or events?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve come to Cuba because I think the answer’s going to be played out here.”

  “Here. Really?”

  “I’ve come to watch what might be the last of the Cuban revolution.”

  Johan’s eyebrows arched. “The last of the revolution. You mean this seriously?”

  “I believe it may end. Soon.”

  “And the assassination of Fidel?”

  “Inevitable.”

  Johan pushed away his emptied plate. He slid his beer in front of him, then sat back, fingers knitted over his shirt buttons.

  “Alright,” Lammeck began. “Two years ago, when Fidel took over, the whole world sat up and noticed. After all, it was America he kicked out of Cuba. Christ, Johan, no one boots America out. So I got curious as to how and why. I started researching our relationship with the island. Mostly I’ve been looking into the economics, examining bank records, corporate reports, government white papers, United Nations studies, newspapers. I’m finding some pretty damning stuff.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “It might actually be worse than you think. Since the end of the Spanish-American War, the U.S. absolutely dominated Cuba’s economy. We forced the whole island into dependence on sugar, a single commodity. Nothing else you had to offer, like tobacco, nickel, coffee, none of it was allowed to compete for open farmland. Sixty percent of tillable Cuban soil was owned by American corporations.”

  Johan pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “I did not know it was to that extent.”

  “Because Cuba couldn’t diversify, and because you had only one principal sugar customer, us, you were never able to fully enter into international markets with any other product, or pursue other large buyers. Cuba couldn’t even produce its own needs. Do you realize that more than fifty percent of what the Cuban people consumed they imported from the U.S.?�
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  “I remember eating American ice cream as a child. I wondered even then, where was Cuban ice cream?”

  “We even made you buy our candy and flowers. You couldn’t go on a date without us dipping into your pocket.”

  Johan nodded, recollecting.

  “If Cuba traded with any foreign markets we disapproved of, we stuck tariffs on the transactions to cripple them. Whole sectors of the Cuban economy went bust: leather goods, textiles, dairy. This focus on sugar created large-scale land ownership at the expense of the middle class. The whole economic structure in Cuba got out of whack, weighted toward the extremes. Wealth for a few, poverty and farm labor for the rest. And it was done on purpose, Johan. On bloody purpose.”